“Righto.” Ricky made a pit stop in the kitchen then folded into the only other chair on the deck, beer aloft. “Cheers.”
“Cheers, mate.” BJ raised his beer in the customary salute.
Both men savoured the hoppy brew for a moment in silence. Buffered by the backyard bamboo and the imposing concrete front wall, minimal sound penetrated BJ’s small suburban sanctuary. Only the rustling wind and the barely audible thrum of distant traffic interrupted the evening’s quiet.
“You know, buddy, you really ought to keep your front door locked…” Ricky regarded his mate with a look of bemused concern.
“Just because you and I could scale the front wall, doesn’t mean any other bastard could. Besides, you’re the only other person with a set of keys and the gate code. I lock up when I go out or when I go to bed.”
“Maybe…but here in the city we lock the door so the lunatics can’t get in in the first place. Even if you are a big, strong bloke, you don’t need the grief.”
“Old habits die hard. Survival, evasion, resistance and a quick escape plan. Eh, mate?” BJ winked at him. “Besides, I’ve got Whiskey. She’ll look after me.”
“Yeah, right. Like she’s going to do much good? All she does is run at people and lick them to death.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Rising to his feet, BJ set his bottle on the hand rail. “Whiskey, heel.” Without hesitation, she discarded her bone and charged up the back steps to his side. “Sit.” Whiskey set her butt to the floor. Eyes narrowing, he taunted his mate. “So, you think she’s going to lick people to death, do you? Let me show you what we’ve been working on recently in her training. Just don’t make a move.”
With a hard edge of authority in his voice, BJ spoke the next command as he directed his dog’s attention to the possible perpetrator. “Defend.” Putting a visual lock on Ricky, Whiskey curled her lips, bared her teeth and snarled. “Hold.” Gripped in the command, the dog waited, body quivering in anticipation.
BJ returned his attention to Ricky. “I can either have her stand down or proceed. Which would you prefer?”
Visibly impressed, Ricky remained silent, still and steady.
“Release.” BJ’s hand sliced the air.
Whiskey reverted to her loving, doggy personality, tongue lolling from her mouth, making goo-goo eyes at her master. “Good girl. Good girl.” He gave her an affectionate ear ruffle then hurled a tennis ball into the back yard with a final command. “Go play, Whiskey. Go play.”
Ricky whistled and rubbed his chin. “Well, I’ll be damned. I can see why you’re not too concerned about the front door. I wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of her if you sent her on the attack.”
“I told you. She’s really improved. I’m hoping we’ll make the search and rescue unit by next year.” He collected the ball Whiskey dropped at his feet and threw it again.
“By the teamwork you two have going on I reckon you’ll be a shoo-in. She certainly has come up well.” Ricky shoved up to stand beside him, both enjoying the game of ball with the dog. After a couple more throws, BJ sent Whiskey back to her bone, and they settled down to finish their beers.
“So how’s yoga going? I can’t believe you’re still doing it. I guess it must be helping?”
“Yeah, it keeps my head together. I’m a little more relaxed most of the time. Though tonight I could’ve killed the dumb bastard who tried to mug one of the women from the class at her car.”
“And you just happened to be there I suppose?” Ricky shot him a shrewd glance.
“Yeah, well. What am I supposed to do? I’m bored out of my brain a lot of the time. Doing a little recon helps.” A wide grin split his face. He and Ricky Alvarez had done a lot during their time in the Australian Special Forces. “Tricky Ricky” was what they used to call him on tour. Not just because he was a damn fine soldier and spotter, but his Spanish heritage and swarthy good looks made him a real ladies’ man. He was a tricky character both in and out of combat.
“And this woman you helped out—I guess she’s the prettiest in the class?” asked Ricky. “Oops, sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean…”
“Hey, it’s fine.” BJ raised his hand, his voice tinged with resignation. “I guess she is the prettiest, but I’m not ready, and I’m not looking. The only girl for me at the moment is Whiskey.” At the mention of her name, the dog lifted her head, ready for another game. On command, she returned to her bone once more.
“So what happened? With this woman and the dumb bastard?”
BJ gave a quick recap of the event. “All I can say is I’m glad the bloke decided to run…”
“Yeah. Lucky for him. I wouldn’t like to clean up the mess after you finished with him. Want another beer?”
BJ nodded. Ricky played waiter and returned with two more beers. “You’ve done a good job with this place, buddy. You should be proud. It’s come up really well.”
“I’m happy with it. It’s small, but it suits Whiskey and me. I don’t need anything bigger at the moment.” BJ had sold everything shortly after the accident. After drifting for a few months, he’d stumbled across this renovator’s dream and snapped it up for a good price. Donning his handyman belt, he’d gutted it, opened up the interior, keeping only one bedroom and a study. He’d installed a swank new kitchen, even though he didn’t cook much, and treated himself to a big bathroom with a spa bath. An investment project that well pleased him, the renovation had kept his mind and hands busy over the past months.
After rubbing her face on the grass, Whiskey joined them on the deck and nudged into his leg to receive an instant head massage. “So what’s your week shaping up like? Got lots of cougars to train at the local gym?” asked BJ, with another salute of his bottle.
Close to the same height as him, Ricky was less bulk and more speed. Athletic, ropey-muscled and fast on his feet, he was a terrific trainer and modern-day warrior. A hard one to land a punch on and if anyone happened to get one in, Ricky’s abs could damage a man’s fist. But his best civilian asset was his looks. Sometimes mistaken for Ricky Martin, he played on the resemblance and with his natural rhythm, the swooning ladies lined up for a dance. They were like moths to a flame—Tricky Ricky burned so bright, BJ joked he had to wear sunglasses whenever he accompanied him on one of his tomcat prowls.
“Very funny…” said Ricky at BJ’s dig about his female clients. “I have to use the local gym, because unlike you, not everyone can afford a set-up like this.” He flourished his arm towards the rack of ultra-heavy free weights and Smith machine that were taking up space on the other side of BJ’s back deck. Especially built as his home gym, the space also boasted a stationary bike and an assortment of balls, ropes, bars and a punching bag; all squeezed strategically together. It made an impressive statement, but for BJ it wasn’t about vanity. Training hard saved him from the insidious depression that had laid claim to him not so long ago. This gym was his torturer and saviour, a place to gain a psychological advantage over his enemy—the darker version of himself. “It’s a terrific set-up, buddy. In fact, I enjoy training here better than at the gym.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Tricky. How many cougars this week are you training and how many will end up in your bed?”
“From last count, I think I’ve got six hot bods and, fingers crossed, a couple will make all the hard work worthwhile.” They joked about Ricky’s lucky week ahead while Whiskey looked up with doe eyes at her master.
“See, who needs a woman, when you have love like that?” said BJ, ruffling her ears.
Setting his empty bottle on the outdoor table between them, Ricky regarded him. “I do. And so do you. How long’s it been now?”
BJ’s lungs deflated. He gritted his teeth and inhaled slow and steady, then drained his bottle, placed it beside Ricky’s on the table and dragged a hand across his bristled chin. He spent most of his time trying not to think about it, but that also meant he wasn’t dealing with it. He knew Ricky only ever wanted to help, but th
is was something he had to do in his own time. It just wasn’t getting much easier. In the outside world, he got on with life. But inside, the rat of guilt gnawed at his brain.
“Two years, ten months and three days.” With his gaze once more locked on the bamboo perimeter, his gut twisted.
“Buddy, it’s time. It’s not your fault. You weren’t here. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”
“If that prick hadn’t been drunk, Rachael and Tiffany would still be alive.” He hissed the words as his hands clenched the railing, whitening his knuckles. “If I hadn’t been in that hell hole of Afghanistan, none of this would have happened.”
Rachael and he had been married three years. Three terrific years. They’d met in Perth after he’d been accepted into the Special Air Services Regiment, and they’d married a couple of years after that. God, she was beautiful…tall, leggy and brunette. And smart. She’d been a successful accountant before she got pregnant and then decided to start her own business from home after Tiffany was born. Tiffany. Daddy’s princess. How she’d captured his heart, wrapped it in her tiny, chubby hands and pulled at its strings with sheer joy. At one year old, with her blonde curls and piercing blue eyes, she’d resembled a pretty baby doll.
He remembered when he left for his last tour of duty, a sinking feeling had roiled in his gut. He thought it was because his ticket was about to be punched. But he was wrong. Back home, some drunken loser swerved onto the wrong side of the road and killed his wife and daughter. Killed his family. Killed him, as sure as he’d killed them. He felt his heart rate accelerate. Control the fear, bury the anger, and avoid exposure. A sniper must be mentally strong.
“BJ.” Ricky’s tone was more command than request.
Face twisted and lips clamped shut, BJ felt like he’d sucked the life out of a dozen lemons. He forced himself to return from the bitter memory. With a hiccupping sigh, he released his grip on the railing and tilted his neck until the familiar sound of snapping tendons signalled his tension had dispersed. “I’m fine, mate, really, I am. I’m getting better. And training with Whiskey helps a lot. So does the yoga.”
“Are you still seeing the army shrink? What’s his name?”
“Dr Thomson. I go and see him every now and then. But he just wants to feed me a stack of anti-depressants, and I’m not taking that crap. I need to keep my wits about me.” Instinctively, he checked the perimeters once more.
“You’re the boss. I’m just the guy who looks out for you.” Ricky clapped a firm, friendly hand on his mate’s shoulder.
“Thanks, mate.”
Ricky glanced at his watch. “I better get going. I’ve got an early in the morning. Six am she’s turning up.” Laughter and locker-room humour ushered them to the front door while an innocent Whiskey trotted at their heels.
“Make sure you do what I used to, mate…” BJ grabbed his friend in a powerful forearm handshake.
“I will. And you remember what we said in the forces, it’s better to burn out than fade away. You need to start burning again, buddy. I’ll pop in during the week, and we’ll do some training together.”
“Thanks. I’d like that. See you.”
“Later.” Ricky gave a thumbs-up, turned, and in sharp, fast strides paced to the gate disappearing into the night, just like he used to do in the desert.
On a deep exhale, BJ closed and locked the front door. If it wasn’t for Ricky, he didn’t think he would have made it this far. In his darkest hours, he could have easily turned a gun on himself. End it all. But Ricky had been there, keeping an eye out for him. Like a good spotter in combat on surveillance for the enemy, he had identified BJ’s emotional enemy time and again. He’d saved him from blowing the mission, from blowing his brains out. As much as BJ hated how he still ached, he was no coward. His current search and rescue mission was himself. Live in the moment and take one step at a time.
Feeling an insistent paw at his leg, he looked down at Whiskey’s ever-happy face beaming up at him. “Come on, girl. You can watch me shower.”
Beyond excited, Whiskey ran circles around him on the way to the bathroom, her enthusiasm lifting his spirits. He’d got used to her being the only female in his life, his house, and his bathroom; and he wasn’t ready to change that just yet.
Chapter 3
Where did that big bastard come from? Whoever he was, that guy really ticked me off. She was mine. I had her. Her perfect, delicious body was in my hands. I was going to snap her open like a spring harvest pea pod and nibble out all her sweet goodness. It’s not like I hadn’t done my planning. I’ve been watching her for ages. She parks in that street like clockwork every Sunday and returns alone at the same time. All I wanted to do was get to know her better. But no! Some hero comes along and pokes his nose into my business. I hate those types of guys. Jocks, is what they used to call them at school. Girls swoon over them. Open their legs for them. Groan when they bed them. He had no right sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.
I hate him. And I hate this rat-hole my landlord calls an apartment. Recently- refurbished, my arse. This place hasn’t seen a paint brush since before Christ was born. That Communist prick will be next on the list. The Chinese are taking over this country, buying up properties. I’m calling that poor excuse for a landlord tomorrow and demanding a new stove. And if he doesn’t give me one, then I’ll make him sorry.
Every time I think of her, my body tingles all over, especially down there. But I don’t dare touch myself. I’m keeping myself only for her. I bet the big, interfering hero wanks off over her. I bet he tried to persuade her to go home with him tonight. I watched him leaning into her car, making eyes at her. Bastard! But she didn’t. I saw. She drove away by herself. Left him on the footpath by himself. Serves him right. Anyway it doesn’t matter. Where’s there’s a will, there’s a way, that’s what my mother used to say. Where’s there’s a will, there’s a way. The dancer will be mine soon enough.
Chapter 4
With but a hitch of breath, Jessie launched into a grand jeté, her powerful legs exploding into a mid-air split, her sinewy arms floating upward as soft as silk ribbons. Glimpsing herself in the mirrors, she tilted her chin up a little more and breathed in. Hold, hold, hold. She willed her body to resist gravity, to hover airborne, until inevitably she conceded, and her feet touched down on the timber floorboards with the merest tap, tap, tap. As she pattered across the stage space into imaginary wings, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face wore an expression of bliss, the sheer bliss of being a ballerina. Despite the physical stress ballet placed on her body, it was only when she danced that she truly felt at one with her essence, her purpose for being.
Clapping of hands stopped the music. “Thank you, Jessie. Thank you, everyone. Good rehearsal. See you all tomorrow.” The diminutive head ballet mistress collected her papers from the top of the piano, then nodded a farewell to the pianist, and left the studio in deep conversation with the artistic director. He’d watched these final rehearsals of “The Nutcracker” and would give his notes tomorrow.
Bare except for a ballet barre that lined three walls, the rehearsal studio’s key feature was the mirrored wall in front of which the dancers performed. Like the famed mirror in Snow White, it reflected who was the fairest of them all and who was flawed. What the head ballet mistress or artistic director missed, the mirror reported. Mirrors were both friend and foe of dancers. As such, Jessie pushed on pointe, catching her breath. Overarching her insteps, she prepared and snapped off a couple of pirouettes, scrutinising her technique one last time. Not entirely convinced she’d performed her best today, her mouth screwed into a tight crimp.
With her hands on her hips above her frothy rehearsal tutu, she waddled across the studio, heading for her dance bag. She, like the rest of the dancers, shone with the lustre of perspiration, but few allowed themselves the privilege of looking exhausted. She nodded goodbye to those of the company who chatted together in small groups as they stretched and tugged at the
ir tired limbs. Others jammed their gear into their dance bags and scurried from the studio, while a few simply preferred their own company as they reflected upon their rehearsal performance, or lack thereof. Sliding down into a second split, Jessie savoured the coolness of the timber floorboards through her stockinged legs.
“God, that was a tough day,” said Jasmine, dropping to the floor beside her like a broken marionette doll. Spinning around on her bottom to face Jessie, her eyes sparkled. “But you were fabulous...You dance the Sugar Plum Fairy much better than Tabitha. I’m sure they’re going to offer you the principal role for next year. Really I am.”
In a wide leg split, Jessie rolled her body forward and back, releasing her hips. “Who knows? Don’t underestimate the politics of this place though. Tabitha is as strong a dancer as me, maybe better, particularly as the Sugar Plum Fairy, and she’s very chummy with the powers that be.” She darted a furtive glance at her competitor nearby, whose foot was hoisted above her head in a standing split. It was no secret Tabitha Simpson had been campaigning for the top job and her dancing was impeccable. She and Jessie were alternates as the Sugar Plum Fairy in the company’s forthcoming Christmas season of “The Nutcracker”. Like Tabitha, Jessie knew her performance in this role, more than any other to date, influenced the likelihood of being promoted to principal ballerina next year. It was make or break time for both her and Tabitha’s careers.
“Forget about Tabitha’s dancing.” Jasmine waved a dismissive hand. “Just focus on you. Stop giving your attention away to her. Anyway, they have to make a decision soon. We’ll be breaking for Christmas holidays. They’ll have to announce before then.” She shoved her belongings in her oversize bag and sprang to her feet. “Let’s go to Salvatore’s. Grab something to eat. What do you say?”
“I’m in. I’ve got nothing in the fridge anyway.” Jessie rose from the floor in one fluid movement. Like the rest of the female dancers, her limbs appeared disproportionately long and thin, barely held together by sinewy muscles and encased in a polished alabaster skin that seldom saw sunlight. Despite the gruelling rehearsals, she floated across the studio, a picture of composed elegance. Try as she might to be a little less reserved and more boisterous like Jasmine, ballet’s grace was loaded into her DNA. She hoped the decision makers at the Australian Ballet Company would see that and it would tip the scales in her favour. Although she never voiced her burning desire, she prayed it would be her name on next year’s programs as principal dancer.
Retribution: Who would you kill to escape your past? Page 2
