Men were assbutts. Period.
Holly slammed into her house, heart colliding with her stomach that threatened to upend the one-and-a-half beers she’d had at the pub. She leaned against the door, as car headlights cut away from the wall and disappeared down the street. Graham Barlow had seen her barrelling along in the dark and had pulled over. He insisted on giving her a ride home. So, scratch that. Graham wasn’t an assbutt, just Ford.
“Assbutt, dickhead, douchebag, sonovabitch. No offense, Denise.”
Holly marched into her kitchen and flung open the pantry door. Slammed it shut again when nothing leaped out hollering, “Eat me and you’ll feel better.” That left the fridge.
She dragged out her emergency stash and ripped open a brand new block of dark chocolate. Which she’d been saving for a Supernatural marathon, and now it was all Ford’s fault that she was gonna eat until she puked.
Because she was pissed—irrationally pissed, granted—but still pissed.
Holly broke off a chunk of chocolate and stuffed it into her mouth. Pissed and squicked out at catching Ford sucking face with Julia, his hand on her panty-less bum. The sweetness trickling down her throat jammed halfway, and she swallowed hard, blinking away hot tears.
Three sharp bangs came from the floor beneath her feet. “What’s going on up there?”
“Gonna take that broom away from you one day, old woman,” she said, then raised her voice. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.” A beat of silence. “You crying and gobbling chocolate, girl?”
“No!” A cracked sob snuck out, and Holly clamped a hand over her mouth. It came away smeared with brown streaks. “A little.”
Great. Not only was she irrationally pissed over something she had no right to be pissed over, she was now a chocolate-binging, snivelling cow.
Three more bangs on her floor. “You come on down here now. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“You should be in bed asleep.”
“And miss all the fun? That’ll be the day. Now, get down here.”
Dixie’s solution to everything—tea and cookies. Holly blamed the old woman for fostering her crippling emotional dependency on sugar when life dumped another truckload of crap on her head.
Holly headed downstairs. She let herself into the hallway, and Diablo, Dixie’s black cat, wound around her ankles and nearly took her down in a twisted heap. “Dammit.”
Green eyes sparked disdain. He flicked his tail in the air in what Holly interpreted as a feline up yours gesture and squeezed through the cat door leading into the garage—where he stayed at night.
“That’s right, lard-ass, go run laps before your owner has to fork out for a bigger cat door.”
Holly followed the sound of a kettle whistling into the kitchen. Dixie stirred the teapot and set it onto a tray with cups, saucers and a plate of sugar cookies.
“There. Now take this over, and then you’ll tell me why you’re all riled up.”
Holly carried the loaded tray to the dining room table and sat with a sigh as Dixie took the chair opposite.
“You’ll be up peeing half the night, drinking tea after nine.”
Dixie swirled the teapot in a clockwise motion. “Sadly, that’s the most excitement a woman of my age can expect during the night.” She poured tea into their cups. “And don’t fuss. You sound like my brother, always worrying about me taking a tumble.”
“I worry, too.” Holly doctored her tea with milk and an extra lump of sugar since all her emotional angsting would burn off mega-calories.
“Well, I don’t want either of you worrying. Stanley is always trying to talk me into moving into that old fart’s home, Sunnyhell. I’m not ready for the scrap-heap yet.”
Holly dunked her chocolate biscuit into her tea. “You’re right. Who wants to be cooked for, cleaned up after and have no cares in the world other than deciding what dress to wear that day to impress all the single men lusting after you.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“What?” Holly raised an innocent eyebrow. “The lusting or all the Clark Gable lookalikes trying to sex you up?”
Dixie choked on a sip of tea. “As if you even know who Clark Gable is.”
“Oh, I know, Dix, I know.”
“Stop changing the subject.” The blushing little-old-lady persona dropped to reveal the real Dixie. The Iron Maiden. “And tell me about Ford—because the tanty is about him, isn’t it?”
Dixie looked at Holly with the same X-ray vision that allowed her to see why a four year old kept running away from home to be with her next door neighbor. Why eight-year-old Holly chose Dixie to talk to when she and Shaye stopped being best friends for twenty-four hours. Why Dixie knew when Holly lost her virginity at seventeen with Daniel Carver after a Guy Fawkes bonfire beach party, while her mother probably still thought Holly was a virgin. She could never hide anything from Dixie.
Up until now.
Because Dixie had slowly lost her edge. And though it stripped Holly’s heart raw at the thought of losing her substitute grandma, it also meant she wouldn’t hurt the woman she loved most in the world if Dixie didn’t know Holly’s plans to leave. Not yet, anyway. Not until Holly found someone who’d take good care of her.
Holly traced the pattern of cabbage roses encircling the china cup. “I saw him kissing Julia in the pub hallway.”
“Ah.” Dixie leaned forward. “The blonde whippet you told me about?”
“He was all over her like a heat rash.” Her chest grew tight again.
“Doesn’t sound like him, and even if it did—” Dixie’s gaze did the x-ray thing. “As his friend, it shouldn’t bother you. But it does. And that means something.”
“It means I’m a bitch.”
“A jealous bitch?”
“I wanted to strangle her with her evening wrap. Then I figured that wouldn’t be a fair fight since I could take that skinny, non-carbo-eating cow with one hand tied.”
Dixie laughed.
“Then I wanted to crash-test-dummy Ford’s face into the wall.”
“Really?”
Holly’s lips twisted. “No.” Her vision blurred for a moment. “I wanted him to kiss me like that.”
“I see.”
“You don’t see—he’s my friend. I don’t want to screw that up.” Not when he’d hate her if she started something she had no intention of finishing.
“George and I were friends for years before he kissed me and changed all the rules. Best thing he ever did.”
“I miss him.” Holly reached across the table and squeezed Dixie’s hand. “And I know you must miss him so much more.”
Holly had been sixteen when Dixie’s husband died four days after a massive stroke. She still remembered the hysterics she’d thrown at her parents in order to get them to take her to the mainland hospital to sit by Dixie and George for a few hours.
“Every day.” Dixie returned the hand squeeze. “My George was a little like you. He just needed some encouragement to ask for what he wanted.”
“I ask.” Holly frowned and flicked a thumb at herself. “Hello, modern, independent woman with, okay, a part-time instead of full-time career, but it’s mine, and I worked for it.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking emotionally. You don’t ask for what you want—what you need—emotionally.” Dixie cocked her head. “And, I suspect, sexually, too.”
Holly made to stand up. “Well, good talk. Gotta run.”
Dixie grinned and pointed a finger. “Sit.”
After an epic eye roll, Holly sat. “Please, not the sex talk again.”
“It’s not the sex talk that makes you squirm; it’s feelings that make you fidget like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
“I can deal with the feels.”
Certain kinds of feels, anyway. The uncomplicated stuff. Stuff that didn’t involve hurting people or getting hurt. Or the feels that came when the people you loved and needed didn’t seem to love and need you back.
; “Good. So let’s talk about why you don’t ask for what you want, starting with your family.”
Ruh-roh. Here came the sweaty palms. Holly surreptitiously swiped them down the legs of her jeans. “My family’s got nothing to do with it.”
Another raised eyebrow from Dixie. “Tell me who you’re closer to, Ben and West, or Chris and John?”
“My brothers are fifteen and seventeen years older than me. Of course I’m closer to Ben and West. We grew up together.”
“Uh-huh. And what about you and Shaye, and Danielle?”
The stretchy tank top Holly wore under her shirt constricted her chest like a full plaster cast. “Danielle was fourteen when I was born and oops”—Holly mustered a wry smile—“guess I pushed her out of the limelight as the baby of the family. But we’re cool. We talk all the time.”
Like on her nieces’ and nephews’ birthdays and at Christmas. Or when she listened to Danielle vent her frustrations about their mother running constant interference in her life…something Holly found hard to relate to since, well, her mum often joked Holly raised herself because Mum had her hands full with three teenagers in the house.
“And your parents?”
This was where Dixie was wrong. “Mum calls me religiously every fortnight on Saturday after Libby’s netball and Thomas’ rugby games.”
“Religiously. Interesting word choice.”
Dixie sipped more of her tea, bringing the silent treatment to the table. Which made Holly remember Saturday mornings as a kid. By the time she’d been old enough to play netball or rugby, her siblings had moved out. So at Saturday morning games, it had only been her dad standing on the sports field, and as Oban’s school principal, he kinda had to.
As she grew older, Holly began to see the difference between her grey-haired parents and the other parents who cannonballed off the wharf or wrestled in the sand with their kids. She’d learned to make allowances. To not demand too much of Mum and Dad’s attention or affection, since it had mostly been used up with her older siblings. They were never neglectful or cruel, though, if that’s what Dixie was getting at.
“They have their own lives. And they’re good people,” Holly said.
“Who left you to fend for yourself when you were eighteen?”
“They wanted to see more of their grandkids than once-or-twice-a-year visits.”
Dixie made a disgruntled sound and wrinkled her nose. “You still needed them.”
“Which is why I was so lucky to have you and the Harlands. I get all the emotional feels I need from you guys.”
“Not quite all of them.”
Something in Dixie’s tone shot a steel bolt down Holly’s spine. “I don’t need a man to complete me. You told me that before I even hit my teens.”
“No, honey. You don’t need a man, but it seems to me you want one. Specifically, Ford. It’s time you asked for that kiss you want, instead of waiting for it.”
Holly’s heart rate jittered like she’d overdosed on caffeine. “Are you suggesting I go tangle tonsils with him after he had his hand up Julia’s skirt only thirty minutes ago?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“He’s probably upstairs at Due South in bed with that woman!” Who did that high-pitched, wheezy voice belong to? Oh, right. Her…going loco at the thought of Ford in anyone’s bed other than hers.
Dixie’s gaze softened. “Ford was always the quiet one, the kid who hung back and watched West and Ben—and even Harley—get the girls. Do you really believe he’d sleep with this Julia woman so soon?”
Holly pictured the hallway scene in her head again, replaying the whole ten-second encounter of what she saw in Technicolor goriness. This time, remembering how Ford’s eyes had been wide open, his brow wrinkled in shock. How the muscles strained in his neck as he arched not towards Julia but away.
She sighed. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“With great age comes great wisdom. Now go eat a Tic-Tac and lay a smooch on that Komeke boy.”
“I’m not ready for wedding bells like Shaye and Carly.”
“Never said you were. But you’re young, and there’s nothing wrong with a little fooling around.”
Holly reloaded the tray with their dirty dishes and carried it into the kitchen.
Then she returned to kiss Dixie’s silky white hair. “You’re a terrible influence, but I love you, anyway.”
Chapter 8
After five unanswered texts and two calls that went straight to voice mail, Ford figured Holly had turned her phone off. As he paced around his house, he asked himself why it mattered if Holly had seen him and Julia in the hallway.
He stalked into the small second bedroom he’d transformed into a mini gym slash place to store junk. Ford unbuttoned his shirt and threw it onto the weight bench. Stripped off his pants and tugged on some workout shorts, sending a mental memo to dump Julia’s thong in the trash since he hadn’t wanted to risk tossing a used pair of panties at the hotel.
“Damn.” He grabbed the hand wrap and shook it out, twisting it expertly onto both hands. He yanked on his gloves and eyed up the leather punching bag hanging from a chain in the corner.
It mattered.
He swung a left hook at the bag. Set his jaw as the jolt travelled up his arm. It mattered because all he could think of now was kissing Holly.
Ford whaled on the bag until sweat soaked the waistband of his shorts. His dress pants tossed beside the shirt on the weight bench beeped. He froze for a beat then dived to scoop out his phone. A text from Holly:
Meet me at the fort?
He replied: Be there in ten.
Ford hit the shower for a two minute special since he stank of sweat and desperation, and he was out the door with five minutes to spare. He walked briskly, starlight his guide, until he reached Oban’s well-spaced-out streetlights, then he angled across the sports field to the thick cluster of native bush behind it. The well-worn track between two rātā trees was easy to find with his penlight. He followed it, prepared to issue an amicable but firm “bugger off” to any of the town’s teenagers who’d chosen tonight to hang out at the old tree fort.
Pushing aside an overhanging ponga fern frond, Ford tried to slow his galloping pulse. The tree fort had been a teen hangout spot for years. Him and Harley, Ben and West and Del, had made plans there to change the world, and have the maximum amount of fun—and sex—while doing so.
He paused on the overgrown track, tipping his face to the sky mainly hidden by the leafy canopy overhead.
Only the five of them grew up. Harley left for his fancy art college in Christchurch, West started putting in longer hours at Due South with his dad, Ben struggled to support his family’s diving business, and Ford? He worked hard and helped keep his own family afloat while Harley transformed from struggling artist to darling of the New York art scene.
Ford continued down the track.
Then three years ago, while out on an evening run he’d spotted someone headed to the fort and followed. He’d found Holly up the tree, newly returned from her first hairdressing job in Invers, staunchly denying crying over her bag-of-dicks ex. Somehow, he’d not screwed up the conversation by shutting his mouth and making sympathetic noises. And he’d said yes when she’d asked if he wanted to come for homemade pizza and a Harry Potter marathon the next night, spidey tingles zipping down his spine. Tingles that were quickly muted the next evening when he realized pizza and Harry Potter wasn’t an euphemism for anything other than pizza and a movie.
Holly had needed a friend since Shaye had remained in Invercargill still sweating out her chef’s training. Ford would be that friend. End of story.
The track opened to a small clearing, his penlight catching the sway of the rope ladder moving in the breeze. Leaves hissed and shimmied, the only other sound distant, tinny music from Due South, carried by the night air. He aimed the beam up to the platform, spotting Holly’s shapely, jean-clad calves and Chuck Taylors dangling over the edge.
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“Coming up.” He tucked the penlight between his teeth and scaled the ladder.
Boards creaked as he climbed onto the platform. He flicked off the penlight and scooted over to lower himself next to her. She had on the same sweater she’d worn at the pub, and it brushed his arm as she slid subtly sideways on the planks, increasing the small amount of distance between them. Blame it on the flowery coconut scent wafting off her for addling his senses, because he shifted closer, bumping the length of his thigh against hers. She jumped as if static electricity zapped her a good one and finally faced him.
“I saw you and Julia kissing in the hallway.”
She didn’t give away anything. Could’ve been telling him she’d observed him changing the oil on the Honda currently sitting in the workshop.
“I figured when you took off,” he said.
She swung her legs, stared out at the impenetrable line of black, silhouetted trees.
“Finding you groping a half-naked woman outside the women’s bathroom convinced me to use my own toilet instead of the pub’s.”
“Julia ramming her tongue into my mouth wasn’t my idea. Or the groping and lower quadrant nudity.”
“Yeah,” she said after a beat. “I figured you were the gropee, rather than the groper, after I’d finished being pissed.”
His heart went from steady thud to a hummingbird flutter in an instant. “Clue me in on what you were pissed about?”
“Why do you think I texted you, assbutt?”
“To call me something from your ever-growing list of Supernatural insults?”
A soft snicker in the darkness. “Are we gonna sit here and squabble, or are you going to man up and kiss me?”
The hell? Ford froze, his stomach taking a wild bungee jump off the tree fort. “Thought kissing was off the table? What with the ‘no spark, no attraction’ deal you mentioned the other night.”
Holly’s swinging feet stilled, her head dipping so her hair slipped forward and covered her face. “Maybe I’m suggesting we return it to the table for a minute. As an experiment.”
Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6 Page 10
