Playing For Fun: Stewart Island Book 6

by Alvarez, Tracey

  He carted the bottles and plates to the kitchen. Dumped the plates on the counter, bottles in recycling. Stood staring out his kitchen window at the sliver of ocean peeping between two spindly manuka.

  I love you, she’d moaned against his neck.

  But even in the middle of a blow-his-brains out orgasm, the words smacked into him with the force of a head-on collision with a tanker. And like a car crash test dummy, he’d said nothing. Pretended he hadn’t heard. Held her close—snuggled, if you will—and silently freaked the hell out.

  No woman had ever told him she loved him. None. And he’d never been in love. He had a twenty-nine-year-old Love “V-card” he’d never turned in, for God’s sake.

  Ford picked up Holly’s plate and tipped a solitary nibbled pizza crust into the trash. He’d eaten the crusts from the other two slices she’d left—as usual, taking them off her plate without asking for permission. It was their thing. She loved pizza, loved bread, but hated the crusts, and Ford the garbage-guts took care of it.

  Took care of her.

  Like she took care of him in subtle ways he didn’t often think about. Hair care products magically appeared in his bathroom—not that he’d tell the guys about that one. She’d show up for lunch once or twice a week to enforce a break—since he often forgot—usually with coffee and food in hand. Foil-covered casserole dishes left in the workshop’s fridge, chicken soup and tissues and nasty-tasting, homemade cough mixture she swore by when he got sick.

  She cared for him.

  Ford rinsed the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher.

  And said she loved him.

  He shoved the door shut on the dishwasher and spun the dial.

  What the hell was he supposed to do with that? What the hell should he feel about it? Ford’s lip twitched. Well, he wasn’t such a numbnuts he hadn’t figured it was more than just sex between him and Holly.

  Ford rubbed a fist against the ache in his chest—which, damn it, was indigestion, nothing more. It felt as if a big-assed anvil was poised above his head, ready to squash him like a cartoon coyote when he screwed up everything.

  Far too complicated thoughts for this late at night. He killed the kitchen lights and padded along the hallway, pausing at the door to his room.

  Holly lay on her side, facing away from him, the light from the hallway spilling over silky skin and emphasising the curves of her waist and perfectly rounded ass. The soft rise and fall of her ribs told him she was nearly asleep. She was so damn beautiful. So perfectly at home in his bed—as she should be. Because that’s where she belonged. With him. In his bed, in his life.

  Permanently.

  Ford glanced at the hall light switch then back at Holly. Since she’d been in his bed, he hadn’t woken once with nightmares. The anvil above him wobbled precariously.

  What the hell…

  Ford flicked the switch, darkness immediately encircling him. He stood for a moment longer, waiting for the familiar rise of low-grade panic that he could manfully shove deep down inside.

  It didn’t come.

  Instead, a jaw-cracking yodel of a yawn from his bed then, “Ford?” Her voice was sticky with sleep. “Coming to bed?”

  “Yeah.” Ford moved through the dark room and climbed under the covers, pulling them up over them both. He tucked Holly tight up against him.

  “Spooning’s awesome. You’re so warm,” she mumbled as he cupped one of her bare breasts, the nipple soft and relaxed with sleep.

  Maybe not that sleepy since it started to bud tightly under his palm. Ford kissed her shoulder, and she made a soft humming sound in her throat.

  A pause, a slight tensing of her cute butt cheeks pressed firmly into his groin. “It’s dark in here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You turned off the light.”

  “I did,” he said. “Close your eyes, and you won’t know the difference.”

  “I know the difference.” She melted into him, stroking her fingers down his forearms. “And I’m here, ‘kay?”

  In response, he tucked the duvet tighter around her and buried his face in her hair, finally allowing himself to drift.

  * * *

  Banging on the front door woke Ford from deepest sleep, slicing through his dreams of Holly sunbathing on some tropical beach in a teeny-tiny white bikini. He jerked awake, legs scissoring beneath the duvet. Luckily, during the night, he’d rolled away from Holly, who slept like a cat, curled up in a ball at the opposite edge of the bed.

  Ford rolled upright and reached for his phone on the nightstand. 7:30 a.m. The hell? He dragged on yesterday’s jeans and headed down the hallway. He opened the front door to a grim-faced Noah. Make that a grim-faced Noah in his light-blue cop shirt and standard issue blue pants.

  A uniformed cop at his door this early on a Sunday morning—even though this cop was his mate—wasn’t a social call. Ford’s heart gave his breastbone a solid upper-cut, and his fingers gripping the doorknob clenched hard enough to dent the metal.

  “Can I come in?” Noah said.

  Ford stepped aside, and Noah strolled with the easy assuredness of their friendship into Ford’s living room. He sat on the couch arm, his flat gaze giving away nothing as Ford leaned against the wall—the same wall Holly had watched him from the night before. His heart, still punching his breastbone over and over, plummeted into his gut.

  “Mum and Dad? Harley?” Their names ripped gaping holes out of him, his twin’s most of all. Crazy bastard was always pushing the limit, claiming it made him a better artist. Bloody sky-diving, bungee jumping—but how much trouble could an adrenalin junkie get into in New York City?

  “They’re fine.” Noah folded his arms. “This is not about them. You want me to do the formal police thing, or tell you as a mate?”

  “You’re in your uniform.” Quite the astute observation. Ford scrubbed a hand down his face. Formal or mate, this wouldn’t be good.

  “Yeah. Had a call from Christchurch Central this morning.”

  From an early age, Ford learned the hard lesson of waking instantly at a hundred-percent mental capacity. If you were slow, if you took too long to respond when called to breakfast, you either went hungry or you got a clip around the ears.

  “This about Pania Komeke, my birth mother?” he asked. “What’s she done now?”

  Caught drunk and disorderly? Shoplifting or DUI? Wouldn’t be Pania’s first run-in with the Boys in Blue.

  A flicker of muscle movement in Noah’s jaw, a tell Ford recognized from playing poker with him. Noah Daniels held some crappy cards in his hands. Before he could speak, Ford saved him the trouble.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Noah’s gaze remained steady as he nodded. “I’m sorry. Officers responded to a call to a Woolston address where your mother’s body was found.”

  Noah continued in his calm, gruff voice—brisk sympathy in his tone as he talked—but only a few keywords penetrated Ford’s sudden numbness. Anonymous phone call. No suspected foul play. Possible overdose. Autopsy to determine cause of death. Coroner’s report.

  Ford got through the rest of the conversation on auto-pilot. Blood thudded against his eardrums, dulling Noah’s patient instructions on the next steps of procedure to a soughing roar.

  “Thanks for stopping by to tell me in person,” Ford said as Noah stood up to leave.

  Thanks for letting me know the monster of my nightmares is dead?

  “Goes with the job.”

  “Guess it does.”

  “But as your mate, can I do anything for you?”

  “No. I’m good. Holly’s here, in any case.”

  Noah nodded and walked to the living room door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Ford followed Noah out into the hallway, showed him out.

  “Everything okay?” Holly stood bleary eyed at the end of the hallway, dark hair tumbling over one of his shirts. “I heard voices.”

  �
�Noah was here.”

  Her nose crinkled. “At this time of the morning?”

  She shoved a handful of blue and brown hair off her face, studying him with sleepy eyes. Something she saw there caused her to comically freeze, hand on top of her head as if she were playing Simon Says. “What’s happened?”

  “Next of kin notification. Pania’s dead. A suspected drug overdose.” Ford delivered the news in clipped sentences he had no idea how to soften because right now, his whole body felt carved from granite. And granite had no soft edges, no way to soften a blow delivered by the harsh truth.

  Holly clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Ford.”

  She took half a dozen steps forward, hesitated, then, after an apparent internal debate moved quickly and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her sleep-flushed cheek against his chest. Her palms stroked up and down his spine, her shirt-clad curves nestling into him.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  Ford kissed her forehead, but even Holly’s smooth skin didn’t stir even the slightest pleasurable emotion.

  “I could do with a tee shirt. I’ve got to call Harley and then go see Mum and Dad.”

  She gave him another squeeze and tilted her head, brow furrowed in concern. “Shirt, it is. Then I’ll make you a coffee, put on some breakfast?”

  Bacon, eggs, toast and maybe even a couple of grilled tomatoes, all the makings of a kiwi breakfast. The kind you’d whip up after a night of banging each other’s brains out. Not something his stomach could handle when it was being twisted inside out.

  “Maybe later.” He eased away from her, pasting on a smile of gratitude to soften the blow. “Just the shirt for now.”

  A worried V appeared between Holly’s eyes, and she wrapped her arms around her torso. “I’ll stay with you—while you make the call—if you like. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  Alone was what he needed. Alone meant he wouldn’t have to guard his expressions or worry that Holly would judge and weigh every stilted word as he informed his family of Pania’s death.

  “Just knowing you’re here is enough,” he said. “But this is something I need to take care of by myself.”

  She dipped her head, averting her eyes. “Okay.”

  Without meeting his gaze, she rose on tip-toe and cupped his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’m so sorry, sweet.” Then she walked back up the hallway into his bedroom.

  Ford stared at the front door, morning chill seeping up from the floorboards into the soles of his feet. A drug overdose had managed what all the wishing in his childhood hadn’t.

  Ding-dong-the-bloody-witch-is-dead. No more flying monkeys.

  Chapter 18

  Ford stood on Oban’s tiny airstrip, an icy breeze ruffling through his hair. At least the winter chill couldn’t creep down his neck, not with the restrictive, button-down shirt and tie he’d been jammed into.

  Harley stood at his side in a matching shirt and tie—but which had probably cost as much as a month of Ford’s wages. Their dad insisted on the ties as a way to not only show respect for Pania, but as a sign to the many extended whānau gathered at the marae to begin the tangi process. Edgy silence spanned the short distance they stood apart in quiet contemplation of Pania’s casket, now loaded onto the back of their dad’s ute after he and Harley, their dad and three of his younger brothers, carried her from the plane.

  “You two good to sit in back?” Ford’s dad came to stand beside him, hooking a finger under the collar of his shirt.

  “Yeah.” Harley leapt nimbly onto the bed, wedging himself between the casket and ute side.

  Ford nodded and did the same, taking the spot across from his brother. Their dad flipped up the tailgate and headed to the cab.

  Ford tilted his head, resting it against the back window. He closed his eyes as the engine roared to life. Wasn’t the first time he’d sat beside a casket on route to a marae. Great aunts and uncles, second cousins, grandparents, he’d been to many tangis since he and Harley first came back to their hapu—their home tribe.

  Death wasn’t hidden in Maori culture. Extended family came together to grieve with the whānau pani, to say goodbye to the one who’d died. To talk and laugh with them but to also reaffirm the bonds that made them strong, that made them whānau.

  “Get much sleep last night?” Harley said beside him.

  Great. Jet lag had obviously worn off after Harley’s eighteen-hour flight from New York two days before. Ford cracked an eye. “Enough. You?”

  The ute’s suspension lurched as it drove out of the airport, and the hard edges of the casket nudged his hip.

  “Eight solid.”

  “Good for you.” Ford shut his eyes again.

  He’d be lucky to claim a quarter of that, what with his mind spinning like a bogged-down tyre over dealings with police, coroner, and funeral director. He’d been neck deep in red-tape procedure since he’d flown up to Christchurch Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t blaming Harley since his brother had dumped everything and flown back to New Zealand. But with his parents’ grief dogging him the whole time—not to mention being away from Holly for the last three days…

  Ford scrubbed a hand over his face. Damn. And somehow, amongst this week’s drama, he’d forgotten to shave this morning.

  “Aren’t you a chatty Cathy?” Harley said. “You look like crap, by the way.”

  Eyes still closed, Ford shot him the bird—careful to keep his hand below the sightline of his dad’s rear-view mirror.

  Harley snickered. “Lucky for you protocol means immediate family don’t have to take part in the speeches. But still, get your game face on, man. We’re playing the mourning twins act in about three minutes.”

  Yeah, he had an act to put on, all right. Grieving? Anaesthetised, more like. Ford opened his eyes as the oak casket juddered slightly on the ute bed beside him. Oak—the best money could buy since Harley insisted on footing the bill.

  “For Mum and Dad’s peace of mind,” Harley had said. “Not for her.”

  Ford slid the dark shades off his head to cover his eyes. “I’m good. See?” He angled his face at his brother. “Dutiful son face solidly in place.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Me too. Let’s get this over with,” Harley added as the ute changed gears and slowed.

  They passed a line of cars parked on the grass verge, and a few stragglers hurried to catch up with the rest of the crowd gathered at the gates, waiting for the kuia to call them onto the marae.

  Ford spotted Holly the moment they came to a stop. Flanked by West and Piper, and Ben and Kezia, she stood at the rear of the black-clothed crowd of visitors. He blinked twice before he twigged to the difference in her appearance—she’d stripped the colored stripe out of her hair, and her skin looked milky pale. He frowned behind his glasses, stomach muscles clenching as he resisted the desire to go to her.

  His dad and uncles climbed out of the ute, dropping down the tailgate so Ford and Harley could help lower the casket into waiting hands. Ford lost sight of Holly as the kuia stepped forward, their voices raised high to karanga both living and dead onto the marae. He white-knuckled the casket’s handle, gaze locked on Harley’s broad back as Pania was returned home. The first time she’d been back in over thirty years.

  Protocol followed—the casket positioned inside the marae with the lid removed so mourners could pay their last respects. Ford braced himself for the welcome speeches, setting his features into stoic neutrality.

  Speeches completed, whānau and friends filed past. Ford hugged, kissed and performed hongi with the more traditional of his relatives. Tension crawled through his veins as Holly drew closer to him in the line. When Harley drew her into a bear hug and kissed her cheek, a knife-stab of jealousy punctured his gut.

  Crazy stupid—but seeing her look up at Harley, her hands resting lightly on his biceps as he spoke quietly to her, made him want to bodily pick up his great auntie Marama, yapping like an excitable poodle about the time she caught Pania raiding h
er apple tree, God-rest-her-poor-soul, and deposit her in front of his dad to deal with. Finally, Auntie shuffled to the right, and Holly stood in front of him.

  Achingly beautiful, even with shadows bruising her eyes, she didn’t say anything, just stepped into his arms and pressed her cheek to his chest. Ford bent, his nose brushing her sweet-scented hair, his body responding to the feel of her tucked tight against him.

  During the stress of the last few days, he’d been stuck in a Christchurch motel room with his phone the only lifeline to the real world back home. Holly’s calls and texts while waiting for his mother’s body to go through the necessary processes before being released to the family had anchored him.

  Before the warmth of her could restore life to his body, which felt as if it was emerging from cryogenic sleep, Holly pulled away. Her gaze zipped sideways to where Auntie Marama studied them both.

  “Taking care of your man, eh?” The older woman’s mouth curved up in the corner as she addressed Holly. “Our Pania would approve, wouldn’t she, Rob?”

  “She would.”

  His dad smiled, the deep grooves criss-crossing his brow softening for a moment as his gaze settled on Holly. The last week had been hard for his dad, too, trying to pull together a tangi and organize transport and catering and endless phone calls while running his business single-handedly. “Holly’s a good sort—too good for the likes of him.”

  Auntie cackled, turning toward the casket, which lay at the end of the greeting line. “Ya hear that, Pania? One of your boys caught himself a good ‘un. If she’ll have him, mind.” She patted Holly’s arm. “You make him work for your aroha, honey. Don’t you let him off easy. Those Komeke men, ai—they’re trouble to a poor girl’s heart.”

  Holly’s gaze flew back to Ford. Was it the easy familiarity with which Maori addressed the deceased or the mention of aroha—love—that put the glimmer of panic in her eyes? He wasn’t sure.