Paradise Road

by C. J. Duggan

  ‘Who was the girl?’

  Dean looked confused, genuinely so, as he tried to work out what I was talking about, and then the seriousness morphed into an outburst of laughter. ‘Oh my God, surely he’s not thinking of –’

  I interrupted. ‘Was it Lucy? Is that why she doesn’t work at the Wipe Out Bar anymore?’ I blurted it out without thinking, but it was my worst fear.

  Dean did a double-take. ‘Lucy? I let her go because she had a bad attitude, she was bad for business. I certainly didn’t want to make her my business.’

  I felt relief, but I still had to know. ‘Well, who then?’

  Dean sighed. ‘Sherry. He’ll be referring to Sherry.’

  My blood ran cold; that was a love triangle I didn’t need or want to find out about. I felt sick.

  ‘I see,’ I said, thinking now I had to deal with the Ghost of Sherry?

  Dean grinned. ‘Relax, it’s not as sordid as it seems.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s all I need to know. We should probably head back now.’ I went to move but Dean grabbed my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

  ‘Now just wait a minute, you asked, so let me tell you.’

  I tried to remain calm now. ‘I said, I don’t want to know.’

  ‘And I think you do.’

  Dean pulled me back as if I weighed nothing. I sighed, crossing my arms and giving him my best pissed-off stare.

  ‘Once upon a time there lived a prince who owned and managed a bar …’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse.’

  Dean cleared his throat, stifling his smile. ‘All right, all right.’

  I’m glad he was finding this so bloody amusing.

  ‘It’s rather simple. Ballantine was skipping school, failing. Mum asked if I could help so I had him come work for me, gave him some responsibility and tried to straighten him out.’

  Now it was me who was hanging on every word. I could almost feel myself holding my breath.

  ‘He got better, still a little shit, but he improved. Then Sherry came along. He liked her but … she liked me. He blamed me and I took him from out the front and put him in the kitchen and he’s had a massive chip on his shoulder since. And that’s it.’

  I looked at Dean sceptically. That couldn’t be it.

  ‘And is that why Sherry left? Because of all the drama?’

  Dean’s good humour fell away. ‘Sherry doesn’t deal with drama and she certainly doesn’t run away from it.’

  His defence of her was somewhat admirable if not … annoying. ‘So, how did Ballantine deal with you and Sherry?’

  ‘Me and Sherry? There was no me and Sherry, it was never like that.’

  ‘Never?’ I found that hard to believe.

  ‘Never.’

  Dean stepped forward, so close I could feel his breath on my face. Reaching down he slid his hand over mine, unhinging my fingers from around his sunglasses, taking them from my grasp, before flicking them out and placing them back on his head.

  ‘Any more questions?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Good. You, me, bar, tomorrow.’ He said flipping on his glasses and heading back towards Arcadia Lane.

  Only when I saw his dark figure get swallowed up by the crowd did I allow myself to deal with the reality.

  ‘Tomorrow? Fuck.’

  I spun around to grasp the railing only to find a lady with a pram next to me, giving me daggers.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I grimaced as she strapped her child in and stormed off in a huff.

  I didn’t have the brain capacity to care as I stared out over the beach. There was no betrayal, not really, and as much as all that other stuff was good to know and provided clarity, there was also something else that was very clear: I was in way out of my depth.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  This was the first night in my room, my real room, and it was everything the apartment was not. It was small but cosy, no sweeping views or even so much as the modern convenience of a toilet or shower – I would have to use the bathroom down the hall for such luxuries. The sounds were different on this side of the building. My room faced a brick wall, which gave me an attractive view of the alleyway. There were only muted traffic noises and certainly no sound of the ocean. I had thought to open up the window to try and let some air into what was a pretty stuffy room, but the window would not budge, and try as I might, the damn thing was painted shut. Probably just as well. As memory served, the alley was lined with skip bins and smelt nothing like the ocean. The plastic frosted laminate placed on the window for privacy made me feel claustrophobic and I think I would have preferred to look at a brick wall.

  Geez, Lexie, ungrateful much?

  Yep, even I was getting sick of my own whingeing. Honestly, I had a room, a job, what more did I need? And with that very thought my tummy grumbled. Food. Nope, a cupcake alone was not going to cut it. I unpacked the last of my schoolbooks, converting my windowsill into a makeshift shelf. My room was more cramped than ever, filled with additional boxes of things my parents brought up for me, including some creature comforts like my own pillow and dressing gown. It felt like some demented form of Christmas, locked away in my tiny room unpacking cherished items from home. Looking over the mass assortment, I smiled. What if I hadn’t found a job? They had packed the car regardless with the intent of me staying on, so either they had incredible faith in me after all or the thought of escorting me home against my will was something they didn’t want to subject themselves to.

  Untying a black garbage bag, I peered inside. The contents gave me a good, solid dose of reality as I reached in, pulling out a folded square of fabric with an unmistakeable blue and white checked pattern.

  My school uniform.

  Getting up from my bed, I made my way to the calendar I had lovingly rehoused on the wardrobe door. Yep, there it was, circled with a big smiley face – school went back next Wednesday. Who the hell starts back at school on a Wednesday? Among all the insanity and uncertainty I was not prepared for this. I wanted to pace my room but there was not enough space for that so I opted for standing still and biting my thumbnail, as anxiety bubbled inside me. For some strange reason the thought of going back to school with no Amanda, no Aunty Karen or Uncle Peter around kind of made me nervous. They had been, and it was strange to admit this to myself, my go-to people. Who did I have now? Dean? Oh God I felt sick, or maybe it was just the hunger pains. And as if summoning the very image of my unsettling reality, a loud series of knocks sounded on my door.

  I navigated my way to the door, pausing to brush my fingers through my hair and straighten my clothing until I caught myself and wondered what I was doing. Pushing my thoughts aside, I whipped the door open.

  There he stood, all tall and menacing as if being here at my door was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

  I lifted my brows in a silent ‘can I help you?’ expression. This only seemed to irritate him all the more.

  ‘Making yourself at home, I see.’

  ‘I’m getting there.’

  Dean nodded, and a long drawn-out silence stretched between us. Well, this was awkward. What did he want, for me to thank him every moment of the day? Did he want to come in? Should I invite him? No, that would just be weird.

  ‘You hungry?’

  My eyes snapped up. Yes! But before I could answer, he continued.

  ‘Come down to the kitchen. I’ll tell Bernie to make you what you want,’ he said, before turning and striding down the hall.

  ‘Thanks.’ I managed, but if he heard me he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply walked on, without so much as a backwards glance, into his office and shut the door behind him.

  •

  I felt like I was in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory following Bernie into the cool room.

  ‘We have lasagne, Guinness pies, parmis all made fresh this morning,’ Bernie called out as he grabbed a huge tub off a shelf and carried it back into the kitchen.

  ‘Great, whatever, I’m starving,’ I said, steppin
g out of his way and following him back out.

  Bernie was a tiny man with black hair, dyed by the look of it, under a hair net. He had a pencil-thin moustache and a tattoo of Popeye on his bicep.

  ‘So, whatever?’ he repeated.

  ‘Surprise me, cook whatever you like. I’ll eat anything.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that. Cassie keeps me on my toes with her “vegetarian” requests,’ Bernie air-quoted vegetarian as if it were a fancy word, causing me to laugh.

  ‘You think if I were a vegan it might tip you over the edge?’ I teased.

  ‘Don’t even go there,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Do I wait or –’

  ‘Go sit down in the bistro, table 27 is the staff table. I’ll get someone to run it out.’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Bernie,’ I said, leaving the chaos of the steamy kitchen behind, glancing at the boy at the sink powering his way through the pile of dirty dishes, just like Ballantine had no doubt done when he worked here. I brushed the thought quickly from my mind as I pushed through the door of the kitchen, walked down the hall and turned into the main bar area to make my way through to the bistro.

  Table 27, table 27? My eyes skimmed over the golden numbers that were mounted on the tabletops, all the while smiling politely at people enjoying their meals. The restaurant wasn’t full, so it would make for a quiet dinner thankfully. It didn’t take me long to locate my table … it was the one that Dean sat at, tucked away in the far corner of the bistro.

  Great.

  I inhaled a deep breath and weaved my way through the tables, coming to a stop before Dean. In true Dean style his serious gaze was cast onto a heap of paperwork before him, something that seemed to always captivate his attention.

  ‘You work down here too?’ I asked.

  Dean’s eyes lifted from what he was reading. ‘Oh, you know me, I’m everywhere … like a nightmare,’ he said, with a crooked little grin. He was everywhere all right. In every corner, every room, every door. He was very much a presence in this place, and being the owner-operator, I guess he needed to be.

  ‘Mind if I sit here?’

  Dean didn’t answer, he simply moved his paperwork over, making some room for me to sit opposite him. Sliding into the booth, I was suddenly aware that even though we were sitting in the family bistro, surrounded by several tables of people, it still felt very intimate. I wasn’t sure if it was due to us being tucked away in the corner, or the subtle lighting, but I kind of wished my meal would hurry up and get here so it would give me something to do with my hands, hands that I clasped together on top of the table as I peered over at what had Dean so entranced.

  ‘Homework?’

  ‘Never ends,’ he said, filling out a form with a black pen. He pressed hard against the paper, and his writing was messy and small.

  I smiled. Writing was such a personal thing, giving an insight into a person. I pushed myself against the vinyl of my seat and folded my arms across my chest.

  Dean’s eyes flicked up, troubled by my sudden movement. ‘What?’

  ‘You have the writing of a serial killer.’

  Dean’s brows pinched together, as he cocked his head to look at his handiwork. I thought he might argue the point, be a bit offended. Instead, a small smirk appeared, one that he desperately fought against. ‘I’d like to think I have the penmanship of a doctor, thank you.’

  I shrugged. ‘Whatever makes you feel better.’

  ‘It’s called hours and hours of paperwork,’ he said, clicking his pen, then scooping his pages together and tapping them into a neat pile. My comment seemed to have given him a complex, although I doubted Dean would have a complex about anything.

  ‘When every spare minute of your free time is dedicated to paperwork, let me know,’ he said, now seemingly pissed off. The lines of his face showed his fatigue, as he scratched his head, weary.

  I scoffed, ‘Hey, you don’t have to tell me, I’m doing Year Twelve this year so I know a thing or two about homework.’

  Dean stretched his arms to the ceiling, groaning as his bones clicked and popped from their stiffened state. His t-shirt lifted, exposing a flash of chiselled stomach, a glimpse of flesh I actively forced myself not to look at.

  ‘Bloody hell. School, when does that start?’ he asked, his arms falling down to his sides as he sat back into his chair.

  ‘Next Wednesday.’

  ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘Well, do you want to run through some bar drills after you start school?’ he posed the question with a massive amount of uncertainty as if the cogs were turning in his brain, as if school was something he wasn’t exactly counting on having to worry about.

  I didn’t want it to change anything, I could do both, no problem. ‘No, I want to learn the ropes, the sooner I start the better, besides I have to earn my keep.’ I nodded with a sense of finality.

  Dean looked at me for a long moment, a quizzical set to his eyes. ‘I thought you would have wanted to enjoy your last bout of freedom with your friends before school started.’

  It was a legitimate thought to have, but I wasn’t your run-of-the-mill Paradise girl. Laura, who was also working now, was really the only friend I had, and that was when her parents weren’t being extra strict on her.

  ‘I really have nothing else to do,’ I admitted, as much as I had desperately wanted to come to Paradise, to experience my passage into adulthood, the reality was a whole lot different. I was now living in a world of responsibility, where I had to work to earn my keep. When I wasn’t at school, I would either be studying or working, but I was okay with that, they were pretty good fillers for someone who didn’t exactly have a jam-packed social agenda. And now that Ballantine was no longer around, what else was there to do? Anytime he popped into my head I shook him from my thoughts. Yep, the sooner I was kept busy the better. I rubbed my hands on my thighs, nodding to myself before watching Dean gather his things and stand.

  ‘So, tomorrow right?’ I said, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Dean looked at me like I was a freak.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he nodded, and just as Dean left, a plate was slid in front of me by the waitress, a huge bowl of creamy chicken and sundried tomato pasta with a pile of grated cheese on top. My mouth instantly watered.

  ‘Chef’s special,’ said the girl as she placed some cutlery on either side of my bowl.

  ‘Did you need a drink or anything?’

  I bit my lip, thinking about the reality of this possibly being my last night of freedom for a while. Should I, could I? What the hell.

  ‘Can I see the drinks menu please?’

  Maybe just a sip.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I woke up the next morning in a world of pain, pain that was about to increase tenfold as I lifted my face from the mattress, fully clothed and squinting at the blurry figure leaning in my doorway, sipping a cup of coffee and shaking his head.

  Dean.

  ‘Oh God, make it go away,’ I groaned, rolling away from him and clawing at the blanket to pull over my head.

  ‘Big night?’

  Was that a question? I couldn’t deal with questions. What did I drink last night?

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better after a nice big glass of OJ.’

  That’s when it hit me, the very sound of that word instantly churning my stomach as the memories came flooding back. I had ordered glass after glass of the cheapest nastiest concoction available: Moselle and OJ.

  ‘Yep, OJ and a big greasy fry-up should do the trick.’ Dean spoke before taking another sip of his coffee.

  He was here to torture me. He was put on this earth to make it his goal in life to be around at times like this.

  ‘What time is it?’ I croaked.

  ‘Time to look alive.’

  ‘What?’ My head swivelled around, which was a baaad idea. Head spin. ‘Ugh, you sound like a drill sergeant.’

  ‘Trust me, this is a gentle wake-up call compared t
o that, but if you don’t move within the next five seconds …’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m moving.’ I snapped, attempting to sit up. Not my finest hour.

  ‘Hope it was worth it,’ Dean said, pushing himself from the door and heading down the hall. ‘You have twenty minutes,’ he called back.

  ‘Twenty minutes?’ I scrambled for the clock on my bedside table.

  Craaaap.

  I scurried my way out of bed, cursing the day, cursing Dean.

  This was a test. Bloody hell, I was a girl. No, girl could get ready in twenty minutes, no way, no how.

  •

  With five minutes to spare I was standing woozily behind the bar, not completely convinced I wasn’t still a little drunk from the night before. Here I was, ever present as I lifted my smug gaze to the camera near the bar and only hoped he was watching as I lifted my chin, smiling. There was something to be said about being surrounded by passive, stale beer smells when you have the mother of all hangovers.

  The bar phone rang. It’s shrill, high-pitched ringing had to be stopped, it felt like a jackhammer to my head as I made my way as quickly as possible to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’ I answered, my mouth feeling like cotton wool.

  ‘That’s not how you answer the phone.’

  My mouth gaped, trying to even recall what I had just said.

  ‘Okay, how should I be answering it?’ I asked, knowing that I would have to put every ounce of patience into this day.

  ‘Just don’t worry about the phone right now.’

  ‘But what if it rings?’

  ‘Cassie will answer it.’

  ‘But Cassie’s not here.’

  ‘What?’ There was movement on the other end of the phone that had me imagining him swivelling around in his ridiculously large chair staring at the monitors. Ha! Guess he didn’t have his finger on the pulse like he thought. I looked directly into the camera, giving a little wave.

  ‘I’m coming down.’ The phone went dead.

  ‘Great.’ I slammed down the phone, moving myself down to the other end of the bar, until the phone started to ring again, sliding me to a halt as I doubled back and picked up the receiver. ‘Good morning, Wipe Out Bar, Lexie speaking.’ I singsonged with great pride.