Ringer

by C. J. Duggan

  Fuck!

  Before reason or logic could come flooding into my mind, I stood and made my way to my door. I made no effort to creep around or worry about being heard, I let the full force of my footsteps be heard on the decked floor. And as I came to stand directly in front of her door, I inhaled deeply, praying that she would insist she was fine and tell me to go away.

  I knocked lightly on the door.

  “Miranda?”

  I knocked a second time, this time harder, met by silence. I knocked for a third time, harder still.

  “Miranda, are you okay?”

  “Go away,” she croaked.

  “Listen, I just want to say … I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I am, I didn’t mean it … I just, wasn’t thinking.” Every word came out of my mouth stagnated and wooden; it was as if apologising was such a foreign thing to me, but thinking about it, it wasn’t something I did, well … ever.

  “Sure, easy to say sorry to a door,” she scoffed.

  I closed my eyes, praying for the strength; here I was debating my authenticity at some ungodly hour through a door, trying to comfort some princess. I counted to three, reminding myself to be more ‘thoughtful’.

  “Fine, I’m coming in,” I called out.

  If it was the last thing I would do, I would look her in the eye, apologise, take a hit to my pride and get the hell out of there. Surely with no car noise and no more crying I could sleep long and peacefully.

  Without waiting for permission, I pushed the door open so quickly, there was little time to register the sensation of ice-cold water that came swooshing down on me, thoroughly drenching me, followed by the bucket landing perfectly on top of my head. I was frozen; the only thing snapping me out of my state of shock was the maniacal laughter, no, more like cackle sound muffled from beyond the bucket that sat skew-whiff on my head.

  Son of a bitch.

  I slowly pulled it off, whipping the water from my face and shaking my hair. I scowled above me, the bucket in my hand tied with a string that looped above the door, my dumbfounded stare then locked onto Miranda.

  And she was far from crying; in fact, she looked positively radiant, not one tear shed, well, maybe from laughter as she stood on the bed, bouncing on the balls of her feet in hysterics. Her laughter finally caught in her throat as she noticed my murderous stare.

  I thought she might have looked a tad bit worried, or held some form of regret; instead, she playfully bit her knuckle and winced, trying not to laugh.

  “Oops,” she said.

  It was all I needed. I threw the bucket to the side and strode across the room. Miranda squealed, jumped off the bed and to the side as I tried to lunge towards her. I caught the edge of her black cardigan that she spun her way out of until all I held in my hand was the cardi itself.

  Shit!

  She dove for the door and darted outside. I dropped the clothing and took off after her into the darkness, our feet making loud pudding booms as we bolted along the decking away from the homestead, away from the shearing quarters. I was in hot pursuit, and she was fast, Christ, she was fast. I felt like a greyhound chasing a wild rabbit. I could see her blonde hair flailing in the wind, the warm summer night drying my clothes as I tore up the dirt and made up ground after her. She disappeared into one of the out buildings and I knew I was in trouble; she knew this place better than me and I knew if I lost sight of her that would be it. Luckily, inside was a massive open space, our movements tripping a sensor light and flooding the space with light. Save for an old bomb work ute that she sought refuge behind. Her breathing was laboured, and without the cardi on, she only had a skimpy, spaghetti-strap, sheer top underneath, low cut, her cleavage covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Her hair was wild and her cheeks were flushed. I tried to control my own breath as I leant my hands on the car; I also tried to control my wandering eyes. I’m sure she noticed them dip down to her chest.

  Now was not the time for a raging hard on, Ringer.

  We would be here all night; I had to make her move to the right, that way I stood a better chance of closing in the space with little escape. So I did what I knew would work; I glanced to my right, faking out as if my thought was to go that way, all the while my body went the opposite, as did she. She all but bolted into my arms and I latched onto her with my iron grip, her eyes wide with shock, her breathing shallow. After wondering what the mysterious eyes behind the glasses looked like, I was now in a position where I was staring into their arresting bluey-green depths, so close, I could make out speckled colours of lighter hues around the edges.

  We were both breathing hard, her breasts pressed against my chest, the heat of her skin burning through my wet clothes. Miranda bit her lip as her cat-like eyes broke from mine and flicked to my mouth for the briefest moment. I couldn’t help but smile; her eyes darted away so fast I could imagine she would be cursing herself for that moment of weakness. However brief it had been, it was still there, and the man in me soared to the surface. Could the wild-eyed beauty be tamed, I wondered? I became momentarily distracted by Miranda pressing together her perfect rosy lips, causing my own eyes to stray. I took it for an unspoken invitation. And just when I was about to loosen my grip a little, I saw something spark in her eyes, right before I felt the searing pain stab into my foot as she stomped the heel of her boot into me. I winced, instantly letting go, and she bolted once more.

  “Fuuuuck,” I said through gritted teeth. Her boots were obviously not made for kicking cars, but perfect for stomping on men.

  I limped out of the out building, wet and injured. I spotted her running back up the verandah and diving back into her room, slamming her door. I glowered after her, dragging my foot in the dirt as I stomped my way up the deck. Stopping by her door, I felt like laughing—thinking only moments before, I was here pleading for forgiveness.

  What a joke.

  This time I was here for a whole other reason, as I twisted the handle and pushed.

  Locked. Cute.

  If she honestly thought that would keep me out she was sorely mistaken.

  I stood back a little, aiming to kick with my non-broken foot; it took all but two swift kicks to have the rickety shearer’s door burst open.

  Miranda squealed, her back pressed up against the bedhead, fear wild in her eyes.

  This time she had nowhere to go, she had backed herself into a corner. I smiled, because she knew it and I knew it. I felt it in her defeated slump as I reached out and snaked my hand around her wrist and dragged her from the bed with a yelp.

  Without a word I pulled her to her feet and yanked her out the door, her steps working quickly to keep up with my long, determined strides along the decked verandah.

  “Let me go,” she cried, trying to twist out of my grasp.

  “Umm … no,” I said, flashing her a grin.

  “I swear to God, Ringer, if you don’t let me go I’ll …”

  Her words fell away as her attention turned to what lay ahead of her, her eyes wide and filled with fury as her head snapped up to meet my eyes.

  “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  Chapter Ten

  Miranda

  Fighting against him was useless.

  No matter how I had resisted, or how much I tried to dig my heels in, Ringer yanked me forward like a ragdoll.

  What had been an annoying accident of kicking the bucket that sat in my room near the door soon reminded me of a memory from long ago. I had picked up the silver tin bucket that had a frayed working of thin rope attached. A smile spread thin and devious.

  I couldn’t, could I?

  Of course it wasn’t exactly an original idea; it was an old classic prank that Bluey had masterminded back in the day. I didn’t know if it was boredom that plagued the shearers or living away from home months at a time. But it usually had them scheming and setting up pranks on one another that would result in a chorus of riotous laughter thundering from the huts. Bluey had rigged
up the bucket above the door for the unsuspecting target. If there wasn’t a yabby in your drink bottle, your beds would be short sheeted. And seeing as I didn’t have a spare yabby on me, and there would be no chance I would be going anywhere near Ringer’s bed, I looked over the bucket and up to the door, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Of course, it may not have worked at all, and boy did I have to put on some Academy Award-winning skills. There had been a point when I thought he wouldn’t come or call out. Maybe he was taking great joy in me being upset?

  Bastard.

  But sensing movement in the room next door gave me hope and I amped up my performance. Before I knew it, I heard his footsteps and the tap on the door. My heart had leapt into my throat.

  Oh shit!

  My eyes darted up to the precarious bucket over the door. I bit my lip, feeling a moment of regret until he started speaking. It sounded forced, uncomfortable, as if he just wanted me to shut up already. My brows lowered; I would give him something to shut up about, I thought, and as I got myself ready to stand on my bed with great satisfaction as he announced he was coming in, I waited for my moment of glory.

  And, oh, don’t get me wrong: it had been glorious, for about ten seconds. The one lesson I never thought to learn from the shearers’ practical jokes was, were the ten seconds of joy really worth the torture of what may come?

  And I knew what was coming; I could as good as read Ringer’s mind as he pulled me towards the large water trough that caught the overflow of the shearers’ quarters. Cold, murky and usually had some animal slurping out of it: my mind froze with horror thinking of my four-hundred-dollar Italian leather boots.

  “Ringer, don’t. I mean it,” I pleaded quickly.

  He spun me around, catching me by my wrists and leaning me precariously back as my butt rested on the trough.

  I put on my best sad, pleading eyes of mercy. “Please, don’t,” I said.

  Of course, I was talking to the one person I had almost ran over, flipped off, told to fuck off, woken up, accused of being a pervert, all before drenching him with water, and stomping my heel into his foot. Yeah, I’m sure batting my eyelashes would get me out of this one.

  Ringer just smiled, slow and wicked, as he shook his head—as good as saying not a chance. He went to loosen his grip, but I hooked my legs around his thighs.

  “Hang on, hang on, wait a minute, will you just wait a minute?” I blurted out, his brow cocking with interest.

  My breathing was shallow; I felt like I was on borrowed time as I nervously glanced backwards. He probably wouldn’t listen but I still had to plead my case.

  “Look, you can turf me in as many times as you want, but my boots are really expensive, and …”

  “Your boots?” He laughed.

  “Yes.”

  “The ones that have their heel imprinted on my foot?”

  I grimaced. “Yes.”

  Ringer looked down at me for a long, broody moment, before a smile pinched the corner of his mouth.

  “Chicks and their shoes,” he said, shaking his head. “All right then, it’s more notice than you gave me, but you can keep your bloody boots dry.”

  My body visibly sagged. Until he moved my hands to his shoulders.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  Seeing as the grip on his shoulders was the only thing that was preventing me from tumbling backwards, I did so without argument. I dug my fingers in, finding purchase in the corded muscular sinew.

  A dimple creased on his right cheek when he smirked, and I wondered how I had never seen it before. He lifted my leg up and without breaking from my eyes once, he unwrapped my laces, roughly yanking at them one by one; it seemed oddly sexual, the way his eyes burned into mine, how each tug and unravel of his fingers felt like he was undressing me. I blinked, probably for the first time when my boot fell to the floor; he then worked on the other. I swallowed, trying not to think about the strength in his broad shoulders, the way they felt under my fingers that were white from the intensity of their hold. My other boot thudded to the floor and I blinked out of my daze, met once again with his hazel eyes. Okay, the boots would live to see another day, and my eyes dipped to my black sheer top; that had not been cheap either, I remembered, biting my lip as I took in the silken fabric.

  Ringer reached out and bunched the fabric in his hand at my rib cage; my head snapped up in alarm.

  “Do you want this off too?” he said, with a wicked glimmer in his eyes.

  “NO,” I said quickly.

  Ringer sighed, letting go of my top. “Shame,” he said, before, without even a moment’s warning, grabbing my legs and flipping me backwards. I plunged into the gritty depths, clawing at the water that was turning into white foam as I coughed and spluttered, trying to find purchase on the bottom with my now bare feet.

  I wanted to yell obscenities at him, to call him every name under the sun, but as I wiped the water from my eyes and locked onto him, I thought better of it as he stood by holding my boots.

  I couldn’t control myself not to glower at him.

  Ringer laughed. “Might want to dry off before you put these back on.” He placed them neatly on the deck, grinning up at me; the bastard was enjoying every minute of this.

  “Night, Miranda.” He saluted his brow and made his way back towards his room, pausing near my door. I looked on with annoyed interest as I fumbled my way out of the trough.

  Ringer bent down and picked up the black cardi he had pulled off me earlier.

  “Hey, put that back,” I yelled, stumbling onto the decking. My bare feet padded a long determined line towards him, reaching out for my cardi that he lifted above my head out of reach.

  Such a fucking child.

  I took a calming breath, and held my hand out.

  “Give me back my cardi.”

  “Actually,” he said, thumbing the fabric and looking over it, as if it was a rare diamond. “I thought I might keep it as a trophy.”

  My hand dropped to my side in frustration. “Goddamn it, Ringer, give me it back.”

  Every time I lost my shit, it only served to entertain him to no end; his slow, wicked smile was not lost on me even as he turned and leant by his opened door. He made sure he was looking at me as he lazily turfed my cardi into his room, landing in a pile on his unmade bed. “You want it?” He tilted his head. “Go and get it.”

  My mouth gaped. He had thrown it expecting me to fetch it like a dog; furthermore, I would never step inside Ringer’s room, not in a million years.

  “We’re even now,” I bit out, my hands balled into fists as my eyes burned into his.

  Ringer let out a blast of laughter, causing me to flinch at the unexpectedness of it. He shook his head at me. “Oh, sweetheart, we’re not even anywhere near close to even.” And with that, he turned and closed his door behind him, leaving me on the verandah barefoot, and in a puddle of water.

  ***

  Yep! Ten seconds’ bliss was not worth this amount of torture.

  As the sun crept its way up to tinge the sky with colour, I tiptoed my way past Ringer’s closed door, not without resisting the urge to mumble insults under my breath. I headed towards the main house past the Mazda, God rest her soul; I couldn’t bring myself to even look at her. It was solely because of her I was heading to the kitchen at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. I decided to partake in the usual Henry tradition of a cooked breakfast, plus I had some major sucking up to do with my parents if I wanted to get this car fixed. It took every ounce of my being to clamp down the rage I had for my mother from last night as I pushed the wire door wide open.

  “Good morning!” I beamed.

  My mum stood frozen, hovering a spoonful of eggs between the plate and pan; she looked like she had seen a ghost, and even Dad paused from his newspaper, a line pinching between his brow as he wearily looked at me as if seeing a stranger.

  “You feeling all right, luv?” My dad folded his paper, pushing it aside as he watched me with guarded interest.

  M
y smile dipped slightly. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” I half laughed as I pulled a stool next to him at the island bench.

  “Moira still snoozing?” I asked innocently, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl. Mum double blinked, unfreezing from her stance as she quickly started dishing out the eggs before they went cold.

  “Ha! You won’t see sleeping beauty before noon,” said Dad.

  “Sounds about right.” I scoffed.

  “From memory, you’re not exactly a morning person either,” said Mum, looking at me sceptically.

  And she was right, I wasn’t a morning person at all; still I hadn’t exactly fancied running into Ringer this morning and I had planned to butter up my parents while I had the chance to have them to myself.

  Mum sat a plate of bacon and eggs down in front of Dad. “Miranda, can you go knock on Ringer’s door and see if he would like some breakfast?”

  My grape caught in my throat causing a coughing fit; my eyes watering, I grabbed at Dad’s orange juice to wash it down.

  “What?” I croaked.

  “I’ll go,” said Dad getting up from his stool, only to be quickly swatted back down with Mum’s tea towel.

  “No, Steve, your breakfast will get cold. Miranda, please duck out, I am putting more eggs on now,” she said to me in a no-nonsense tone that always got my back up.

  “All right, all right. I have to get some clean clothes anyway,” I said, sliding off my stool.

  “Where are your clothes?” Dad frowned as he cut into his buttered bread.

  I paused. “Um, I camped in the shearers’ huts last night.”

  Both my parents looked at me now, their eyes alarmed with speculation.

  “In the second room,” I shouted. “On my own.”

  Unbelievable.

  Dad squirmed in his seat. “Well just so long as …”

  “Oh yeah, Dad, as if I am going to bunk in with Ringer,” I said, turning only to slam straight into the chest of the devil himself, the devil and his taut, muscled chest, and damn him if he didn’t smell amazing. Whatever cologne he was wearing was fresh and sharp, simple, yet very masculine. I double blinked, snapping myself away from the effect it had over me, as I clutched my shoulder, rubbing at the dull ache from having run into him at full force.