by C. J. Duggan
Instinctively, I moved and lifted up the mattress. My smile broadened as I reached and pulled out the soft black fabric of Miranda’s cardigan. I thumbed the fabric, actually amazed she hadn’t found it; it really hadn’t been the most imaginative hiding place.
My first choice was shoving it inside my pillowcase the night before, but then all I could smell was her, and trying to sleep when all the blood was rushing to your groin was not easy. I ended up dumping the infuriating, sweet-smelling expensive scrap of material out from the case and shoving it under the mattress. Having no real intention of giving it back any time soon, I left it there instead. That was my plan anyway, but after having spent the day at Bluey’s with Steve and being told way more than I cared to know, I had decided to lay off Miranda, even avoid her if possible. It seemed she was pretty messed up, so I was going to leave well enough alone and just put my head down and work hard like I intended to do in the first place. Of course, that’s what I was thinking until I entered my room and noticed it had been tampered with.
Maybe just one last little push, I thought, holding the cardi up in the air and smiling like a Cheshire cat.
***
“I think the girls have gone for a swim,” said Steve, as he busied himself watering the herb basket by the kitchen. “It’s bloody hot enough.”
Beyond a green, grassy strip of lawn and established garden that surrounded the homestead lay nothing but dry, dusty red earth and a blistering hot sun. It would be a full-time job keeping anything alive out here, and something that Steve was obviously pedantic about as he moved to untangle the hose to attach to the sprinkler. I made a note to self: don’t kill anything while he was away; I guess that included Miranda. I smirked to myself.
“Why don’t you go for a dip, cool off before I take you into town later?” Steve said, as he wrestled with the anaconda-like garden hose that was hooked around his foot.
Again I glanced beyond his little oasis. Apart from the water tanks, animal troughs and shearers’ shower block, could there be any other drop of water?
“You have a pool?” I asked, thinking it possible that there might even be a tennis court stashed away as well, seeing as the Henrys seemed to like the finer things in life. I mean, I had a fucking cheese platter for dinner the other night, for Christ sake’s; it was a far cry from a pot and parmi at the Onslow.
“Ha! Don’t worry. I have been plagued endlessly from the kids to get one, and, sure, it would be great, but do you know who would be the poor bugger that would have to keep it clean?”
Steve finally untangled the hose, only to find there was a kink in it right down the other end. He swore under his breath and stormed a path to fix it, sweat lining his brow.
“So I take it that’s a no then?” I mused, moving to help pull the hose out straight.
“I told the girls you have two choices. Run under the sprinkler, or duck dive in the dam. And seeing as they’re not here—” Steve triumphantly clicked the attachment onto the tap, “—my guess is they’re …”
“At the dam,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers, and seeing as I haven’t run under a sprinkler since I was five years old, I think I might choose the dam, too.”
Steve nodded in good humour. “It’s that-a-way.” He pointed towards the shearing shed, which I was guessing meant beyond.
“Right, thanks,” I said, squinting up at the sun. “Well, might go for a dip then.”
“Just come up to the kitchen when you want to head into town,” Steve said.
“Will do.” I saluted, before leaving the green, shady homestead behind me, making my way to get changed.
***
I didn’t need the visual of Miranda Henry, arched back on a sun lounge, sunning in the blistering rays of an Australian summer. The image of her running under a sprinkler was enough to make me swallow hard; I didn’t need this, too.
The dam was a fair enough walk from the homestead even from the shearing shed. It sat in the middle of nowhere, a big muddy hole in the earth that was a far cry from any chic, fancy-tiled in-ground swimming pool. It surprised me that Miranda Henry would be caught dead in it, of course, not that she was in it. She was reclined back on the rickety jetty that led out onto the dam. Her long legs were elegantly stretched out, her arms were resting on the armchair, her dark sunnies aligned her face, and her rib cage was clearly visible in her red bikini as she inhaled a contented sigh.
For fuck’s sake, think ugly thoughts.
I thought about my task at hand and smiled to myself.
“Oooh, feel the burn,” I quipped, as I crossed from the dust to the decking.
I heard the giggles from beyond and I lifted my shades, frowning at where it was coming from, until I spied Moira. She was in the water, her elbows hooked over a pool noodle, wearing goggles and a white swimming cap, which she quickly pulled off and fixed her hair in my presence. She pulled her goggles off, wincing as they got caught in her hair.
“Miranda, look!” Moira laughed.
Miranda sighed; this time it had nothing to with contentment, but everything to do with annoyance.
“I thought a black cloud had descended over me.” She yawned, still bidding me no notice.
I stood above her, my silhouette cast over her, clearly spoiling her tanning session. The satisfaction made me want to stand there all day, but I had bigger, more infuriating plans.
“I’m sorry, am I blocking your death rays?” I asked innocently.
“If you mean sun, yes, yes you are,” she replied, as if bored.
“Well, I best get out of your way then,” I said, moving towards the edge of the decking. It only caused Moira to lose it in a fit of more giggles.
“Miranda.” She laughed.
“What?” Miranda snapped.
I held my finger up to my lips, winking at Moira. Her smile spread broadly across her face as she stared up at me in a trance.
“What do you think, Moira? Do you think I should jump in?”
Moira’s eyes widened as she shook her head vigorously – No.
“Really? I don’t know; what do you think, Miranda, do you think I should jump in?” I turned, looking back towards Miranda who hadn’t moved an inch.
“You can go jump for all I care.”
“Hmm, I don’t know.” I sighed, crossing my arms and cupping my chin in deep thought as I looked back to the water. “Moira, I’m thinking I should; honestly, do you think I should?”
Before Moira had a chance to giggle a reply, Miranda slammed her palms on the armchair.
“Look,” she bit out, pushing herself to sit up, lifting her glasses to the top of her head. “Why don’t you just …” She froze, her eyes narrowing in a death-like stare.
Bingo!
Chapter Fourteen
Miranda
“Take. It. Off.”
Ringer stood before me in nothing more than a black pair of footy shorts, thongs and my black cardigan that was ridiculously stretched tightly over his muscles.
His brows rose as if he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. “Are you trying to get me out of my clothes? Miranda, don’t embarrass me, your sister’s here.”
Moira snorted, causing me to cut her an acidic stare.
Traitor.
I could feel my blood boiling under the surface of my skin, or it could have been the baby oil frying in the sun. No. Wait. It was definitely anger as Ringer stretched his arms lazily to the sky, the base of my overly stretched, expensive cardigan coming only to the top of his rib cage.
I pulled myself, rather ineloquently, to stand before him, fuming.
“Take it off, you’re stretching it.” I moved to grab him but he stepped away, his eyes confused until they fell to my cardi.
“Oh, you mean this old thing?” he said, pulling at the hem of it.
My glower deepened, the urge to knee him in the nuts at the forefront of my mind eyeing his boyish grin.
He looked down at me, enjoying every minute. He
stepped forward. “Do you want it?” he said lowly, suggestively.
I cocked my head; I wasn’t telling him I wanted it, knowing how that would sound, knowing that’s what he wanted to hear.
Such a smart arse.
I let my silence and murderous stare do the talking.
Ringer’s smile fell away, but the devilish glint in his eyes remained.
“If you want it,” he said, raising his arms up, “take it.”
I weighed it up in my mind. Ten seconds of pleasure for a lifetime of torture, or even in this case, at best a week or so of torture depending on how long it was until I got my car fixed. I squinted at his smug face, his head tilted back, eyes closed, arms stretched, as if to say, ‘I’m yours for the taking’. Oh, how right he was, I thought, a wicked smile spreading across my face, as I stepped forward, counting my losses one more time. A ruined top and further revenge, would it be worth it? Before I could think it through, Ringer did the worst possible thing he could have done: he peeked at me with one eye, his grin spreading even wider, if that were possible. It was all I needed, as I reached out and with all my strength pushed into his chest, sending him sailing backwards off the jetty and into the dam; it was a large, violent splash that caused rivulets of water to spray over me.
I dusted off my hands and watched with immense satisfaction as Ringer resurfaced, clawing at the water, coughing and spluttering.
“Seeing as you’re into cross dressing, here’s a handy hint. That cardi is not tumble-dry friendly.”
Ringer eventually found his feet, still breathless from the shock of the water. “Thanks, I’ll take that into consideration,” he said, as he slapped at the side of his tilted head as if trying to dislodge water from his ear.
My instinct was to run like I had the night before, wary of a counter attack of sorts. Instead, I didn’t feel like there was going to be one. Ringer was cool, calm, even slightly humorous as a wry smile creased his lips as he peeled off my wet cardigan.
“You did that, not me,” he said, holding it up and chucking it onto the deck with a sodden splat.
He moved slowly, eloquently for his tall stature and even though there was nothing particularly threatening about his movements, it still caused me to take a step back. I was ever watchful as he planted his palms on the jetty and hitched himself up with ease. Now he wasn’t wearing anything bar footy shorts, the weight of my eyes set on the muscled, taut curves of his slender frame. He was tall, lean, but toned to perfection, his shoulders square and broad. I felt myself swallow and then snapped out of my thoughts by a giggle from my little sister who was watching me with interest.
“Are you going to be in there all day?” I snapped. “You’re going to end up looking like a prune.”
“Hmph, never you mind about me, go back and bake yourself stupid,” she said, kicking herself away defiantly with her chin in the air.
I rolled my eyes, turning to come up short and almost running into a wet torso, and flinching back.
“Don’t stress, I’m not going to throw you in, it’s too predictable.”
“So you’re just going to tell me to watch my back, sleep with one eye open while you plot some act of revenge on me?”
Ringer ran his hand through his saturated hair, flicking the excess water away. “This may come as a surprise to you, Miranda Henry,” he said, looking directly down at me, “but not everything is about you.”
My mouth gaped. “I … I never said it was,” I defended.
“You don’t have to, everyone knows it’s the Miranda Henry show,” he said with a shrug, sliding past me and pushing on his thongs that went flying off when he fell into the water.
I spun around to follow him. “What would you know? You’ve been here, what, five minutes?”
“Well, let’s ask someone who would know then, shall we? Hey, Moira, who’s the golden-haired child in your family?”
“Shut up,” I warned.
Moira swished around on her flotation device. “Ha! You’re standing right next to her.”
“Shut up, Moira,” I snapped, grabbing for my towel and flicking it so violently over my shoulder Ringer had to veer away to save losing an eye.
I was out of there. If they wanted to assassinate my character they could do it without me, I thought. I stormed up the jetty and made my way towards the shower block opposite the shearers’ quarters. A nice cool shower to wash away the baby oil, and cool off from my heated mood, was just what I needed.
***
I shampooed my hair with vigorous, violent aggression. “Golden-haired child,” I mumbled under my breath. “The Miranda Show” I mimicked in a bitchy, whiny voice.
I was so sick of it: every corner I turned he was there, glorifying in making me feel paranoid, like that at any moment he could drag me and turf me into a water trough with ease, or making some kind of psychological assessment.
Well, fuck him.
I rinsed the last of the soapy bubbles down my torso, watching them fall and circle into the drain; I tried to use the symbolism of those bubbles with the aid of the cool water on my shoulder blades as a way of trying to relax. Let the cool, soothing sprays of the water let the tension melt and drain away with the bubbles; I titled my head back and let the water flow back over my hair.
Bliss.
It was working. With a deep, contented sigh, I could feel myself letting go of all the rage, all the tension, and it felt oh so go…
The shower in the next cubicle twisted on. The clank of the pipes and the unmistakable whoosh of water caused me to snap my eyes open and freeze in fear, as I suddenly heard the unnerving whistles of … oh God.
Whistling turned into joyous singing that echoed through the cubicles.
Lost in love and I don’t know much was I thinking aloud and fell out of touch, but I’m back on my feet and eager to be what she wanted …
I winced at the shower wall.
Was he singing Air Supply?
“You just give a yell when you need your back washed,” he called out.
Even though we were protected by the individual cavity of the shower cell, I still found myself covering my breasts as my scowl deepened.
“What are you doing in here?” I snapped.
“What am I doing in here? What are you doing in here? This is the boys’ shower block.”
“Pfft, no, it’s not.”
“Oh, it’s communal then, is it?”
“No.”
Fuck.
“Everything is an argument, isn’t it?”
My knee-jerk reaction was to reply NO. But then I stopped myself from engaging.
Nice try.
Instead, I slammed my shower taps off and squeezed the excess water from my hair. This shower block was definitely not big enough for the two of us.
“Just stay where you are,” I called.
“Why, are you coming to scrub my back?” he said.
“Ha! Not even with a thousand rubber gloves on.”
“Well, that’s extreme.” He laughed.
I opened my shower door just enough to slide my hand out to reach for the towel hooked on the door, the towel that wasn’t there.
Oh no-no-no-no.
I peeked through the gap of the door and spied my towel sitting on the sink. I remembered now how I had stormed into here, leaving my towel, shedding off my bikini and dumping it all on the sink. The sink that was on the opposite side of the shower block.
Fuck-fuck-fuck.
“You need to leave,” I shouted.
“Don’t tell me your old man is a tight arse with water usage, is he?”
“No.” I glowered, wrapping my arms around my torso, gooseflesh forming even in the humid shower cavity.
“Well, I can’t leave now until my deep cleansing hair conditioning treatment has been in for five minutes,” he called back.
Oh my God, I hope he was joking.
I was just about to call him out on it when the shower taps were twisted off. It was then I really felt the full weight o
f the situation. I was standing in a small confined space with only a wall dividing us: the two very naked us. Ringer started whistling his Air Supply tune again, as I heard him open up his shower door. I closed my eyes praying that he would just leave and didn’t have some kind of cleansing, toning, moisturising ritual he had to carry out after his shower.
“Hello, what do we have here?” His bright upbeat voice echoed against the tiles.
Oh God. I had visions of him leaving with my things, of leaving me stranded naked in the cubicle for all eternity. Would anyone hear my screams? All of a sudden I felt hot and claustrophobic, as I took deep breaths and fanned myself.
“Just … don’t … touch anything.”
Deep breaths.
“What, like this?”
My beach towel was flicked over the top of the door, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen, and just as I was about to reach for it, it was pulled away with a deep-bellied chuckle.
“RINGER!” I screamed.
Oh crap! Would I ever learn? The ten-second joy was never worth it, not ever.
The towel appeared again, and just as I reached for it, the same thing happened, this time the laughter was louder and more out of control than before.
Fucking arsehole.
“Okay, seriously, I’m just kidding, I won’t pull it away this time. Honest,” Ringer said through barely controlled laughs; it didn’t inspire much confidence.
And sure enough, for the third time it was flung over and torn away from my grasp. I sighed with boredom. I didn’t have the energy to care or to feed him into baiting me. Instead, I thought of a new approach. It would probably open myself up to a whole new world of regret, but, hey, I had lived in Europe long enough to have adopted some form of worldly confidence. I just had to channel that liberated part of me that was buried deep, deep inside.
Oh my God, what was I doing?
It was the only thing I could think of in that very moment to do, and it wasn’t ideal, but if I were quick enough, it would most certainly get my towel back. Before I had too much time to think it through, I took a deep breath, lifted my head with pride, and pushed open the shower door.
