Then again, it was a Wild Nights Revue calendar. Even I nearly raised my hand and shouted ‘me’, and I was the bloody photographer.
“Rightio.” Patsy stepped off stage and found the closest elderly lady. “Hello, darl. What’s ya name?”
The old lady leaned into the microphone and practical yelled, “Ethel.”
“Whoa!” Patsy playfully stepped back and pretended to clean her ear out with her finger. “Heard you loud and clear, Ethel.”
The elderly lady laughed nervously.
“So,” Patsy said, casually lounging on the arm of Ethel’s chair, “what brings a hot young chick such as yourself out tonight?” Patsy aimed the microphone in her direction.
Ethel grabbed it. “My granddaughter is getting married.” She pointed to a young woman sporting a tiara and fluorescent pink veil. The girl waved excitedly.
“This is excellent.” Patsy giggled, greedily. “Ethel, I think you need to teach your granddaughter a lesson in sex.”
The crowd laughed. Ethel didn’t. Instead, she covered her embarrassed face and shook her head, mouthing no. As did her granddaughter.
“Oh, yes. The time is right. She is about to embark on a journey of baby-making. Surely you want her to be armed with the best knowledge a young lass can be armed with.”
“She’s already had sex,” Ethel explained.
The crowd burst into laughter again, followed by deserved applause.
“Well, it’s never too late,” Patsy said, dismissing Ethel’s attempt to avoid whatever Patsy had up her sleeve. “So, in order to win this signed calendar for your granddaughter—hell, I’ll even throw in one for you—I want you to show her how to fake an orgasm.”
My jaw dropped, and I choked. Ethel went as red as a tomato, her granddaughter as white as a ghost.
A soft chant of ‘Ethel’ sounded in the room, it very quickly escalating into a loud chorus accompanied with the clap of hands. The fragile, little old lady appeared to draw upon the crowd’s encouragement and wiggled upright in her seat, taking a drink from her glass of water and holding out her hand for the microphone—waves of determination rolling from her.
Patsy happily passed it over, and Ethel cleared her throat. She then continued with a low groan, followed by an over-enthusiastic cry of pleasure.
Oh no. Just … no.
I, along with everyone else in the room, couldn’t contain the giggles, hiding behind my camera—mortified for the poor old love and her granddaughter—and doing what any good photographer would do … I documented it.
After a good fifteen-or-so seconds of oohs and ahhs, Patsy put everyone out of their misery and reclaimed the microphone, revving up the crowd to applaud Ethel. She handed over two calendars and gave both women a hug.
“Wow! Did you all learn something?” she asked the crowd, walking up the steps to the stage.
Some yeses but mostly nos sounded throughout the room.
“Yeah, me neither.” She shrugged and glanced at Ethel. “Sorry, Ethel, I think you’ve lost your touch.”
Ethel pouted then swished her hand at Patsy.
“It’s okay though, because I know someone who hasn’t lost his touch.” She waggled her eyebrows and yelled, “Are. You. Ready, Albury? Please make him welcome, Mr Bad To The Bone himself, Josh Adams!”
The lights dimmed and the infamous guitar rift from “Bad to the Bone” by George Thorogood & the Destroyers sounded through the speakers. The music, atmosphere, and the knowledge Josh was about to appear on stage in mere seconds activated every muscle in my core. It was also the point when I realised I was subconsciously touching my lips—the place I’d felt him last.
I dropped my hand and focussed on the lone white light, which outlined the silhouette of a man on the stage.
I swallowed … hard.
My nipples … hard.
Seriously, what the hell? Why I was reacting this way was beyond me. He was just a guy. A hot guy with a dirty mouth and the best skin I’d ever touched.
Practically moaning as the memory of my hands sliding along his back and shoulders took hold, I was abruptly returned to the scene before me when the drums kicked in and the lights came on.
That’s when I froze.
… and gaped.
… and crossed my legs.
Josh was leather, boots, and a whole lot of bad biker. He was explicit sex, personified. And I was hungered curiosity, caged. And I knew that if I kept hold of the key, my heart would remain unscathed. That key was … the key. I couldn’t let him in; I just couldn’t. He’d destroy me and leave a path of destruction. God, just one look at him and that was obvious. He was what the song suggested: bad to the bone, and I had no doubt that he would also be bad for my head and heart.
Sucking in a deep breath, I raised my camera and started snapping shots of him moving around the stage. He was simply breathtaking, his dancing ability impressive. Not to mention his perfectly synchronised flow to the music. Josh was by far the best dancer in the group, and clearly thrived on the crowd’s desperation for him to perform.
I’d opted to stand farther into the crowd for Josh’s act, so that I could capture their reaction in the same shot. It was a good decision, because the palpable thrill, excitement, and yearning they displayed, was evident in the frames when I quickly scanned the images—wide eyes, opened mouths, huge smiles.
Suddenly, the noise in the room elevated, and I looked up to see that Josh had removed his leather cut. He’d also jumped off the stage and headed into the crowd, stopping at one bride-to-be so that he could gyrate her lap. She squealed and clenched his arse with her hands. I wanted to roll my eyes, but that reaction wasn’t warranted—this was all part of what he did.
Standing back up again, Josh fisted her hair, directing her toward his cock. He then dramatically performed a face-fucking manoeuvre, pulling her head out and pushing it back in again. Repeatedly. It looked horrible, but she seemed to love it.
Letting go of her head and trailing his hands downs the side of her cheeks, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead before strutting further into the crowd and closer to me. Our eyes met, and there was something different within his: anger, annoyance … boredom even. Tilting my head just slightly, I furrowed my brow in confusion. What? Am I in some invisible secret dancer’s path and blocking his way?
Taking a couple of steps back in order to create some room, I smiled meekly. His face, however, remained unchanged, and he walked straight past me, stopping at the duckface selfie table from earlier in the night. The girl who’d hitched her boobs and laid claim to him jumped up in a pick-me, pick-me type of manner. So what did he do? He picked her.
My stomach rolled. She was a skank—the typical shallow, dim-witted tart he normally picked. It was so disappointing. But what was more disappointing, shattering even, was as he led her past me en route to the stage, he stopped and whispered into her ear, all the while keeping his eyes on me.
My heart near stopped.
The Whisper. The fucking whisper of fuck.
I managed to avoid Josh for the rest of the evening. The last thing I wanted was to be around him and his game-playing ways. I never asked to be his scapegoat, never signed up for his manipulative maze. Sure, I was curious as to why he was a complete arsehole with no regard for anyone but himself, but to be a subject of his slutfest in the process of that discovery? No thank you, that wasn’t my thing. I didn’t share intimacy with more than one other at a time, and I didn’t treat romance like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Call me old fashioned, I don’t care, but I believe in monogamy. Plain. And. Simple.
Josh flaunted sex and intimacy around like the latest pair of Nikes. In my book, that said he was a lonely, miserable piece of shit. And I’m not talking about him flaunting and stripping on stage. What Josh did up there, under lights—and in character—was his career. When he was on stage, he had boundaries, for protection of himself and the women he seduced. It was how he acted off-stage that made me sick to my stomach.
Oh we
ll. Not my problem. If he wanted to live life following the presumption that love didn’t exist, then more fool him. Love does exist. It waits in the places we least expect. We’re supposed to search for it, supposed to make an effort … supposed to care. Why? Because love is the greatest reward we’ll ever receive. It’s validation that we mean more to someone than they do themselves.
I wanted that reward … needed that reward. Living life without it just wasn’t an option for me. I deserved love and love deserved me.
“Right! Is that everyone?” Baz yelled from his position behind the wheel.
Patsy craned her neck. “Where’s Josh and Noah?”
“Gone clubbin’,” Brad replied.
“Why does that not surprise me? We’re one night in to the tour and already they’re out partying.”
“They know to be back in time before we leave tomorrow,” Matt interjected, his head tilting back on the headrest, his eyes closed. He looked exhausted.
Patsy huffed and relaxed into her seat. “Good, because if they’re not, we leave without them.”
Brad laughed. “That would be funny as hell. We should just do it anyway.”
Resting my head against the bus window, I zoned out of the conversation. I was tired, drained and, quite frankly, miserable … and it was only day one.
***
The next morning, I packed my things and headed out of my room, ready to board the bus to Canberra. We were scheduled to stay there for four nights—the guys performing consecutively for three of them.
I was really looking forward to having some free time in our nation’s capital. It was rich with history, information, and many beautiful landscapes. Just the thought of capturing some of them with my Nina made me giddy.
Smiling brightly, I’d almost forgotten the shit that’d gone down with Josh the night before when his motel room door opened and the girl he’d whispered to walked out backwards, her hands on the lapel of his jacket, dragging him along with her. He stopped, braced on the doorframe then, with one hand, pried her clutches loose. “It’s time for you to go, babe. I had fun but I gotta head to the next gig.”
Her bottom lip pouted, and she played with a strand of her wet hair. “I wish I could come with you. I totally would you know.”
He chuckled, the look of familiarity on his smug face insinuating he’d heard this suggestion before. It made me want to puke and kick an innocent flower, and I loved flowers. Cockhead!
Clearing my throat, I walked around them, diverting my gaze the entire time.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he called out.
I didn’t answer, instead flipping him the bird. Morning, Man-whore! The guy was nothing to me—not even a piece of eye candy. I liked my eye candy sweet … sweet and long lasting. He was neither.
Approaching the bus, I greeted Baz and handed him my bag.
“You had breakfast?” he asked.
“No, but that’s okay. I don’t normally eat it.”
“What is wrong with you young women these days? It’s the most important meal of the day,” Baz huffed and entered the bus. I followed, but nearly bumped into his back when he stopped on the steps and turned around. “Here,” he said, stretching over his seat, reaching into a basket and pulling out an apple for me. “Get this into that non-existent belly of yours.”
I smiled. He reminded me of my dad. “Thanks, but I hope you didn’t just give me your breakfast.”
Winking, he tipped the basket to reveal another four apples. “Don’t worry ’bout me. You just eat. It will at least tide you over until we stop for lunch in Gundagai.”
“Oh! Are we going past the Dog on the Tuckerbox?” I asked excitedly.
His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
“I haven’t been since I was a kid. I can barely remember it.” I squealed, practically emulating the kid I used to be.
“Been where?” Josh asked, stepping onto the bus behind me.
I didn’t answer him, which had Baz glancing between the two of us, his forehead crinkling in confusion.
“The Dog on the Tuckerbox,” I mumbled, moving farther onto the bus.
Josh followed. “What’s so good about a little statue of a dog?”
Sighing, I placed my bag on my seat and moved out of his way. “It’s not just the statue. It’s the story behind it—the history.” My tone was anything but friendly.
He stayed put, his reluctance to move indicating he was waiting for me to sit down so that he could take the seat beside me as he had the last time we were on the bus. Like hell he will. There’s no way I’m sitting next to him.
Glowering, I picked up my bag and kept walking along the bus, spotting Matt sitting a few rows back. I stopped by him. “Hey, do you mind if I sit with you? I want to show you the photos I took from last night.”
“No, not at all.” He smiled and cleared his backpack off the seat.
“Thanks,” I said, placing my arse down and glancing in Josh’s direction, a look of annoyance and quite possibly rejection on his face. Yeah, how does that feel, arsehole? It’s probably something you’ve never experienced in your life.
“So, how’d you go last night?” Matt asked, shuffling in his seat.
“Yeah, good. I think I captured a nice variety of angles and perspectives. There’s got to be something among these that Women can use. Here.” I passed him my camera. “Just flick through. Tell me what you think.”
He started scanning the contents. “These are great.”
“Thanks. I want to try something different every show. Sometimes it’s just a matter of varied points of view.”
“What do you mean? Like taking pictures from different areas of the room?”
“Yeah, and different camera angles. Here, let me show you,” I said, taking my camera from him and positioning it in front of us, lens facing in our direction. “Say cheese!”
We both smiled as I took the pic. “Now don’t move, at all. Keep looking and smiling directly ahead.”
I changed the position of the camera, held it above my head, and took another, followed by moving it down below and taking one last pic.
Bringing the camera in front of us again, I displayed the pictures on the screen. “See all of these? The objects—that’s us—didn’t move or change, and neither did my position when taking the shots. Yet every pic is different. And that’s because the camera angle varied quite considerably.”
He nodded in agreement. “Ahh … I get ya.”
“You’d be amazed at the style of photo you can achieve from an unusual camera angle.” I handed him back the camera. “I’ll need to speak to Lenny about it, but I’d like to try and rig my Nikon to the roof at one of the shows and take some aerial shots via my wireless transmitter.”
He turned to face me, eyes wide, forehead wrinkled with surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m not one to take the same old p—”
“You two taking selfies? Aren’t you a bit old for that, Chief?” Josh asked, interrupting us.
Matt didn’t batt an eyelash. “Rough night, Bugs?”
“Nah, it was good actually. Real good. The bitch’s mouth was as big—”
“Josh, for fuck’s sake, grow some fucking tact,” Matt barked.
I turned to Matt. “I’m going to go and chat to Baz. Have a look through the pics and let me know what you think, okay?”
“Sorry, Corinne. Yeah, I will.”
Standing up, I met Josh face to face, ours noses practically touching. “Excuse me,” I said resolutely.
Frustration, anger, and something else I’m not quite sure of, seared me through his eyes. But I didn’t budge. If anything, I nudged him backward—a warning to bloody move.
His nostrils flared and his gaze dropped to my lips. The suggestive and subtle motion had me snarling, which was when he moved aside. I stepped past him and let out the breath I was holding. I can’t possibly do this for another twelve weeks.
***
Just under two hours later, we pulled up at Th
e Dog on the Tuckerbox, only a few kilometres outside of Gundagai. I was so excited that I practically bounced off of the bus. When I was a kid, my family had stopped here on our way to a family holiday in Queensland. I must’ve been six years old or younger, because my memory was a little foggy. What I do remember, though, was standing on the edge of the fountain that surrounded the statue, balancing against Tom while Dad took a photo. It was a great pic—one of my favourites. I also think it was moments such as those that inspired my brother and I to form a love for photography.
Walking up to the fountain, feeling nostalgic, I snapped a couple of shots of the bronze dog, which sat upon a stone tuckerbox. Much of the story about the infamous Aussie dog evaded me, but what I did know was that the statue was testament to a bullocky’s dog and how it would guard it’s owner’s tuckerbox until death.
“I still don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just some mutt on a box.”
I glanced over to where the voice had come from, finding Josh eyeing the statue, his face bunched in distaste. “That doesn’t surprise me. It’s a testament to true loyalty, something you’d know nothing about,” I snapped.
“Don’t pretend to know me, sweetheart, because you don’t.”
“And that’s exactly how it’s going to stay,” I hissed, storming off in the direction of the toilets. I needed to pee, and I needed distance. The guy had swallowed me whole in the week we’d known each other. Our connection—or relationship, if that’s what you’d call it—had been emotionally exploding from the moment we’d met. I’d never experienced anything like it.
Hearing the sound of footsteps following closely behind, I escalated my already racing heartbeat, as I knew it was him coming after me. I upped my pace, jogging when I rounded the corner. In hindsight, I was never going to get away from him. At least not for another three months.
“What’s your problem?” he growled, catching my arm and pinning me up against the brick wall of the building.
“You!” I growled back. “Let me go.”
“No. Not until you tell me why you’re so angry with me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
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