“Think I might be staying a while,” I smile huge.
“Awesome. We’ll have to catch up, have beers at the pub,”
“Sounds good.” I’ve made another friend! Ava reminds me so much of Jules personality wise. Looks wise she’s stunningly beautiful; she looks to be the same height as me (five foot six), with blonde hair that’s been cut into a sharp bob just below her ears. Her eyes are a pretty grey/blue, she’s well-proportioned and looks toned, like she spent her childhood playing sports, whereas I spent mine larking about with Jules.
“Better get back to work. Nice to meet you, Edie.”
“You too, Ava,” I call out as she walks back in.
As I eat my toastie and drink my coffee, (both by the way, are delicious) I people watch. People watching in Sydney is one of my favorite activities. Have you ever just sat somewhere and watched the people who go by? You wonder where they’re going, what they’re going there for, what’s on their mind. When I was a child I used to lie on my trampoline in the backyard and watch the planes going over me. I’d wonder who was on the plane and where they were travelling to. Then I’d imagine that I was one of the people on that plane, bound for a tropical destination with my husband – we’d be on our honeymoon. Jules would be there too of course, on her own honeymoon. When my parents passed away, I would sit in the park and watch the people that went by and I’d wonder if any of them were hurting as much as me, if they’d ever experienced the loss I was feeling. There’s a lot to be said for people watching.
“Hey der man, do you know where I can find the local hospital?” A thick Jamaican accent drags me from my thoughts. I look up and into the dark dancing eyes of the man standing beside me. He’s got one of those colorful Jamaican crotchet Rasta caps on with thick long dreadlocks hanging down the sides. I know you can buy the hats with the dreads attached but I have distinct feeling that those dreads are real.
“Uh, no, sorry I don’t. I’ve just arrived in town yesterday.” I search his body for life threatening injuries. Seeing none, I inquire, “Are you hurt?”
“No, man, you’re-,” before he finish, I click to what he’s about to say so I join in and we say together, “-Jamaican me crazy.” He erupts in laughter, holding his hand to his face and bending his knee up and I laugh along with him.
“Me name Bastiaan,” he says taking a seat across from me. He pronounces it BAHS-tee-ahn and I don’t think I’ve heard a sexier sound fall from a man’s lips. There’s just something about a man with an accent, especially a Jamaican one.
“I’m Eden, but you can call me Edie. It’s nice to meet you Bastiaan.”
“Ah, Eden, lucky we not in de garden and me name not be Adam, hey,” he raises his eyebrows suggestively. “So what be bringin’ you to Pine Creek, Edie?”
“I’m on an adventure, but I think I found my destination. What about yourself?”
“Well, de missus, she want to travel ‘round the world. I just want to travel to Australia. So we compromise and travel ‘round dis great southern land. How you be knowin’ my line?”
“Ah, well you see, my friend Jules and I went through a Jamaican phase in high school. We used that line a lot, and I mean a lot. We had Rasta caps with the dreads attached that we wore all the time, we listened to Bob Marley constantly, we pissed our teachers off by talking in a Jamaican accent through class – we even smoked a few doobies,” I smile remembering the good ole’ days.
“Der you are. Swear to God, Bastiaan, you can’t wait five minutes while I shop?”
I turn my attention to the stunning woman who is strutting down the sidewalk, eyes glaring at the man across from me. Although she’s glaring, it’s either a show or she’s mad but not that mad because you can see her love for him radiating through.
“No, me found meself a friend. Edie meet my missus, Zekia.”
“Nice to meet you,” I smile. She turns to me and blinds me a full on, all-bright-white-teeth-showing-mega-watt-smile.
“Nice to meet you, Edie. I’m sorry you had to put up with rat-bag while I did me shoppin’.”
“It was a hardship,” I lie on an eye roll. Zekia bursts into laughter as Bastiaan mock scowls at both of us.
The three of us sit around and talk for a couple of hours. Then, before I make my leave to go back to hotel, we swap numbers and promise to keep in touch.
Chapter Two
“Bottle of four X, please,” I place my order to Doreen as I slide up onto the barstool next to Skip. After I’d gotten back to the hotel after spending too many hours hanging with Bastiaan and Zekia, I unpacked my bags and straightened my room and then took a hot shower and changed into one of country outfits I’d bought this morning. I had on a pair of bootleg dark denim Wrangler jeans which cupped my ass in a way that even I thought looked pretty good, a thick tan leather belt wrapped around my waist and met at the centre with a silver belt buckle (it was not too small, not too large and had a pink pearlescent detail on it). My shirt was checkered pink and had little pink pearlescent press studs down the front and one each on the breast pockets. Because I thought I couldn’t wear a country outfit with city shoes, I had also gotten myself a pair of cowgirl boots. They were the hottest boots I’d ever seen. Dark brown color with an embroidered pattern stitched in a swirl design up the sides and on the toe. The upper part of the sides had a large circle cut out of each of them (technically, this would be for looks, but for me, they served the very useful purpose of being boot-puller-on-erers – of course I know this is not actually a word, but you get my drift).
“Sure thing, luv,” Doreen answers.
After about an hour the bar starts filling up with what I assume are a mixture of locals and foreign backpackers with the odd Australian tourist thrown in. Doreen is beside herself behind the bar. She’s flustered and struggling to keep up with the demand.
“Where’s Bear?” Skip asks her when she comes our way.
“Just called in – he’s stuck in a paddock two hours away. He’s bogged and reckons he can’t get out ‘til mornin’.
“Belle?” Skip asks.
“Got the weekend off, she’s visiting friends in Daly Waters, she says there’s a good chance she’ll be moving there ‘fore the month’s up.”
“Is there anything I can do to help, Doreen?” I enter the conversation.
“You know how to pull a beer?”
“I ought to – it’s what I did before and during getting my real estate diploma.” I wasn’t lying. I worked in a bar in Sydney for four years from the time I turned eighteen. I loved it and didn’t want to leave. The only reason I did was because my parents thought I should have a job that was more reliable. Stable. They also said I shouldn’t waste a good diploma and that I’d spent the time doing the course so the right thing to do would be to put it to good use. Especially considering the grades I got.
“Well? What’re ya waitin’ for? Get behind here,” she snaps, pointing to where she’s standing. I waste no time getting off my stool and scooting behind the bar.
“The till is self-explanatory; everything is already programmed on there. I take it you know how to use a till.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement, but still I nodded my head in the affirmative. “Chop, chop,” she snapped, clapping her hands.
“What can I get you?” I ask the Aboriginal man on the other side of the bar.
“Two four X’s, a Rum & Coke and a Vodka Orange,”
It’s like I’ve never even left the industry. Everything just comes flooding back and I race around making sure everyone has been served. Doreen works one side of the bar and I work the other. When there’s a lull in service, I scoot up and down the bar collecting empties and placing them in the dishwasher. I’d been behind the bar for around an hour, give or take, when I noticed a band setting up in the corner. Actually, it wasn’t so much as a band as a one-man show. He had a microphone, a stool and a guitar.
“Hey, gorgeous, can I get another beer?” I turn my attention from the one-man show and spot Luke, the guy who was here yesterday,
and he’s waving an empty glass at me.
“Sure thing,” I reply. I grab a glass and pull his beer, hand it to him, take his money and return his change.
“So, Dory’s put ya to work, has she?”
“Just helping her out for tonight,” I smile, then sweep my gaze along the bar checking that no one needs refills. It’s during this exercise that I spot the man who has just walked in. My breath gets caught in my throat as I watch him take a seat at the bar. I see his lips move and he’s smiling at people but it’s too loud to hear what he’s saying. I’m captivated. He’s utterly gorgeous. The epitome of Cowboy Hot. His hair is dark and his jaw is square. His body is built – broad across the shoulders and narrowing slightly at his hips. He spots someone across the bar and hands them a fully-fledged, bright white, straight-toothed smile. My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and then catches again as what has to be his twin slides onto the stool beside him. Oh my fucking god.
I’ve got a job to do. I have to pull it together. It’s not like I’ve never been in contact with good looking guys before. I worked in one of Sydney’s hottest bars for four years for fuck’s sake. I mentally slap myself across the face and tell myself to pull it together. Then I walk across to where they’re sitting and set about getting their order.
“What’ll it be, boys?” I ask in my most relaxed I’m-not-affected-by-you-at-all voice.
Hotty One unashamedly rakes his gaze over my body. Slowly. So slowly, I feel my blood start to heat – just from him looking at me. I must be going mad. Perhaps it’s the heat up here. I’m not used to it all. I really should have worn some linen shorts instead of jeans.
“You, later,” he winks suggestively when he finally pulls his eyes to mine. Now, don’t get me wrong – the wink was hot. Fucking hot. It was the way he said it that turned me off. You know those guys that can get anyone they want? Yeah, they’re not so bad. It’s the ones who can get anyone they want, and they know it, and they show it – that’s the turn off. Just with that line, Hotty One has shown me he’s a player, unfaithful, untrustworthy and most definitely not the kind of guy I want to get involved with – in bed, or out of. But, as a woman, I’d rather die than have him know how he affected me, so I tilt my head to the side, smile my cheeky smile and say, “Not tonight, handsome. Or ever. Drink?”
He stares at me stunned. The way he’s looking one would think that he’d never been turned down using that line. That wouldn’t surprise me. Hotty Two answers for him, because clearly rejection robs Hotty One of speech.
“Two JD & cokes please, honey.” I watch out of the corner of my eye as Hotty One’s gaze snaps to his brother when he calls me honey. I see his jaw tighten and his eyes narrow before I set about mixing their drinks.
“Here you go,” I place the drinks on the bar. Hotty One grabs my wrist and I jerk back when I feel a tingling sensation course up my arm – like the electric shock you used to get as a kid when you’d jump on the trampoline and then touch your friend. Like that but better. Longer. Not a sharp zap, but a steady current.
“What’s your name, darlin’,” he says softly, still holding my wrist. I want to snatch it out of his hand. I want to bitch slap him across the face. I want to, but I don’t. Before I can answer I hear a woman shrieking.
“What the fuck is this? What the fuck is this?” I turn my attention to the woman standing beside Hotty One. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed into little slits – gaze on my hand in Hotty One’s, lips puckered into a very unattractive pout.
“Answer me, Jackson!” She demands on a foot stomp. I resist the urge to giggle. Seriously, a foot stomp? She’s grown woman, not a two year old having a temper tantrum.
“Calm ya farm, Danni. Jeez,” Hotty One, now known as Jackson, mutters, shaking his head.
She huffs and I take the opportunity to snatch my hand out of his. He gives me a quizzical look, which makes me frown, then turns his attention back to Danni when she slaps him across the chest.
“You’re making me a look like a fool. I bet you’ve never kept your dick in your pants. Always out on the prowl. I’m right aren’t I?” Her voice which had started out at a normal speaking volume has increased by a few decibels until she’s full on shouting at the end and poking him in the chest.
“Pull your fucking head in, woman,” he clips on a growl. She doesn’t heed the warning in his tone – too caught up her snit, so she tries a different tactic.
“Far out Jackson, I’m right here. Do you have to flirt with other women in front of me? Like, seriously,” she whines. That’s enough for me. I leave them and make my way to the other end of the bar and serve customers. Ten minutes later when I sneak a look up to where Jackson was sitting, he’s not there. Neither is Danni. Only Hotty Two remains talking with the boys.
***
It’s about half an hour later that I hear the introductory strains of Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran begin to echo through the bar. The room silences and everyone turns to watch the man with guitar in the corner as he starts to sing.
Give me love like her,
'cause lately I've been waking up alone,
Paint splattered teardrops on my shirt,
Told you I'd let them go,
And that I'll fight my corner,
Maybe tonight I'll call ya,
After my blood turns into alcohol,
No, I just wanna hold ya.
I watch as he sings, his eyes planted firmly across the room. I follow his gaze and my eyes land on a pretty red head. Her mouth agape, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Their gazes never waver. Towards the end of the song, my jaw hits the floor when I spot Bastiaan edging closer to the singer. He takes the microphone from the man and takes over the singing. In a deep baritone voice, Bastiaan begins to sing;
M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover,
M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover,
M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover,
M-my my, m-my my, m-my my, give me love, lover.
As he’s singing, the man walks toward his red head and drops down to one knee, pulling a ring from his top pocket he declares his love to her and asks her to be his wife. She screams and shouts “YES!” then proceeds to jump and down, giggling and yelling in between kissing the man. The patrons cheer and clap and I look over to Doreen who gives me a big smile. I smile back at her and resume serving. A wedding proposal definitely maketh the man thirstier!
“Thanks for your help tonight, luv. I really appreciate it,” Doreen tells me as I wipe the bar clean after everyone has left for closing.
“Not a problem,”
“Figure you’ll be wanting a job, you plan on staying here,”
I turn and look over at her. “Yeah,” I reply.
“Got one here if you want it,” she states.
“I want it.” I don’t hesitate.
“Good. I’ll put you on the roster. Now if you go on down to the kitchen, there’s some dinner in the oven for you. Take it out to your room if you want, or eat it in the dining room. Here, take a beer with you,” she tosses me a bottle of beer, which I catch, and then I make my down to the kitchen. Opening the oven I find a chicken schnitzel with chips and gravy waiting for me. I grab the oven mitt and remove the plate, setting it on a tray. I add a knife and fork set that’s been wrapped in a napkin and then make my way out to my cabin to eat.
As I eat my food, I can’t stop thinking about Jackson. It’s making me crazy. First I think about him. Then I want to slap myself for thinking about him. Then I think about him again. It’s an endless cycle and I have no clue how to stop it. I don’t even know why he’s having this effect on me. I unconsciously rub my wrist where he held it, which then makes me think of the current of electricity that I felt. What was that? Did he feel it too? Am I going crazy? I must have been imagining it. Either that, or he didn’t feel it – and what in the hell was the go with that Danni chick? My mother told me many times that when it came to men and getting their attention or getting your point across, t
he right way to do it is quietly, succinctly and not in public. She told me a man will not appreciate or be receptive to, a woman who comes in screaming and yahooing (her words) and who publicly belittles him. While I have never been in a situation to test my mum’s theory out (Matt and I never had one argument in our three years together), I’m thinking I’d much rather have a rip-roarin’ at home, in private, than to have a foot stomping, hissy fit tantrum in front of a bar full of people. But that’s just me.
Sighing, I place my empty plate on the bedside table, kick of my boots, remove my belt and face plant on the bed. Two seconds later, I’m out.
***
The next day I go down to the bar half an hour before open to see if Doreen needs a hand with anything.
“G’day, Luv. Here’s your roster for the next fortnight. I made it up this morning,” she greets, handing me a piece of paper. I have a quick look over it and see there’s a mixture of day and night shifts.
“Cool, thanks. Do you need me to do anything now?”
“No, luv, you work tonight. The cleaners have already been through this morning and I’ll do the day shift. You work with Bear tonight, I’ll be here for a little bit then I got stuff to do.”
“Okay, well I’ll see you at five.” I head off wondering what to do for the rest of the day. I decide I’m going to explore. It’s really warming up today and must be at least thirty degrees already so I head back upstairs and pack a bag with a towel, sunscreen and hat. Then I change into my bikini and put my clothes back over the top. A sunbake and maybe a swim will be the perfect way to take advantage of the weather. I take a road out of town and follow the signs I’d seen on my arrival to Buchaneer’s Waterhole. The signs had pictures on them indicating it was safe to swim in them but I wasn’t naïve enough to still not be a little worried about the threat of crocodiles, no matter what the signs said.
I found a spot, pulled in and got out to survey the area. No crocs out sunbaking – bonus! The waterhole was surrounded by big shady trees and the water was crystal clear. There were a few cars parked around the large pool of water, some people were swimming, others were lying out in the sun. I picked a spot, spread out my towel and sat down. I smothered myself in SPF and laid back, closing my eyes against the glare of the midday sun.
Exposed: An Anthology Page 144
