“It means I have my early mornings and evenings free to do whatever I want to do without regard for you.” She spoke to the tabletop again, but her voice was strong and clear.
He folded his arms. “I see. So you can go gadding off down the local for a slap-up Chinese meal, but if it’s after your seven hours behind the wheel, I get left behind in whatever appropriate budget rat hole we’re staying in.”
She bit down on her back teeth, her jaw clenching, an unambiguous answer.
“Fine. Very professional. Anything else? Wait.” He was bored, he was tired and he was way off balance and felt like mucking with her calm veneer. He wondered what it would be like to see her anger truly unleashed. “What if I feel like singing?”
“Would you?”
“I might.”
“That would be ruled out under the definition of distracting.” She wasn’t biting. She wasn’t enjoying this.
“So I guess no gag telling, or I Spy either, right?”
“Now you’ve got the idea.”
She was fucking with him though. “Capital. Is that all of it?”
“No going to each other’s rooms. We meet in neutral territory.”
“Unless someone is bleeding.”
She sighed. “Unless someone is bleeding.”
“What about my rules?”
She frowned as though she hadn’t thought he’d have any requirements outside of being a passenger and obeying her frigging commands.
“No mobile phones.”
“That’s fine. I’ll keep mine turned off.”
“Not off. We’re dumping them. Yours and mine.”
“Why?” She stabbed at a piece of honeydew.
“It’s one of those things you do when you’re on the run. I’ll buy you a new one.” Yeah it was a bit extreme to confiscate hers—so what.
“Why can’t I agree not to use mine when you’re in the car?”
He sighed. He needed a second coffee. He needed sunglasses. He needed sleep and out of this conversation. “Because some jerk traced your new number and I don’t want him bothering you on my time—driving or otherwise.”
She looked away but gave a tight nod of agreement. Which told him something about why she was sitting here with him still.
He went on. “I need to exercise. I run. It doesn’t concern you but I thought you should know. My arm is fine by the way. Thank you for taking care of me last night.”
Her dark lenses came up. “I’m sorry, I meant to ask.”
“Sure.” Though she did sound a little embarrassed.
“Those staples have to come out. I’m not sure if—”
“We’ll be in Perth by then. I’ll take care of it.”
Relief showed in the downward slide of her shoulders.
“From time to time I might want to stop, stay somewhere longer, drive for a shorter period of time, or change the plan for the day. Any change will be reasonable and I’ll clear it with you, but I’ll expect you to be flexible.”
“That’s fair.”
Now for his last rule. He’d thought about this while they’d eaten in silence. She was obviously very uncomfortable with this and he couldn’t blame her. What she’d seen, what he hadn’t been able to tell her. His uncertainty about what danger, if any, she was really in. But he didn’t need to keep her out of circulation a whole two weeks. If she stayed with him for the next three days and took three days to drive home, she’d have been out of sight for long enough. By that time Stud would’ve worked out which way was up and if she really was in danger they’d act more appropriately to protect her long term. If not, she could go back to her life free and clear with money in the bank, new underwear and a new mobile number.
“You’re not to bolt on me till Port Augusta.” That was one town, one more day further down the line. She opened her mouth to interrupt. “Hear me out. When we reach Augusta, I’ll pay you the full fare as promised. Another twelve five Gs. Then you can drive home.” He waved a hand at her. “Now you can speak.”
She leaned forward, her chin up. “We had a deal. I drive you to Perth. What was wrong with that deal?”
He leaned forward too. “You’re lying about being okay with it.”
“I’m not.” She flattened both hands on the table, pressing into them.
“Driver,” he dropped his voice an octave, “we both know that’s a lie. Wanting to do a midnight spray paint wasn’t the only reason I took your keys. It’s all right. I understand. I have resources; you won’t be leaving me stranded.”
A pink blush touched her cheeks. She knew she was sprung.
“What if I don’t want to turn back at Port Augusta?”
“You will.” He stood. Reached for his wallet and took the bill out of a jar on the table.
She stayed seated, her hands still on the tabletop, fingers spread. “You can’t know what I’ll want in three days time.” Her posture was confusing. She was angry, he could hear that in her voice, but something about her hands suggested determination.
“I’ll sing.”
“What?” She looked up at him, all dark lenses.
“I’ll distract the driver. I’ll sing. I’ll eat in the car. I’ll jump in the front seat. Believe me. I’ll do something you won’t like, and you’ll be busting to break your own distance driving rule to reach Augusta in less than three days.” He stepped around the table to go and pay their bill.
She dropped her head, folded her arms across her chest. “I want to add a new rule.”
He stopped. “Jesus Christ. What?”
“You don’t get to tell me what I want.”
12: Want
Caitlyn could take that Fetch was a liar and probably a cheat and a thief and definitely a manipulator. She could live with the beard and all the hair and the outlaw dress sense. She could manage his mood shifts; one minute the joker, the next a cranky coot. She could cope with his multiple personality disorder: bikie, cop, good, bad. She could even weather his stripping gaze that made her feel like an imitation of herself, like he could see her thoughts and motivations. And what he’d done to the car. It was a shock, but it was done to protect them both. She didn’t like it, but she could see that’s what it was about.
But she was not going to be told, by him or anyone what she wanted—to do, to feel, to think, to be—ever again.
Because that worked so very well the last time around.
Justin had told her what she wanted for four years. And she’d been weak enough to believe him. Weak enough to fall for his handsome face and seductive spiel, and the way he painted a future so bright and tantalising it was irresistible. He was irresistible. With his honeyed tongue and clever brain. She bought it all. His vision, his drive, his win against the odds philosophy, his sacrifice now for a bigger chunk of future happiness, his ‘you’re the only one who understands me’.
In Justin’s eyes they were alike, had the same worldview, shared the same passion, wanted the same from life. They were made for each other. Made to share an extraordinary life together. They were bigger than whatever convention said they should be as a couple. They were unique and they were forever.
He had a way of saying it that made her believe she was the only one he could see, the only element he needed beyond air and water to live. The only person who could hurt him with distrust or lies or playing false.
Justin had made her feel wanted, desired, important. Necessary. He’d made her feel beautiful and loved and vital, strong and in control. With him she was unbreakable, unsinkable, unstoppable. So of course she’d wanted what he wanted for her, and she’d never thought to question it.
Why would she?
They were partners in love and in life, in business and in all things important.
It wasn’t an issue that they delayed the wedding. What was a wedding anyway? Something other people needed to legitimise their relationship. It wasn’t a big deal that they only took one wage in Justin’s name, all their expenses were shared, and when they listed the company, they’d be
equal shareholders. And who cared what other people said about them. About how Justin was a con man and Caitlyn was his dupe, because other people were jealous of their ambition and their success and tried to drag them down and pull them apart by spreading rumours.
So Caitlyn didn’t question it when Justin said they could use her savings to start the business. That was smart; it would set them up for life to have a business of their own. She didn’t object when he suggested the right space to be in was the internet. It was the future and they were going to be part of the New World Order. Or when he said it would look better for investors if he was CEO and she played a behind the scenes role. That grated like knuckles on brick, and she’d fought it, but when they lost an angel investor who didn’t trust the whole joint CEO concept, she agreed to be a silent partner for the sake of the big picture.
She didn’t question Justin’s working hours, the boisterous and loud company he kept, or the amount of travelling he did. When she said she was lonely, he made it up to her with kind words and flowers, and reminders of what they were striving towards.
And when the money started rolling in from investors and they got bigger offices, more employees, she didn’t question that. Or the fact their product seemed too ordinary to be attracting so much interest from financiers. Or Justin’s more frequent absences, his forgetfulness and occasional mistreatment. He was stressed, they both were. They worked hard. Caitlyn running the business: the staff, the systems, the marketing and customer service. And Justin, wheeling and dealing with banks and investors, managing the money side to keep the whole thing on its growth trajectory.
She got a small percentage of her savings back and agreed to reinvest it. She got a big diamond ring, a glamorous wardrobe. She got keys to a luxury apartment and a sports car. And if things between them personally were strained it was temporary, to be expected given the rate of growth the business had and the stresses they were both under. Justin used to say it would make retiring at thirty-five all the more sweeter. And he’d kiss her till she forgot to worry. They were going to go public. They were going to open an office in Silicon Valley. They were going to be extraordinary.
The last man who’d told her what she wanted was a man she’d loved with all her heart and trusted with every cell of her body. And as it turned out, what he’d wanted for her wasn’t the same thing she wanted for herself—at all.
So if she wanted to drive to Perth, no one was going to tell her what she wanted more was to turn back at Port Augusta.
The only thing this man, wild and dangerous, standing over her at the table with an expression of deep irritation on his face, was going to get to tell her was what direction to point her car in, and what time to kick the engine over.
And the sooner those blue eyes that saw too much were back behind sunnies, the better.
“Okay, Driver. I won’t presume to tell you what you want. I can’t imagine why you need that as a rule, but like I said before, if it’s sensible you won’t find me disagreeing.”
She gave him a nod and he went in search of a cashier. And that was that—the conclusion of their business deal. Now she had clear expectations about the terms of their relationship. And he couldn’t possibly pretend—expert pretender that he was—not to understand either. There was no ambiguity to the deal, it was straightforward. Except for the thing about quitting with all the cash, and leaving him in Port Augusta. That was new. That was confusing. Why was he so worried about her safety that one moment he pimped her ride, and then hours later agreed to cut her loose?
She watched him walk right through the middle of the crowded cafe, looking for a clue on how to read him. He wasn’t the kind of man you could easily ignore. He moved like an athlete, all fluid strength, easy balance and agility. He had the kind of confidence in his movements that would make you trust him despite the less than upstanding citizen look he wore. She’d seen him unflinching and she’d seen him furtive, cowering and hesitant. The last thing you could do was trust him.
It made her smile. She knew exactly where she stood with him.
Apart from how nervous she was standing in the bank with twelve thousand dollars in an envelope in her satchel while Fetch shopped for sunglasses, and how wonderful it was to see her account look healthy again, the rest of the morning passed surprisingly normally for everything that had gone before it. For what this arrangement actually was. Mental.
The sun shone, the traffic was light, she drove and Fetch slept in the back seat. Or at least he looked to be sleeping. His body was at ease, but he had new aviator style sunglasses on, so his eyes could be doing anything behind the lenses. When a P-plater did a too tight lane change in front of her deserving of an expletive and he didn’t comment she figured he was asleep. This was doable. Though he probably wouldn’t sleep every day. And she would have to be civil to him. But maybe it wasn’t too out of the box to think they might relax enough around each other to be like they’d been during his delivery boy days. They’d almost been a team. Which made her Bonnie to his Clyde. Okay, forget the team thing. But maybe they could be more normal.
Close enough to four hours later she slowed as Highway 31 met the Gundagai Tumut exit at Gocup Road. Still no movement from the back seat despite the loss of speed. Tumut was one of those towns that still had a pub on every corner. It also had the usual fast food standards. She pulled into the main street, a long, ruler-straight road with residential housing either side of a town centre fringed by nose to kerb parallel parking.
From the back seat came, “Man, I’m hungry.” Fetch sat forward, still belted in. “Where the hell are we?”
“Tumut—gateway to the Snowy Mountains.”
“Think they still have decent coffee here.”
“Where would you like to stop?”
“Campos.” Fetch had spied the coffee brand’s umbrellas at an outdoor cafe. “That’ll do.” Thank God he hadn’t wanted to try one of the pubs. They probably all had great bistros or counter lunches, but for all she knew he was a drinker and she’d rather not encourage that, in or out of the car.
Caitlyn parked and they walked back to the umbrellas. They ordered sandwiches to accompany with their flat whites. Sitting on the sidewalk in a NSW country cafe with her bikie, she suddenly felt silly in her driver’s cap. “Do you mind if I take this off?” She gestured to the hat. “It’s kind of a city thing.”
He smiled. “Go right ahead. You don’t need to play the chauffeur for me.”
She took the cap off and put it on the spare seat beside her. If she didn’t play the chauffeur, what was she to him? “So I’m not a chauffeur and you’re not a bikie. Who are we supposed to be?”
“We could be normal people? You could tell me your name so I don’t have to keep calling you by your occupation.”
“Will you tell me yours so I don’t have to keep calling you by yours?”
He smiled crookedly and it showed his amusement. “You first.”
There was no way he was going to give her his name. And there was no way to believe any name he gave her anyway. This was going nowhere. Might as well have some fun with it. “Carrie.”
He shifted in his seat. “Say that again.”
“My name is Carrie.”
He slapped his hand down on the table and laughed hard. The pensioner quartet at the other table gave them a cautious look. He was quick on the uptake; she had to give him that.
“You thought I’d fall for that. Fetch and Carry. It’s good. How long have you been waiting to say that?”
She inclined her head. “It just came to me.”
He laughed again. She tried to play it straight, gave a shrug but her lips wouldn’t behave; he looked so different when he laughed, all the remoteness dropped away from him, she couldn’t stop her smile.
“Geez, Driver, you’re funny. And without that hat and when you smile you’re…” he hesitated, studying her, “you’re almost likeable.”
She exhaled. “Without the hair you might be likeable too.”
&nbs
p; He pulled at his beard. “What’s wrong with the hair?”
She shook her head. Not getting into that.
“What’s your real name, Driver?”
He had persistence written all over his face from the dark brows raised above his lenses to the healing graze on his cheek. She sighed. “Lilly.”
“That’s pretty. Is it short for Lillian,” he jacked his thumb over his shoulder, “or Lilly’s Gift Shop two doors up from where we parked the car?”
He was too quick. She picked up her cap and put it back on. She was his chauffeur, she didn’t need a name.
“You know, there’s no reason not to be straight with me.”
“Like you are with me, Fetch.” She emphasised his name, his handle, his cover, whatever it was.
“I have a good reason to keep things to myself. And it’s in your best interest. But there’s no reason for you to be so guarded around me.”
Was he for real? “You mean other than the fact you used me to commit a crime, had me witness a hit, got me chased, compromised my security to the point that you don’t want me to go home, paid me in drug money, and I’m here with you in Tumut. Oh and how could I forget; you traumatised me by asking me to staple you, and swapped my numberplates which I’m sure is illegal.”
“It was a shakedown, and definitely a set-up, but not a hit on me.”
“Oh that makes it all so much better.”
“You know what, Driver—you have a temper.”
“This from a man whose trade is violence and money laundering.”
There was music, a ringtone, Meatloaf, Bat out of Hell. Fetch said, “Hold that thought,” and went for his pocket. Then he said, “What?” in his own voice, not the hesitant stumbling voice he used last when she’d heard him on the phone. He listened, nodding once or twice, giving nothing away. He was looking out towards the post office across the street. He said, “You’re sure. Right, I’ll manage.” Then he turned to face her. “I think she’ll be pleased to hear that.” When he hung up he put the phone on the table in front of him. “Give me yours.”
“Really?”
Floored Page 9
