Floored

by Paton, Ainslie

“The woman?”

  He peered behind him through the glass. Cait was still sleeping; her dark hair sprayed across the white pillow, one hand tucked under it, the other arm lying along the curve of her body. The sheet was hacked out of its moorings and draped over her, leaving one lovely leg and her shoulder bare. Yes, the woman. The only woman who made him regret being a cop, because as sure as he was longing to be inside her again, she’d done something stupid and wrong and he’d have to come to terms with that. Find out exactly what. That was on the top of the to do list. Immediately followed by fix it, then up stakes and move to Perth to be with her. She was his priority now. Her problems were his problems and whatever fears she was facing, whatever fucked up thing she’d done, they’d deal with it together.

  “I’m out, Stud.”

  “We can get them, Sean. Bring the whole thing down. It’s what you always wanted, what you stayed under so long for. You’ll hate yourself if you let a woman do this to you.”

  “Do what? Show me there’s a better way to live. I’ve started sleeping through the night again. My own reflection doesn’t spook me out. I don’t have to think about whose voice to use or how to fucking stand up. I called my mother.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if there was any other way.”

  Through the glass door, Sean watched Cait wake. First a deep breath, then her body shifted and her eyes opened. She stretched a hand back behind her, searching, then rolled over to look. She sat up, the sheet pooling around her hips, confusion and distress on her face. She thought he was gone. He tapped on the glass and her head shot up, a smile, a sigh that lowered her shoulders. Then a ‘come back to bed’ look that lit up his morning.

  “Sean?”

  They wouldn’t solve their problems horizontally, but it was as good a place to start as any.

  “Sean, are you there?”

  He grunted a response. He could be inside—the room, the woman.

  “It’s not a request, mate.”

  He could get a doc to certify him unfit. That’s about the only way to avoid this. Or he could quit. Or he could fucking man up and get this over with, because he did still have a hunger to bring the whole thing crashing down after two years four months and nine days.

  “Two—three months, Stud. That’s it, that’s all I can do. It’s all I’ve got in me.”

  “All right, we’ll work with that.”

  “I fucking hate this.” That’s what the odd feeling in his stomach was, hate, dread. “How do I get back in? What’s my cover?”

  “You still got the tin?”

  “Yeah. Still got the cake.”

  “That was good David Jones’ cake, not that RSL Club fundraiser crap with the toxic green cherries. You should’ve eaten it.”

  “It’s October.”

  “It’s cake!”

  “And.”

  “Wacker wants his money. That’s Fetch’s way back in.”

  “Right.” That was simple enough. Fetch got cornered, he got scared and he’d run, taking a portion of the cash from the pick-ups. The way back in was to bring Wacker the money he knew Fetch took. “How do we explain where I’ve been, why I’m in Perth?”

  “Will he buy you knew he was going to be here?”

  “I’ll have to make him. When do we do it? I need time. I got rid of the hair.”

  “There’s no time, mate.”

  “What do you mean? Oh fuck. You want me back inside so I’m there to crash the big club meeting.”

  “There’s a bigger picture here. El presidente is dying. He’s got a tumour. Someone gets crowned the next pres. That’s what’s going down in Perth. You knew there was more to it, you were right. That’s what all this action between Black and Red’s been about—positioning. That’s what Fetch got stuck in the middle of. Leonard’s crew’s been trying to make things rough for Wacker.”

  “That explains the Newberry’s murder. Explains trying to pin it on Fetch.”

  “It gives you a viable way back in. Fetch was scared, he ran. But now he wants back in. Needs to come in because it’s too hot for him. That’s why I need to know where you are. Wacker is in Perth already. I want you here. So where the bloody hell are you?”

  “Kalgoorlie. Where I was planning to take in the sights.”

  “Fucking knew you weren’t on fucking holiday. You were coming anyway.”

  “For Cait, not for the job.”

  “She’s got to you bad.”

  “Fatal shot to the heart.” It felt good to say that, acknowledge how he felt out loud and with ordinary words not the lover’s tango he’d been doing with Cait. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll stay on this Cumberland and keep her safe. She’s mixed up in something and it’s not good. I need someone to watch out for her when I’m under.”

  “Least I can do.”

  The dread was still roiling in his gut, but hearing Superintendent Michael Studdley’s assurance he’d watch out for Cait was like knowing he had the winning Lotto ticket. Life was going to have more certainty.

  “How do we explain my new look? I fucking look like the cop I was accused of being now.”

  “We’ll give Fetch a girlfriend. She’s the cover. She cleaned him up. She’ll give him a time spent alibi. He just has to appear suitably pussy-whipped.” Stud had obviously thought that through, he was so ready with the answer.

  “Who?”

  “Leave that to me. Get your arse here.”

  “I need boots, a watch, a leather vest, black t’s, the silver jewellery. I dumped it all. I need the Harley.”

  “It’ll all be here.”

  “Stud, one more thing.”

  “I’ll keep her safe, Sean.”

  “Not that. I know you will. I want you to tell my mother.”

  32: Flattened

  There was something wrong with Sean. He came in from the balcony and Caitlyn knew by the way he was moving, like he’d gotten old in the time he’d been on the phone and all his joints had seized up.

  She’d thought he’d left her. Disappeared sometime in the night while she slept, wrung out from the shattering intensity of their lovemaking. It would be what she deserved. But when she saw him on the balcony she forgot all her best intentions except the one that had her body instantly on fire for him.

  He’d smiled back and her breath caught, her thighs contracting. He could be calling the local cops to pick her up right now, but she didn’t think so.

  There was so much to talk about. They weren’t leaving this bedroom till she told him the truth in full sentences with real words, not the heartbeat halting whispered endearments they’d shared in the dark. She loved him. She’d done a terrible, stupid, criminal thing and she was ready to pay for it. If he loved her like she thought he did, there might be a way to work it out between them so she didn’t lose him altogether, though what kind of relationship they could have was beyond her most imaginative web spinning. But it was worth taking the chance because she couldn’t walk away from him, and she couldn’t have his touch and his care, and lie to him any longer.

  Whatever he chose to do she’d earned. Bail her up. Shut down on her. Dump her hard. Arrest her. But the minute he came in off the balcony she knew the morning had a new agenda and it wasn’t hers.

  “Are you okay?”

  He stood in the middle of the room, his shoulders slightly hunched over, his forehead creased with concern. His hand came up, vee’d thumb and forefinger stroked his chin, and he shook his head as if he’d been looking for his old beard and was surprised to find it missing. But it was in his eyes, half-hooded, furtive, that she saw the real change in him.

  Something was very wrong.

  “Sean?”

  He blinked, then focused on her. “I have to go.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “In the car. I need to move now. I need to be in Perth tonight.”

  He’d said I not we, and could barely look at her. “What happened?”

  “Take the bathroom first.”

  He started
pulling things out of his bag, spreading them on the bed as though he’d lost something. She got up and went to the bathroom, took a quick shower, all the while trying to fathom out his mood. He’d been happy when he waved though the glass, but now he was distracted and remote.

  When she came out, he’d packed his stuff, and most of hers. He came to take his turn in the steamy bathroom, pulling her still wet body into his arms. “It’s not you.”

  She nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed him. She brushed her palm down his arm, stopping at the wound, now pink with healing tissue. “These should come out.” They’d had this discussion. She’d checked his wound regularly. She was simply looking for a way to hold him, to stop whatever change had come to pass crashing down on them for a few moments more. She had a terrible feeling that as soon as they left the room nothing would be the same again. That something unknown to her could do this when all the bigger known issues remained unspoken. It felt like injustice.

  He lifted her chin with a finger and she met his eyes, so strange to her this morning. “I’m not skipping out on you. There’s something I have to do.”

  “I understand.” But she didn’t and it felt like a physical pain in her chest. She stepped around him to go to her bag, but he kept hold of her hand and pulled her back into his arms, taking her lips in a kiss that tried to chase away the distance and strain. She clung to his shoulders, helpless, unable to avoid the bitter taste of his confusion.

  He broke first. “I’m sorry.” He stepped passed her and shut the bathroom door, and thought it was only a painted wooden door closing, it felt symbolic of something important ending.

  In the car he was quiet in the ominous way he had of drawing tension around his silences. She didn’t press him. She eyed the white line and concentrated on the drive. He was somewhere inside his head like he’d been that day they first set out, when she’d been all about fixing the rules and creating distance. Then his withdrawal had seemed heaven-sent; a blessing. Now it was a curse she didn’t have the right spell to break. What could she possibly say to make things all right again? She was one of the things that was so wrong.

  When she’d given up thinking he’d speak, he leaned over and stroked his knuckles against her cheek. “Don’t look so worried, baby.”

  She snuck a look at him. There’d been more wildlife on the road since they left Kalgoorlie. Not all of it still kicking, and since a kangaroo or an emu could do a lot of damage to the car she needed to be extra vigilant. Wildlife was not your friend at one hundred and ten kilometres an hour.

  “I have to go back to work.”

  “We’re not driving in the wrong direction?”

  That got the barest of smiles. “Nope. We’re right where we need to be.”

  “You’re not happy about it.”

  He sighed with a great outrush of air. “I’m thoroughly pissed off.”

  “But you can’t talk about it, can you?”

  “No.”

  “And it’s not me?”

  The long pause Sean gave took up the entire time Caitlyn needed to overtake a massive road train. The prime mover truck had three large trailers and the length of an Olympic size swimming pool with easily sixty sets of wheels. It was roaring along at near the speed limit and took close to a full minute to pass. The first time she’d had to overtake a road train she’d been freaked out and Sean had coached her through it. But this one, easily the largest thing on the road she’d ever seen, was less scary, for all its thundering size and lumbering speed, than whatever he was waiting to say.

  When she was clear of the front of the truck and back in her lane he said, “Well done.”

  She said, “Oh God,” and hadn’t meant it to come out aloud.

  “Ah, Caity, it’s not you. You’re one heck of a problem but you’re not the reason I’m stewing in my juices. I’m sorry. I’m bad company. Ignore me.”

  “You’re kidding right? Ignore you?”

  “You can’t just ignore me?”

  “I’ve been fascinated by you since you jumped in my car outside the hospital, back when you were all hair and sunglasses, cut up face and bad attitude. Ever since we started, even though I hated it at first, you’re all I’ve wanted to see.”

  “Pull over.” He just about barked it.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because there’s a rule we haven’t broken yet.”

  “We’ve broken every possible rule I could think of and a whole lot more it never occurred to me to need.”

  “I’m not talking about eating or singing or distracting the driver. I want the driver’s full attention on what I’m about to do.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Pull over.”

  She flicked a look at him. He was deadly serious. They’d passed a rest stop sign before the road train, had she missed it? She eased back on the speed and there it was up ahead. She slowed and pulled in.

  “Cut the engine.”

  “What are we doing?”

  He was unbuckling. “We’re getting in the back seat and doing what I was too bloody distracted to do this morning.”

  She gasped. “Not here.”

  “Right here. I want you right now. In my life. I don’t know how we’re going to do this.” He shook his head as if he was trying to keep his thoughts straight and work out how to stop time simultaneously. “You drive me crazy. There are obstacles I can’t even start to think my way through right now. We haven’t known each other long, but I’m done. You’ve skewered me where it sticks. All I want to see is you too.”

  “I skewered you?”

  “Straight through the heart.” His voice was shredded and his eyes glittered wetly.

  “Oh!”

  “Don’t ‘oh’ me. Get in the damn back seat.”

  She got in the damn back seat and lost a couple of buttons as he tugged at her shirt in the process. Her last conscious thought was being grateful for the tinted windows. The rest was all Sean and what he could do to her body and how that affected her brain, her whole world.

  Any fear she’d ever had dissolved under his touch, any idea she nourished bloomed. There was sunlight and shelter on his lips, happiness and possibility on his tongue. She’d craved him as a memory; a talisman of a future she’d never thought could be hers to keep. But now in the touch of his hands, and the charge of his body, there was something else flickering. Hope.

  Without the aircon on, they were both a sweaty mess. She was sprawled across his chest, but had no inclination to move. He had none to let her, his arm heavy across her back, the weight of possession.

  “That road train has nothing on you, baby.”

  She smoothed a finger across his full lips. “What’s that mean?”

  “I feel like roadkill.”

  She laughed. All Sean’s earlier tension had dissolved. The steamier it had gotten between them the more he relaxed. “You’re saying that as though it’s a good thing.”

  He pulled her ponytail. “It’s the best thing.”

  “Roadkill?”

  He captured her wandering hand and brought it back to his lips. “See, even my brain’s gone to mush. I mean when I’m with you all the crap goes away and I feel—” She snorted on the word ‘crap’ and he laughed. “I never said I was a poet, but I could choose my words a little more carefully, eh.”

  “Skewered, roadkill and crap.” She tried and failed miserably to keep the humour out of her voice. “Graphic if not lyrical, memorable, but not exactly how I want you to describe your feelings for me.”

  “Fair enough, give me a sec.” He closed his eyes, those thick, lush, black eyelashes curtaining his vision. She fanned her finger across one set and he smiled which meant she had to kiss him, had to.

  “That’s not helping me think, Cait. You want poetic, I have to think.”

  She didn’t need poetic, being in his arms was enough. She kissed him again and he went with it, but then struggled upright, dragging her with him. She straddled his lap, her knees in t
he leather, her hands on the hot, slick skin of his shoulders. She watched his face and knew he was no more a memory than her ability to breathe. He was an embedded part of her.

  He fixed her with an expression of wonder. “You’re my personal sixty-wheeler.” He stroked a hand down her ponytail and pulled so her chin came up. “You’re this force that sets a course and follows it and nothing can knock you off your stride.” His other hand came to her face and cupped her cheek. “You have all his quiet strength and deep calm. Even when I know you’re scared, and I know you are—and I know I’ve scared you—but you have the guts to hold onto it and not let it own you. I admire that.” Her throat tightened. She didn’t want to breathe. She didn’t want to miss a single syllable of what he said. “It makes me feel I can be myself and you’ll cope with whatever being with me tosses up. It makes me feel accepted. I need you in my arms to feel like all the crap I’m worried about is back in its place.”

  He smiled, caressed her jaw and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Yeah I know I said crap again. I’m a cop, not a poet. I have a limited vocab. You could do better than me. My mum says I should read more.” His voice softened, almost a whisper, “Mum would like you so much.”

  She didn’t hear limitations, she felt wings. He palmed the back of her head and brought their foreheads together. “So that’s why I’m roadkill, Caitlyn Mary Ann Murphy.” She held her breath. If not his words, the rawness of his voice was going to bring her undone. “Because you have the power to run over and flatten me. And make it feel so fucking good.”

  33: Method

  The jeans might’ve been painted on. The boots had a knife blade heels. The neckline was almost a waistline and being white, the shirt didn’t leave much room for wondering what her nipples looked like. She had teased honey-blonde hair and a row of piercings up the rind of one ear. A ring in her eyebrow. Astud under her bottom lip. Heavy makeup. A tattoo of an angel on her neck and a thorny rose on the back of her hand.

  She was every raunchy, dirty little fantasy you wanted dancing on your tabletop, and graduating to your lap, before granting you a diploma in bedroom gymnastics.