Sideswiped, page 14
Why is he allowed to get away with such dickish antics?
Gaby shuts off her laughter like a faucet and grinds out a blandly polite excuse to sashay toward an attractive man with salt-and-pepper hair. Apparently my role as a stage prop wasn’t satisfactory to whatever scene she’s acting. I’m left in her dust, still giggling uncomfortably for no reason.
“Brandon?” Mariana struts into the room with two well-heeled women. She repeats her son’s name as if she can’t place him for a moment. “Oh yes, Brandon. He’s still at university.”
There are a few polite murmurings.
“Bran’s doing so great—his supervisor is basically obsessed with him. You should be really proud.” I throw in my two cents and resist the urge to duck when all heads swivel in my direction.
Obsessed? Great, I made a respected professor sound like a serial killer.
“Yes… uh, this is…” Mariana’s voice fades.
“Talia. I’m Talia.” I bite the inside of my cheek while automatically giving a polite smile. I don’t think the gesture is particularly attractive. Everyone stares at me. Pins and needles shoot down my legs.
“She’s American.” His mother recovers, waving her hand at me like I’m an interesting piece of art she’s compelled to explain. “Californian, from near San Francisco.”
There’s an invisible band around my head growing tighter and tighter.
Please stop looking at me.
I’m bailed out from an unlikely quarter.
“Brandon’s in the middle of his honors year,” Bryce pipes in, waving off a tray of food. “We’re expecting a first-class result before he moves on to a PhD.”
“What business did you say your father was in, Talia?”
I didn’t.
“He’s a geologist.” Thankfully Bran decides to return from wherever he’s zoned off to at an opportune moment.
“Geologist?” One of the men perks, turning his head in my direction. “What game is he in—mining?”
“My dad?” I laugh at the idea. “Oh God, as if!” Wait, aren’t a few of these men iron ore tycoons? “Sorry. I mean… ahem… no nothing like that.”
“Talia’s father currently works in ecotourism but his main interests center on the impacts of global warming in coastal communities,” Bran says before I can utter a word. I love the shape of his mouth but not when it’s bent in this frown.
After that, the comments fly fast and furious from all sides. It’s pretty much open season.
“Bring it on. My beach house is at a hundred meters. Give it another twenty years and I’ll swim from my front door.”
“Rubbish. Climate change is fodder for socialist journos determined to peddle their propaganda to the masses.”
Bran studies climate change, too, but no one in his family utters a word to our defense. Mariana examines her nails like they are engraved with the meaning of life.
“How about it, Brandon? Still think profit’s a dirty word?” a fleshy-faced man near the bar calls out, smiling nastily.
For fuck’s sake, we’re being swarmed in this snake pit. Why can’t Gaby come to the rescue? Nope, she’s too busy trying to give Joe a mental vasectomy. Bryce stands near the giant windows giving an Oscar-winning performance in obliviousness.
“Don’t bait him, Boris,” a Stepford wife chides with a laugh after the pointed silence threatens to poke out my eardrums.
Eventually the pack retreats to debate threats such as the Green Party and carbon taxes.
Bran and I stand on the sidelines surrounded by people considered wildly successful by most standard measures. Imagine if Bran had followed his parents’ plan? Joined this world? I know more about hedgehogs than I know about hedge funds. I don’t want this—any of it.
Bran’s dad catches my gaze while polishing his wire-frame glasses. He has his son’s eyes but with none of the soulfulness. He seems to weigh me, measure my worth, and decide I’m lacking.
“Son,” he calls. “A word, please.”
“We need fresh air.” Bran slides open a large window.
“Brandon, stop fiddling,” Mariana says coldly. “The air-conditioning is on.”
Bran looks tempted to send his sneaker through the glass.
I rest my hand on his lower back, the muscles tight beneath his shirt. “Walk with me?”
“Fuck yes.” He grabs a champagne bottle on the way out.
“Son—”
“Later, Dad. Later.”
His mother doesn’t give us a second look.
We escape the private box with the canapés, plasma televisions, plastic people, and recycled air in favor of the crowds and the sun on our faces. Bran forgoes a glass, drinking the champagne straight from the bottle.
“Easy, tiger.”
He pulls the bottle from my reach. His shirttails are untucked, and with that scowl and mussed-up hair, he resembles a pirate whose ship’s been plundered.
I’m desperate for any distraction. “I don’t even know how a horse race works.” I point at the posted odds by the TAB bookies. “What does this stuff mean—quinella? Each way? Place bet?”
“Do you seriously care?”
“We’re at a horse race. What else are we going to do? Talk about how bad your parents’ friends suck?”
“See, a firing squad is more fun.”
“Well, nothing we can do about it. So cut out the pity drinking and throw me a bone.” I yank the bottle from his hand and pass it off to a pack of blondies who can’t be over eighteen. “Ladies?”
“Thanks!” one says, and they huddle around giggling.
“Fucking hell, Captain.”
“This trip is hard enough without you going drunk-ass.” I hook my thumbs into his belt loop and bring us hip to hip.
“Why do I ever have to do anything besides look at you?”
“Let’s play a game. You and me, we’re superheroes against the world.”
I let his hands perfectly mold around my ass; at least life returns to his eyes.
“What’s your special power?” I tease his dick with my thumb.
“You play a dangerous game.”
“You could use a distraction.”
“Bloody oath.” He smiles at my eyebrow waggling. “Tell you what—let’s get out of here. Hail a cab, go home, and fuck each other brainless. No one will be home for hours.”
“But won’t they—”
“You were struck down with the flu.” He presses his hand against my forehead. “They’ll believe it. My dad’s been sick, remember?”
I rub my bare arms. “I have chills, and the muscle aches are excruciating.”
“I need to rub your back, bring you medicine.”
“You were devastated to miss the fun.”
“Careful, we can’t take it too far; otherwise they’ll know it’s bullshit.”
“True.”
“Blimey, if it isn’t Brandon Bloody Lockhart. Haven’t lost your touch, mate.”
Crap, we almost made it out alive.
There’s a youngish guy playing the grown-up in an Italian suit. He fingers his overgelled hair and brandishes a self-satisfied smile.
“Davo!” Bran says with forced cheer. The guys exchange a complicated brotastic handshake. “We went to boarding school together,” he tells me as an aside.
“The old times were good times, hey, man?” Davo talks too close. He gives me a blatant up and down with bloodshot eyes. “So tonight, after party at my new place. Bring your little hottie.”
“Girlfriend,” Bran says, laying claim.
“Talia,” I add.
“A pleasure.” Davo grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles like they’re a treat to be savored—he’s so smooth I can barely hang on.
Bran makes his murdery face. Impossible boy. How could I want to do anything more than wash my hands after Davo’s skeezy touch? Seriously, I’m about to go hunt down hand sanitizer.
“Sounds like a plan. See you later tonight, Talia?”
I’m not digging his self-satisfied smirk.
“Gee, I don’t know.” I manufacture a pathetic black lung cough. “I’m a little fluey.”
Bran snorts and this guy chuckles like he has a clue.
“We’ve got to go place a bet.” I tug Bran’s hand, lean toward the bookies.
“You guys are crazy. Catch you later. Tonight’s going to be off the hook.” Davo bails with a cheesedick wink.
“I’m willing to wager that guy’s herpes has herpes.”
“The odds are in your favor,” Bran mutters.
The lines are long in the betting area. “You feel lucky, punk?” I put on my worst mobster accent.
“No.”
“Come on. Not even a little smile?”
“I’m not in the mood, Captain.”
“I don’t blame you. This place is Douchebagland. I’ve changed my mind. No ducking and running. We stay, dig in our heels, and not let the bastards get us down.”
“Really?”
“What the hell.”
“Correction: We’re in hell.”
“For sure. So what can go wrong?”
“Fine, but for the record, I’d rather be copping a feel in the back of a cab.”
I scan the horse names. “Beam Me Up, that guy sounds promising.”
“My vote is for Chip on His Shoulder.”
“Ha, big surprise. Oh, look. This one!”
“Rooster?”
“Yes, check out his odds.”
“They’re awful.”
“A dark horse. I like it. Rooster by a nose.”
Bran’s smile disappears. He’s frozen, statue still.
“What?” I’ve suddenly got chills.
“Rat bastard.”
He’s gone, bulldozing through the crowd. Bodies fly from his path.
What the hell?
I tear in his general direction but the heaving bodies block my vision. Luckily I’m in flats so I can duck and weave through the crowd with the velocity of a fresh-shot marble. Elbows and shoulders jab in reply.
There, I see him. Beating the everlasting shit out of his brother-in-law, Joe the Jockey.
Bran is strong with a naturally graceful agility that is anything but right now. He’s bobbing and weaving trying to land another quick punch. He must have gotten a good one in because Joe’s lip is busted and bleeding.
I run forward because no one else raises a finger to stop this shitshow. The bloodlust is palpable.
“Get back,” Bran orders me, not taking his eyes off Joe. “This cheating scumbag’s earned a shit-kicking.”
“I don’t think—”
“Talia…” He spares me a warning glance and that’s all it takes for Joe to seize an opportunity. He dives forward, grabs Bran in a tackle hold, and lunges to the ground. But Bran flips over and lands a solid face punch. There’s a wet sound like a mallet striking meat. My stomach turns inside out.
“You’re her fucking husband, a fucking father. What’s the bloody matter with you?”
Blood pours from Joe’s nose straight into his mouth. I can’t handle gore. Everything tilts like we’re riding some carnival Tilt-A-Whirl. I’ve never fainted in my life but vomiting is a distinct possibility. I need to get a grip and save Bran from committing murder.
“You little shit.” Gaby flies from out of nowhere. Bran jumps up, dazed and still dangerous.
Joe rolls into a half curl and chokes out a sick, wet, rib-rattling cough. My mouth fills with saliva as vomiting threatens to become a reality.
“What have you done?” Gaby says with a hiss.
“That fuckhole crossed the line. He’s cheating on you again. I saw him with—”
Gaby slaps Bran—hard—across the face.
His head flips back like a Pez dispenser and when he rights himself, his face is shuttered.
“Hey.” I shove between them. “I don’t know what’s going on but Bran’s—”
“Messing everything up.” Gaby is in towering heels and still shorter than me. She gives her husband a disgusted glance before trading inscrutable stares with her little brother. Then she readjusts her hat to a jaunty angle and does the last thing I’m expecting—she smiles.
“Get fucked, brother,” she says between clenched teeth before stalking away, head high, leaving her husband gagging on the ground.
Police and security push through the crowd.
Bran touches my elbow. “We’re out. Right now.” He grabs my outstretched hand and we flee in the opposite direction.
Chapter Eighteen
Bran
“Are you going to clue me in what the heck is going on?” Talia chases me through a rosebush. The skin-tearing thorns don’t slow my stride. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s getting breathless. I should slow down.
I should do a lot of things.
“Come on, talk to me. This Wolverine behavior is excessive, even for you.”
“Joe.” His name hurts my tongue, like a stone in my boot. “Motherfucking bastard.”
“I hope not literally.”
She’s trying to coax out my humor. I hope she likes disappointment. I break for the exit and we collide with the loitering crowd sucking air on the footpath. I push my way through, a fish swimming upstream.
Once we break into the clear, she gives it another go. “You nailed the punch line—pardon the pun—but I missed the setup.”
My words can’t go as fast as my feet.
“Honestly, Bran—”
“You want the bloody blow-by-blow?” Her tart tone detonates the fuse inside me. I can’t hold back the explosion. “Fine. Here it goes. Jocko was under the stairs, exploring some chick’s tonsils with his slimeball tongue. Probably didn’t think anyone could see. I’d never have noticed if we weren’t standing in that exact spot. The more’s the pity.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s crazy. Gaby deserves to know what happened. Once she understands you were—”
“Don’t kid yourself.” I rub my cheek. My sister took Tae Kwon Do when she was a teenager. She still has bloody keen skills. “Denial is a beautiful thing.”
“What are we going to do?”
There’s an old school pub on the corner; crowds pour onto the second-floor veranda. The tables on the footpath are coned off. A perfect place to forget myself. “I don’t know about you but my plan is to get obliterated.”
“I don’t think that’s a viable solution.”
“It’s genius.”
“Stop, please, I need you to look at me.”
I walk right around her. “Don’t you get it? I punched out my brother-in-law in public.”
“A beat-down might be a more accurate description. You were a gladiator.”
“Gaby cares too much about saving face. She’ll pretend everything in her sham of a marriage is abso-bloody-lutely fantastic. In the past, she’s tried to defend me but not this time. She’ll side with my parents. They’ll close ranks against me—every last one of them—my so-called family.”
“I’m here. Don’t shut me out. We’ll deal with this.”
“Talia, why can’t you get it? Sometimes I don’t want to deal.”
Talia’s mouth opens and shuts. She doesn’t know how to respond, because deep down she understands. Now and again it’s too fucking hard to face yourself.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ve got your back.”
I take her hand in mine. “Don’t let go.”
She gives my wrist a kiss. “I won’t.”
I’ve got nothing to lose.
Except her—this—us.
And that’s pretty much everything.
* * *
We pub-crawl through Flemington, down into North Melbourne. The inner-city bars fill to capacity as everyone and their senile great-uncle are out on the town. Cup Day is a state holiday, and one massive piss-up. The crowds, with their drunk-ass banter, stop my ears and blank my thoughts. Talia looks at her watch again but I’m not nearly done. Not by a long shot. Going home now means silence. A silence that screams, You’re hopeless. A bloody disappointment. A discredit to the family name. No matter how just my cause, when it comes to my family, I can’t get a damn thing sorted.
My phone buzzes in my pocket while Talia’s in the bathroom. I ignore it but someone’s a persistent bugger. I check the screen. Dad. Bloody hell, I didn’t even know he had my number.
“Yeah?”
“Brandon? Where are you, mate?”
Mate? Don’t make me laugh.
“A pub.”
“I heard there was a disturbance.”
“You heard right.”
“Can you make your way back? I need to speak with you.”
“Negative.”
“Son.”
“I got to jet. Whatever it is can keep until morning. Don’t bother waiting up.” I get a text from Davo right before I shove the phone into my pocket; apparently his place is going off.
I kill the pint in three long swallows but my stomach still feels run over by a bulldozer.
“Did you hear?” Talia drapes over my chair back and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Chip on His Shoulder won. That’s a good sign, right?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that in real life, those guys never win. We rage until our heart lights extinguish.
“Grab your bag, we’re out.”
She releases a relieved sigh. “We’re going back to your home?”
“That’s not a home; it’s a structure where I used to live. And, no, we’re headed to the Docklands.”
* * *
“Hey, hey. You made it.” Davo wipes his nose, amped, clearly on something. He’s already looking past us at the next lot coming in the front door. “Beers and champers are in the fridge, hard stuff at the bar, anything you want.”
“No worries.”
He heaves his arm around me in a gesture that’s half mateship and half trying to keep standing. “Dude, I’m so pissed.”
Talia’s smile is more a grimace but I ignore her, walk toward the bottles.
I dragged her here for one reason. I’m a coward. I don’t want to go back and face Dad or the rest of them. What was he even going on about anyway? He doesn’t speak to me, at least nothing approaching an actual conversation, in years and suddenly I’m supposed to engage in a deep and meaningful? Maybe he’s going to throw me a bone, a spot in the family business—a cushy desk job where I’ll be paid to stay quiet. Bought off to keep the fucking peace.
