Sideswiped, page 4
She ducks out of range. “I’m all sugar and spice.”
“Definitely spice.”
“That girl’s interested.” There’s a weird undercurrent to her tone.
The jealousy game was fun for half a second but nothing I want to become habitual.
“She doesn’t even know me.”
Talia makes a derisive sound. “Like that matters.”
“All I know is that I’m into you.” I go for a kiss and am surprised when she responds with more than a bit of tongue.
“Same.”
“Cool.”
Her eyes clear and we link hands, tour the aisles, entertained by each other’s preferences.
“Coffee or tea?” she quizzes.
“Always tea. Always black.”
“Weirdo.”
Her partiality for soy. “Milk is sick. I mean, who suckles another species?”
“What about this tub of blackberry cheese cake ice cream you got so wet for?”
“Nasty, never use that word as an adjective ever again.”
“Wet?”
“Stop! Anyway, the ice cream stays. Better you accept my inconsistencies earlier rather than later.”
We negotiate breakfast cereals like members of the United Nations Security Council.
“Weet-Bix?” She jabs the box with a cautious finger.
“Yeah, it’s great.”
“There’s zero sugar content.”
“That’s the whole point.”
“Blech. Looks like cardboard.” She eyes Coco Pops with undisclosed longing.
I steer her away. “Weet-Bix tastes like magic.”
“Soon you’ll try and ply me with Vegemite.”
I pluck a jar of local leatherwood honey from the shelf. “Okay, fine. How about you drizzle cereal with sweet stuff, hey, sweetheart?”
“God, yes, please. Sold.”
We poke fun of tabloid magazine covers in the checkout aisle. Grocery shopping, normally a mundane necessity, takes on an air of amusement park giddiness. We stroll home, bags heavy, crossing roundabouts and meandering along footpaths.
“Back there in the store…” Talia mutters something indistinct.
“Sorry?”
“The pretty girl, Jacinda.”
“What about her?” Was she pretty? Bloody hell, I didn’t even notice. Talia’s sucked my senses into some sort of black hole.
“While we were apart… you didn’t, I mean you never… or wanted… er, never mind.”
I got around a bit before meeting Talia. And by a bit, I mean a shitload. But I haven’t thought of another girl since last January.
“I never—”
“Wait, don’t answer.” She stops in her tracks and shakes her head. “Please, let it go, all right? Really, it’s fine. I’m sorry for overreacting. I know you wouldn’t do anything dodgy.”
“Talia, I—”
She covers my mouth and points to the street sign with the other. “Forest Road, this is us, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumble through her fingers. “Typical misnomer.” The gentrified neighborhood is dense, packed with elegant Federation homes, renovated within an inch of their lives. The front gardens are a carefully disheveled mix of jacarandas, camellias, wattles, and roses.
Roses—my mind jerks back to the previous night and the bogan with his cheesy flowers at the airport. He’d distracted me. “Shit.”
“What?”
I drop the grocery bags and slip my backpack straps from my shoulders, rummaging in the depths. I can’t believe I forgot, what a bloody idiot. “Here, I got you a welcome present.”
“Seriously?” She clutches the white box like it’s a rare diamond. Fuck, maybe I need to buy her pretty things more often. She pops the lid and squeaks.
“What do you think?”
She lifts the necklace. It’s a thin chain with a tiny u-bolt bike charm on the end. “I love it.”
“It’s not roses.”
“Roses?” She wrinkles her nose. “I hate roses.”
My heart does this funny surge. Is she for real? “No girl hates roses.”
“They’re ordinary, so… so”—she waves her hand as if the missing word hovers between us—“so ubiquitous. C’mon, there’s zero creativity involved in giving a girl roses.”
“Talia?”
“Yeah?” Her smile is uncertain.
You’re bloody perfect. “Have I mentioned you’re a killer girlfriend?”
“Not today.” She lets the necklace catch the sunlight.
“I love you and only you, Jacinda.”
Her head snaps and I shoot her a cheeky smile.
“You are such a—”
“Fantastic, amazing boyfriend?” I grab the groceries and knee open the gate to our place. “The necklace is the first in a two-part gift, Captain. Set your bags on the steps and head around the side.”
“Did you buy me a pony?”
“Humph.” I lead her down a winding cobblestone path, under a wooden archway dripping with green foliage.
She freezes in front of the two bikes chained together.
“Hobart’s so small we don’t need a car that much. Better to save the dinosaur juice.”
“OMG. You got me a pink fixie?” She crouches to reverently stroke a pedal.
I kneel beside her and kiss the sensitive spot behind her ear. “I like how they’re so simple, you know? Like riding as a kid used to be. I found a bike mechanic and asked him to build it to spec.”
She half turns and her mouth finds mine. “I adore it,” she whispers. “Seriously. You’re the best gift giver ever.”
I lift her to standing and settle her against the weatherboards. “I know you said you don’t want to hear it, but some things need saying. I’ll never—ever—think of another person this way in a hundred million years.”
She traces my lips with her finger. “I was being stupid. Blame it on the jet lag. You’re a babe. Girls would need to be blind not to notice you.”
“Whenever I close my eyes, you’re all I see.”
“Are you about to serenade me with an eighties power ballad? Not going to lie, that would be badass.”
I go in for a kiss.
“Wait, can’t someone see us?”
“Nah.” I nod at the dense jungly bower, my pelvis anchoring her in place. “Not through all that.”
“Bran.”
I nuzzle her skin, so fucking hot when she moans my name.
“Stop. Bran, Jesus, stop.” She yanks down her shirt, face frozen.
Behind the fence, next door, a man stands immobilized at the side entry. The bloke’s in his midsixties, shirtless, with a hairy gut that falls between his hips and knees. “Don’t mind me none.” He raises a weathered garden hose. “Watering me tomatoes.”
My fists ball. How long has he been watching? “Bloody pervert.”
“Hey, now.” He gives a slow leer. “I’m not the one with my tits out, am I?”
Talia covers her face. “Oh, for God’s sake.” Her shoulders convulse. It takes me a second to realize she’s cracking up.
“Show’s over.” What a bloody cluster.
“Come back tomorrow,” Talia calls out, and I snicker.
“Pack of nutters.” The neighbor shakes his head, tosses his hose down, and ambles back inside.
“Fucking bogan.” My retort is aimed loud enough to be heard over the slamming door. I pull Talia close. “Sorry about that. Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“I think we’re done here, unless you want that creeper jerking in the bushes.”
“My nuts crawl off at the thought.”
“Can’t have that.”
We tear along the path, gather the groceries, killing ourselves laughing any time our gazes meet.
My phone rings while I grapple the bags at the front door.
Talia lifts the mobile from my pocket, checks the screen, and snorts. “Wow, weird. Karma is calling.”
“Let it go to message.”
“Is that an actual name or a joke?”
“Haven’t I mentioned him? He’s my office mate.”
“Shut the door. You’ll let the flies in,” drawls a sneering voice from the dining nook.
Chapter Five
Talia
“The hell?” I levitate, my heart slamming into my trachea.
A striking gutter punk slouches over a beer bottle at the kitchen table. He parts his black dreads, takes aim with one finger, and fires in my direction.
“Um, hello?” I slant Bran a glance. Who’s the sketcher?
“This her?”
“Karm…” Bran’s growly tone is an ominous warning.
Karm? Oh, right, Karma—the office mate. What’s with the feral sprite act?
“Hey there, I’m Talia, Bran’s girlfriend.” I warily extend my hand.
Karma tips back and half sings, half chants under his breath, “There my pretty lady is, river-woman’s daughter, slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.”
“Cool it with the Tom Bombadil already.” Bran passes a hand over his dark scruff.
I’m lost and it shows.
“Tom Bombadil—minor character from Lord of the Rings.” Bran’s busy engaging Karma in an intense stare-off.
“He’s the master of the Old Forest.” Karma blinks first, dropping the chair legs to the floor with a dull thud.
“Hang on.” My best friend, Sunny, worships Tolkien. I read Lord of the Rings a few years ago and vaguely recall the Tom Bombadil chapters. “Isn’t he the character who prances around Middle Earth while everyone’s about to get skull-fucked by the Dark Lord?”
“That’s sacrilege,” Karma shoots back.
“We’re a grocery bag short.” Bran’s cough might be a strangled laugh. “Hey, mate, try not to annoy my girlfriend to death while I go grab it from outside.”
Despite Karma’s nonchalant smile, those unnervingly light blue eyes are straight up Judgy McJudgerson. How am I supposed to engage in small talk when the guy stares me down like I’m a Magic Eye poster?
I clear my throat. “You’re a student?”
“Allegedly.”
“What do you get up to?”
“This, that.”
“Wow. Sounds fun.”
“Maybe.”
What’s crawled in this guy’s ass? I tap my toes inside my Mary Janes. One… two… three…
Stop it!
His sneer shows he derives enjoyment from inflicting conversational torture. I fight the urge to swat an imaginary mosquito.
“I knew a chick from the States once.”
“Yeah?”
He rubs a silver ear gauge. “Native American.”
“Cool, from where?”
“Montana. Her accent was great, kind of a guitar twang. Nothing like yours.”
Bran comes back with the missing bag while I’m hunting for a suitable comeback.
“Did you fill her in on our ‘arrangement’ yet?” Karma makes air quotes.
“Have I missed some vital detail?” My head swivels to Bran. If this jerk-off thinks he’s shacking with us, we’re having all sorts of words.
Bran’s got his head buried in the fridge, unloading produce. “Karm comes round to use the kitchen and shower.”
“Plumbing problems at your place?”
Karma shrugs. “I live at the office.”
“Uh, wait… at the university?” My eyebrows squish together.
“On the DL.”
“How long are you planning to milk that scheme?” What a total freeloader.
He dismisses me to retie a faded black bandana around his neck.
“Don’t you get scholarship money, same as Bran?”
“What are you, the uni police?”
“Dude, lay off.” Bran finally steps in. “Talia just arrived. We need privacy.”
Karma doesn’t budge.
“Mate.” Bran dials to testy.
Karma adopts an exaggerated pondering pose before snapping his fingers. “Oooh, riiiiiight. This is my cue to leave. I get it. No worries.” He pauses, looking straight through me. “Hey, bro, I head out of town tomorrow for a little mischief.”
“Yeah?” Bran perks.
Karma gestures in my direction.
“Chill with the paranoia, dude. She’s cool.”
“You sure about that?” Karma says with a smirk.
How had I initially thought this douche canoe was attractive? I’ve scraped better-looking chewing gum off the bottom of my shoe.
“Talia, are you an informant?” Bran asks.
“My contract work is strictly CIA.”
Karm grabs a scuffed long board. “There are plans afoot to block access to a timber mill. Want in?”
“Nah. I’m good.” Bran loops his arm around my waist.
“Right-o.” Karma’s lips press flat. “Things to do, I see how it is.”
“Awesome meeting you,” I chirp, hoping my little finger waggle adds salt to his sullenness.
Dang, his phony grin is as good as mine.
We all stand there smiling like freakish Cheshire cats.
“So, good-bye, then,” I add helpfully, wishing time would speed up.
“I’ll cruise to Weasel’s pad. Sayonara, Tal-i-a.” He draws out my name long and slow like it’s a joke.
Except I’m not laughing. This guy puts me on edge.
Bran bites his lip as I mouth, Weasel? behind Karma’s back.
Karma pauses and slaps his forehead with ham-handed exaggeration. “Oh, I almost forgot. I came bearing a message from our mutual friend on the Sea Allia—”
“I’ll walk you out.” Bran’s good humor vanishes.
Karma issues me a parting salute and ambles down the corridor after Bran.
* * *
Bran’s lost in another galaxy tonight as he braces his hands on the sink and scowls at the bathroom mirror. He grabs his toothbrush and works it furiously around his mouth. I study the Ouroboros inked on his chest, the self-eating snake—a symbol of infinity. The tattoo is half light and half dark, his permanent reminder that there’s no brightness without shadow.
He stiffens, discovering me resting my head against the door frame.
“What?”
“Enjoying the show.” I blatantly perv on his shirtless status.
He tosses the brush on the counter. “I haven’t surfed in weeks, getting outta shape.”
My gaze lasers over the cut muscles bookending his laddered abs. “Then I’m terrified by what you think of me.”
“You?” His clouded expression lifts. “Whatever, Captain. You’re perfect.”
He comes closer.
“Um, is that a swagger?”
“Maybe.” His hands slide around my waist, dip at the small of my back, and squeeze lower. My Italian heritage packs serious curve in my badonkadonk.
“Hey there!”
“You’re so bloody hot.”
Despite my disagreement, I refuse to demean myself with one of those pointless “But I’m so fat,” “No, you’re not, babe” conversations. That dynamic reminds me of my mom and dad’s relationship, and homie don’t play like that. Instead, I push on. “What’s the sitch with your new BFF?”
“Mmmph.” Bran’s hands explore my ass.
I searched him out for a purpose and this isn’t it—at least not yet. I break contact. “I want to discuss Karma.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face. “What about him?”
“Besides the fact that he appears to loathe my guts for no reason?”
“He’s crap around pretty girls.”
“That’s psycho. Still, I need to talk to you. The acoustics in this house are amazing.” I overheard enough of their conversation this afternoon not to want to let things stand. “He called you a sellout.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Worry is my middle name, remember?”
“Karma lives to stir shit. I’m over drama, aren’t you?”
“Yes…” I’ve had enough for a lifetime. “But…” Bran’s narrowing eyes check me for half a second before my own temper kicks into motion. “Are you trying to intimidate me?”
“No.” His lips compress into a white slash.
“Hey now, don’t go getting all… all Branish.”
“Then leave off digging for trouble where there is none.”
“What’s bothering you?”
“Captain—”
“Don’t Captain me unless you want to be straight.”
“What the fuck?” He folds his arms behind his head. “Drop the fixation that something needs to be wrong.”
Self-doubt steals into my mind. Yes, I obsess. It’s what I do. But I didn’t hallucinate the frustration etched in Bran’s features after Karma bailed. Even now uncertainty flickers behind those soulful green eyes.
He is off, growing pricklier by the moment.
My muscles knot, jumpy from the undercurrent of tension.
“Want to get worked up? Knock yourself out, you’re on your own.” He makes to push past me, executing a classic duck and run.
“Hold it.” I poke my finger into his chest.
His ribs lurch but he halts, panther-like, wary and riveted.
“Don’t shut down.”
“I’m not.”
“Dirty liar.”
I’m rewarded with a hint of a dry smile.
I don’t have a clue why Karma set him off but I’m not yielding an inch. I tangoed enough with Bran’s broody alter ego last semester—not a fun paradox—more like 50 percent minefield, 50 percent mind-fuck.
The boy seeks control with single-minded focus, and this very moment he’s directing all his energy to closing me out. Screw that. My nail tip accidently bites into his olive skin. I push harder, disturbed by my urge to hug and hurt him at the same time.
Bran’s beautiful face is impassive, his expression a little bored, but his body whispers a different tale. Beneath the scant inches of skin and bone, his heart accelerates. If anything, he leans into my touch, dares me to go rougher. The space between us charges, like the instant before an electrical storm.
“What do you want?” he growls.
“The truth. You’re upset. Maybe I can help. Answer my question—what was Karma talking about earlier?”
“Screw Karma. It doesn’t matter.”
“How are you selling out?”
He slams his mouth shut and shoots me his best “What are you gonna do about it?” expression.
