Page 17 of Rafferty's Rules
‘You might be, but me? I’m as greedy as they come.’
‘A glutton for punishment, more like.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone has said as much. I always seem to be getting myself into trouble.’
‘Yeah?’ she asks, perking up. ‘What kind of trouble?’ She’s even smiling a little, probably at the prospect of hearing someone else’s fuckups as a distraction from her own. I find that I’d say almost anything to keep her smiling, including embarrassing myself.See? A glutton for punishment.But in this instance, I turn the tables.
‘Take last night, for instance,’ I begin. ‘I flew back into town late for my mate’s bachelor party only to find out he was on his way to a brothel, trashed—drunk as a skunk.’ Something niggles at my conscience here, and I make a mental note to call Joe, hoping we’re not going to end up trading fuckup stories later this week.
‘Oh, no,’ she whispers sadly. ‘How awful.’
Interesting. I’d expected a giggle in response. Maybe a little feigned shock, her mouth a scandalised moue. Instead, she seems genuinely upset. Forlorn almost.
‘More like a clusterfuck,’ I respond. ‘Because when I dragged my arse to the brothel, it turned out he wasn’t there. But I was there. All alone. In a brothel, just in case you missed that bit.’ All I need to accompany this drip of information is a little portentous music.
Dum-da-dum-dummm!
‘I don’t think I want to hear the rest,’ she says, almost springing from the chair. Moving to the sink, she rinses her hands, then fills a glass from the running water. Her shoulder rises as she turns it off, and as she turns, bright spots burn at her cheeks. She tries to smile but doesn’t quite manage it. ‘I need to find a hostel.’ She brings the glass to her mouth. ‘Some place cheap to stay.’ Then she drinks.
‘I wasn’t alone at the brothel.’
‘Ha.’ I don’t think that was supposed to be such a telling laugh. Her gaze slides to the window, fixing on the gnarled old frangipani tree in the yard, its green leaves vibrating in the scant breeze. I’m not so conceited to think she’s upset about me being in a brothel, even if she did sort of come on to me earlier. Well, alluded to the fact that she would if she’d had time. She has time now, but I’ll bidemytime for now.
‘I wasn’t there getting my knob polished, darl.’
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me.’
‘I kinda think I do. Because you were there, too.’
Chapter 5
ALYSSA
You were there, too.
In a brothel.
‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’ My answer is automatic. I don’t laugh, shout, or even blink. Yetsomething ...something... niggles at me. On the surface, this should be the absolute last place I’d ever be. But still with the niggling.
‘On a scale of one to batshit crazy, this one’s off the charts. Right off the charts.’Roi-t off. Goodness, that delicious accent of his. But accents aside, his answer is emphatic and without a trace of humour. ‘But it also happens to be true.’
‘What would I be doing in a brothel?’ I’d meant this to come across as sassy and spirited and purely rhetorical. Instead, it sounds like a genuine question.Because still with the niggling sense that something isn’t quite right.
‘At a guess, I’d say you were looking for a root.’
‘A root?’ I repeat uncertainly. Like vegetables? Plants? What the heck am I missing here? Aussie English is like a whole other language when delivered from the source. And what a pretty source it is, too.
Rafferty pushes off from the grey stone bench behind him, crossing the kitchen that’s all modern chrome and stone except for one singular nod to the building’s heritage in the form of a tiny original cast iron stove. As he moves, I take a moment to look at him. In the rush of our introduction and our dash to the passenger terminal, the little voices in my head were far too panicked and chatty, and let’s be honest, in a hangover fog to be worried, and in retrospect, there was lots to be worried about.Waking in a stranger’s house, facing said stranger dressed in my jeans and a bra, no memory of the previous evening!But those aren’t exactly the kinds of worries I mean. It’s more about being in the presence of someone who looks like him because he has the kind of looks that would, on any other day, render me mute. Or idiotic. Or maybe both.
It takes me so much effort not to cover my heart with my hand as the thing begins its usual panicked response as he stands in front of me, the thin cotton of his T-shirt nothing but a candy wrapper covering a torso of deliciousness. If I look hard, I can even see those firm ridges that are as tempting as any block of chocolate.
Fight or flight, my heart seems to pound, but I know I’m not going anywhere. Where would I go?
‘What?’ I glance down at where he’s holding out his hand. Hell, in concentrating on the miss-beating muscle, I’d missed what he’d said.
‘Come and sit down.’
I sit at the wooden table, and he lowers himself into an industrial-style chair next to mine, the afternoon light turning his hair a fiery gold with strands of auburn and sorrel. His hair is actually a riot of colours, though I’d be hard pressed to describe it as anything other than fair.
