Page 68 of Rafferty's Rules
‘What’s going on, fellas?’ I edge into the crowd and looking over Brett’s shoulder. At least I think that’s what he said he was called when I introduced myself to him the other day. I immediately wish I hadn’t because he’s holding his phone out to show the others a slideshow of racy photos.
‘I’m just showin’ the guys a few pictures of my new girlfriend. Her name’s Claire.’
He says all this without looking up once, and while the images aren’t horrific or porno-rific, I still peel my eyes away. I can’t help but think about if it were me showing off pictures of Lis without her permission. It’s a total dick move. But then again, maybe Claire is into this sort of thing? For all I know, she might’ve encouraged Brett to use his coffee mug as a tip jar for the show.
‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves,’ I say without conviction because really, what is there to say? Maybe this. ‘You’re a bunch of perverts, and God’s watching you.’ I point at the stained-glass window and the marks left behind by the removed iconography in the transept. ‘This is his house after all,’ I add. Or it used to be. Before I bought it from the church. ‘Now, get back to your work.’
I clap a hand on Brett’s shoulder, tight enough to convey I’m really not taking the piss. As I pull away, he does the same, slipping his phone into the pocket of his cargo short.
‘Come one, fellas,’ he calls, clapping his hands. ‘Like the boss man says, we’re not here to fuck spiders.’
I guess he’s not religious, then.
I go back to the makeshift office in what was probably once the sacristy, and my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I pull it out from my pocket, my expectant smile freezing as I glance at the caller display.
Rebecca Keogh.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I growl to the empty room.
It’s like just thinking about how I screwed over my own brother has conjured me in her thoughts somehow.Or maybe this is what I get for letting tradies stare at images of barely clad women. In a defunct church.
Of course, it’s more likely she knows I’ll be home soon for Byron and Amber’s wedding. If she thinks we can pick up where we left off, she’s off her fucking gourd.
The call goes to voicemail, but it doesn’t help the temperature of my blood. The woman might look like an underwear model, but just her voice turns my insides to a burning roiling shame.And that’s all on me.Like Dad used to say, you reap what you sow.
I drop my phone on my makeshift desk like it’s toxic and throw back my head. My gaze on the ceiling, I silently ask whatever being might be residing in the big open sky beyond for a small miracle.When I get out to the Hunter, please send the woman someplace else—or send her someone else to torment.It’s going to be hard enough to face my brother after what I did without having to see her.
It seems whatever the God or the universe has in mind doesn’t meet with my plans if what happens next is anything to go by. I watch mildly confused as a hairline fissure in the ceiling suddenly becomes a crack, a crack in the ceiling above me groaning and moaning before a solid lump of white shit hits me square on the shoulder.
‘Fuck, fuck my life!’ I dive for the door as the whole ceiling comes down.
Chapter 20
ALYSSA
After administering Cat’s ointment, I decide to change out of my shorts and into my one and only sundress, tucking my trusty tourist map into my purse before I leave. I’m aiming to walk to the Royal Botanical Gardens today, and on the way, I’ll take some photographs of the iconic Sydney Opera House. Maybe later, I’ll walk over to Darling Harbour today to see if it is just that—darling. I might even suggest Rafferty meet me there for dinner.His text suggestion. And his treat, unless he doesn’t mind splitting a McDonald’s Happy Meal.
The front door clicks closed behind me as I positively hop out onto the sidewalk and skip up the street. The weather is certainly a little cooler than even a day or two ago, but I’ve still used a little sunscreen to protect my face and shoulders, courtesy of Rafferty. Because while the breeze is cool, the sun is nothing less than fierce. I’m pleased my own glasses have photochromic lenses, so at least I’m not squinting. I’m also pleased I didn’t decide on wearing my contacts when I left the cruise that night, or I’d have been left as poorandas blind as a church mouse.
The sky is so blue, and the grass is so green. It’s like everything in Australia is just a little bit brighter than anywhere else I’ve ever been. Which, admittedly, isn’t very far, but I know wonderful when I see it.
I make my way past the scene of the crime—no, not the brothel but the cruise ship terminal—and around Circular Quay, following my trusty map to the best of my map reading abilities. What I didn’t expect was for the streets to be so hilly, or the Opera House to be so far away. How can it take so long to get there when I can see it right from Rafferty’s outdoor entertaining area?
Of course, I get there eventually, hot and a little bit sweaty and with blisters on each of my heels. Not the best look for taking a selfie or two outside of this must-see Aussie icon.
I’ve given up trying to look cool—I’ll never make a selfie queen—and am snapping a few images of the building sparkling in the sun when I become aware of someone wolf whistling.
‘Check you out,’ the somewhat familiar voice calls, ‘channelling J-Lo.’
I ignore the catcall that surely isn’t meant for me. I’d never be mistaken for channelling J-Lo unless she happened to have a skinny, plain period. And if she did, pictures please.
‘Oi!’ I jump as a solid arm is flung around my shoulder. ‘Are you corned beef?’
‘Charlie! Don’t ever sneak up on me! I almost jumped out of my skin!’
I recognise the guy immediately—the barista from the coffee shop yesterday. Although he’d given me his number, I’m surprised we’ve run into each other again.
‘And such nice skin it is, too,’ he murmurs, drawing a finger over my pinking shoulder. I thought we’d already established he’s gay, so maybe this is a tactile thing.
