Sting (18 page)
“See ya tonight, darlin’,” he drawls, attempting his best southern accent.
It sends a delicious shiver through my body. Maybe I can get Ryan to talk like that in the bedroom.
Wowsers. I could get used to that.
****
For a time during the madness of today, I forget all about the one day of the year I’m supposed to ignore.
I refill the last of the recycled jam jars, which we use for sugar canisters on the tables, and switch off the coffee machine.
“Brown-Eyes taking you out somewhere tonight?” Gabs asks as she wipes down the counter.
“I’m not sure what he’s got in mind.”
“Well, I’d say any kind of surprise to do with that man would be a welcome one. Hell, even if he took me out for a burger, I’d be humping his leg like nobody’s business.”
“Nice visual, Gabs.”
“You’re welcome.” She swings her bright purple handbag onto her shoulder. “Alright, lady. I’ll be off.”
“Before you go, I was thinking we should offer Sarah some more shifts, or maybe take on someone else? I think the holiday season is going to be busy.”
“Yeah, I agree. We might have to bring in a young lad, you know, to bring in the young girls?”
I tilt my head to the side and regard her. “You mean not for your own personal viewing pleasure?”
She scoffs, and rolls her hazel eyes. “I’m in my dirty thirties, lady, and last time I checked, teenagers weren’t real men. I’m only thinking about our customers. And possibly the fact that we need to set our sweet Sarah up with someone.”
“Forever the matchmaker,” I say, and shake my head with amusement. “Well, thanks for today. We killed it.” My sore feet, and the fact we sold out of food can attest to that.
“Yeah. We certainly earned ourselves some extra pennies for MAC and pretty shoes.”
“Of course. What else do we work so hard for?”
“Now you’re comin’ around to my way of thinking.” She pulls me into a warm hug, her sweet blossomy perfume caressing me just the same way. Instantly, it reminds me of a scent my mother would wear.
Crap
. Why’d she have to hug me?
“Night,” I mutter, blinking back a tear.
She holds me at arm’s length, and squeezes my shoulders.
“Be good tonight, and if you can’t be good, be good at it.”
I laugh, and discreetly wipe the tear that is creeping out of the corner of my eye. Thank the lord for this woman, because she sure knows how to brighten my day. Who knows what Ryan has in store for me? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be enough to get me through this crappy twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RYAN
I left the coffee house thinking
what the fuck?
What did I do? Something felt off. Willow was short with me. She seemed, I don’t know, flat? When a smile came to her lips, it didn’t hang around for long. It never made those little crinkles at the sides of her blue eyes.
I was planning a lazy trip to a secluded beach with her after sunset, but now, on second thoughts, I’m gonna have to lift my game. Maybe it’s more a problem of what I haven’t done that’s the issue.
I haven’t taken her out on a real date.
Dinner and wine. I’m an arse. In my defence, it’d be a stretch to even remember the last time I took a girl on one. A real fucking stretch. College maybe?
Three raps on the door alert me to Mick’s arrival.
We go through some more pics, and make a few calls to make sure the wire-tap we requested yesterday is in place. Unfortunately, no new intel from the guys at the airport, or from the existing wire taps. Sometimes the waiting is a fucking killer.
“So, how’s it going with little Blondie?” he asks, and strokes his beard.
I nod. “Good. We’re really good.”
“That’s great.
“Yeah, it is.”
“Just out of interest, does she grill you about shit?”
What does he care? I can certainly manage the questions. Is he worried I might let something slip?
“Nope. Not that I’m any relationship guru, but it’s like we have this mutual understanding. She doesn’t pry, and neither do I. I get the feeling there’s some heavy shit in her past, and I get that she’s trying to move on from that.”
“Sounds like you’ve found yourself a unicorn.”
“What the fuck?”
“You know: a mythical creature that most people think don’t exist.”
“How the fuck is Willow a unicorn?”
“Seems to be the whole package if you ask me.”
“She is.” I’m a lucky son-of-a-bitch.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
Christ, I feel like I’m about to emasculate myself.
Because if anyone knows, it’s this guy.
“Shoot.”
“How did you make the job and a relationship work?”
“You know it didn’t end well, but I was already married before I started undercover, so I guess it was easier. The wife knew I couldn’t tell her things and she knew not to ask. When I was away for smaller jobs we seemed to manage okay with the time apart, but when I was gone for long stints, and she couldn’t contact me, that’s when shit got strained.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
The niggling feeling in my gut gets my attention. I can barely go a day without my Blondie fix. If I couldn’t see Willow for weeks, or months, how would I manage?
“I just made the time I had with her special. Let her know I appreciated her.” He rakes his fingers back through his hair and sighs. “But I never had to break it to someone, what I did for a job. Not sure I’d know how to handle that. It’d have to be someone pretty special though. I’d imagine you’d have to be pretty clear.”
I scrape my hands down my face. “Yeah. I get that,” I repeat.
If I go about it the right way, I need to go up the chain if I want to disclose to Willow what I really do for a living. It’s just so fucking intrusive. She’d need a secret level of clearance. They’ll need to know everything. Do I want to drag her into this?
“Right, well I’m gonna head off, Palmer. Got some shit to sort out and I’ll check in with that tap again. These next few weeks are gonna be intense.”
“Yeah, you got that right.”
Once he’s gone, I call Pete.
“How’s it looking over there?” he asks, the chatter of a keyboard echoing in the background.
“Plenty of movement, just not much in the way of moving goods. We’re hoping to get a bit more intel on the connections.”
“Yesterday I came across a report from the tactical crime squad in Western Australia. Detective Special Constable Lee, a newcomer to the WA Organised Crime Taskforce, has some intel on a new bloke who’s dealing, after he interviewed a young girl who survived a pretty horrific overdose last week. The ED is seeing an increased number of cases like this. They’re generally not first-time users, but the gear they seem to be sampling is pretty high-grade. None of the other patients talked, but I think we’ve got enough to make an important link.”
Well, it’s about fucking time we got somewhere with this.
Nothing like local intel. Sometimes in undercover we’re working blind.
“Nice work. I’d be more than happy to talk to him.”
“I’ll send you his details now. I’ve explained your situation to him, and he’s more than happy to assist wherever he can. He seemed to already know who you were. Not on the job here, of course.”
Yeah, right. My reputation precedes me, huh?
“I’ll give him a call, Pete. Thanks for that.”
“No worries. Take care.”
Once I have the number, I dial it.
“Lee here,” he barks, in a deep, growly voice.
“Lee, this is Ryan. You spoke with Pete Duffy from the Federal Organised Crime Taskforce.” Need I say more?
“Good to hear from ya, mate. Lookin’ forward to working with you blokes on this. Can I tell ya, it’s fuckin’ good to be sinking my teeth into this shit. Sick of these arseholes bringing their gear into my neighbourhood. I’m on a mission to take ’em down.”
On first impression he sounds like a yobbo, but at least he’s keen about the job. The locals certainly have a lot of drive when shit is going down on their turf.
“You and me both, man. So what’s the intel on the dealer?”
“Victim bought coke from a guy at The Anchor Inn. We’ve heard of people buying pills and the occasional joint there, but never coke. Her description led us to a local who’s out on bail for possession. They call him Bones.”
“Bones?”
“He’s a fuckin’ skinny prick. Red hair …”
“Tattooed sleeve up one arm?”
“Yup. That’s him.”
Ah. The straggly bloke who’d met with Perez. “Yeah, we’ve had eyes on him at the docks.”
“I’ll flick you a copy of the victim’s statement, which should give you more than enough shit on him and how he operates. Oh, and unfortunately, the phone number he had has been disconnected, so if you manage to get a number that’d certainly help things.”
“I’ll see how we go. Cheers for the info.”
“No worries, mate.”
I hang up and send off an email to Pete through the secure network, letting him know I’ve made contact and have a statement coming our way.
Until then, I can focus on other things.
Tonight.
I make up a couple of rolls with some leftover barbecue chicken and coleslaw. I slam down two of them for lunch, and then head down to the shops.
I need to be dressed to impress. I need to make an effort. I didn’t come here with clothes suitable for a dinner date. Hell, I’ve got a wardrobe of expensive suits back home that haven’t seen the light of day in a good year. So, as much as it pains me, I have to go shopping.
I waltz into the men’s clothing store, which is a few blocks down the road from Willow’s cafe.
In five minutes, I’ve paid for a pair of dark blue jeans, a red-checked short-sleeved shirt, and a white long-sleeved collared shirt.
On the way back to my car, I walk past a barber. The vast glass window reflects an image of a very shaggy, almost unkempt man. Just because I work on a boat doesn’t mean I need to look like a complete desperate. I backtrack and walk inside. The sharp smell of strong aftershave punches me in the face as the doorbell chimes.
“You look like you’re in need of a shave and a good haircut, son,” the old man with slicked back grey hair says, motioning towards the empty barber chair.
“That I do,” I say, easing into the worn leather seat. “Tell me, man. Where’s the best place in this town to take someone special for dinner?”
****
On time, I rock up to Willow’s place, freshly showered and dressed—red-checked shirt, jeans, with chocolates in hand.
No flowers.
My stomach kind of feels off, which is weird. I’ve tried to put it down to what I’ve eaten today—the chicken, perhaps?—but I suspect it’s something else.
Nerves?
With my shoulder leant against the doorframe, I give two taps to the worn timber.
The squeak of sneakers on the hardwood floor inside tells me two things.
- Willow is running late.
- Willow is not dressed.
The door swings open. Willow’s jaw drops and she freezes. She grips the door in one hand, the doorframe in the other.
I take my time, looking her up and down. She’s still in her trademark short shorts and tank.
Beautiful as ever.
“You look,” she says and sighs, “good. So good.”
Willow tugs on the front of my shirt, and pulls me down so her lips are close to mine. She takes in a deep breath.
“Sugar. You smell good too,” she whispers and hooks her arms around my neck. I grip her hips and lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist and I carry her farther inside, kicking the door closed with my foot.
She dots soft, wet kisses around my neck, each one contributing to the hardening of my dick as I stalk towards her bedroom. “We could stay in,” she suggests, her sexy tone sending more blood down south.
“There’s somewhere we need to be,” I choke out as I lower her onto the edge of her bed.
Seven o’clock reservation, to be precise.
Sitting up, she places her hands on her hips and narrows her pretty eyes. “Do I have to dress up?”
I nod.
“Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?”
“Nope. All you need to do is put that white bikini on underneath whatever you’re planning on wearing.”
She opens her wardrobe and slides a few items across the hangers. She
um
s and
ah
s and shakes her head as she seemingly eliminates options.
“How ’bout I check on the crops while you get sorted.”
Because if I’m inside this house while you get undressed, we won’t be going anywhere.
“Okay. I’ll just take a quick shower,” she says and skips past me. I slap her arse and she yelps, and laughs all the way to the bathroom.
I water the plants, pulling out a few rogue weeds, and then head inside and pace the worn floorboards of the kitchen while she gets ready.
Tired of waiting, I stride into the bedroom. Willow is bent over, stuffing things into a small black purse on the bed.
“Hurry that sexy arse up,” I growl, causing her to jump and swing around. Her blonde hair is down and perfectly straight. A silky pale pink camisole top hugs her upper body, a hint of tit on display.
Good, because I don’t want anyone else looking at them.
A satin black skirt ensures enough of her tanned legs are on show, but not too much. Just above the knee.
Classy
.
One foot at a time, she slips on a nude-coloured high heel and applies a quick stroke of shiny gloss to her already pink lips.
I swallow hard and re-adjust the growing bulge in my jeans.
Man, is she stunning.
I clear my throat. “Oh, and bring towels.”
“Towels?”
“Yes. Towels. You got that bikini on?”
“Yes, Ryan,” she says, her tone is slow and bored.
I grab her hand and hurry her along into the car, and drive in the direction of the little Italian joint the barber recommended.
“Where are we eating?” she asks, busily taking in our surroundings.
“What would you say if I told you we were eating fish and chips?”