The Taming of the Bastard (5 page)

“Maybe you just
weren’t listening. Girls want to be spoken to like people Johnny,
not sex objects.”

A furrow formed
on Johnny’s brow. “I thought I was being sexy—”

Chantelle began
to choke on her mini burger.

“—Jesus, I know
shit about women.” He shook his head, and muttered something to
himself.

“You could say
that.”

“Maybe you
could teach me?”

Or maybe
not.

A masculine
voice chimed in from behind me. “I don’t think it’s a good
idea.”

I turned. It
was Sam. God, his shoulders were amazing in that white shirt. But I
had to focus. “Why shouldn’t I help Johnny and what exactly does
this have to do with you?” I was lucky to get the words out in a
coherent sentence, those shoulders were affecting me so.

“Because.”

Always a good
reason.

“Because
why?”

“Because I
wouldn’t like to think a woman I’m going out with is giving lessons
to my sleazebag mate, that’s why.”

Beneath her
olive skin, Alex went a funny shade of white.

“But I’m not
going out with you.”

“You will. One
day.” He gave me a grin that almost made me quiver. Not quite, but
almost. Damn him.

“Right. Well.”
Chantelle mumbled. “There’s no point in hearing any more, I’m going
for a dance. Coming Johnny?” She grabbed Johnny’s hand and dragged
him to the dance floor,
Splendour In The Grass
and hell
freezing over forgotten in the light of Sam’s bombshell.

I glared up at
Sam. “Why
are
you here?”

I could not
believe he’d said that. If he were any further up himself he’d
looking out of the Ozone layer.

“Told you.
Drinks. For Johnny’s birthday. We made plans weeks ago.”

Somehow, I
didn’t believe that. In fact, I was positive he was following me.
“Where are your other friends, then?”

That’d get
him.

“Over there.”
Sam grinned cheekily, pointing across the bar, to where a group of
ten or so guys were standing, pints of Guinness in hand.
Unconcerned that they were in a gay bar, they were laughing and
waving to me.

“
Hmph
.”
I grunted, too angry to say anything else. If he thought I was
going to give in and go out with him he could bloody well think
again. I’d rather go on a date with an axe murderer.

In the ensuing
weeks, Sam asked me out a total of six times. I played it cool,
much to the dismay of my colleagues who were in desperate need of
some gossip to spread around the workplace. I played it so cool,
they began to call me
The Ice Princess.

“Don’t you have
something better to do?” I asked, as they made yet another
schoolgirl noise when Sam swung into the dining room and stopped to
ask me how my weekend had gone.

“Nope.”

“You’re being
absurd, you know. I’m not going out with him. I don’t want a
boyfriend. I have a five year plan.”

Chantelle
snorted. “You’re the one who’s being absurd. You could be in his
pants as we speak, yet you’re piss-farting around playing hard to
get. The guy wants you bad, Millie. He does. Why don’t you just go
out with him? You know you like him.”

“Because he’s
an idiot.”

“No, he’s not.
He’s cute.”

I rolled my
eyes and tried to concentrate on putting plates into the sink
without dropping them. They were so starved for entertainment
they’d convinced themselves I had the hots for Sam.

“I don’t even
like him. He’s an arrogant…um….” I stopped mid-sentence. Sam was
bending over the bar and though I disliked his smartarse ways, it
was quite a distracting sight. The plate I’d been washing slopped
back into the dishwater. Soapy suds sprayed over my top and apron,
soaking the fabric. I looked like I’d been through a car wash
without a car and they’d forgotten to rinse me off.

Chantelle shook
her head. “She’s got it bad.”

“It’s worse
than before,” Alex replied.

“Yep. That’s
one smitten kitten.”

I groaned
loudly if for no other reason that to shut them up. I hated to
admit it but they were right. Sam was growing on me or maybe I was
becoming as blind to his disastrous personality flaws as they
were.

*****

The seventh
invitation—to see
Michael Bublé live in
concert
—was issued later that evening. Everyone knew I was
in love with the man, in a totally musical appreciation kind of
way, of course, but Sam looked only slightly puzzled at my
rejection. He seemed to be getting used to the idea that I wouldn’t
be falling for him any time in the near future.

“Any special
reason you don’t want to go? I thought you’d ‘cut off your right
arm with a steak knife’ to see him?” he said, quoting an earlier
remark to Alex.

I shrugged.
“Not really, I don’t think we have that much in common, that’s
all.”

“Who? You and
Michael? I should hope not. He’s Canadian. And married.”

I folded my
arms in exasperation. “Don’t be a smartarse, Sam.”

Couldn’t he see
I wasn’t interested? I had no intention of becoming his plaything.
My life was too full for a boyfriend, even one with a bum like
that. Not to mention the grin. But we shouldn’t talk about
that.

“Fair enough,”
he smirked, and sauntered off to eat his dinner.

My next shift,
he arrived with a t-shirt for me, from the merchandise stand at the
concert, which surprisingly enough, was my exact size. I stood,
staring at it in bemusement, on the bench in front of me. Sam
shouldn’t be buying me gifts. Only boyfriends did that sort of
thing. Then, I handed it back, feeling a bit like a traitor. I
mean, the t-shirt was pretty, damn it. It was pink and sparkly,
damn it. And
Michael Bublé
probably approved every piece of merchandise that was sold on tour.
It was almost a betrayal. “I can’t take this.”

“You might as
well. There’s not a hope in hell it will fit me.” He chuckled and
flexed a bicep. “Besides, it’ll shit Dianne off no end, and we both
know how you love to do that.”

True.

I took the
shirt and stretched it across my chest. It was cute. The
rhinestones glittered in all the right places. It matched my
Pandora.

“Looks nice on
you,” Sam said.

“Oh, alright.
I’ll take it. But only to shit Dianne off.”

Sam chuckled.
We both knew that was a lie.

“So do you want
to come to the races on Saturday? We’ve got a private box.”

I had to give
him points for persistence but despite the fact I had the perfect
race outfit waiting in my wardrobe, I turned him down again.

“You’re busy?”
he asked.

“I’m trying to
save,” I replied, somewhat pathetically. “And wasting money
gambling on horses is not a priority.”

“You could
waste mine.”

I pursed my
lips and tilted my head at him. Was he serious? “You have no money,
Sam. And even if you did, I wouldn’t take it. I can pay my own
way.”

“Fair enough,”
Sam shrugged, “Your loss.”

I was beginning
to think maybe it was.

“There’s always
next time,” he added, and went off to talk to Dianne about the size
of her chest or something.

Bastard, I
thought. He could at least have shown a smidgeon of disappointment.
And who said there’d be a next time? God, he was infuriating.

*****

Eight weeks of
invitations and rejections ensued before Sam came up with the most
bizarre invitation of all. It was so bizarre, in fact, I have no
idea why I accepted. I can only blame it on hormones or the fact
that deep down I was feeling he might genuinely like me to keep
pursuing me in this manner. There was an inkling that I was not
going to be another number in his phone.

I was folding
serviettes when he appeared, stopping on the other side of the
counter to wait for his dinner. He had to be because he couldn’t be
giving the date idea another go; not after I’d called him an
arrogant bastard to his face on the last attempt.

A little too
casually, Sam leant over and smiled his cheeky smile. Then, as my
knees began that terrible trembling thing they did when he was
near, I realised it was fortunate paper napkins weren’t breakable
or Bob would surely be firing me. Sam’s mere presence had made me
scrunch them into wads of useless mush. He hadn’t even spoken.

“Hi,” he
said.

“Hi Sam.”

“You look nice
tonight...”

God, not the
uniform thing again.

“Thank
you.”

“Not too busy,
then?”

I looked around
the dining room. Apart from the two old ladies in the corner it was
dead as a doornail. “Nope. Hence the reason why I’m folding
serviettes.”

The
conversation continued in this vein until, without warning, Sam
threw his latest suggestion to the wind.

“RUGBY!” I
shrieked, causing the ladies to look at me as if I had sprouted
another head. The delicately balanced pile of napkins ruptured
across the counter and spilled onto the tiled floor. Struggling to
regain myself, I attempted to restack them. Sam bent down to help
me. Our fingers touched on top of the pile and I lost the ability
to breathe.

“Are you… out
of… of your mind?”

Of all the
ridiculous things I would do for a man, watching a game of rugby—of
which I knew nothing except that it was a bunch of men trying to
stick their faces in each other’s bottoms—was not one of them.

“I was actually
quite serious,” he replied, taking a sip of his post-shift ale.
Little specks of foam clung to the corner of his upper lip and he
licked them away. Disturbingly, I found myself staring at his
tongue.

Bad girl,
Millie. Bad.

“And if you
don’t come this time.” Sam paused and looked into my eyes, his
genuineness masked by mirth, “I’ll be forced to ask Donna. She’s
been sniffing around for weeks. You’d be doing me a favour. It
wouldn’t be a real date.”

I tried not to
weaken. I’d been so strong until that moment but, clearly, I wasn’t
immune to this brand of temptation. It wafted across the bench,
musky and smooth, inviting me to agree. It hid in my head and
skittered around my insides like bees looking for flower.

“But I don’t
know the first thing about rugby...”

Absolutely
true, though why it should matter was beyond me.

“Neither do any
of the other girls. They just stand on the sideline, clap a bit,
look glamorous and drink wine. They don’t watch. It’s a social
occasion.”

I listened to
his description. And apart from the chauvinistic aspect I had to
admit that rugby sounded like the type of game I might like. If I'd
been into sport, that is. Clapping and drinking wine I could handle
and there was little damage I could cause in the open air unless I
fell in a hole. I could feel my resolve slipping away. I should
give him a chance. Just one.

“Well, maybe,”
I said, watching the napkins I had re-stacked fall to the floor in
a muddled pile that looked something like the jumble in my
head.

Sam took
another sip of his beer. He looked a little relieved, either that
or he was a very good actor.

“Where’s the
game, then?” I asked, bending to pick up the serviettes and
lurching the crown of my head straight into the countertop. I
rubbed it and smiled up at him. My interest, carefully muted until
that moment, was as blatant as the lump growing on my head.

“Are you okay,
Millie?”

“I think
so.”

“Can I look? I
have extensive experience in contusions to the head.”

I’d no doubt he
did. I leant forward, feeling the warmth of his fingers as they
parted my hair, inspecting the skin. I could feel his breath
against my temple as he peered at my scalp.

“You’re going
to have a nice egg there but it’s not cut.”

I didn’t know
whether to be happy or sad. “Thanks.”

“I’ll get you
some ice,” he beamed and zoomed off to the bar.

Having
returned, Sam wrapped the ice in a damp tea towel. He cupped my
chin and tenderly pressed the ice to my head.

“We need to
hold it on for at least ten minutes,” he said.

I knew it was
an excuse so he could touch me but, frankly, I didn’t care. The
throbbing in my temples shot down to my knees turning them to
treacle. It swam in my belly and spread to a few other places that
I was sure had become dormant until this moment. I leant against
the servery to regain my balance. Burning sensations were coursing
through my body and they were not from the ice. Sam was touching me
indirectly.

“The game’s at
our home ground in Cottosloe,” he answered, his voice softer than
it had been five minutes before. “We’re playing the black
scum.”

They sounded
scary.

“You’re the
good guys, I take it?”

“Yes, and the
underdogs. They usually beat the living crap out of us.” He applied
more pressure with the ice. His eyes captured mine and his face
became—how do I say this—less like he was taking the piss? Anyway,
he was looking at me, really looking and his smile was one I’d
never noticed on him before. It was beautiful. I smiled back.

Yes, we were
having a moment. An actual real-life moment. Thank God there was
nobody else around. I’d never have lived it down.

“Then why do
you do it? It sounds dangerous.” I said, pulling myself back into
the universe.

Sam chuckled.
“Because it’s rugby. It’s the game they play in Heaven. Come along.
You’ll see.”

I wasn’t sure
that I would, but the idea of heaven—thirty bodies like Sam’s, in
tight fitting shorts and jerseys—sounded appealing. I mean, I’d
seen photos of the
Western Force
and the
Wallabies
in
the paper, for heaven’s sake. I knew who Matt Gitteau was. I was
not a complete sporting retard.