Holding Out for a Hero (3 page)

“Well, I certainly wasn’t thinking about Pythagoras when I was with Jake.”

“I like Jake.”

Ella rolled her eyes. “You’ve never met him.”

“He made you come right?”

“Three times.”

Rosie grinned. “I triple like Jake.” She raised her glass. “To multiple orgasms.”

Ella clinked her glass against Rosie’s. “Amen.” At the moment though, she would have drunk to just one. She threw back the contents of her glass. “Well, I don’t know about you, but if I have to listen to one more minute of this techno-crap garbage I’m gonna burst a blood vessel. I’ll get us another round and put something decent on.”

Ella groped her way carefully into the darkened environment, more than a little pleased to find the original jukebox where it had always been. It reminded her of the one in the Crown back in Huntley, and she felt curiously comforted by its presence. Maybe the new owner had a heart after all.

As another synthesized musical monstrosity assaulted her ears, she eagerly scanned the list of songs, quickly growing dismayed. All her favorites were gone. Talking about Jake, thinking about the Crown, had put her in the mood for ‘Living Next Door to Alice’
.
But it was gone. All the country hits were gone. As was all the great seventies and eighties rock. All the good music was gone!

The antique shell held a cold neon heart.

Instead there was a who’s who of gangster rap, dance music, hip-hop and electronica. The sort of stuff Cam and half the students at her school listened to incessantly, blaring from their MP3 players at eardrum-piercing volumes.

Ella shuddered. This had to be a joke! Talk about adding insult to serious injury. After the day she’d had, messing with her jukebox was unforgiveable. The absolute last straw.

Whoever this new owner was, he was about to get a piece of her mind. She could forgive him the neon and the big-screen televisions but Smokie? That was going too far.

*

Jake Prince felt the rough bricks at his back as he leaned against the alley wall, sucking on his Corona. He was drinking too much. Perhaps buying a pub hadn’t been such a swell idea, but what else did washed-up sportsmen do? If it was good enough for Sam Malone it was good enough for him. Of course this was Brisbane, not Boston. Or a television show. And none of his bar staff remotely resembled a Diane Chambers, but they were trifling details. He grimaced. Great. A new low. Half pissed and fantasizing about Shelley Long at barely six in the evening.

He raised the bottle to his mouth again and took a long pull. Damn, that tasted good. He’d learned the perils of alcohol as a young rookie the hard way and had been practically teetotal for the rest of his career. But with that in the toilet and his father’s genes tightening their grip, his fondness for the amber liquid had returned with a vengeance.

A clatter further down the alley disturbed the peace. Jake turned to locate the cause and noticed a sad-looking excuse of a mutt backing guiltily away from some upended wooden crates. It was the most forlorn street mongrel he’d ever seen: painfully skinny, ribs well defined beneath mangy fur. It eyed Jake warily.

“Hey, boy.” Jake slid down the wall, feeling the bite of brick snagging at his black T-shirt. He reached out a hand and waited patiently for the neglected animal to come closer. “You lost, boy?” he murmured as the dog approached tentatively, a slight limp making his countenance even more pathetic.

The poor animal looked like he’d been kicked when he was down one too many times and Jake could relate to that. The mutt’s steps grew even more hesitant the closer he got and in the end it was Jake who gently bridged the distance between them. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Jake crooned, scratching the soft spot under the dog’s ear. “What’s your name, buddy?”

Jake looked for a collar, not surprised there wasn’t one. “Are you a runaway, boy? Are you homeless?” He cupped the dog’s head and looked into those sad, mistrustful eyes. He wasn’t a young dog; the fur around his nose was significantly grayed. Old and down on his luck. Jake could be looking in the mirror.

“Yeah, life’s a bitch, ain’t it.”

The dog whined and Jake petted the length of his coat, feeling each dip of his ribcage. “You hungry, boy?”

The door beside him opened abruptly and the bass throbbed into the sultry ripeness of the alley as the dog pushed himself closer into Jake.

Pete Jones whistled. “That’s one ugly dog.”

The dog moved closer again and Jake grinned at him. “It’s okay, boy, Petey won’t hurt you. He’s a friend.”

Pete ambled over and crouched beside Jake then let the dog sniff his hand. “Some woman’s at the bar bitching about the jukebox and demanding to see the heartless bastard who’s ripped the soul out of her local.”

Jake sighed and stood, still fondling the dog’s head. Running a pub in the big smoke wasn’t like back home. It wasn’t like TV either. He drained the last mouthful of beer. “Guess that’s me.”

Pete stood too and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck. Man, is she pissed,” he said gleefully as he headed back inside.

Jake looked down at the dog, who gazed back up at him with don’t-leave-me eyes and gave the most pathetic tremble Jake had ever witnessed. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll send Pete out with some grub shortly.”

The monotonous beat vibrated through Jake’s chest as he entered and even he winced at the soullessness. Give him Jimmy Barnes screaming ‘Khe Sanh’ into the mike any day.

God, he was tired.

He walked past his office and through the area behind the bar, stopping to snag another Corona from the fridge. He cracked the top and took a long drag, not caring how long he made the dissatisfied customer wait. She could always go find somewhere else to drink.

He frowned as he approached—the complaining woman’s voice was eerily familiar. This day had suddenly got a whole lot more interesting.

“… I mean, just how old are you? Obviously not old enough to appreciate a classic when you hear it. You ever heard of the Stones, the Eagles, Johnny goddamn Cash?”

Jake smiled at the imperious index finger pointing in Pete’s face. Somehow, with her finger jabbing the air, Ella managed to make “goddamn” sound exactly the way it would coming from a high school teacher with a stick jammed up her ass. “The Dixie Chicks?” she asked in desperation. “You know, something with a lyric and more than one note?”

“Well, well, well. Looks like you can take the girl out of Huntley but you can’t take Huntley out of the girl.”

Ella dropped her hand and grabbed the edge of the bar as a familiar teasing baritone fluttered straight to muscles deep down and low in a wild kind of sexual recognition. She turned to see an unhurried sexy swagger as she squinted into the gloom behind the bar.

“Jake?” Had her flat-lined libido actually conjured him up?

Jake took another slug of Mexican nectar. “Ella.”

They stared for a while. A long while. “You
own
this place?” she squeaked.

He raised his bottle to her. “Surprise.”

Ella frowned. “I thought you played football?”

Pete looked at Ella then at Jake and raised an eyebrow at his boss. Jake smiled at the kid’s incredulity. “I … retired.”

“Oh,” Ella said completely forgetting her reason for being at the bar in the first place. Jake Prince owned a bar in her neighbourhood? She looked at him blankly for another moment trying desperately to not think about dirty footballer sex as he drank his beer.

Jake waited patiently for her to say something else. Two years since she’d thundered into Huntley and dragged him upstairs and yet the memory was as vivid for him as if it had happened yesterday. She was different though, dressed more conservatively, in a calf-length skirt and white cotton blouse. Her layered, shoulder-length hair was still the rich color of his on-tap stout but she wore it pulled back into a loose ponytail.

He’d always had a thing for ponytails.

Her eyes didn’t have that sadness, that trapped look they’d been sporting last time. He remembered how they had briefly filled with tears after her first screaming orgasm, before she’d shut out his attempts at comfort and demanded more, her eyes lighting up with a startling fierceness. Now she looked as cool and detached as the Ella he had known as a kid and, for some reason—maybe it was the beer—it irritated the crap out of him.

“Was there something in particular you wanted? You know this establishment doesn’t have rooms, right?”

For the first time since walking into the Black Hole of Spring Hill, Ella was grateful for the subdued light as heat flushed her cheeks. She glanced at Pete. “Oh, nice, Jake,” she said icily. “Real nice.”

“Don’t worry,” he said belligerently as Pete wisely moved away, “what happens in Huntley stays in Huntley.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the bar. “Your secret is safe with me.” He winked.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Jake. It wasn’t that good.”

He grinned—he knew she was lying. She wanted to slap him almost as much as she wanted to drag him into the nearest dark corner.

Fortunately for her there were plenty to choose from.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t mind betting that I’m the best you ever had.”

Well considering his competition that wouldn’t be hard. “You’re mighty sure of yourself,” she said.

“What can I say?” He took a swig of beer. “I’m gifted.”

Yes, he was. Dear God, he was. In fact with her teaching experience, she’d classify him as being savant-like. But oh, the arrogance! “I faked it,” she blurted, hurling the barb directly at his over-inflated ego.

Jake laughed. Ella had come so loudly she’d shattered glass all over Huntley. “All three times?” he enquired innocently.

She stood a little straighter and looked him directly in the eye. “All three.”

“Well then, darling, you deserve an Oscar. Meg Ryan could learn a thing or two from you.”

“What can I say,” she said sweetly. “I’m gifted.”

“Lots of practice, huh?”

She glared at him.
Bloody cheek
. Even if the man was right, didn’t mean it wasn’t the epitome of bad taste to point out her sexual inadequacies.

In a public bar.

He drained his beer and slapped it down on the wood.

Ella narrowed her gaze. “Are you drunk?”

He reached for another beer, cracked the lid and took a deep swallow. “Not yet.”

“Drinking the profits, Jake?”

It was low but no lower than he’d already sunk. If he could imply she was good at faking it because she’d never had the real thing then a little historical reminder was fair game. She felt a moment’s satisfaction at the slight clench of his jaw.

“My father gambled the profits, Ella. He didn’t drink them.” Which wasn’t entirely true, it just so happened his father’s gambling debts added up to more than his top-shelf habit.

“Hey babe, a girl could die of thirst waiting for you.” Ella turned to find Rosie at her elbow and could have kissed her for her timing.  “What’s up?” Rosie asked. “This the owner?”

Ella nodded, unable to wrap her head around the events of the last few minutes as Rosie looked at her expectantly for an intro.  

Jake smothered a grin. “Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.

The woman shook it. “Rosie,” she said distractedly and paused. She turned to Ella. “Jake?
The
Jake?”

“
The
Jake?” Jake repeated, looking at Ella, a smile playing with his mouth.

“The Jake who made you come—”

“Comes from Huntley, yes that’s right,” Ella interrupted. “The big meat-head footballer. Yes.”

Jake chuckled. “Pleased to meet you, Rosie.” Ella’s friend was … different, unconventional. But even on such short acquaintance the closeness between them was evident.

Rosie grinned at him. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Jake glanced at Ella’s mortified face. “Well now, I’ll just bet you have. I was just explaining to Ella, I am gifted.”

“She was referring to your career,” Ella said acidly, even though all three of them knew Rosie wasn’t. Rosie’s interest in football was as dismal as hers.

“Ah, well, I’m gifted there as well.”

Rosie turned to Ella. “His ego’s healthy.”

“That’s one word for it,” Ella agreed.

Rosie looked back at Jake. “So Jake, you’re going to be in the neighbourhood. You should drop by one day. We’re just a few streets away.”

Jake watched the look of horror that Ella shot her friend. He took a swig of beer. “I may just do that, Miss Rosie.”

Rosie turned to Ella, ignoring the daggers being hurled at her. “Have you asked him about this god-awful noise yet?”

Ella shook her head. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

Rosie nodded and faced Jake. “I don’t know if this had escaped your attention, Jake, but this music is utter crap.”

He laughed. “Yes, it is.”

“It’s got no soul. We can’t come to a place every Friday night to unwind from the week’s stresses and listen to synthesized whales on crack, can we, babe?”

Ella shook her head. “God, no.”

“You wouldn’t make us find somewhere else to ponder the meaning of life, would you?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll get a wider range of music put in first thing tomorrow. Will that be more to your liking, ladies?”

Rosie whooped and punched the air  above her head. “Ace.”

“Thank you, Jake,” Ella said more sedately. “That would be much appreciated.”

Those were the words Ella had used two years ago, before she’d sauntered out of room seven.
Thank you, Jake, much appreciated.
He felt his gut clench as he favored Ella with the most frankly sexual stare he could muster. “I aim to please.”

Ella nearly came on the spot.

Simon Charles Henry Lewis stood at a chain-mail gate barely supported on either side by a ramshackle white picket fence. At least, it had been white at some stage—the paint was peeling and completely worn in places. He adjusted his trendy wire-framed glasses.

Rosie lived here? He smiled to himself. Where else? He checked the skewiff number on the rusty letter box. Yep. This was the place. Set back on the massive block, the rambling old house was framed by two poinciana trees, their umbrella-like canopies almost touching. A long concrete path bisected the front yard, leading to a short flight of wide steps. The house’s steeply pitched red corrugated-iron roof, spacious wrap-around verandahs and cladded exterior marked it as a classic.

Renovated, it would be a sight to behold. Rosie had told him about the regular complaints the council fielded from neighbours about its state of disrepair and he could instantly sympathise with the upwardly mobile residents. The area had undergone a dramatic facelift in the last decade and sadly, this old place just didn’t fit the new image. All the large blocks with their sprawling, turn-of-the-century houses in the inner city area had been bought up by developers and turned into havens for DINKs. Looking around the street now, Simon was conscious of the discreet apartment blocks surrounding him. Nothing over three stories, they were all glass and concrete, tastefully decorated in muted earthy tones and gleaming chrome and finished off with the obligatory splendor of patio gardens.

He pushed opened the squeaky gate, careful not to catch his Ralph Lauren trousers. The grass was sparse either side of the path due to the large shade area thrown by the massive poincianas. As Simon made his way toward the house, a dog barked, followed by another and in a blur of fur he was surrounded by four canines, all in various stages of excitement. Simon stopped, holding the wine and the flowers out of the way as an eager Golden Retriever leaped up onto his chest.

“Genghis!
Genghis!
Down boy!”

Simon looked up to find Rosie running down the path, her pigtailed black hair flying behind her. She hushed the noise, pulled Genghis—Genghis?—away, planting a kiss on the dog’s snowy head, and shooed them.

“I’m sorry, Simon.” She laughed at his alarmed  face. He looked like he’d never seen an animal in his life. He had dog hair on his very sexy black round-neck skivvy that clung to his killer pecs and she brushed at it with her hand. He looked so damn straight and cute she wanted to skip the blow-your-head-off curry she’d made him and get straight to the good bit.

“You have … a lot of dogs,” he said, kissing her on the cheek as he kept a wary eye on the nearby animals.

Rosie grinned. She pulled his head down for a hard, brief smack on the lips. “Yes, we do.” She grinned and dragged him by the arm up the path.

“Do you … do you have permits for all of them?” he asked, looking at the frolicking dogs.

Rose turned on the bottom step, causing Simon to careen into her. He was still a smidge taller than her and she put her hands on his shoulders to steady him and looked into his earnest eyes. “Nope.”

Simon blinked at her honesty. What the hell did he see in her? Why the hell had he been letting this woman drag him into stationery cupboards for the last three weeks? She was entirely unsuitable for the life he had mapped out for himself in public office: she swore like a drunken sailor, dressed like a confused teenager despite her six years’ seniority, lived in a rundown house with two maiden aunts and several large unregistered animals, and had her eyebrow pierced. He suspected there may also be tattoos.

His mother would hate her. The thought cheered him.

“Are you sure your aunts don’t mind?” Simon asked.

Rosie shook her head. “They’re dying to meet you.”

“I bought flowers for them. And wine,” he said, holding out the fuchsia gerberas and expensive bottle of red.

“Oh goody.” She clapped. “They do so love men bearing gifts.”

Simon swallowed as he watched Rosie mount the stairs, her lace-edged black miniskirt flaring with the movement, caressing the tops of her chunky-heeled, thigh-high, lace-up boots. He had the strangest feeling he was about to be devoured. He followed her up the steps and onto the verandah. The front door was wide open. “This is an interesting old house,” he commented as he set foot on the bare boards and they shifted under his weight.

“Ooh, that it is. Come in,” Rosie threw over her shoulder. “I’ll show you around.” She entered a short hallway with distinctive tongue-and-groove paneling and walked through an open doorway to the left. “This is the lounge room.”

Simon didn’t even notice the threadbare shabbiness of the carpet as he looked around the imposing room with soaring twelve-foot ceilings and decorative cornicing. The clutter assaulted his
House and Garden
sensibilities and he knew without a doubt his mother would have required smelling salts had she been here.

Two massive leather lounges—one a deep ochre color, the other fairy floss pink—were covered in an eclectic arrangement of scatter cushions ranging from tapestry to lurid faux fur. A massive wall-mounted television dominated one corner. A chrome and black cabinet beneath it boasted an array of electronic gadgetry from CD players to PlayStations to hard-drive recorders. For some reason, a bar fridge sat in another corner. A heavy wooden bookshelf stuffed with spines sat against one wall. Knick-knacks ranging from Doulton to plaster of Paris sat collecting dust on old-fashioned doilies on every available surface. The walls were laden with art with no discernible theme or order, although “art” was probably a little too generous. A Picasso print shared space with an amateurish oil depicting a bowl of fruit. A framed
Gone with the Wind
poster butted against a bright Ken Done harbour print. A boomerang and a Spanish fan were wall buddies.

“You like it?” Rosie said, grinning at the look of utter perplexity on Simon’s face.

Like it? Rosie’s house needed to come with a warning. Something like: Beware, this home could induce psychosis. Or enter at own risk if suffering from high blood pressure or epilepsy. The kaleidoscope of color was not for the faint-hearted.

“It’s …” He searched for a word other than bizarre. “Eclectic.”

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. “We call it shabby chic.”

“Well, yes … that fits too.”

“Through here is the dining room,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him to the next room.

He followed her rather dazedly, his head still spinning. They walked under a fancy colonial arch to find more clutter. A massive silky oak table took pride of place in the middle of the room. A modern glass and chrome china cabinet boasting a profusion of glimmering crystal sat against one wall. Next to it, an old-fashioned cabinet with curved, stained-glass doors and ornately carved legs boasted older, daintier china.

But the room was dominated by the chatter of clocks. One wall was completely covered to the ceiling in ticking timepieces: big ones and small ones, classy ones with beautiful inlays and garish ones with tacky shapes and ostentatious decorations. Simon’s eyes darted from one face to the other, realising that, miraculously, they all seemed to be keeping reasonably the same time. As he looked, a cuckoo ducked out of one and noisily pronounced the hour.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. We don’t really eat in here. Daisy always says she can’t eat and listen to herself grow old at the same time.”

“I can see why.” There was something a little freaky about the ticking—kind of like dining in a bomb factory.

They walked through another arch into the kitchen. The lino was cracked and the floor seemed a little uneven but the appliances were A-grade, from the huge stainless steel twin-door fridge and freezer complete with ice-maker to the gleaming coffee center. The windows still boasted the original colored glass but the thick granite benchtops were ultra-modern.

Simon shook his head as he looked back through the arch into the dining room and beyond to the lounge room. He was beginning to wonder if the aunts weren’t blind cat burglars.

“Where did you get all this stuff?”

Rosie kissed his bewildered cheek and removed the wine and flowers from his grasp. “My aunts are OCD.”

Ah, that explained it. Surely only the mentally ill on a manic spending spree could think all this stuff crammed in together worked. He nodded sympathetically. “Obsessive compulsive?”

Rosie smiled. “Obsessive contest divas. Actually it’s more than obsession. I think ‘fetish’ is a better word.” Long before Ella and she had come to live with them, Daisy and Iris had made entering competitions an art form. “It’s how they spend their days. Magazines and newspapers are  their main source but they like radio and television comps too.”

“They must be … very lucky,” he said, trying to wrap his head around this latest bizarre twist.

“Nah. The law of averages is on your side when you enter as many as they do.” She looked around at the unapologetically kitsch chaos. Having grown up in probably one of the most colorful environments on earth – a carnival – Rosie felt right at home. “Come on, there’s more.”

“Oh,” he said to her disappearing back, wondering if it could get any worse.

Rosie waited for him to follow her into the hallway and put her arm through his when he did. She stopped at the next open doorway. “The bathroom.”

She announced it with such a flourish he was almost afraid to look. He wasn’t disappointed. There, hanging above the toilet, was a massive crystal chandelier. The afternoon sun was slanting in through the open louvers and caressing the tear-drop prisms that dripped from its frame, throwing rainbows around the room.

“Is that a Swarovski?”

Rosie shrugged. “Yes, I think it is.”

“Let me guess. They won it?” Rosie nodded. “So you decided to hang it in the toilet?” He squinted, examining the craftsmanship with a practiced eye. It was a beautiful piece.

“Well, we thought it was a little too ostentatious for the rest of the house.” She was standing beneath a mounted trout with a cheesy grin moulded to its cherry-lipped plastic mouth.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

Rosie laughed and shrugged. “We’re not really into grand here. This way we get to enjoy it and stay grounded at the same time.”

Simon reached above her head and pressed the button near the trout’s head. It wriggled and flopped, miraculously staying attached to its backing board, and sang ‘Splish Splash I was Taking a Bath’. He raised his eyebrow again. He didn’t think there was much of a risk of anyone living in this house getting above themselves and he fell a little more for this unpretentious woman who was dragging him right out of his comfort zone.

“Cool, isn’t it?” Rosie smiled.

Simon thought it was probably the most hideous thing he’d ever clapped eyes on, maybe an even bigger crime than hiding an expensive piece of crystal in the loo. But with Rosie grinning up at him so obviously at home in her little alternative universe he couldn’t help but grin back. This place suited her. “Very.”

Rosie sucked in a breath. He was humoring her, she could tell. But he was doing it so nicely and with such a sexy smile she took his comment on face value. Give him a while—this place was strangely addictive.

A bit like the Hotel California. You could check out but you could never leave. “Down the other side of the hallway are the bedrooms. This place was purpose built as a Christian boarding house.”

“Like a YMCA?”

Rosie nodded. “Without the leather and feathers.” She pointed to the rooms to her right. “The first three are empty, the one opposite the bathroom is Ella’s. The next one’s empty too. We were going to give it to Cam but—”

“Cam?”

“Ella’s younger brother. He’s fifteen.”

“Oh. So why not put him next door?”

Rosie leaned back against the wall and grinned. “Because mine’s the one after that.”

Simon nodded, waiting for her to elaborate. “So?” he prompted eventually.

She smiled at him. “Ella didn’t think it wise to give an impressionable teenager such an early sex education.”

“I think I’m gonna like Ella.”

“You should. She’s much more your type.”

Simon smiled and leaned in toward her. She was wearing an amazing perfume that smelled like passionfruit and sin. “I have a type?”

“Oh yeah, baby.”

“And that would be?”

“A quiet, responsible woman who wears pastels and pearls.”

Simon groaned. She’d just described his ex, Penelope. “Jeez, I sound boring.”

“Someone who has elegant nails. Perfect hair. And never, ever, ever says fuck.”

“Sounds dull,” he murmured.

“Oh go on, you hate my potty mouth.”

He pulled away. Her potty mouth excited him way more than it should. He’d never found vulgar women attractive but Rosie’s quick-witted profanity and her unapologetic delivery had been a surprising turn on. “I do not.”

“You get this little frown between your eyebrows,” she said. “Like just now.” Rosie smoothed the wrinkle gently with her finger.

Simon slid his hand around her waist. “I love your mouth. I just prefer to keep the dirty talk for the bedroom. Or the stationery cupboard.”

Rosie smiled. “I’ll remember that.” She extricated herself from his arms. “Speaking of which.” She pushed away from the wall and continued down the hallway to the next door. “This is my room.”

As Simon walked in his feet sank into black shag-pile carpet. Blood red walls surrounded him. Several vases of tall white aruam lilies sat on low tables draped in red cloth along with candles of all shapes and sizes. Some were pristine, their line unspoiled. Others were crusted with use, rivulets of melted wax adding layers that reminded him of gothic castles and grizzled stalactites.

A bar fridge sat in one corner and Simon wondered if that was where she stashed the vials of blood.

His gaze was drawn to the enormous black four-poster bed in the center of the room. Black netting draped from the ceiling and cascaded down to sheath the bed in a gossamer embrace. Through the gauzy filter, the sheets, pillows and coverlet formed a richly embroidered tapestry of red. The bed beckoned like a fiery furnace. How about that—hell did have bedrooms.