Max (2 page)

Chapter Two

Max

“That’s it! I am going to tell Max Henry
exactly
what I
think of him,”
hiccupped the stumbling drunk girl,
pointing a hot red manicured fingernail to the sky to best make her point, I
guess, before losing her heel and knocking into her friend.

“Sure, Shelley. Tomorrow you can tell him
all about it,” said her friend in a pacifying tone while trying to guide her
away from the hotel.

“Arrogant, rude, bossy, son-of—”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

The two girls looked at one another and
then back to where I stood, leaning against the door jamb of the Onslow Hotel,
arms folded across my chest, a wry smile lifting the corners of my mouth.

“Oh, umm, sorry, Max. Shell’s just really
drunk, she doesn’t know what she’s saying,” said her friend, her cheeks aflame
with mortification.

“I know exactly what I’m saying!” Shelley
angrily shook off her friend’s hand. “You, Mr Boss Man, are nothing but a rude,
arrogant, son—” The clamping of her friend’s hand across her mouth cut off
Shelley’s words.

“Goodnight!” exclaimed the friend, dragging
off Shelley who was mumbling angry profanity into the night.

Chris appeared next to me, staring steely
eyed and ever watchful at the girls who were nothing more than two zigzagging
specks in the distance.

“What did you do?” he asked.

Most of the staff was intimidated by Chris’s
serious façade, his abrupt questions, but he didn’t worry me. After all, he had
given me the job and although he never admitted it, he trusted me with the job,
something he rarely gave anyone so I would take that for what it was.

I stared off into the distance; the girls
had long since disappeared. “I confiscated the white ball off the pool table,”
I said, delving into my pocket and retrieving my prize. “They ignored last
drinks call, so I was forced to interrupt their pool game.”

“You took it mid-match?” Chris asked, a
crease etching his brow.

I shrugged, flicking the ball up and
catching it. “It was past midnight.”

Chris watched the ball, a knowing smile
creasing the corner of his mouth breaking the stony seriousness of his
expression, as he shook his head. “You’re a brave man, Maximus.”

Maximus, Maximillian, Mad Max: nicknames
often thrown at me as a term of endearment. I may never be anywhere near a
local, but the camaraderie I felt at the Onslow was something I welcomed.

“Somehow I think you’ve done worse,” I
said, smirking as I probed who really was the true Boss Man of the Onslow.
Chris Henderson was the joint owner and chief worker of the hotel, a
hardworking, serious bloke. Despite his moody, abrupt disposition that often
rubbed people the wrong way, we had never had a cross word between us.

“Ah, yes, the pulling-the-juke-box-plug
incident of New Year’s ’97, or the confiscating of Jimmy Butcher’s keys in the
autumn of ’95 – good times,” he said, nodding as if recalling a memory of a
childhood pet kitten.

“You’re a sick man, Christopher, relishing
in other people’s pain and suffering.”

“Especially yours,” he said, pushing my
shoulder as he headed inside. I pushed off the door, moving to follow when the
distant sound of a car pierced through the night. Chris and I stilled, watching
on to see if the car that was making its way up the hill would keep going or
more annoyingly turn into the sweeping pebbled car park in front of the Onslow,
as it was doing now.

Seriously?

I blew out a weary breath; it never ceased
to amaze me how far people were willing to push a curfew.

“No takeaways,” Chris said, nodding in the
direction of the four-wheel drive as he continued into the bar, leaving me to
deal with whatever argumentative prick was bound to be headed my way in the
hope of a sneaky slab of VB. I eyed my watch: 12:30 a.m.

Not a chance.

I closed the main door behind me, readying
myself to begin the clean-up of the picnic tables along the veranda, littered
with empty beer glasses. Stacking the glasses, sure enough I heard the crunch
of footsteps along the drive, before the heavy thuds as they connected with the
stairs up to the veranda. Definitely a bloke’s.

“Sorry, mate, we’re closed. Taps off,” I
called over my shoulder as I made a second stack of dirty glasses and emptied
an ashtray into a nearby bucket.

“Well, is that really a way to greet an old
mate?” spoke a burly voice I would have recognised from anywhere.

I spun around, not fully believing until my
perplexed stare landed on the towering, bear-like man before me in his
customary blue-checked flannelette shirt and shearing dungarees, a smile lining
his face as he took in my surprise.

“Bluey? What the hell are you doing here?”
I slammed down the glasses, wiping the excess stale beer from my hands on my
jeans as I made my way across the landing. I reached my hand out to feel the
familiar bone-crushing handshake that he was so famous for. We embraced in a
half-shoulder-slapping hug, the kind men got away with as a means of affection.
And there was and always would be a deep affection for Bluey, my dad’s best
mate and neighbour from Ballan. I had grown up with this man, respected this
man, and never before had I been so happy to see someone again. In the quieter
times of existing in a new town, where you weren’t deemed a local unless you
were born here from at least a fifth generation, it was a welcome feeling to be
seeing Bluey. A deep-seated wave of nostalgia hit me and I couldn’t take the
smile off my face.

“What are you doing here?” I asked,
slapping at his shoulder, which was like hitting granite. I tried not to make out
that doing just that nearly broke my hand.

“Headed to the Burnley sales.”

“Burnley? Christ, that’s a fair hike; you’ll
be staying the night?”

“I was hoping you might say that.”

“Of course, bloody hell. You can crash
here, there’s plenty of room upstairs. Compared to some shearing huts, it’s
five-star accommodation.”

Bluey laughed, rubbing the back of his neck
and glancing over the hotel. “I bet.”

The outside light lit the fatigued lines,
the stubble of his unshaven face that was tanned by the sun.

“Have you got baggage, do you need me to
help bring it in?” I started for the steps.

“Ah, yeah baggage …” he said, following me
out to the car. “Front passenger seat.”

I made a determined line toward Bluey’s
white four-wheel drive twin cab that was covered in dust, the same red-tinged
dirt from back in Ballan. It made my chest tighten briefly as I took in the
sight.

“Are you hungry?” I moved to the passenger
side, reaching for the door and whipping it open. “I’ll make you something to—”
I paused.

There in place of the bag or swag like I
expected on the front seat of Bluey’s car was instead a girl, a sleeping girl,
illuminated by the interior light of the cabin.

Holy shit.

I took in the long tanned lines of her
legs, the pucker of her bow-shaped lips and flushed cheeks, her lashes thick
and dark, which were in stark contrast to her light brown hair that was up in a
wispy ponytail. For the second time tonight I could hardly believe what was
before me.

Melanie Sheehan, Bluey’s only daughter, my
little sister’s friend, although looking over her as I was now, things had
definitely changed. Melanie Sheehan wasn’t so little anymore, and she
definitely wasn’t the child I remembered from Ballan. No, this was precious
cargo, all right, I thought, a small smile lining the corner of my mouth, as I
glanced to Bluey who came to stand beside me.

“Stowaway?” I questioned.

“Hardly: more like a reluctant companion.”

I tried to not let my gaze linger on any
part of her for too long—it seemed wrong watching sleeping beauty with her old man
beside me.

Her face was serene, calm, with a light
dusting of freckles spread over the bridge of her nose from a youth spent
playing in the sun. She had a pretty face, until she screwed it into a twisted
mess, and rubbed an itch at her nose. She then sleepily rolled away from us,
mumbling under her breath to turn out the light.

Bluey laughed. “You grab the girl, I’ll
grab the bags,” he said, moving to flip the canvas back on the ute tray.

My eyes snapped up. “Ah, maybe I should
grab the bags and—”

“No chance. Bloody shoulder keeps popping
out of place, have to get it looked at.”

“Well, maybe we should wake her—”

“Don’t.” Bluey broke me off mid-sentence. “She
doesn’t sleep real well, not since, you know…” Bluey’s words tapered off.

I didn’t need for him to tell me, to say
since ‘the accident’. I knew all too well about that night, about the not
knowing if the car my little sister had been travelling in had been involved in
a fatality or not. As much as I remember from that night, I will never forget
the phone call from my mum telling me Miranda and Melanie had been in a car
accident, that they had rolled it on the Sheehan’s back road on the way home
after a night out in town. I recalled the way my world fell away. Vaguely aware
of the disbelief of what Mum was saying—the numbness I felt in the pit of my
stomach—and how unnerving it was for me to summon the question as to whether
they were alive. Remembering the answer that they would both be all right and
the relief that flooded me hit me again like a physical blow. I felt it now
looking down at a sleeping Melanie, the half-crescent, moon-shaped scar near
her eye that served as a constant reminder of that night. If she wanted to
sleep, let her sleep then. I would carry Bluey’s reluctant companion up the
stairs and to her bed; I would do it because Bluey asked me to, and I would do
it because of an inexplicable feeling of guilt—the same guilt I knew my sister
felt—knowing that her being behind the wheel was the direct cause of so much
pain. So much fear: I saw it in Bluey’s eyes. I could sense that it was exactly
why he had dragged his daughter everywhere with him, why even a year later she
was still being taken to faraway destinations instead of just staying at home.
It wasn’t like she could get up to much trouble anyway. Miranda had been
shipped off to boarding school; the bad influence was gone.

Okay, how am I going to do this?

Grab a sleeping girl, not wake her up, and
carry her into the Onslow and see the priceless look on Chris’s face. None of
this was going to be easy.

“Remember hands where I can see them, young
fella,” called Bluey.

Yep, this was definitely not going to be
easy.

Chapter Three

Melanie

Maybe it was because I could think of
little else that afternoon than knowing that with every white line we left
behind us, we were drawing nearer toward Onslow, toward Max.

But I could have sworn I had heard his
voice, smelt the deep, rich tone of his aftershave, felt his warmth. It was a
good dream, a nice dream, and a smile slowly pulled at my lips as I stretched
joyously in my bed … wait, what?

I was in a bed?

My eyes sprung open wide and roaming,
fixing onto that of a ceiling fan that flicked shadows across my face. I sat
bolt upright in bed, whose bed I was yet to know, as my eyes darted around the
empty room.

Where the hell was I, and how did I get
here?

I pulled back the blankets and saw I still
wore my day clothes, but my shoes and socks had been removed and placed near
the door … door!

I scooted out of bed, diving for the door,
hoping that if I whipped it open fast enough it might shed some light onto
where the hell I was; there might even be a map with a fluoro, flashing arrow
saying …
you are here.

No such luck, as I opened the door and
found myself standing in the middle of a corridor, a long, carpeted corridor
with a series of doors on either side of it. It felt like I was in a horror
movie. I half expected some creepy little kid to be standing at the end of the
hall, staring at me with his dead eyes. I dug my thumbnail into the palm of my
hand, thinking that if I were dreaming the pain would jolt me awake;
unfortunately, there was just pain and the sudden realisation that I was very
much awake.

I tentatively moved along the hall, my bare
feet skimming along the wool carpet as I made my way to what looked like an
open landing and a staircase. For a moment I had considered that maybe we were
in Onslow, that perhaps we were at Max’s house like Dad had planned, but there
was no way this could be Max’s home. It was like a freakin’ mansion, and with
no windows in the hall to catch a possible view of hills or lake, I could have
very well been anywhere.

I stilled at the sound of footsteps
creaking up the stairs, hearing muffled conversation and laughter. I dived
aside, hiding in the alcove of a door jamb, thankful for the deep recess with
thick heritage moulding as I watched on secretly at the two bodies that emerged
from below onto the landing. A tall boy, built and athletic, led a dark-haired
girl up the last of the stairs; she went to move past him toward the end door
when he stilled her with his hand, pulling her back to him as he circled his
arms around her and edged her against the wall.

She giggled. “Sean.” Her eyes darted down
the stairs and back up to him, her brows lifting as if to silently say, “Here?”

He didn’t answer, instead lowered his mouth
to hers, capturing her breathlessness in an all-consuming kiss that made the
girl’s toes curl—and my own—as I watched on in fascination of how he devoured
her, how she melted against him as he skimmed the palm of his hand to glide
under her T-shirt and cup her breast. It felt insanely wrong to be watching
this intimate moment between two strangers, so I glanced at my watch and
wondered how long whatever it was they planned to do would take, and secondly,
what the hell were they doing dry humping at eight o’clock in the morning?
Really?

The show ended when he drew back slightly.
I could see the heated look in her eyes as she caught her breath. It was a
silent promise that if he followed her he would get what he wanted, and by the
way he was looking down into her eyes, it looked as if he would have followed
her to the ends of the earth. For a brief, funny moment I felt my chest
tighten, wishing someone would look at me like that.

The girl laced her fingers with his as she
pulled him toward the direction of the end door.

“Come on, Mr Murphy,” she said with a
knowing smile.

He nodded. “Right you are, Miss Henderson.”

Only when I heard the thud of the closed
door and the sound of muffled laughter behind it did I feel my shoulders slump
in relief. The coast was clear, for now, but I wondered what exactly lay behind
the many doors along the hall. Not wanting to discover another horny couple in
my path, I threw caution to the wind and pushed on toward the landing. Hand on
the edge of the banister, I spun around to hit the stairs and make my way down
to the great unknown.

***

Fisherman’s basket, Guinness Pie and mash,
Parmi and chips.

Bar meals?

I was in a bar? Quite literally, as I stood
before an unoccupied bar in an empty restaurant, sliding glass doors before me
that led out to a beer garden—the shine of the morning sun filtering through to
light the dim space was a bit hard on the eyes. Instead of meeting nature and
going out into the garden, I walked around the small bar, through an alcove
where a partitioned divider cut off my path. It was then I heard my dad’s voice
from beyond and felt a huge sense of relief in the familiarity of it. This wasn’t
an insane asylum for horny delinquents, it was just a pub that we had stopped
over at on the way to Onslow. Cool.

Readying myself to step through the divider
I paused when I heard another voice.

His
voice.

Max’s voice.

Holy crap!

Okay, so we had reached our destination, it
seemed. I began to panic; this was not how I planned our first meeting to be,
in creased, day-old clothes, with manky hair, and sporting the warmed-up dead
look. Hell, no. I was meant to walk through his door like a song on a summer
wind—it would all happen in slow motion—and I would flick my hair over my shoulder
and offer a coy smile. Awkwardly sliding through a room divider in denim cut
offs and a navy Bonds singlet, with a rat’s nest ponytail, was definitely not
the plan.

What to do? What to do?

And where were my bloody things? I squinted
through the gap of the divider spying my dad, who was as casual as you like,
sitting at a small table by the window, his long legs stretched out, crossed at
the ankles, his arms casually crossed across his chest as he reclined in his
chair. Oh great! He had really settled in for a good old yarn; this could take
hours. Never before had I wanted telepathic ability like I did now.

I edged to the side, changing my angle to
look into the room to see where Dad’s eye line was affixed. And there he was.
Sitting on the opposite side of the table, his elbows resting on the wood top,
with the fabric of his black T-shirt pulled taut across his square shoulders. I
always loved his shoulders; regardless of the fact he was tall and lean, he was
toned in all the right places, and as if I had etched every line, every angle
of him from memory there was one thing that seemed even more apparent to me
now. Max Henry looked better and hotter than ever. His hair was longer; the
dark, dirty-blond bangs fell into his green-brown cat-like eyes. They were so
unusual. The one thing that could make a girl lose her mind were those pale
orbs that seemed to change colour depending on the light. Anytime he looked at
you, even if it was for nothing more than to ask you to ‘pass the salt’ at
dinner, it was as if his gaze was licking across your skin, his eyes were so
intense. Oh, how I had missed that feeling, missed those eyes. I felt my mouth
run dry, and the small space I had awkwardly manoeuvred myself into, so as to
get the best view, was becoming hot. Or maybe that was just me?