Fighting Temptation (18 page)

“Hey, what’s wrong?” She gentles her voice, concern clear in her tone and I just know she’s frowning.
“I wish you were here,” I manage on a quiet sob. Jules is in Bali on a work trip. She’s due home in two days, but she’s been gone a week already. Jules has been a part of my family for the twenty years we’ve been friends, but three years ago when I lost my parents, she became my
only
family.
“Oh, honey, I know. Don’t cry. I wish I were there too. I’ll be home in a couple of days and we’ll celebrate then, ok.”
“Matt cheated on me.” I blurt out to her.
“What?” She gasps.
“I caught him. He was … Oh, god, he was in between her legs and then he … I’m going to be sick.” I cover my mouth and jump up off the floor, racing down the hall and into my bathroom where I empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl. Wiping my mouth, I bring the receiver back to my ear and mutter sheepishly, “Sorry.” “I’ve heard worse,” she jokes.
“I can’t believe it, Edie. Did you have it out with the bastard? You should have ripped him off her and kneed him in the balls,” she seethes.
“No, I just ran out. It all happened in slow motion. I only watched for half a minute maximum but it was enough. It was
more
than enough.”
“He was eating her out?” She asks, sounding confused. “I know,” I whisper. “He always told me that was filthy. Maybe he just meant me, that I was filthy down there,” I whisper even quieter.
“No! Don’t you dare. This is all on him. He’s the stupid prick that couldn’t keep it in his pants. He’s a pansy anyways, honey. He never finished you off, always in it for himself. He never cared about anyone but himself. Don’t you take this on. You hear me?” Jules never did like Matt very much. She thought he was slimy and slippery – her words. I’m not sure what she meant exactly but I think she meant untrustworthy and dishonest.
How right was she?
I think sardonically.
I nod, then remembering she can’t see me, I say, “Yes.” “What am I going to do?” I wail. “I just want to go away for a while. You know?”
“Why don’t you? There’s nothing stopping you. Take your annual leave – I know you haven’t taken a holiday in the seven years you’ve worked at Prestige, so ring Dawn and take some time. Go somewhere, clear your head and see what you come up with. If you wait until I get home, I’ll come with. If you have to go tomorrow, then I’ll take leave when I get home and I’ll go to you, wherever you end up, if you want me to. Okay?” she soothes.
“Okay.” I acquiesce.
“Ring Dawn now. Tell her you need some personal time – you’re not sure how long you’ll need but you’ll keep her informed.”
“What if she says no?”
“She won’t. She knows how long you’ve been with her for. She also knows how valuable you are to her company. Further, she knows that you have not taken leave for seven years and you’ve only had, what, a handful of sick days in those seven years? And you were genuinely ill, not pulling her leg. She won’t say no. Trust me.”
“Okay,” I say sounding firmer. Resolute. I want this. I need this. I want to get away.
We talk for a while longer and then I end the call to phone Dawn. As Jules predicted, Dawn is totally fine with me taking unexpected leave for an undetermined amount of time. She assures me her daughter can fill my position indefinitely. She also ensures that Bridget will take care of the financials first thing in the morning.
I breathe in deep and then let it go slowly.
I spend the night packing. I don’t concentrate on what I am packing. I also don’t question what it is that I am packing and why I am packing certain items. I just pack. In one box I pack photographs and important papers. It takes three large suitcases to contain the clothes I want to take with me. Plus, I have two smaller ones. The first of which contains my toiletries and the other has my hairdryer, my straightener, my laptop, chargers for my iPod, phone, computer and anything else I deemed essential.
Once everything is boxed and taped or bagged and zipped, I load up my RAV. Then I emptied my fridge and the small freezer attached to the top. I chuck away anything that needs tossing (which, considering tomorrow is usually grocery day, is not a lot). I place everything else in a bag so I can take it to Gladys in the morning before I leave. Gladys lives in the duplex next to me. She brought hers when she was widowed five years ago because she felt she needed to downsize seeing as it was only her now. She’s seventy if she’s a day and the dearest senior citizen I know.

I knock (loudly) on the door of the duplex next to mine. Then I shake the pain from my hand before ringing the doorbell. Gladys is “deaf in one ear and can’t hear out of the other” (her words) hence the loud knocking and doorbell ringing.
“Oh, hello Edie dear,” she opens the door smiling. “Hi Gladys, how are you?” I say talking a few octaves louder than what some would consider socially acceptable, especially at this time of the morning.
“I’m good, dear. Is everything alright? You’re up and about early.”
“Everything is fine,” I lie, “I’ve got to go out of town unexpectedly and I had some food I didn’t want to spoil while I was gone. I thought you could put it to use. There are some frozen dinners, milk, cheese, yoghurt, a tub of ice cream…” I rattle of some of the items while glancing in the shopping bags.
“That’s kind of you. The price of groceries these days,” she scowls at nothing then continues, “You don’t get much for your pension nowadays. Back in my day, my mother would give me twenty pence and I could buy a meat pie with gravy and peas, and still have enough change to get a milkshake. Not these days,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I know,” I nod in agreement, because I did know. Gladys never missed an opportunity to tell us “young folk” (again, her words) about life in the “good, old days” (still, her words). “I have to get going, Gladys. I was hoping to be on the road a half hour ago, so I’ll leave these with you.” I hand her the bags which she takes, after unlocking her security screen.
“Thanks, dear. Any idea how long you’ll be gone for?” “I’m not sure. Maybe a few weeks.”
“You take care of yourself then. I’ll keep an eye on your side of the fence.”
At her caring words, I feel a twist in my guts. I’ll miss Gladys. Before I can think, I wrap my arms around her and give a hug. She smells of soap and old lady. Comfort. She’s taken aback by my sudden show of affection, however it only takes a second for her to return the gesture. “’Bye, Gladys,” I give her a kiss on the cheek and take a step back.
“’Bye, Edie,” she whispers, her voice is thick with emotion and her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.
I turn and walk down her path and climb into my RAV. I pressed shuffle on my iPod and then I drive away singing along to “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” with Bob Marley. I don’t even look back.

Cowboy
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher. Thank you for respecting the work of this Author. Sky Cowboy is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in this book are either from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, with exception to Artists named, and their song lyrics, and direct quotes from movies whose titles have been named. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Perhaps my parents should have named me Eleanor. Maybe then I would have possessed some of her strength, wisdom and courage.
My mother loves to tell the story of how my sister and I were named. You see, she had this obsession with the television series Green Acres, and she also had an obsession with Zsa Zsa and Eva Gabor. Actually, she had an obsession with Hollywood royalty period, but she held a particular fondness for the Gabor sisters. When she fell pregnant with my sister, she was dying to call her Zsa Zsa, but my father told her in no uncertain terms that she was
not
calling his little girl Zsa Zsa. He managed to convince my mother (with the promise of buying her a Poodle puppy that she could call Zsa Zsa) to call my sister ‘Kennedy’, after Jackie Kennedy Onassis. He argued that Jackie was a well-respected former first lady and it was a good omen. They couldn’t call my sister ‘Jackie’ because they had an old sheep dog with the same name. Mum agreed, thinking it sounded
old-worldly
and
timeless
, so Kennedy Monroe (after Marilyn, of course) Crawley was born.
Three years after Kennedy was born, I came along. My mother begged my father to name me Eva, but he wanted to name me Ava, after Ava Gardner. He said with a namesake like that, I would be the most beautiful little girl in the world. So, with visions of a delicate, brown haired, pouty lipped beauty in her mind, my mother agreed. My middle name, Elizabeth, comes from another dark haired beauty – Elizabeth Taylor.
My mother and father had spent three years dedicating themselves to catering to Kennedy’s every whim. Needless to say, when I came along she got her nose put out of joint because she was no longer the center of their attention. My sister was and is a spoiled brat. She was never good at sharing
anything
; our parents, her toys, her clothes, her food. She despised me right from beginning for intruding on her perfect life. It got gradually worse as we were growing up. I was always beneath her, in her eyes. She made sure to tell me this on a regular basis and it was exacerbated because I had to wear her hand-me-down clothing and shoes. She was popular at school – smart, funny and gorgeous. A triple threat. She was Queen Bee and had a large following of minions who did whatever she said, when she said. Mostly, she told them to tease me, make up stories about me and belittle me. She regularly made it public knowledge that I wasn’t
important
or
special
enough to wear new clothes and that’s why I wore her old clothing. She liked to put me down to build herself up and unfortunately, I wasn’t strong enough to resist her constant beat downs. After a while, I started to believe everything she said about me.
I was ugly.
I would never be as well-proportioned as her.
I was too chunky.
I was not as smart as her.
I would never be classically beautiful like she was. No man would ever love me, especially when they could love her.
Her attacks were relentless for years. I couldn’t escape them. I saw her at school and I lived with her at home. It was constant.
Throughout our teenage years she garnered a lot of notice from the boys. She loved the attention, but she loved to rub my nose in it even more.
There’s no boy in this town that will want you, Ava. And if by the grace of God they do, they’ll be my sloppy seconds and you’ll have to live your life knowing they settled for second best with you because they couldn’t have me forever.
It was probably the only thing she said to me that I
didn’t
believe.
Surely she couldn’t be that much of a slut.
Our town was small, sure, but I didn’t think she would have been with
every
guy in our age range. In all honesty, it should have been the only thing she ever said to me that I
did
believe. But, alas, I would find out the hard way that when my sister said she’d make sure I got her sloppy seconds, she meant it.
I grew up on a cattle station in Pine Creek, Northern Territory, Australia. Ours wasn’t the smallest in the area, but it also wasn’t the biggest. We only ran cattle unlike some of the other stations in the area which had crops and sheep, along with cattle. My father employed five workers to help him out and because he didn’t have any sons to leave the property to when he retired, he made no secret of the fact that he’d like Kennedy or me to marry one of the local boys so he could pass the farm down. His prime preference was one of the Henley brothers. My father thought it was an omen that he had two daughters and Maggie and Scott Henley had been blessed with two sons
and
our properties were joined by a boundary fence. So, this would mean should my father’s wishes come true and one of his girls married a Henley, we could tear down the fence and have one massive station.
My father thought it was a perfect solution and my mother couldn’t agree more. They would never miss an
opportunity to voice their wishes throughout my childhood. Jackson and Jeremy Henley are identical twins and they’re the same age as Kennedy. Naturally, then, my parents romanticized about marrying Kennedy off to one of them. I don’t really think they ever once factored me into it. My parents were unashamed in their pursuit and encouraged my sister to date each of the boys. She was allowed extended curfews, increased pocket money – anything she wanted as long as she fed their whims.
I had always had a secret crush on Jeremy. I’m not sure why I liked him more than Jackson, but I did. It was always like that. I never felt anything for Jackson that wasn’t friendship. Jeremy was a whole other story. Every time I saw him, I’d get butterflies in my stomach and my palms would sweat. And every time he called me
mate
, it felt like those butterflies had turned into knives and were twisting in my gut.
He was tall, tanned, gorgeous and funny, with dark hair and crystal clear blue eyes which had the ability to hypnotize. When he wasn’t at school, he was working on his farm and all that activity had ensured his body was toned and defined. I remember feeling green with envy any time one of the girls at school would fawn over him; asking him if they could touch his six pack and then gushing as they ran their hands over his muscled abdomen. I never asked him, but that didn’t mean I didn’t look when he lifted his shirt. Many times during my teenage years, my parents invited Jeremy and Jackson over for dinner. They were so blatant with their intentions – they would insist that Kennedy sit in between Jeremy and Jackson and they would spend the entire night raving about how wonderful and talented and funny their first born was. I would sit off to the side mentally rolling my eyes at their melodramatics. But it didn’t matter whether we had dinner guests or not; I was never really acknowledged, noticed or included.
Always a wall flower.
At least that’s how I felt when I was growing up. I don’t think it was intentional on my parent’s behalf. I think they just spent so much time fussing over my sister and trying to please her that I got pushed into the background and that’s where I stayed. It suited me fine though; I was never a child who wanted to be the center of attention. Where my sister was a show pony and an attention seeker, I was a quiet achiever who liked to escape on the back of my horse. Now that I’m an adult, I’m embarrassed to admit the number of times I would ride my horse along the boundary fence hoping to catch sight of Jeremy. A time or two he would be there, fixing a fence or driving past checking cattle, but the other thousand odd times I rode there proved to be fruitless.
When Kennedy would boast about having a date with Jeremy, I would simply shrink away, saddle up my horse and ride for hours. There’s nothing more amazing in the world than cantering across a paddock on the back of a mountainous beast with the wind rushing through your hair and the only sound you hear is the thud of the horse’s hooves pounding on the ground. I spent a lot of time with my horse, Jarrah, throughout my teenage years. She was my best friend.
My only real friend.
Most of the kids in our town were sent off to boarding school once they reached high school. My parents chose not to send us away so the few friends I made in school soon forgot about me once they left for the city. Sure, we’d catch up when they came home for term break but it was never the same. I was friendly with Jackson and Jeremy, but Kennedy was always more their style. The boys always considered me to be a mate. This was probably because I was a tomboy and average looking, whereas Kennedy was girly and very pretty. A teenage boy’s wet dream.