Grand Slam (5 page)

Jack Jones lives in one of the most exclusive parts of Brighton, which is one of the most exclusive suburbs of Melbourne. The house had originally been his grandmother's, he'd told me, and when his parents were killed on that horrible day in September 2011, Jack and his sister had inherited the stately old home. But Jack's sister lives in New York, so it's really his. Not long after I first met him, when he recruited me to the Team about fifteen months ago, I stayed at his house to hide from bad guys. I've never met Jack's sister, but it was her room I stayed in. Now, on the odd occasion I'm invited to stay, it's in his.

I parked on the street. Joe was walking out the front door as I was about to hit the buzzer at the security gate. Joe works for Jack and lives at his house. If Jack were Batman, Joe would be Alfred and Robin all rolled into one. He's built like a brick shithouse, according to Steve, but I reckon he's just a big softy. A tattooed one who cooks delicious cakes. He also kills bad guys as and when required. I wished he was my big brother.

‘Hey, Erica.'

‘Hi, Joe. How's it going?'

‘Good.' He released the security gate and held the front door for me. ‘Jack's watching TV.'

‘Thanks.'

Jack's house was like him: elegant, charming, well built. Totes impressive. He'd done the most tasteful (expensive) renovation. The house was Edwardian – not quite as old as my cute little cottage – and two storey, with the front door opening onto a grand staircase that led to two football field–sized bedrooms upstairs, plus an office. I suspected those three rooms used to be more, but Jack apparently needs a monstrous boudoir. From the front, you'd never know the extent of the renovation, and internally, much of the front part of the house was in original condition, with double doors to formal living and dining rooms to the right of the entry. But to the left Jack had installed a gym, and beyond the stairwell, where I was now headed, the fully overhauled rear of the property caused a new visitor to gasp at its magnificence (also like when you see Jack for the first time). There was a grand, open and very modern kitchen, living and casual-dining area with a ceiling the full height of the house, and a wall of glass that faced the manicured gardens of his backyard. To the left and right, the house framed the lawn, with an extra-long garage on one side – hidden by creeping vines – and Joe's wing on the other. The wall of glass was open. It wasn't so hot, the weather trying to recover from yesterday's cool change, but in the sun it was warm and it would be nice at the beach.

There he was, in one of his favourite possies – on the sofa in front of the television, wearing a singlet top and shorts. I stopped walking and stared at him. His feet were crossed on the ottoman in front of him and those magnificent arms were hooked behind his head, accentuating the bulge of his biceps. My second-favourite part of his body.

He gave me a small smile, and any semblance of self-control left my body. I strode across the room and straddled his lap. ‘Hello.'

‘Hello.'

‘Thank you for the security guard.'

‘You're welcome.'

I leaned in to kiss him but he said, ‘Nice photo of you in the paper.'

I jerked back. ‘What? You never read the
Herald Sun
.'

‘Someone else in this household reads it.'

‘Joe doesn't read it either. He wouldn't dare. You'd sack him.' I laughed, making light of it.

He didn't laugh or even smile so I resumed my seduction, which possibly resembled desperation. I tugged at his top, trying to get it off him, but he took my hands and held them still.

‘I need a shower.'

‘I like you sweaty.' I struggled against his grip. ‘It's okay. Joe's gone out.'

‘We've got other company,' he reminded me and I heard footsteps coming from the front of the house. Runners, squeaking on the timber floor. Of course. The new recruit. But they were light, quick footsteps – not ones that belonged to a big tough guy, surely.

Jack and I stared at each other as the footsteps approached.

‘Hey y'all,' said an American woman's voice.

Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners – finally amused – as he clocked my expression.

I turned my head. A blond Amazon stood there, hands on hips, one hip cocked as she took in the scene, clearly surprised. Her hair was short and spiky. She was probably six feet tall, had an awesome tan and a sixpack that put Jack's to shame. She wore a teeny, tiny crop top and tiny, weeny shorts that had been sprayed on and showed, without a doubt, that she had no pubic hair.

‘Jack didn't say he had a girlfriend.'

I lifted myself from his lap, trying to make myself as tall as possible. ‘That's because he doesn't.'

She made one of those whoops-I've-upset-the-girlfriend faces and I approached her slowly.

From behind me, Jack said, ‘Sharon, this is —'

‘Erica Jewell.' I held out my hand.

‘Sharon Stone.'

‘Of course you are.'

We shook hands and I discreetly nursed mine, which had been crushed.

She looked past me. ‘Hey, Black Jack, I've got a new routine. Can I go over it with you?' She thumbed over her shoulder, presumably indicating the gym, not the stairs leading to her bedroom.

‘Sure,' said
Black
Jack and I didn't look at him as he passed, joining Sharon Stone and heading to the gym. Or her bedroom. ‘Make yourself at home,' he threw over his shoulder, ‘you know where everything is.' Like I was just a visitor or something. Not someone who actually
lived
there. Not like Sharon Stone, who didn't need to be invited to make herself at home. I watched them walk away, looking at Sharon's muscled bottom, which I reckoned you could crack a coconut on. I felt thankful that at least her pert breasts were smaller than mine, even though she was physically perfect in every other way, with nipples that strained through the fabric of her top.

Jack was gone for fifteen minutes, during which time I'd lost my appetite for his body but found it for food. I made a cup of tea and helped myself to a slab of Joe's freshly baked banana cake and sat there brooding in front of the telly. The Sydney tennis was on, the tournament that precedes the Australian Open. Emilio had chosen not to play in it so he could be fresh and well prepared for the Open. For the first time since Dega's sponsorship deal was announced, I felt zero excitement about it.

Jack came back, eventually. ‘Sharon's the new recruit.'

I stretched my mouth wide in an attempted smile, hoping it made me look happy, relaxed and generally pleased with the world. ‘Great.'

He stood there, looking satisfied.

‘She seems nice.'

‘Come upstairs.' He held out a hand, seemingly pleased with his Erica-and-Emilio-in-the-paper payback and ready to return to a level playing field. ‘Have a shower with me.'

‘No.'

He let out a surprised laugh. ‘Why?'

‘Um. I feel sick from running ten kilometres this morning.'

‘You don't run.'

‘And a hundred sit-ups.'

I heard the footsteps again. Shaz appeared. ‘What are y'all doin' today?'

Going upstairs to have sex in the shower.

‘We're going to the beach,' said Jack.

‘Can I come?'

Of course Shazza's bikini was tiny. There wasn't much she needed to hide. Certainly no pubes hanging out. No bulging, bouncing boobs to worry about. The golden bikini was the same colour as her skin, so from a distance she looked naked. Men tripped over cricket stumps and soccer balls trying to get a look at her. They fell into holes dug by their kids. Women, on the other hand, were discreetly adjusting sunglasses and pretending to watch for drowning children so they could perv at Jack.

While I'd had visions of a romantic liaison at some quiet Brighton beach, Sharon had wanted to go to St Kilda along with the rest of Melbourne's population. I'd brought my beach hut – more for privacy than anything – but as no-one else had shade of any kind, I left mine in the car. I tried to join Jack and Sharon in their soccer game with a bunch of swarthy men, but I kicked the ball and hurt my toe, so limped back to my towel to watch instead. I realised that in competition generally, Sharon Stone left me standing at the starting post. Except for one thing. With my one-quarter Italian blood, I get a great tan.

I opened my eyes and sat up. Had I been asleep? Where were Sharon and Jack? Then, together with the rest of the beach crowd, I fixed my eyes on a vision emerging from the sea. They seemed to rise from the ocean in slo-mo; a James Bond moment. Daniel Craig and a blond Halle Berry, but better. Much better. And taller. Gleaming, tanned, perfect. As they approached, Jack frowned. Sharon seemed curiously satisfied about something.

‘You're burnt.' Jack stood over me, hands on hips, water dripping from his hair. ‘Didn't you put sunscreen on?'

‘Ah . . .' I checked my arms and thighs. Yes, a bit burnt.

‘We'd better get you home.'

‘Yeah, I've had enough sun.' And enough beach time with Sharon Stone.

As I stood I swooned, and Jack had to support me. ‘You haven't had any water, have you?' He checked out my full, untouched bottle.

‘Yes. This is a new one,' I lied, but he didn't believe me.

By the time we got to Jack's and inside his house, the full extent of the burn, and the associated pain, and the dehydration, was starting to reveal itself. Joe was there, in the kitchen. He looked at me with shock, and then crossly at Jack, who seemed worried and guilty. I went to the bathroom, threw up, and stood in front of the mirror. I'd been aiming for a knockout tan, but instead, I was purple. My eyes were puffy with white circles around them from my sunglasses. At least the burn was only on my front, but it made me look even more ridiculous because my back was white. I wiped a hand across my mouth.

‘You,' I told the mirror, ‘are a fuckwit.'

When I came back to the kitchen, moving slowly so my top didn't rub the burn, Joe had snipped some aloe vera from the garden and was splitting it lengthways, exposing the gel inside. Gingerly, I pulled my T-shirt over my head so I was wearing just my bikini top and shorts. Joe handed a piece of aloe vera to Jack and told him to do my shoulders, which he did. I took some and rubbed the gel on my chest while Joe did my legs. But Jack kept slipping and scratching me with the barbs, which made me cry, so Joe waved him crossly away. Jack stood back to watch, and Shaz appeared from upstairs, freshly showered, smelling great. She wore a white singlet top and no bra. Sprayed-on shorts. The white showed off her deep tan exquisitely. And her nipples. Her hair was blonder.

‘Hey, Black Jack.' She beckoned him. ‘I wanna show you the new move I learned last night.'

Jack had the decency to hesitate. He looked at Joe. ‘Do you need me for a minute?'

Did I?

Joe shook his head. I didn't get an opportunity to.

Jack went after Sharon, who was waiting for him on the lawn in the backyard.

‘Black Jack?' I said to Joe.

‘It was his call sign. In the air force. No big deal.'

Joe stopped his aloe-vera application and we watched them sparring. My mouth hung open.

‘She's a kickboxer,' explained Joe.

‘Not much kicking going on there. Or boxing.'

Joe resumed his nursing. ‘You don't need to worry about her, Erica.'

‘I'm not.' I so was. But, I thought, seeing Jack and I aren't in a relationship, there's no reason why he shouldn't have another lover. Several lovers, in fact. Which meant I was free to do the same. Except I didn't want to.

After ten or fifteen minutes of pretend sex, the happy duo came back inside. I stood there, shiny and red, a glistening idiot in the kitchen. Joe worked around me, too polite to ask me to move. Shaz announced she was going for another shower.

Jack came up behind me and softly touched my shoulder, causing me to say, ‘
Don't touch me!
'

He jumped back, and I hobbled across the room to the sofa, where I very slowly sat on the edge of it.

Jack approached with caution, sat on the coffee table in front of me and reached for my hand. I glared at him. He took my middle finger between his thumb and forefinger, gave it a little squeeze. ‘Stay the night.'

I huffed. ‘No point staying. You can't touch me. Besides, you know what my mother's like.' I looked away.

‘Stay for dinner if you want.'

‘No.'

‘Why?'

Why . . . why . . . why? ‘Because.'

He nodded. ‘All right.'

‘I might just go home now.'

He nodded again and I didn't wait around, because I didn't want to see what Sharon Stone was wearing this time.