Max (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Max

Stopping mid-way was a sure-fire way to
cause yourself an injury, but in light of the real reason, well, all we were
focussed on was getting through the next step without my testicles being
removed for Bluey’s trophy room.

I followed Mel down the stairs, agreeing
that she should go in first and I would follow a few minutes later. I followed
her down the steps; she was struggling to hold herself together despite the
straightness in her spine, and a steely focus. I could see her physically
trembling. Before she left me on the stairs I grabbed her by the arm; her
confused gaze looked back, wondering what I was doing. I didn’t give her the
chance to question as I pulled her in to kiss her, long enough to let her know
what I felt, but not long enough to make her lose all train of thought. I
pulled away, realising that it was no use, her mind had slipped, and it made me
smile. Looking into her beautiful, expressive blue eyes, I knew without a doubt
that this wasn’t over. Not for me anyway. But I think she needed to know it,
because up until this point, I had given her no reason to think otherwise. I
couldn’t see her not in my life now.

“I don’t care if you have a thousand
boyfriends, or if you’re locked away for the rest of your life, Melanie
Sheehan, it won’t stop me from wanting you.”

Her eyes ticked over my face. “I don’t have
a boyfriend.”

I tried not to smile too broadly. “Good to
know.”

“As for being locked away for the rest of
my life, that I can’t guarantee.”

I took her hand, kissing the back of it. “One
step at a time, okay?”

Mel nodded. And as if by some kind of
spell, Mel forged on and readied herself for whatever was to come.

***

By the time I innocently wandered into the
bar, I interrupted Bluey’s laughter, laughter of all things, which was an
unnerving surprise.

“G’day, Max. I didn’t mean to wake the
whole hotel.”

“Bluey, what are you doing back so early?”
I shook his hand, making sure not to glance toward Mel, who sat calmly at the
table.

“Don’t ask, it’s the last time I grace the
backwards town of Burnley. I’m cutting my losses and heading for the hills,
well, the flats of Ballan anyway.”

Now I glanced at Mel, who looked miserable.

“You’re heading home?”

“Yeah, in the morning. Might get a few
hours’ kip, give Mel a chance to pack her things before we head.”

An unexpected jolt twisted inside me, an
underlying panic.

“Do you have to go so soon? Can’t you stick
around for a bit?”

“Not this time, mate. I have to get back
and help Ian Crosby with his fences that got burnt out last month.”

Shit, Max think … think!

I wasn’t ready to let this girl go, not
yet. But I also knew that there was no stopping it, that inevitably Mel would
go back to Ballan. I thought of her returning back to the barren, predictable
existence and my resolve shifted into that of utter desperation.

And against my better judgement and a
little bit of insanity I found myself doing the unexpected.

“Do you need any help?”

Bluey’s head snapped around with interest.

“With the fencing?” I said.

“What about your job here?”

“I think you’re due for some time off.”

I turned to see Chris leaning next to the
bar, shrugging.

“Well, bloody hell. If you could, that
would be great, mate.” Bluey looked impressed.

“No problem, I think I’m due back for a
visit. Mum and Dad will be home soon from Miranda’s.”

Bluey smiled. “A win-win situation.”

I glanced at Mel who was grinning from ear
to ear, rubbish at hiding her emotions, as always. I looked away.

“Indeed,” I said.

“And, if all goes well with the fencing,”
Bluey stood, stretching his arms to the sky with a groan, “I just might let you
date my daughter.”

Chris spat his drink out, coughing and
spluttering at the bar. Bluey walked over to him, tapping him on the back, and
then he shook his head. “They think I came down in the last shower,” he said
before grinning back at Mel and me looking on, stunned.

“See you in the morning, kids,” he called
over his shoulder, making his way up the stairs, laughing along the way.

***

Unable to sleep, I sat next to Mel on the
steps of the Onslow, waiting for the sun to rise over the lake, her head
leaning on my shoulder.

“How did he know?” I asked, the question
whirling in my mind over and over again. Mel laughed in that light-hearted,
genuine way that I was getting used to; she lifted her head from my shoulder.

“Are you serious?”

“What?” I mused.

“Max Henry, you volunteered to do farm work
… in Ballan.”

“Yeah, okay, that is a dead giveaway.”

Everyone knew I hated farm work, that at
all costs my living goal in life was to escape anything to do with the farm
life. I only hoped this out-of-character move wouldn’t give my parents any
wrong ideas.

Mel laughed, resting her head back down. “Why
are you coming back to Ballan?”

I pressed my lips to the top of my Mel’s
head, lost in the sweet smell of her. “You know why.”

Mel straightened, looking into my eyes,
cocking her brow. “Do I?”

I wasn’t the wordy kind, I couldn’t give
any poetic speeches about the moon and the stars or even more appropriately of
the sun rising, but I knew how to show her the reason why, as I slowly closed
the space between us and kissed her in a way that would leave little doubt to
why I would follow a girl back to the dusty flats of Ballan. I pulled back, my
lips lingering over hers with a knowing smile. By her glazed expression, I
think I got my meaning across.

“That’s why. Now stop talking and watch the
sun come up.”

Mel’s eyes snapped up. “You better watch
the way you speak to me, Max Henry.”

“Oh?”

Mel smirked. “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

I broke out into a broad grin, shaking my
head as I took in the cheeky expression on the most complicated creature I had
ever met. “You know what?” I said, lacing her fingers with mine and giving her
a wink, “I think I can take him.”

And just as Mel leaned in to kiss me,
pressing her soft, warm lips to mine, never had any lie I’d known before tasted
so sweet.

So long Ben Erickson, hello Ballan!

Can’t wait to read more about the Onslow Boys?

Be sure to catch the next book in

C.J Duggan’s Summer Series…

That One Summer

By C.J Duggan.

Every Onslow Boy has a story.

Next summer it’s all about Chris!

Acknowledgements

Much love to my amazing husband, Mick, for
being the beautiful part of my reality and supporting me in all I do; I know it’s
not easy, but I wouldn’t want to share it with anyone else.

To all the bloggers, reviewers, and readers
who have enjoyed and shared the
Summer Series
. For taking something away
from the story, for loving and embracing the characters. In a world that is
often dark enough, it has been an absolute pleasure injecting it with a bit of
sunshine.

I am blessed with such a talented
hard-working team; these ladies always go above and beyond for me. A special
thanks to: Sascha Craig, Marion Archer, Anita Saunders, and Keary Taylor.

Many thanks to my formatter, Karen Phillips.

Always grateful for the love and support of
my friends and family.

My fellow authors for their inspiration,
support, and friendship: Frankie Rose, Jessica Roscoe, Lilliana Anderson, Keary
Taylor. I adore you ladies and would be truly lost without our daily chats.

To my fierce ‘Team Duggan’ warriors, for
your unwavering support and enthusiasm. For always spreading the word and
fighting the good fight to help put the
Summer Series
out there for the
masses. I feel incredibly privileged to have each and every one of you on my
team and in my life – thank you.

Turn
the page for a preview of the next novel

by
CJ Duggan

PARADISE
CITY

CJ Duggan

Paradise
City

I dreamed of Paradise

If there is one thing I have learned in my
short little life, it is to take advice from the least likely of sources.

"Have low expectations, kid, and
you'll never be disappointed." My Uncle Eddie delivered his words of
wisdom with a wink and a double-barrelled shooting finger.

At the time, I hadn't taken it too seriously
because, firstly, I was only nine and, secondly, he was wearing mission-brown
stubby shorts with thongs. I mean, really? Sure, all those things could have
very well been the reason why Uncle Eddie's words didn't sink in. But it was
more the fact that after he had delivered his wise words, he then tripped
backwards over his own esky, rolling like a human pinball down the front steps
and landing, spread-eagled, on the lawn, wailing about soft tissue damage and
needing an ambulance.

Eight years later, it was still one of the
most talked about of Uncle Eddie's drunken antics resulting in cringe-worthy
accounts of public humiliation, not just limited to our front lawn.

Uncle Eddie, while at times hilarious, was
also the resident drunk, who cycled his way around town on his punting,
drinking expeditions sporting his crisscrossed fluoro safety vest (courtesy of
Al, the local policeman). He would wear it even in the daytime – mortifying! He
was almost like the town mascot, which pretty much paints an accurate picture
of my hometown.

Red Hill.

The European explorers who named it
obviously had a sense of humour because, unlike the name suggested, there was
no hill in sight. Just a flat, desolate whole-lot-of-nothing. Well, that's not
exactly true. There were three pubs and a club, a Caltex petrol station, an IGA
supermarket, a post office and a newsagent. And when you're seventeen and
trapped in a place nicknamed 'Red Hole', the only thing left to do is dream of
a life less ordinary.

In my room I had a bookshelf that housed my
entire Holy Grail collection: a crystal angel from my Aunty Deb, a
jasmine-scented candle that was too pretty to use and a stack of penpal letters
from around the world. I kept writing to my penpals vigilantly with the idea of
scoring free accommodation when I travelled abroad someday. I kept the truly
sacred stuff on the top shelf, like the tattered postcard from my cousin
Amanda. It was slightly frayed around the edges from the countless times I had
picked it up and flipped the glossed square over in my hands, reading the
exciting account of the new life she had found in a place nothing like Red
Hole.

For the past year I had been set a
challenge: maintain my good grades and Mum and Dad would 'entertain' the
thought of me finishing my VCE in a real school, not one that involved a
satellite connection to a virtual teacher. That's right, Red Hole had three
pubs and no school and I, for one, was not revelling in my future as an
uneducated drunk, slurring my words and tripping over myself. No way.

I hoped it was just a matter of time before
they would let me venture out to further my education. Whether they liked it or
not, that change was what I needed to 'experience' the big bad world. And even
though I had a long-standing wish that maybe it could be so, it was never
anything more than a crazy pipe dream. So come the time we had the family
roundtable discussion, never in my wildest dreams did I think it would come
true.

Dad's lips pressed together in a grim line,
his arms folded over his broad chest as he let Mum break it to me.

"We've talked it over and if you
agree," she said, smiling to herself as she traced her finger along the
patterned wood grain of the tabletop, "we think –" Dad coughed.
"Okay, I think that straight A grades deserve nothing less than
destination Paradise."

My head snapped up, my eyes widening in
disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Mum laughed. "I spoke to Aunty Karen,
and they would love to have you."

I flung myself against my parents, hugging
the life out of them. Thanking all the gods in all the universe that my prayers
had been answered. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

A smile spread across my face as I re-read
Amanda's postcard; her elegant, cursive writing described how her life was all
about sun, surf, sand and boys (shhhh), which wasn't exactly the smartest thing
to write on the back of a postcard. It was the first and only postcard she had
sent, and four years had passed since I received it, but when you're thirteen
and a seed is planted, and you have no clear future other than becoming
betrothed to one of the local farming boys, you take solace in alternate future
possibilities. Glancing at the front of the postcard, I absorbed the beach
landscape peppered with sky-high buildings along the foreshore, and an embossed
golden font that read 'Paradise City'.

Sorry, Uncle Eddie, but I ignored your
advice. My expectations were as epic as those high-rises and, knowing my grades
had earned me a ticket to the beach, to a real school, with real people, I was
determined. Yes, I'd dreamed of Paradise City. From the day that postcard
arrived I knew I was destined to be there.

And just as I thought the likes of Red Hill
ironic in all its flat mundaneness, I came to realise you should never judge a
place by its name.

Maybe Uncle Eddie was a genius?