Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel) (22 page)

Oh my God!
I cracked up laughing and nearly dropped the phone. Talk about sexting fail. He was going to need a lot of guidance.

Em: Right! Gotcha. Lol.

How’s that working out for you?

Brad: It’s not. The seed hasn’t sprouted.

And Cori keeps giving me weird looks.

Em: That’s because she noticed you

put your hand under the table.

She wanted to know why.

Brad: What did you tell her?

Em: Nothing. But come on,

how long can one have an itch?

My phone sounded again, this time with a message from Cori.

Cori: Brad just waved at me

… with two hands. Why?

Why is he waving at me?

My smile stretched my face and lit up my eyes, but I wasn’t ignorant to the fact that sadness gripped my insides.

I missed them, and I missed being there with them.

Suddenly, my phone chimed like a freakin’ doorbell, sounding numerous dings and beeps. I clicked on the message inbox and found one message from Brad, and three from unknown senders.

Brad: Point taken.

I just waved at her.

She shouldn’t suspect anything.

Unknown: Your number, I have.

Fun, this could be.

Oh, hell!
My bet was on Cori being responsible for Noah now having my number. And my bet was that I would one day strangle her for it.

Unknown 2: Em, it’s Dimps.

I’m eating molluscs.

I face-palmed and was almost scared to open the third unknown message, but I did it anyway, because curiosity killed the cat. And the cat couldn’t die if it was enquiring about itself, right? And anyway, fuck the cat. I was a dog person.

Unknown 3: Why did you leave me, pretty girl?

I have nothing to look at now.

Right. The third one had me baffled. Who the hell was it? Josh? No. Matt? I doubted it. Baz? Maybe but I hoped not.

Staring out of the kitchen window while pondering the mystery message-sender, another message came through.

Unknown 3: Btw, it’s Patsy.

Thought you should know.

I dropped my head to my hands and smiled but then realised the sun was setting and that I needed to get to the shop and back before it was too late. So, killing all birds—and cats—with one stone, I sent a group message.

Em: Appreciate the love, all,

but you will have to cope without me.

Oh, and Cori …

I just might sleep in your bed tonight.

And you know what that means.

I pressed send, grabbed my keys and purse, and headed out the door.

***

The local Aldi was a five-minute walk away. It wasn’t a bad or strenuous journey, but it was one I didn’t fancy doing after dark, as St Kilda was known in parts to be a sex-worker district of Melbourne, regardless of prostitution being illegal. And although the local authorities had done a lot in recent years to clean up the streets, they were fighting a battle they would never entirely win.

Wanting to get in and out of the store quickly, I raced around and grabbed some OJ, milk, bananas, bread, fruit-and-nut chocolate, and Vegemite—because we were running low, and it was un-Australian to run out of Vegemite.

Just as I was about to place the last item in my bag on the conveyor belt and pay the checkout operator, I dropped the Vegemite jar, said jar rolling and stopping by the foot of the guy behind me.

“Crap!” I bent down and went to pick it up, but he beat me to it. “Oh, here, I’ll get it,” I said, noticing the wrist brace he was wearing. “You don’t want to injure your hand any more than you already have.” I smiled and took it from him. “But thank you.”

“Not a problem.” He stretched his fingers after letting go. “Cons of riding a motorbike for too long,” he advised, explaining his injury.

I scrunched my face in sympathy and leaned over to pick up a can of baked beans he had on the conveyer belt behind my items. “This is a good exercise for wrist strain,” I explained, demonstrating a wrist curl manoeuvrer. “I suffer it sometimes because of work. Do that four times a day and in bouts of twenty. It should help.”

He chuckled, amusement lighting his hazel eyes. “Thanks. I will lift baked beans until it’s all better.”

“Hey, don’t knock them. They’re very good for you.”

“And very bad.”

Laughing, I handed the can to him. “This is true.”

“That will be fifteen dollars and twenty-eight cents,” the cashier said to me.

I handed her a twenty and gathered my bag, accepting the change and putting it in my pocket.

“Thank you.” I smiled at her, as well as the sore-wrist guy, and headed home.

When I stepped out into the moderate evening air, I was glad to see there was still light in the sky. I wasn’t about to dawdle though, so I picked up my pace, rounding the corner just as a Harley-Davidson roared past. The loud rev of the engine vibrated right through me, making me jump and nearly drop my groceries.

“Shit-fuck. Stupid thing,” I cursed, continuing along the street and watching the bike pull into our apartment block.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Which dumbarse bought a bike?
I had a sneaking suspicion it was the loser from apartment two, the pothead who no doubt had a marijuana crop growing in his spare room.

Huffing, I stomped up the path between the two majestic palm trees that featured in the courtyard entrance
of the building, keeping my eyes peeled to see whom the motorbike belonged to. Perhaps it was just a visitor, but then why not park in the designated visitor area? Time would soon tell, and when it did, I’d make a voodoo doll of the culprit.

Rounding the corner near the elevator, I smacked straight into a leather jacket-clad, denim jeans-wearing wall. “Damn it.” I looked up, annoyed, finding it was the same wall my jar of Vegemite had rolled into at Aldi. “You,” I said, my tone both surprised and accusatory.

His hands found my shoulders, steadying me. “Yes, me. Although, I’m not you. You’re you.”

“You’re the baked beans guy from Aldi.”

“No, I’m Mike. And I’m guessing you have a name other than that of the Vegemite girl from Aldi?”

I couldn’t help but giggle and step back. “Yes. I’m Em. Sooo …” I glanced over his shoulder, “… you visiting someone here?”

“No. I live here,” he answered with a knowing smile, one that left a cocky but rather handsome imprint on his face. “Moved in at the beginning of the week.”

“Oh!” I blushed.
Fuck! Why’d I blush? I’m not supposed to blush.
“Well, welcome.”

Bidding him farewell with an awkward nod, I stepped around him and attempted to elbow the elevator call-button.

“Here. Allow me.” Mike pushed the button and glanced down, his older but mysterious eyes roaming my body. It made me feel a little nervous, but not because he was older. He was very attractive—in a silver-fox kind of way—so it wasn’t that. No. I think that maybe it was the mysterious edge of danger he wore extremely well.

The
ding
of the elevator sounded, breaking our mutual assessment of each other.

“You need a hand taking those to your place?” he asked, pointing to my groceries while he held the door open with his arm.

I shook my head and stepped into the elevator. “No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Not a problem. Nice to meet you, Em.”

“Same.” I blushed again, and forced a smiled until the doors closed and I was safe.

Safe from baked bean Mike.

And safe from myself.

***

Later that night, after unpacking and making myself a quick toasted cheese-sandwich, I sat down to get in a few hours of work, opting to tackle my holiday washing in the morning. The onsite laundry was on level one, not far from creepy Charles’s apartment, and I didn’t fancy venturing there without Cori as back up.

Switching on my laptop, I waited for it to load so that I could log onto the interface. The bastard thing was so slow. Aggravating. I really did need to invest in a new one. It did, however, allow me to multitask, so I grabbed my phone to answer H’s message while I waited.

When I clicked on the envelope icon, I noticed a few responses to the group text I’d sent, but ignored them, heading straight to H. It had been more than twenty-four hours since responding, which was, in hindsight, a long time for us.

Mr Happy: You home yet?

Despite our recent tiff, I couldn’t deny that I appreciated his concern for me. One thing he’d always had the ability to do was make me feel safe. It was uncanny.

Em: I am now.

Just sat down to work.

It’s been a busy week,

so I need to get in some hours.

I logged on to SexyTexts and was just about to start typing when he responded.

Mr Happy: I won’t keep you then.

Glad you’re home safe.

His abrupt response and willingness to leave me be took me by surprise. This type of behaviour was unchartered territory where he was concerned. But I couldn’t complain. I’d requested it to be this way. I would have to get used to it.

Em: Thank you. xo

Talk soon.

He didn’t respond, so I stretched my fingers out before me, clicked my neck from side to side, and prepared for a sexting session to end all sexting sessions.

Lady N: Evening. Where are all my men?

I want satisfaction.

Who wants to give it to me?

As per usual, it didn’t take long for the hits to come rolling in.

Legopener: I’ll give you what you need.

Just tell me what.

L always wanted me to do the legwork, pun unintended.

Lady N: L, you should know what I want by now.

Cumsalot: I’ll give you a face full of cum.

Is that what you want?

Oh yes, C, a jizz facial is what every respectable woman wants. Dickwad.

Lady N: C, yes.

Then I can lick it all off.

Kinkmaster: Be my sub and I’ll satisfy you.

Kinkmaster had been quite regular during the last few sessions, and even though he had a tendency to call me names I didn’t like, he was filling my hip pocket. So reluctantly, I was willing to give him the honour of being K. My other K, King of Cocks, had gone AWOL.

Lady N: K, must I refer to you as sir?

Kinkmaster: Yes. And use your manners.

I prefer a polite whore.

Oh, here we go. I’m a whore tonight. Well, you’re nothing but a useless choad.

Lady N: I’m sorry, sir.

Please forgive me.

Please forgive me for planting my foot firmly up your disgusting arse if I ever see you face-to-face.

Mr Happy: Good evening, love.

You know only I can give you satisfaction.

I sucked in a short breath and jumped ever-so-slightly in my seat. Seeing H’s sext on the screen threw my heart and mind into a whirling battle of right and wrong. But was it wrong to sext him on the interface? I wasn’t sure that it was. Then again, was this just continuing what I’d asked be stopped for both our sake’s?
Damn it, H.  Why do you do this to me?

Grabbing my phone, I sent him a message.

Em: What do you think you’re doing?

Of course, I didn’t have to wait long for my answer, and it was one that I couldn’t argue with, even if I’d wanted to.

H: What I’m good at.

I push. You fall.

I walk away. You don’t move at all.

I tell you everything that is wrong with me, you …
us
.

Yet you hear my voiceless words and never give up.

I could strangle him. I could kick him. I could punch, slap, and hug him. Yeah, I could hug him, because I’d never come across anyone so unrelenting and stubborn in my life. Even at the beginning of our relationship when I’d pushed him away because my mind was a tangled web of confusion, self-hate, self-doubt, and self-destruction, he never gave up. Never walked away. Never abandoned me when he knew that somehow I needed him. So why I thought he would so easily wave the white flag when I’d told him to back off was beyond me.

I should’ve known better.

Em: This doesn’t change anything.

You know that, right?

Mr Happy: I’m waiting for my sext response.

Hurry up. Time is money and money is time.

Fuck you! Time is what you’ll be wishing you never had when I delete your sorry arse from my phone contacts. Grr …

Waking up my laptop screen by rapidly circling my mouse, I refreshed the interface page, re-read what he’d written, and then answered his fucking sext.

Lady N: H, no, I don’t know that only you can satisfy me.

I’m very hard to please, you know?

Mr Happy: Me stroking my cock

while thinking of you

doesn’t make you happy?

I closed my eyes and sucked in a long, slow breath, trying desperately not to think about his words. His goddamn words.
Can I just ignore him? Sure. Of course I can.

Kinkmaster: I don’t think I will forgive you, Lady N.

I think I will punish your whore pussy instead. I stuck my finger up at the screen.

“Punish this, you wanker.” I was so close to giving this Kinkmaster Thundercunt a piece of my mind, but never in the two years I’d been sexting had I ever lost my shit and abused someone. I was super-nice. Professional. At peace. One with my inner chakra.
Blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda.

So no, I wasn’t about to let this idiot bring out my inner Annie Wilkes. Instead, I would kill him with kink-kindness.

Lady N: K, Yes, please punish my pretty little pussy.

She likes being punished.

I bit back a smile. If he were the type of sexter I thought he was, he would not like my insubordination.

Cumsalot: I want to watch you lick

my cum from around your mouth.

I want to watch you lick dog shit, but we can’t always get what we want.

Clearly, I wasn’t in the best of sexting moods.

Lady N: C, I’d do it nice and slow for you.

As I prepared to type another response, H’s smiley face popped up on my screen.

Mr Happy: Lady N, you’re wet;

I know you are.

And thinking of my hand on my cock is why.

I ignored him. I wasn’t thinking about his cock. I was thinking about dog shit.
Ew. I don’t want to think about dog shit.

Moving on.

Kinkmaster: I will punish

whatever I want to fucking punish.

I will punish your mouth if you’re not careful.

Oh, go punish a fart. Loser.
I was done with this idiot, and I needed a top-up of my Milo and to grab some Tim Tams. Chocolate would be my saviour tonight.

Lady N: I need to change my panties.

The ones I’m wearing are drenched.

Naughty boys.

I’ll be back later. xo

Logging out, I pulled the laptop lid down and flopped back on the couch, covering my eyes with my hands when my phone did what it always bloody did—beeped.

Mr Happy: I didn’t get my money’s worth.

Seriously? Grr
ing yet again, I typed him a reply.

Em: You’re lucky I didn’t give

you a whole lot more.

Mr Happy: Now you’re talking.

A whole lot more of what?

“Argh!” I yelled, gripping my hair.

Em: You are such a pain in my arse.

Mr Happy: You have no idea how much

I want to be a pain in your arse.

That’s it! I give up. I. Give. Up.

Em: Going to bed.

I hope you have nightmares.

Goodnight.

Mr Happy: Come on. You have to admit

you walked right into that last one.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I just watched my screen, glaring at it, as if my distaste could somehow reach him.

Mr Happy: I never have nightmares when I dream of you.

Mr Happy: Don’t be angry.

Mr Happy: I behaved. I really did.

Mr Happy: I could’ve said what

I really wanted to say.

But I didn’t.

Mr Happy: I know you’re reading these.

Mr Happy: Okay. Go to sleep.

Sweet dreams, love xo

Sweet dreams?
How was I supposed to have sweet dreams when Brad was miles away and H was driving me crazy? No, my dreams weren’t going to be sweet. They were going to be sour.

***

The following morning, I was up bright and early, having decided to ride my bike to the Brighton Beach Boxes instead of running along The Esplanade. Despite the copious photographs Cori had taken of brightly coloured beach shacks that were hanging on our walls, I loved seeing them in real life, lined up in a row along the sand. There was just something about the array of colours and designs the small sheds were painted in that invigorated me and put my mood in a good place for the rest of the day. And a good start to the day was exactly what I needed after the evening I’d had with work and H.

Wheeling my bike out of the elevator and down the path past the residents’ car garages, I nearly dropped the thing when a deep voice came out of nowhere, scaring me.

“Nice day for it.”

“Jesus, fuck … you scared me,” I said, fumbling with my bike and struggling to keep it upright.

Biker Mike jumped up from his squatted position near his motorcycle and reached out, holding my bike steady, the smell of grease and cigarette smoke attacking my sense of smell.

I coughed. “Thanks.”

“Shit. Sorry.” He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and butted it on the ground. “Been trying to quit for months now.”

“Quitting habits, whether good or bad, is hard. But you’ve got to really want to do it, ya know?”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience. You used to be a smoker?” Mike kept his hand on the centre of my handlebars, his wrist brace a contradiction to his bad-arse persona.

I shook my head and smiled. “No. Other bad habits. So has baked beans weightlifting been helping with that?”

He looked down at his hand, released it from my bike, and chuckled awkwardly. “Nah, not yet. But I’ll keep persisting.”

“Good idea. Keep at it. Forming a habit can be just as difficult as breaking one.” I went to bid him farewell and continue walking when he prolonged our conversation.

“So, where you riding to?” he asked, pulling a dirty rag from his back jeans pocket and wiping his face with it. “I’m new to the area so don’t know much about it.”

“Yeah? Where are you from?”

“Rural Victoria. You probably haven’t heard of it. Small, boring, nothing-in-it town,” he said, dismissively.

“Oh. Okay.” I gave him a small smile, but didn’t probe him for any more information he obviously didn’t want to give.

“So where you headed?”

“To the Beach Boxes.”

“Beach Boxes?”

“Yeah, brightly coloured bathing sheds. There’s a whole heap of them on Dendy Street Beach. It’s a half hour ride along the Bay Trail.”

He squinted his eyes, appearing to assess what I’d said. “Why would you ride to bathing sheds? You goin’ for a swim?”

“No. Although … the weather is perfect for a dip. I might just stop and twinkle my toes in the water.” I winked. “No, the reason I’m riding there is because they’re beautiful. Trust me. You should ride your motorbike and check them out at some stage.”

“Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll get myself one of those pedalling things you have there,” he said, nodding toward my bike, “and then you can show me where they are?”

His question sounded more like a suggestion, as if he’d already decided it was going to happen. The guy was nice; yeah, not bad-looking; yeah, but he was also just a tad cocky.

“Maybe. Or you could ride your motorbike there. It’s only ten-or-so minutes that way,” I said, pointing toward The Esplanade and to my left. “Anyway, gotta go before it gets too hot. Bye.”

I placed my helmet on my head, swung my leg over the seat, and pedalled away, cruising at a steady pace past the marina and over the canal bridge. The Bay Trail was an easy ride: pedestrian-heavy at some points, but for the most part, peaceful and non-strenuous. It meant you didn’t have to think about your surroundings all that much, which also meant you automatically thought of other things or other people instead. Like cocky, older biker neighbours.

My guess was that Mike was roughly forty years old. Handsome, in a rugged way, he was tall with a slim build and heavily defined arms. His dark brown hair was lightly peppered with grey, and his face was accentuated with deep crease lines on his forehead and around his mouth. Oh, and his eyes were a shade of hazel—not quite green, not quite brown. For an older dude, he was kinda alright.

Slowing down and pulling to a stop, I parked my bike and locked it onto the public bike rack then made my way down to the beach, sitting in front of my favourite beach box—a turquoise and orange one with seagulls painted on the doors. I just loved it. Out of the eighty-two brightly coloured sheds, for some reason it just called out to me.

Digging my feet into the warm sand, granules bunched in between my toes. It made me smile every time. There was just something euphoric about the feeling, and one of the many reasons why I adored living by the beach.

I pulled out my phone from within my bra and took a footfie—also known as a photo of your feet—making sure to capture the waveless, calm water in the background. I then sent it to Brad.

Em: How am I supposed to surf in this?

He didn’t respond, so I leaned back on my hands and looked up to the sky, closing my eyes as I offered my face and neck to be kissed by the warmth of the sun. And what an amazing kisser the sun was. It had my skin blushing in no time, which also meant that I needed to cool down before the ride back home. So standing up, I made my way to the water’s edge, runners dangling from my hand as I walked along the beach, tiny waves tickling the sand until I was back at the entrance path.

As I began to climb the small hill to the bike rack, I noticed Mike standing at the Beach Box information sign, ten or so metres to my right. He was deep in concentration, reading facts about the iconic location, therefore hadn’t noticed me. And I kinda didn’t want him to notice me, because I felt a little weirded out. I picked up my pace and headed for my bike.