Ringer (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Miranda

There was a good
chance that I would get over my car.

Aside from the throbbing pain of my big
toe, the ludicrously early hour of the morning, and the fact I was now stranded
in the very last place on earth I wanted to be, I knew I would get over it. My
fury had already started to dissipate.

Until I saw him.

Lurking in the shadows like a snake. I
mean, did he honestly think I wouldn’t be able to see him? The giant
human-shaped shadow peering from the verandah?

Idiot.

When it came to lessons on sneaking around
Moira Station I was fully qualified on the matter; I had enough connections in
order to sneakily weave my way into town undetected every chance I had, so
utterly desperate to escape, just like I wanted to now.

I didn’t care how much noise I was making,
I knew my parents would never hear me, their bedroom was right at the back of
the house in their little parents’ wing. Moira might have heard something if
she wasn’t snoring her head off and listening to music through her headphones.

All probably just as well. I had had enough
of my parents’ preaching and I had only been home for eight hours. I had hoped
maybe they would have adopted the same kind of laid-back, carefree attitude
when they would come and see me in Paris. In fact, I had really enjoyed
‘holiday’ Mum and Dad, it was almost like they were different people. But when
I came home they were ‘farmer’ Mum and Dad: stressed, overworked, overtired,
and full of questions and opinions. It had taken me two-point-five seconds to begin
arguing with my mum when she came into my room. Instead of being glad to see
me, it appeared Dad, the traitor, had relayed my dramatic homecoming, and my
offensive behaviour. Yeah, of course I knew it was out of line; could I have
stopped myself? Pfft. No! And furthermore, I really didn’t want to have to be
reminded of it every day of my time spent here, time I had hoped would be up as
I threw all my belongings into the beast and drove off into the night.

Yeah, well, that wasn’t going to happen. So
my intention was, of course, to get as far away from my parents as possible.
Seeing as it wasn’t to be by blazing a dusty trail out the gate, it would just
have to be in the shearers’ huts. There was a less likely chance of my parents
looming in my doorway with disapproving stares if I was out of sight, out of
mind.

Aside from being pissed off about his
spying, there was no doubt that Ringer (my dad’s new pet) would have grabbed
the best of the rooms, so much to my increasing burning hatred, I would have to
settle for the room next to it. It still had a decent enough and less primitive
set-up than the rest.

Before he had a chance to skulk away, as I
approached the verandah steps, I called him out.

“Why don’t you take a picture, it will last
longer,” I said, inwardly cringing as the words tumbled out of my mouth.

What, was I in a high school?

What had been scurried steps moving back
along towards his room suddenly stilled. And by the time I had stepped up onto
the verandah, he was standing in the open doorway to his room, looking at me
with an incredulous dark stare.

“Nice night for spying,” I said.

Ringer’s mouth gaped, his brows knitted
together.

“Spying?” he repeated, his anger barely
contained. “Me?” he said, pointing to his chest.

I stopped before him, cocking my head and
readjusting my bag on my shoulder.

“Do you see any other weirdo lurking in the
shadows?”

“Weirdo?” he scoffed. “More like being
woken up by that hideous sound your shit box of a car was making; I thought you
were going to crash it through my fucking wall.”

“It’s not a shit box,” I snapped.

“No, of course not, she purrs like a
kitten,” he said smugly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in the
open doorway to his room. Right at that moment I really wanted to punch him in
the face, but I think Mum and Dad might have me committed for acts of violence,
or worse. Home detention.

“Hey, Ringer?”

His brows rose in surprise, as if the sound
of me referring to him by name was not expected.

“Just do me a favour and stay out of my
way,” I said, weary with fatigue as I gathered my belongings and made my way to
the room next door.

“Well, Mir-an-da,” he said, deliberately
emphasising my name. “It might be a little tricky, you know, now that we’re
neighbours and all.”

“Just keep the noise down,” I said,
juggling to open my door as I twisted the handle and kicked it open. Making
sure to give him a parting poignant ‘I’m-not-joking death stare.’ Unfortunately
I was met with a devious grin as he watched on from his doorway.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t rev my
engine for you.”

I dumped my bags inside the door and coolly
and casually walked back towards Ringer, who watched my every move with guarded
uncertainty, but that smart-arse glimmer was still in his eyes. I came to a
stop right before him, close enough to be momentarily distracted by his breath
that blew down on me.

I squared my shoulders, not thinking about
that sensation. “If you call me sweetheart again, I will put sugar in your fuel
tank; do I make myself clear?”

Ringer’s jaw clenched, any trace of humour
drained away with my threatening words. I had finally found his Achilles heel:
his beloved Ford.

“My mistake.” He nodded in a gentlemanly
manner.

It was almost like my ego had been stroked
as I took it as a small victory. I nodded in return before spinning on my heel
and heading back to my door.

“Of course, in order to call you that, you
would firstly have to have a heart.”

I stilled, turning towards him, dumbfounded
that he was still talking. My eyes locked with his.

“And as for the former,” he said, pushing
off from his doorframe, “there is nothing sweet about you.”

Before I could even take in his sledge, he
had walked into his room and slammed the door behind him.

Chapter Nine

Ringer

I thought at
first I was hearing things, then as I pressed my ear to the wall the very
reality hit me like a ton of bricks.

No-no-no-no-no. Fuck!

Miranda was crying.

A soft sob that made my shoulders sag in
defeat; never before had I felt like such a giant arsehole. I hadn’t even
gotten a great amount of satisfaction in baiting her like I should. She was
obviously planning to leave for a reason; something had obviously gone down bad
enough for her to want to be away from her family, so bad that she resorted to
sleeping next to me.

Definitely rock bottom.

I should have just walked straight up to
the bloody car, asked if she was okay. Instead of getting my back up every time
she was around me. Sure, she didn’t exactly bring out the best in me but that
gave me no right to accuse her of having no heart, because listening to the
whimpers next door, regardless of her icy façade, she had feelings. I made a
mental note to just be a bit more …
thoughtful
in the light of day.

Ah, Christ, I felt like shit.

I ran my hand through my hair, pulling away
from the wall; I started pacing hoping that the distance from it would leave me
unable to hear it. No such luck.

Even standing over the opposite side of the
room, I could clearly hear her crying, as she became more distraught and
consumed by emotion. It was clear; I was getting no sleep tonight. The guilt
wouldn’t let me. At first she tried to contain her sound, but now it seemed
like it was the breath hitching, sobbing kind of tears, and they were the
worst. Harder to control, impossible to ignore.

Please, please, anything but tears. Be a
bitch, treat me like dirt, and make my life a nightmare. Just. Don’t. Cry.

I sat on the edge of my bed, my head buried
in my hands as a war raged inside of me. I blew out a long breath and lifted my
head, staring at the thin wall that divided us.

Fuck!

Before reason or logic could come flooding
into my mind, I stood and made my way to my door. I made no effort to creep
around or worry about being heard, I let the full force of my footsteps be
heard on the decked floor. And as I came to stand directly in front of her
door, I inhaled deeply, praying that she would insist she was fine and tell me
to go away.

I knocked lightly on the door.

“Miranda?”

I knocked a second time, this time harder,
met by silence. I knocked for a third time, harder still.

“Miranda, are you okay?”

“Go away,” she croaked.

“Listen, I just want to say … I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I am, I didn’t mean it … I just, wasn’t
thinking.” Every word came out of my mouth stagnated and wooden; it was as if
apologising was such a foreign thing to me, but thinking about it, it wasn’t
something I did, well …
ever.

“Sure, easy to say sorry to a door,” she
scoffed.

I closed my eyes, praying for the strength;
here I was debating my authenticity at some ungodly hour through a door, trying
to comfort some princess. I counted to three, reminding myself to be more
‘thoughtful’.

“Fine, I’m coming in,” I called out.

If it was the last thing I would do, I
would look her in the eye, apologise, take a hit to my pride and get the hell
out of there. Surely with no car noise and no more crying I could sleep long
and peacefully.

Without waiting for permission, I pushed
the door open so quickly, there was little time to register the sensation of
ice-cold water that came swooshing down on me, thoroughly drenching me,
followed by the bucket landing perfectly on top of my head. I was frozen; the
only thing snapping me out of my state of shock was the maniacal laughter, no,
more like cackle sound muffled from beyond the bucket that sat skew-whiff on my
head.

Son of a bitch.

I slowly pulled it off, whipping the water
from my face and shaking my hair. I scowled above me, the bucket in my hand
tied with a string that looped above the door, my dumbfounded stare then locked
onto Miranda.

And she was far from crying; in fact, she
looked positively radiant, not one tear shed, well, maybe from laughter as she
stood on the bed, bouncing on the balls of her feet in hysterics. Her laughter
finally caught in her throat as she noticed my murderous stare.

I thought she might have looked a tad bit
worried, or held some form of regret; instead, she playfully bit her knuckle
and winced, trying not to laugh.

“Oops,” she said.

It was all I needed. I threw the bucket to
the side and strode across the room. Miranda squealed, jumped off the bed and
to the side as I tried to lunge towards her. I caught the edge of her black
cardigan that she spun her way out of until all I held in my hand was the cardi
itself.

Shit!

She dove for the door and darted outside. I
dropped the clothing and took off after her into the darkness, our feet making
loud pudding booms as we bolted along the decking away from the homestead, away
from the shearing quarters. I was in hot pursuit, and she was fast, Christ, she
was fast. I felt like a greyhound chasing a wild rabbit. I could see her blonde
hair flailing in the wind, the warm summer night drying my clothes as I tore up
the dirt and made up ground after her. She disappeared into one of the out
buildings and I knew I was in trouble; she knew this place better than me and I
knew if I lost sight of her that would be it. Luckily, inside was a massive
open space, our movements tripping a sensor light and flooding the space with
light. Save for an old bomb work ute that she sought refuge behind. Her
breathing was laboured, and without the cardi on, she only had a skimpy,
spaghetti-strap, sheer top underneath, low cut, her cleavage covered in a
slight sheen of sweat. Her hair was wild and her cheeks were flushed. I tried
to control my own breath as I leant my hands on the car; I also tried to
control my wandering eyes. I’m sure she noticed them dip down to her chest.

Now was not the time for a raging hard
on, Ringer.

We would be here all night; I had to make
her move to the right, that way I stood a better chance of closing in the space
with little escape. So I did what I knew would work; I glanced to my right,
faking out as if my thought was to go that way, all the while my body went the
opposite, as did she. She all but bolted into my arms and I latched onto her
with my iron grip, her eyes wide with shock, her breathing shallow. After
wondering what the mysterious eyes behind the glasses looked like, I was now in
a position where I was staring into their arresting bluey-green depths, so
close, I could make out speckled colours of lighter hues around the edges.

We were both breathing hard, her breasts
pressed against my chest, the heat of her skin burning through my wet clothes.
Miranda bit her lip as her cat-like eyes broke from mine and flicked to my
mouth for the briefest moment. I couldn’t help but smile; her eyes darted away
so fast I could imagine she would be cursing herself for that moment of
weakness. However brief it had been, it was still there, and the man in me
soared to the surface. Could the wild-eyed beauty be tamed, I wondered? I
became momentarily distracted by Miranda pressing together her perfect rosy
lips, causing my own eyes to stray. I took it for an unspoken invitation. And
just when I was about to loosen my grip a little, I saw something spark in her
eyes, right before I felt the searing pain stab into my foot as she stomped the
heel of her boot into me. I winced, instantly letting go, and she bolted once
more.

“Fuuuuck,” I said through gritted teeth.
Her boots were obviously not made for kicking cars, but perfect for stomping on
men.

I limped out of the out building, wet and
injured. I spotted her running back up the verandah and diving back into her
room, slamming her door. I glowered after her, dragging my foot in the dirt as
I stomped my way up the deck. Stopping by her door, I felt like
laughing—thinking only moments before, I was here pleading for forgiveness.

What a joke.

This time I was here for a whole other
reason, as I twisted the handle and pushed.

Locked. Cute.

If she honestly thought that would keep me
out she was sorely mistaken.

I stood back a little, aiming to kick with
my non-broken foot; it took all but two swift kicks to have the rickety
shearer’s door burst open.

Miranda squealed, her back pressed up
against the bedhead, fear wild in her eyes.

This time she had nowhere to go, she had
backed herself into a corner. I smiled, because she knew it and I knew it. I
felt it in her defeated slump as I reached out and snaked my hand around her
wrist and dragged her from the bed with a yelp.

Without a word I pulled her to her feet and
yanked her out the door, her steps working quickly to keep up with my long,
determined strides along the decked verandah.

“Let me go,” she cried, trying to twist out
of my grasp.

“Umm … no,” I said, flashing her a grin.

“I swear to God, Ringer, if you don’t let
me go I’ll …”

Her words fell away as her attention turned
to what lay ahead of her, her eyes wide and filled with fury as her head snapped
up to meet my eyes.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”