The Goodbye Ride (2 page)

She tore her gaze back to his
face. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really.” The laughter in
his eyes told her she’d been caught staring.

Olivia Murphy did not like
being laughed at. Not by men she’d just met, however nun-flushing they might
be. “I appreciate your help, but if you’ll excuse me. I’m heading to number
twelve. I’ve bought that bike I think you were ogling.”

Frown lines creased his
forehead and for a moment she thought he might be older than she’d first
guessed, maybe late-twenties instead of mid. Then he smiled and those extra
years fell away. He had even white teeth, the slightest gap up front. “The For
Sale sign’s still up.”

“It must be a mistake,” Liv
snapped, stepping past him. Her legs felt a little wobbly, but the worst of the
slippery muck was behind her, or perhaps, smeared on her behind. Either way she
didn’t care. What she wanted was to knock on Dean Lang’s door, pay her deposit
for the Ducati, and take the bike back where it belonged.

Owen fell in to step beside
her—a silent shadow at the corner of her eye—and they walked together up the
driveway incline to a flat carpet of lawn bordered by scraggy-branched roses
that made the first tier of a two-tier garden.

The bike gleamed dully in the
fading afternoon light. Owen was right, the For Sale sign was still there,
anchored between a brick and the Ducati’s rear wheel. Twelve-thousand dollars
it read, ONO. Liv had scraped together ten. Until six minutes ago when Owen
slammed that car door, she would have thought it would be enough. Now she had
competition.

Buying the bike had been all
she could think of since Dean Lang told her he was selling the Duke for his son,
Harley, who wanted to finance a backpacking holiday of Europe.

The Langs gave Olivia first
refusal.

She’d told them she needed a
few weeks to get her April and May invoices out, so her grapegrower clients had
time to pay. Each month their cheques took longer to trickle in. Everyone
thought wine was such a glamorous industry but
boy,
it was tough right
now.

They reached the bike on the
same footstep and both Owen and Liv put out a hand. Liv trailed her fingertips
over the cold red metal of the fuel tank. Owen patted the black leather seat.
It was a slow, loving stroke from front to back, like someone might pat a cat.

“I don’t know why it hasn’t
sold,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

“He’s asking way too much.”

“You think?”

Liv squatted by the front
forks, checking for leaf tannin stains on the paintwork. “I don’t
think,
I know.”

The problem was, this coming
weekend was the Queen’s Birthday June holiday and that meant every rich kid in
Adelaide would be joy-riding through the Hills. They wouldn’t know if the Duke
was overpriced. They were just the type of cashed-up buyer Dean Lang hoped to
tempt, whether Liv had first refusal or not.

She had to get the Ducati off
this front verge.

“Seriously. I don’t think you
want this bike, Olivia. It needs new tyres, and the rear shocks are shot,” Owen
began conversationally.

“I rode it Tuesday. There’s
nothing wrong with the shocks.”

“I rode it yesterday. It burns
oil.”

Damn. He’s done his
homework.
The Ducati had
always burned oil. It had burned oil before her father made Luke sell it.
She
racked her brain for something to put Owen off, anything. She couldn’t lose
this bike. “I bet your girlfriend won’t like it.”

Owen laughed. “Why wouldn’t my
girlfriend like it?”

“She’ll get helmet hair.”
Helmet
hair. Really Liv? Is that the best you can do?

“Now you’re clutching at
straws.”

Liv straightened from her
crouch, planting her hands either end of the Ducati’s seat. “So why this
particular bike, Owen? It’s hardly the latest bright, shiny model.”

Before he could answer, the
screen door of the Lang’s house clattered open and Mr Lang stepped smiling
into the afternoon, rubbing his hands. “Cold enough out here for you?”

He was a big man. Swarthy. If
it had been summer, Liv knew she would see the tattoos that sleeved each
massive arm, but it was June and in June, most sane men covered up. Macho
Neanderthals (however gallantly they might peel a girl from the pavement) were
the exception to the rule.

“I’ve got your deposit, Mr
Lang,” Liv said. “I told you I’d be here Thursday?”

Quick as a flash, Owen added:
“I’m in the market for her too, Dean.”

Liv clenched the strap of her
handbag hard into her shoulder. “I have first refusal, Owen. Don’t I—” and she
looked Mr Lang in his eye and cooed: “
Dean.
”

“Well now, kids,” Dean Lang
said, rubbing a spot near his watch.

Liv pulled the plastic bag
from her handbag and Dean’s eyes lit on the folded hundreds.

“Well now,” he said again.

“This is a thousand dollars
deposit. Ten percent. My Dad sold the bike to you for eleven grand and it was
in better condition then. It burns oil.”

“Yeah, but it’s a few years
older now, Liv. She’s almost vintage now, this one.” His eyes hurried to Owen.
“So what about you, buddy? What are you thinking?”

Owen had his hand in the back
pocket of his black shorts. A bulging leather wallet appeared and he dug out a
cheque. A bank cheque.

Liv couldn’t get past the
wallet. Hahndorf had a renowned leathersmith and Owen’s looked like one of his
best. Supple leather. Exquisite stitching. She bet if she sniffed it, it would
smell rich.

“Eleven thousand, five
hundred, Dean.” Owen held out the cheque.

Liv felt her pulse skip, then
start to fly.
Eleven thousand, five hundred dollars?
It was a great
bike, but it wasn’t worth that price.
It wasn’t.
Well, maybe not to anyone
but her.

“Well now.” Dean Lang cleared
his throat. His fingers closed on half of the cheque.

“Mr Lang, you promised— ” Liv
blurted. “Please. It was Luke’s bike!”

“Sorry, love. I know you’ve
been through a lot and I’d help out if I could, but that’s right up with
Harley’s asking price. You said you needed time to get the cash together, but
if the best you can do is ten, I can’t pass up an extra fifteen hundred.” He
tugged at the cheque. “That pays Harley’s aeroplane ticket.”

“Who is Luke?” Owen Carson asked
Olivia, not letting go of the cheque.

“Guy what used to own the
bike,” Lang interjected before Liv could speak. His tongue slipped from his
mouth and splashed his bottom lip. “Sorry love. No hard feelings?”

Lang almost tore the cheque
from Owen’s grasp. “So, I’ll go inside and get the paperwork. You’ll want to
take it now?”

Owen Carson
Arsehole
nodded. “If you can help me get it in the back of my ute?”

“Sure, mate. I got a ramp we
can use in me shed. Back in a jiffy.”

Lang all but sprinted for his
house. Liv heard him yell: “Guy came yesterday wants the bike, Sal. Where’d you
put them papers I had near the phone?”

And the answer: “Well they’re
not up my bum, Dean.”

Owen chuckled.

“Eleven and a half thousand
dollars? Serious?” Liv rounded on him, fighting the bitter lump lodged in her
throat.

“It’s a 650 Pantah, Olivia.
It’s a collector’s item. I checked them out online and I know they’re rare. And
this one? Well, she’s a beauty.” Owen’s eyes connected with hers, laughter
danced a tango in those charcoal depths, and suddenly the laugh vanished and
Liv wasn’t sure they were talking about the Ducati anymore.

“Why is that bike so special
to you?” He asked in such an earnest tone, Liv felt a sharp prickle of tears.

“It was my brother’s bike. My
father made my brother sell it. I don’t see how it matters. It doesn’t change
anything.” She kept the shake out of her voice, but it took all her effort.

“He
made
him sell it?
Why? Did your brother crash it?”

Her throat worked, but no
sound came. This time she knew if she didn’t get away, she was going to cry.
You couldn’t let the bastards see you cry. How many times had she said that to
her brother over the years?

Liv ducked her head and turned
away. “Enjoy the Duke, Owen. She’s a great bike.”

“What did he mean when he said
you’ve been through a lot?” Owen called after her, but Liv was at the footpath
now, where cars heading to the city picked up speed, and commuters on the
homeward journey downshifted gears and dropped revs. Tyres splashed on wet
roads. It was easy to pretend she hadn’t heard.

Chapter
2

Every muscle ached. The
bone-crunching cold made it worse and Liv’s thoughts were as bleak as her
steps. If a mugger decided to rob her now he could have snatched her bag
without a fight.

She crossed the main road at
the only set of lights and limped around the corner into Old Balhannah Road,
trying to figure out what she would say to Ben. How did she tell him she didn’t
have the Duke? How did she tell him the goodbye ride was over before it even
began?

When her brother was alive,
Luke and Ben rode to Mannum every weekend, riding double on the Ducati. Luke
said they could be themselves up there. Just hang out. No one knew them. None
of the local Redneck boys were there to give them grief.

Of course, Ben would chip in
that it was really all about the cheesy bacon pies at the Mannum Bakery—how
they were the best pies in South Australia—because he just had to be contrary.

Riding the Ducati to Mannum
was the best way she and Ben could think of to say a final goodbye to Luke—Liv
on the Duke, Ben on his Honda—it would have felt like Luke was riding with both
of them, one last time.

She was the world’s biggest
idiot for getting Ben’s hopes up, but it had never entered her head that
someone else might buy the Duke. When she’d heard it was for sale, she’d
thought it was fate.

Damn Owen Carson and his
big black wallet.

Liv checked over her shoulder.
The road was clear and she crossed near the new childcare centre. Kids hung
tiny arms through the fence, noses pressed through bars, seeking the parents
who would soon finish work and take them home.

“Hi, buddy,” she said to a boy
of about three who looked as sad as she felt. He’d jammed his plastic spade
through the bars and stood whacking it back and forth, crying, because he couldn’t
get it out.

Liv stopped long enough to
twist the spade upright so it slipped back through the bars.

“What do you say, Hamish?”
said a little girl solemnly, to the now-happy boy.

“Fanks you.”

Liv felt her lips curve in a
smile. “No worries buddy.”

The childcare centre sat on
land that once belonged to the Hahndorf Private School. When they built the
childcare, the playground had been relocated further up Old Balhannah Road.

She and Luke used to go to
that playground most days after school. The private school playground had
better gear than the public school where the Murphy kids went, and the private
school kids didn’t hang around to taunt her timid little brother. Even way back
then, children marked Luke as different.

Liv stared over the fence at
the climbing frames and swings, see-saws, rungs and ladders—silent now and
still, waiting for something to prod it into action.

A bit like my life.

Now where had that thought
come from? She was happy enough in her life.
Wasn’t she?
She had her
work. Her health. Her friends. Well. She had Ben.

It was hard to keep
friendships when she worked around the clock. She’d just come through her
second grape harvest season since starting her viticulture consultancy and that
meant most weekends from February to May she was too tired to do anything more
social than collapse into bed with a book.

Liv didn’t do movies or make-up or
Facebook—she had more interest in cricket than clothes—and she’d been burned
before. She’d lost count of the girls who only wanted to be friends with her so
they could get closer to her gorgeous brother. As far back as high school women
saw the ‘turning’ of Luke Murphy as a personal challenge.

Living with her parents didn’t
help either. It was impossible to invite people around when her mother couldn’t
stop herself following them around the house, a cloth in her hand to wipe beer
bottle rings from the coffee table.

Dammit, Olivia. That’s
enough. Get over yourself!

Before she had time to really
think it through, Liv lifted the childproof latch on the playground gate.

Dumping her handbag near the
swing, she sat in the seat and took the cold steel chains in her palms.

Rubber moulded to her
backside, a tighter fit than when she’d had little-girl hips. She dug her heels
into the ground and pushed backward. When she let go, she hurtled through air
that seemed to wrap itself around her legs: a bittersweet blanket.