Pistol Read online

  “Credit cards. Drain ‘em. The fucker’s deserve it.”

  ****

  Steph pulled the sheet up over her head and groaned. Waking up the day after a long night out was never fun. Especially when the shrill resonance of her mobile ring-tone was the reason for the disturbance.

  She dropped her legs out of bed, and sat on the side as she reached for the phone. She slid the screen, pushed the speaker button, and set it down on the nightstand again. “Good morning, Mum.”

  “Only just.”

  “What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes, then stretched.

  “Almost eleven-thirty,” her mother remarked dryly. “Out all night were we?”

  “For the most part.”

  “I take it Dave isn’t home then if you managed such a big sleep-in?”

  “No, he’s not.” She couldn’t be bothered with the effort it took to recount all over again what had happened. Especially to her.

  “Well, I called to let you know the Peterson’s are having a BBQ tonight. Your brother will meet us there, and I thought since you’re relatively close you might want to do the same.”

  “Yeah, sure. What time?”

  “Five onwards. Take whatever you’d like to drink. I’ll bring a dish for all of us.”

  Steph scrubbed her hands over her face before she answered. “Right, I’ll see you then.”

  “Bye, dear.”

  She disconnected the call, and flopped back on the bed. The Petersons were family friends, and one bunch she didn’t mind making the time for. Their two sons had attended the same Primary and Secondary school as Steph and her brother, and the four of them still kept in touch. Thankfully, Dave wasn’t one for being social as a ‘couple’, so there should be no questions about his absence. With a woodpecker hammering away on the inside of her skull, the day wasn’t the best one to field twenty-questions from her mother on the split. Steph sat up and grabbed her phone to send a text to Ivan, the Peterson’s oldest.

  You going to be at your parents tonight?

  She tossed the mobile on the bed, pushed off, and sighed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Sleep dishevelled hair, and worn PJ’s gave her a rough appearance that could shock a blind man first thing in the morning. She dragged her feet into the en suite, and ran warm water over a face cloth. Doing little to refresh her appearance, she returned to the bedroom as a message sounded.

  Sure will.

  She punched in a response.

  Awesome. I’ll bring your hoodie.

  A spring clean in her wardrobe a few weeks back had turned up a long lost hoodie of Ivan’s that she had forgotten she borrowed. Steph reached into the shelves, and pulled the sweatshirt down. She ran her thumb briefly over the Fox logo, and then tossed it on the bed with her phone.

  She went through the motions: showered, ate, and eventually settled into the sofa with a bowl of apple wedges to watch re-runs of The Biggest Loser. As terrible as it sounded, the guys doing a number on Cass last night had been a blessing in disguise. They gave her the perfect excuse to lounge for the afternoon and get her pitiful grief under control. Only a singular box of Dave’s things remained at her unit, and she’d placed it at the front door signalling she wasn’t in the mood to talk, if and when he came to get it.

  The hours slipped by until Steph glanced at the microwave from her position sprawled lengthways on the sofa, and grunted. It was time to get her ass off the seat, and into attire respectable of a BBQ at a prominent magistrate’s house. She picked a ruffle-neck blouse to cover her tattoo’s since her mother preferred they weren’t so ‘on display’ when they were in the company of friends. Steph teamed the blouse with a pencil skirt, and bordello’s, then finished with a high pony-tail wrapped in a scarf. She took a last look at herself, and shrugged. Best I can do.

  The Petersons lived four blocks from where she lived, which was about a ten minute walk on a good day. But when she wore a tight skirt that restricted her stride, and heels that defied gravity, the walk became closer to twenty minutes. She passed tidy front gardens—weeded, and pruned to perfection—with Ivan’s hoodie draped over one arm. A bottle of Moscato filled her handbag, which she slung over the opposite shoulder.

  A block shy of the Petersons, she approached the final intersection she had to cross. The burn on her heel signalled a blister already formed from the unbroken shoes. She cursed at her stupid idea to wear heels she knew she couldn’t walk too far in, and leant against a light pole to adjust the heel.

  “Steph.”

  The hoodie slipped from her arm as she rushed to straighten up.

  Sharp blue eyes pierced hers, before the bartender from last night picked up the sweater, and looked it over. He held it out to her. “I would say this is yours, but I don’t think I’d be correct.”

  “Thanks.” She took it from him, and jolted as their fingers brushed.

  “Boyfriend?” He asked coldly as he pointed to the hoodie.

  She shook her head. “Friend.”

  He nodded in approval, and stepped closer. “What brings ya to this neighbourhood?”

  “Friends of the family.” She ran her gaze over his attire: white t-shirt, and tapered dark denim jeans tucked into loosely-laced boots. “What about you …?” She purposefully dragged out the last syllable to bait for a name.

  He chose to ignore her. “Business.”

  “Oh.” Who the hell did business in suburbia?

  He furrowed his brow, and then smirked. She must be as easy to read as a book. “He’s a friend, as well. I’m droppin’ in before his BBQ kicks off.”

  It couldn’t be. “Where does he live?” she asked. Her stomach surged through her abdomen like a lava lamp.

  He smirked, and smoothed the scarf over her hair. “Curious wee thing, aren’t we?”

  “I’ve got a BBQ to go to, too.”

  His expression dropped, and the cool nonchalance returned. “That so?”

  “Petersons?”

  He drew back, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “How ya know them?” He frowned.

  “They’re the family friends I mentioned. You?”

  “It’s complex.” He turned abruptly, and started across the street. His shoulders dropped, and he stopped in the middle to look back and ask, “Ya coming, or what?”

  Steph frowned, and ignored the spear of pain in her heel as she followed. He strode on in silence, hands buried deep in his pockets, and shoulders hunched. She stole glances at him every so often, unsure if the furrow in his brow was from frustration or confusion. The silence became so natural that she jumped when he finally spoke.

  “So, ah. What’s with the blouse?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Steph looked down at herself as they slowed.

  He brought them to a stop, and turned to face her. “It’s just—” He tugged at the collar. “—I like being able to see yer artwork.”

  “Oh.” She fidgeted with the hoodie to ensure each fold was evenly spaced on her arm.

  “Why are ya so nervous?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Ya are. Look at ya.” He waved a hand the length of her. “Oh, lordie.” He chuckled. “You’re shy!”

  “What?” Steph cried. “So what if I am?”

  “The girl is shy. She has tattoo’s, and she’s still shy.”

  “Piss off.” She stormed ahead—blister and all—as he roared with laughter.

  His footfalls neared behind her—the rhythm indicated he jogged to catch up. “I’m sorry, Love.”

  “No.” Steph held up her hand, and motored on the last metres to the Petersons. “We barely know each other, so here’s one piece of information about me, just for you.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I hate being mocked.”

  “No kiddin’.” He pushed his hands back in his pockets as she slowed her pace. “Well, lucky for ya, we’re here anyways.”

  “Lucky,” she muttered.

  He shadowed her up the narrow garden path, and then fe
ll back when she reached the door. Steph pushed the doorbell, and glared at him. “That wasn’t nice, you know.”

  “Bite me.” His confrontational come-back was softened by the cheeky grin he wore.

  The door opened, and she shifted her focus away from him.

  “Stephanie,” Derek Peterson beamed. “Come in, my girl.”

  She returned the hug her father’s best friend gave her, and then walked by him to enter the grand house. Mr Peterson stood aside as her companion followed on behind. “Mr O’Malley.”

  Steph stifled her snort. The guy had a quintessential Irish name. What would he reveal next? Leprechauns? Four leaf clovers? She paused at the doorway to the sitting room to wait on Derek, not entirely comfortable with barging in, despite how close the families were. O’Malley came to stop next to her, and poked his tongue out before their host caught up.

  “Go ahead, Stephanie.” Derek gestured toward the others. “I’ll be in shortly.”

  She nodded, unable to catch on to why O’Malley wasn’t going to join them in the main lounge. “Thanks for the company,” she said, and extended her hand.

  O’Malley eyed her offer, then took her hand in his, and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Stephanie.”

  She scowled at his mockery of her full name, and tried to withdraw her hand. His grip tightened. Her lips pursed. His smirk widened. She tugged again, and he let go at the last minute so she tumbled backward.

  “You all right, Stephanie?” Derek asked with a frown.

  “Fine, thank you.” Her lips pressed harder together as she battled with the desire to give Mr O’Malley pay-back.

  Despite the provocation, she decided against a scene in the entrance. She turned, and walked into the living room as composed as possible. Her mother spotted her before anyone else, and swept through the room parting the guests like Moses with the Red Sea.

  “You made it.”

  “Did you doubt I would?” Steph drew her arms into herself.

  “Of course not. What is that?” Her mother gestured to the hoodie.

  “It’s Ivan’s.”

  “Thank Heavens. I thought you wanted to start some new ‘trend’ for a moment there.”

  Steph rolled her eyes and side-stepped the woman. Her mother looked like your stereotypical Rural Wives Club member; crisp gingham shirt, and linen skirt. It wasn’t exactly news that she disapproved of Steph’s ‘alternative’ appearance, but the story was getting old.

  Steph crossed the room to Ivan, and handed him the hoodie. He smiled, and nodded in her mother’s direction. “Getting on well then, are we?”

  “Like a bloody house on fire.”

  “She means well,” he offered.

  “Does she?” Steph narrowed her eyes. “Does she, really?”

  He laughed, and guided her by the elbow to the drinks table. “Get yourself a drink woman.”

  “Gladly.” Steph pulled her wine from her bag, and poured a glass. She set the bottle aside and tossed her bag underneath. “So, Ivan.” She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “Tell me what you know about O’Malley.”

  “Pete?” he queried, and tipped his beer bottle toward the front of the house.

  She nodded. So his name’s Pete.

  He tossed the hoodie over the back of a nearby chair, and then took her by the hand. “Come outside.”

  Steph followed Ivan through the open French doors, and onto the concrete patio. He took a seat on a carved bench, and patted the space next to him. She sat, and took a swig.

  “A few years back, Dad took him on as his ward.”

  “Is a ward, like, a foster kid?”

  “Sort of.” He screwed his mouth to the side, and frowned. “But without the live-in part. He was pretty much Pete’s guardian, or guarantor, if you like.”

  “For what?” Steph took a bigger swig of her drink.

  “He used to be in a bit of trouble with the law, and Dad stepped in.”

  “Why? I mean, did your dad know the family or something?”

  Ivan shrugged. “Don’t know. Dad says he saw him at the courthouse one day, and a knee-jerk reaction made him stop to talk to the kid. He never said any more about it, and we never asked.”

  Steph twirled the glass stem in her hand. “How did your mother feel about it?”

  Ivan grinned. “She was the one who convinced him to do it; go with his gut.” He eyed her for a moment, and then pierced her with an inquisitive stare. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” She looked away. “I bumped into him at the door, and he said he was here for business. That’s all.”

  Ivan nodded. “Best keep it that way. Dad never told us what the guy’s background was, but from what I can tell, it’s pretty shady.”

  At a loss for what to say, Steph gulped back the last of her drink. She spun the empty vessel between her palms while Ivan stared off into the distance. “Well, this is awkward.” She giggled softly.

  Ivan turned to meet her gaze with a broad smile. “You? Awkward?”

  “I know. I’m human after all.”

  “Nah, Stephy,” he said as he ruffled her ponytail. “You grew up.”

  She scowled at him, and stood. “I do seem to remember, Mr Peterson, that you weren’t much of an angel yourself.”

  He laughed, and then shook his head as he hung it. “If our parents only knew what we got up to those nights—”

  “They’d kill us,” she finished with a laugh.

  “Come on, girl. Get yourself another drink, and let’s do the polite thing by showing our faces.”

  Steph grunted her submission, and followed Ivan as he walked back to the party. Her eyes roamed across the outer wall of the house, and fell on the window of Derek’s office. The light was still on. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought the bartender—Pete—was that close. His scent still lingered in her nostrils, and she absently brought her hand to her face to trap it there.

  Who would have thought that bourbon and cigarettes could smell so damn erotic?

  Steph ran out of small talk somewhere about the time her bottle ran dry. There was nothing inherently wrong with the company her parents kept, but politics and sports were two of her least favourite subjects. Even more tiresome when she literally didn’t know what people talked about half the time.

  Ivan left the BBQ with her brother after dinner was served to attend another function, and as much as he offered for her to join them, Steph declined. She would have given her left tit to leave the house with a valid excuse, but the fiery blister on her right heel said ‘go home’.

  It’s going to be flip-flops for the next week with that one.

  The clock ticked past nine as she sat on a two-seater with her father—who had also run out of alcohol fuelled interest. He leant over and whispered in her ear. “Ten bucks says your mother has me here until everyone else has left first.”

  Steph chuckled. “You know she can’t help herself when it comes to one-upping people,” she whispered back.

  He nodded, a broad grin on his tired, and weathered face. Her father had made his fortune in a niche market. He had seen an opportunity, a gap in supply, and simply been that guy who was in the right place at the right time. She’d always respected him for the hard work, and effort he put into his passion—he always ensured that the family was looked after before his own needs. The way he was now—relaxed in an early retirement—made all the long days worth it in her opinion.

  “New Years Eve tomorrow, huh?” He eyed her with a mischievous grin. “Any plans?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Dave up to much?”

  “I broke up with him, Dad.”

  A smile flickered on his lips. “Good. He was an ass.”

  She slapped his arm playfully. “Dad.”

  “It’s the truth.” He tipped his head, and shrugged.

  “Don’t tell Mum, okay?”

  “You should know by now you don’t need to worry about that.”

  Steph wrapped h
er arms about his neck, and gave him a squeeze. “I think I might head off, you big knuckle-head.”

  He pulled back and nodded. “Go. Be free. Just don’t forget about those you leave behind on the battlefield.”

  She giggled, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you later, Dad.” Her mother eyed her as she rose, and crossed the room to her bag. Steph squatted as strategically as possible in a tight skirt, and reached under the table to retrieve her leather bag.

  “Are you going already?”

  Her head connected with the edge of the table as she straightened. “Could you not wait until I had stood?”

  “I didn’t realise your co-ordination required such concentration.”

  Steph sighed, and waved her mother off. “Anyway, it’s not soon. I’ve been here for four hours.”

  “An early night by your standards.” Her mother crossed her arms, and toyed with the long necklace she wore.

  “Love you too, Mum.” She scowled. “See you later.”

  Steph bit down on her lip, and stifled the words she longed to scream at the woman. Why did her Mum have to be so darn critical all the time? What did she do to deserve such disdain from her own parent? She swept out of the room, and toward the front entrance, eager for the salvation that lay in the empty streets between the Peterson’s house, and home.

  Her heels clopped down the front steps, and along the concrete path as she flicked the top buttons of her blouse open with one hand. The calm, night air seemed to amplify the sound of her shoes as it sent each click echoing back at her from the four corners of the front yard. She tugged her bag over her shoulder, thankful for the band-aid she’d managed to get from Ivan, and swung around the front gate. Her heart leapt into her throat, and her feet stalled.

  “You’re in a hurry.”

  Hand to her neck, she growled at Pete, and continued to walk. He pushed off the light pole he had leant against, and hop-skipped to catch up.

  “What’s the matter, Love?”

  “Aside from the fact you just about made me crap myself?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, aside from that.”

  “My mother. Why does she have to be such a pain in my ass?” She couldn’t explain why she opened up so easily to a relative stranger, one who’d she had been warned against by a trusted friend. But the conversation fell from her lips so easily.