7. Some Damsels Dont Need Rescuing
7
Some Damsels Don't Need Rescuing
Bre
P iers Ryder was not what Bre had expected. Sure, she knew he had a reputation as an egotistical flirt, but she’d assumed the celebrity stereotype was just that – a charming facade, or some overexaggerated typecast. Her friend Adam James had a similar reputation, but Bre knew for a fact that gossip was just that – especially in a small town with a long memory and people who didn’t know better. But with Revv, every scandalous photo montage and outrageous interview quote was proving to be true.
The man had the haughty manner of a mob don in a crime thriller, and more self-importance than a ditzy heiresses in one of those rom coms Jillian used to make her watch. Bre had hoped this special episode of Crank Shaft might turn out that way – Reality TV car show turned romantic comedy, with a slightly festive Christmas-Down-Under theme. Piers would be a charming knight in shining armour riding his noble six-horse-powered steed into the small town of Moonshine, AKA Middle-of-Nowheresville, Australia. She’d be swept off her feet and feel so in love (with the cars, not Piers himself), and they’d all live happily ever after – Bre in Billy’s bed and Piers curled up beside whichever supermodel he was dating this week.
Now, Bre could almost imagine the theme song of this episode of her life – it would have a thumping bass and lyrics about summer sunshine and how you should never meet your heroes, because the disappointment will surely kill you.
“Edsel Ford, right? Named for Henry Ford’s son?”
She saw Billy’s eyes roll slowly skyward, his lips disappearing into his beard as he bit them, trying not to comment. He hated rhetorical questions, and Piers Ryder, in his element, was positively full of them.
“1943 Utility, yeah? Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Edsel’s a he .“ Breanna said.
Piers ignored her. Again. It wasn’t uncommon, this feeling of being being pressed to one side just enough that she felt like she couldn’t quite step into her own limelight. Her mother had so thoroughly pushed her into the dark, Bre hadn’t known anything else for a long time. It was easier with the Carmichaels. They were pure sunshine, every one of them, and no matter how many were around, they seemed to share that light and brighten each other’s day.
The boys had accepted her and Seth as their own, saving her from the constant menacing shadow that was Elanor Henderson. But here, Piers wasn’t just hogging the spotlight, he was the entire stage, leaving no room for anyone else to breathe while he was basking in his element.
“And the cameras aren’t even here,” she whispered to Billy, whose beard twitched, just slightly, cool blue eyes twinkling with the silent mirth that generally refused to register in his facial features. Stoic was the perfect word for Billy, but she saw through that facade and could almost hear the thoughts buzzing around in his head.
“Later,” she promised in a whisper. They could talk later. She owed him that much, after embarrassing herself so thoroughly in the office. She’d never had so much fun with her pants on. She was still tingling from their encounter, the throbbing in her body refusing to be ignored, which only made being forced to entertain Piers and his non-questions even more irritating.
“And this is an original part, yeah?” Piers continued, pointing, already knowing the answer. “Don’t you just love it?”
Piers had his phone out, snapping shots of her clean and orderly space, the perfectly polished cement floor, the three other vehicles in various states of restoration, and her prized Ford, Edsel, who had lived here for as long as she had. Edsel, who had cohabitated with ping-pong tables and looked on stoically as teenaged parties raged around him, witnessing sneaking ins and sneaking outs, before finally claiming the spotlight he deserved. Edsel, named for Henry Ford’s son, who deserved to be featured on Crank Shaft . Edsel, who had seen and heard too much over the years, including her earlier encounter with Billy.
“Is it always this hot?” Piers flapped the studded collar of his leather jacket. Bre couldn’t help but slide her eyes Billy’s way.
“Usually,” she told him, warmth still pooling in places she’d prefer not to consider with Piers so close. “It’s very hot here.”
“Tell me again why one half of your business is in town and the other half is here?” The upward infliction at the tail end of the sentence felt like a cheese-grater against her bones.
Billy’s nod encouraged her to respond.
“Well …”
Fifteen years ago, Seth had quietly confided to the Carmichaels that Breanna needed space from their mother. When Elanor and her hormonal, teenaged daughter clashed, it was near biblical. Seth could stomach living with his parents, but Breanna, he said, couldn’t stay under a roof where World War Three broke out every few minutes – especially when his sister was too stubborn and opinionated to back down from a fight, with anyone.
Angry at her mother, Breanna would storm over to the Carmichaels’ and take her frustration out on whoever she found – usually one of the brothers, who gallantly took it in turns to bear the brunt of her wrath. They raced through the fields, rough-housed and boxed, wrestled, and ensured she spent all her energy until black eyes, bruised knuckles, and scars became so commonplace that Holly and Nick forcibly intervened. Enough was enough, they’d said. New strategies were needed, for the sake of their sons and the Henderson siblings alike.
Bre was a fearsome adversary and had always been one of them, but everyone had admitted things needed to change. So, one afternoon, Nick drove all six kids to the far end of the property, to this very spot, where they’d set out sticks and string, measuring and planning, working little by little each day until a modest, barn-like building had been erected.
She called it an office, but in reality the room was a small, open-plan studio with an attached six-car garage that they had all built for her.
Breanna found the pickle that year. She’d chosen to open the biggest box under the tree, as she always did, somewhat disappointed to find it contained only a small set of golden keys, dangling on a pine-cone keychain with googly eyes. When she discovered what those keys unlocked, however – her freedom, her space, and peace – she moved in that very day.
Piers barely listened to her story, not caring enough to inquire about current relationships between Bre and her mother. He’s not here for you, she lamented, watching him drool over Edsel. Billy, was there, however, solid and comforting. Placing his palm on her back, his thumb gently rubbed circles as she answered question after question about her vintage car.
Sunset burned oranges and pinks through the trees as they finally arrived back at the house. ‘Tired’ didn’t begin to define the way she ached, and how her skin seemed too thinly stretched over her body, like she was an overfilled water balloon, threatening to pop.
From the heartbeat that had taken up residence in her swollen ankles, to the pounding in her head, she was more than ready for a shower and a decent sleep. That was, until she remembered where she’d be sleeping and how she wanted to sleep – slightly sticky from summer sweat, with Billy’s big cock buried deep between her legs, and his large body curled protectively over hers … just like last Christmas, and many more before that.
The thought sobered her up, fresh agony and energy flooding her system all at once. She promised they’d talk. Tonight. But what could she say that wouldn’t ruin their long-standing friendship and the tentative, albeit sexually charged peace she’d literally thrust upon him in the garage?
“Meet you inside!” Piers said, slicking back his hair before following his nose to the elaborate dinner Holly inevitably had waiting inside. He hadn’t bothered to park the quadbike in the line of farm vehicles. Bre made a mental note to move it, and take the keys from the ignition, lest he get any ideas of riding off through the trees for some moonlit fun.
Her own ATV engine died and Billy dismounted before turning, offering a hand. Bre batted it away, but after a teetering moment on her feet, she gripped him tightly and dismounted on sore, wobbly legs.
“My calves are screaming like I’ve run to Darwin and back,” she mumbled. His fingers gripped hers tighter, answering, I’m here. Those brilliant blue eyes patiently waited for her to continue. “I’m pretty sure my calves are rivers of lava right now. At least, that’s how they feel. It reminds me of that time we ran that marathon with Adam and Jillian, remember? Like, six years ago?” A grunt escaped as she curled and uncurled her toes, stretching her legs, one at a time, now she was back on solid ground. His thumb brushed her palm.
“I remember,” he said. “Are you terribly uncomfortable?”
She slowly withdrew her touch, tucking her hands under her armpits as they walked towards the house. Music, laughter and light flooded from the huge windows, bathing the farm beyond.
“Growing a human? Uncomfortable? Nah, it’s a breeze, if you’re into heightened senses and never knowing if you’re going to vomit or nap. So much fun. I can totally see why Lianne lets Graham talk her into another kid every few years. In fact, she’s probably due for another one soon.” She grinned wickedly. “I might have a pregnancy buddy to join my lament about the lack of wine and ham.” She read his question before he even asked it, shrugging, “The books and apps all say I’m not supposed to eat deli meats. You’re not the only one who’s been reading a lot.”
Their attention drifted to the strings of lights illuminating the trees. One path led from the main house to the huge red barn that housed the annual Carmichael Christmas party. The other, lit with additional solar candy-canes, wove a shorter path to the cabin-like guest house Billy’s grandparents used to occupy when they stayed in Australia from December to March, before jetting back to Scotland. But with the children needing more space, and Billy’s ageing grandparents needing to be closer to the main house, the cabin had been re-allocated to Graham’s rowdy brood.
Standing still for a moment, she soaked it all in – the joy of the large family, their guests, and the way their laughter mingled with the heavenly scents of sun-baked pine and cinnamon that hung like a mist in the air.
She sighed, feeling Billy’s solid warmth press against her spine. “I love this place.” Leaning back, she closed her eyes and tipped her chin to the purpling night sky, as the weight of his arm wrapped around her shoulders, a small comfort above her aching chest.
“Home.” They said at the same time, voices warm as the breeze.
“Breanna.” Her full name rustled through her hair, reverberating through his body and into hers. “I am sorry.”
“For what?” She spun to face him, looking up, up, to the bearded face she knew so well. Hendersons never asked for forgiveness, but Carmichaels? They’d said enough sorrys to fill an ocean, even when they didn’t need to. Hell, she’d seen them all apologise when someone bumped into them , more often than she could count. “Billy, you don’t have to apologise. You haven’t done anything–”
“I’m sorry for him; His attitude.” Billy nodded to the house, where Piers stood in a window, clinking the neck of a beer bottle with Seth who – thankfully – had exchanged Holly’s frilly apron for pants and a shirt. Bre squinted. No, not pants … The tartan pattern circling his waist was clearly the Carmichael tartan.
“Seth’s fine, though I wish he’d quit freeballing around the farm. Surely that’s a workplace health and safety hazard.” Bre earned one of Billy’s notorious scowls. “Okay, okay, I know you don’t mean my brother. You’re referring to the B-grade celebrity whose ego is larger than the house. Still, there’s no reason for you to apologise.”
“I am sorry he treats you as less than his equal. You shouldn’t let him speak to you the way he did today,” Billy said. “You never let us treat you that way, and we are better for it. Even the Bumstinger Boys–”
“Those schoolyard bullies!”
“– knew not to push your buttons.”
She shrugged it off, another thing she was too exhausted to discuss in the depth it required right now. “I can handle Piers.”
Billy grunted in assent. “I don’t worry about him, necessarily. I’m worried for him, if he continues in the same manner.”
The Crank Shaft crew wouldn’t be here for long, so she would just have to remember to keep calm and in control, and remember Piers Ryder wasn’t one of her brothers-in-arms, but an actual television celebrity who planned to showcase her and Edsel on his show. That alone, the exposure it would bring to her restoration skills and to Rust Busters, made it worth putting up with Piers’ annoying habit of directing all conversation and questions to either himself or to Billy.
He may as well have been speaking to a brick wall, in both cases. At least Piers didn’t speak straight to her chest, now that she actually had breasts to speak of, though she was sure that her swelling midsection was contributing to an impression of femininity she preferred to avoid.
Piers asking Billy questions wasn’t unusual. Men talked to each other – that was normal. What irked her most was the casual sexism implied by the lack of directed attention. Many men in male-dominated industries or environments were the same. For instance, she’d call a plumber, and they’d ask, “Can we speak to your husband?” as though she couldn’t comprehend how water and pipework operated. Other typically male-dominated industries were the same.
Whenever Bre contacted a manufacturer for car parts, they’d assume she was a secretary calling on behalf of her boss, rather than the lead mechanic herself. She’d learned years ago how to deal with this unintentionally demeaning behaviour – by calling it out. Nowadays, the Moonshine locals knew her temper and tended to avoid her wrath, though she still had to assert herself occasionally, especially while overseeing the renovations at The Pope.
No, it wasn’t the way Piers directed all queries and comments to Billy that upset her. It was the way she was made to feel completely irrelevant, when she and Edsel should have been the stars. Months of pregnancy and a beach-ball belly hadn’t made her a big enough presence in the room to be truly seen, beyond his flirtations.
It all felt too familiar, reminding her of her mother’s attitude, and the way she’d grown up being either ignored or told to be something less sharp-edged than she was. Something softer and more feminine. She’d hated it. Another reason to adore the Carmichaels – in their house, everyone was treated as both unique and equal. Everyone rode the bikes. Everyone cut trees. Everyone wore a skirt – though they much preferred the term ‘kilt.’ Everyone had a place and a purpose that wasn’t hinged on having been born with or without a penis. Bre’s ‘running wild’ with the Carmichael boys was still, to this day, Elanor’s biggest complaint about the devilish, corrupting influence of their neighbours.
“Kids will be kids,” the Carmichael’s had said.
“Unruly, immoral, unsupervised brats!” Elanor had spat back, for years.
Piers hadn’t noticed his faux pax, hadn’t seen Bre’s too-tight lips or the way Billy shrugged those broad, muscular shoulders before looking pointedly at Bre, who took her cue to answer with the swiftness of a relay runner. Baton passed, thank you William Carmichael.
“I appreciate you, you know,” she told Billy now, unable to keep the gratitude bottled up. “Can we stay out here for a while? It’s nice, and the stars are just coming out.”
Billy mumbled a deep sound of approval, arm tightening around her shoulders.
Richard’s voice wafted out through an open window. “Dinnae come in here, you two!” The scent of roast meat and vegetables hit her almost as soon as the words did, assaulting her senses. Bre’s belly flopped. “Not unless ye wish te be postal all over the internet!”
“Posted?” Bre wondered to Billy, whose mouth quirked up on one side.
“If I were ye,” Richard added, “I’d go find that pickle! Try the fields closest te the house this year,” he added with a wink. “Might even get lucky!” He gave a wicked little chuckle, closing the curtain and extinguishing the shaft of light that had spilled across the grass.
Billy smirked. “C’mon, lass.” His grandfather’s accent was thick in his mocking tone as he took her hand. “Let’s become nemophilists for a wee while.”
She loved it when he took on the Scottish brogue his heritage allowed, easily imagining this large, hairy man back in time, as a clan chieftain, leading a band of men into battle against the Red Coats, or perhaps engaging in the more familiar visions of war that took place on a sporting field.
“A nemophilist? Tell me what that means, you walking dictionary,” she teased, loving the easy way he spoke to her in the dark, walking through the trees, fingers entwined. This was so easy, so familiar, she almost forgot the throbbing that had started in her feet and continued to her temples. Billy squeezed her hand, smiling down as they strolled into the increasing darkness of the fields.
“A nemophilist is a lover of forests,” he said, his voice low and husky, “of timberlands and woodland scenery. A person who haunts the woods.”
“Oh, aye.”
“Yer accent’s terrible, lass.” He chuckled, the sound so deep it could have been the earth itself rumbling.
“I know. But I can’t let you have all the fun. I mean, I already had more fun than you in the garage, before Piers interrupted …”
Billy nodded slowly, eyebrows drawing down as they strolled past long lines of trees.
“Before you say anything, or storm off like the big brute you are–”
His eyes cut to her, scolding.
“Okay, not a brute exactly, but you are a huge, hulking human and … just hear me out, okay?”
He said nothing, waiting for her to continue as they strolled.
“I need you, Billy. To help me see this thing through with Crank Shaft , and to survive Christmas. Don’t look at me like that, because yes, it is survival. It’s life or death and,“ she swallowed those lingering reservations, “alive is how I feel around you, Billy. I need that more than ever. My old life is slipping away, and I don’t know how to feel about that just yet. What I do know is that I want things to be normal between us, because I need this Christmas … my last Christmas before everything changes forever … I need it to be as perfect as possible.”
The expression on his face said too much, asked too many questions, so she rushed to add, “I don’t want to talk about the pregnancy or the baby. Call me crazy, but I don’t want things to change, and I have it all mapped out so it will be fine. I have lists and plans and schedules upon schedules to get everyone through it all–”
“That sent you into a spiral this morning with the arrival of Piers Ryder,” Billy interjected, his tone full of warning and worry.
“I know. I ... didn’t sleep well. You know I cope a lot better after a solid eight hours.”
“Not an excuse.”
“Fine. You want the truth? I’m worried I’ll scare you off.”
Having wandered deeper into the fields, Billy, more shadow monster than man, froze. Bre rushed on, all the things that went unsaid last night rushing out, unbidden, under the cover of rapidly encroaching darkness. The rustle of the trees swallowed most of the noise in the field, making her braver, knowing the words would be gone on the breeze.
“I’m so worried I fucked up our friendship, that I’m fucking it up even more now, and I don’t know what to do or say to make it better. I broke our deal, Billy … I took a chainsaw and shredded a line through our regularly scheduled naked time by showing up with a plus one.” She motioned to her belly, but wasn’t entirely sure if he saw the movement in the darkness. After another deep breath, with Billy silent and still, she soldiered on.
“I never wanted things to change between us, Billy, but they have. I changed them, and it’s all my fault. I asked you last night how you could want me like this, all round and sweaty and–”
“Breanna, you are more beautiful than ever.”
“So why did you sleep on the floor?” The warble in her voice caught her off guard. “I wanted you in bed. Needed you.”
“I need you too, Bruce.” The warmth of his embrace surrounded her all at once and she pressed her face into her favourite spot beneath his chin, nuzzling into his neck, trying not to cry.
“Hormones,” she sniffled, the tightening of his embrace saying the words his mouth didn’t. I’m here. “You don’t deserve this, Billy. You deserve uncomplicated and planned, like we always have been. I feel like I’m grasping at straws in both those areas right now. And I know we go together like ugly Christmas sweaters and festive bloating, but I won’t let you marry me, and–”
His laughter shook through them, echoing into the night. “You won’t let me marry you.”
He tried the words on his tongue with the same hesitation you might use to lick a spider – like something you’d never considered before. His hesitation offered … relief? Somehow her body had loosened and tightened all at once, a cold, hard slice of disappointment cutting too deep while somewhere deeper down, a tiny foot kicked her in the gut at his response.
Maybe she had been wrong about Billy’s White Knight Syndrome, after all. He’d always let her fight her own battles, watching ringside, and encouraging, but this … well, she’d thought it’d be different, somehow.
“Elanor?” Billy asked, that one word so densely layered with meaning. “Attempting to brainwash you again?”
“You mean about unmarried mothers being outcast and labelled as town harlots?”
“You do not need a man to complete you, Bruce.”
“I know that!” She sniffed. “And who says harlot ?”
“People who read,” he commented casually.
“Yes, well, The Scarlet Letter and Le Grinch are vastly different books, Billy. And no, it’s not my mother talking here. It’s me.”
“Finally.”
She ignored the jab. “It’s just – you’re such a good guy, and we’ve spent a lot of time watching movies, yeah?”
Billy’s silence betrayed his confusion.
“All the movies say that men like you – good men – will try and rescue the damsel–”
“Bruce.” His voice held no room for argument. It was the same tone he used on too-drunk patrons at the pub, demanding they leave the premises or face the wrath of both the Carmichael clan and Constable Keneally.
“Bre,” he started again, his tone somehow softer, but just as gravelly. “A few things. One, you are no damsel. You’re more than capable of rescuing yourself. Two, stop telling me what to do, or not do, feel, or not feel. Thirdly, you are wrong.“ He paused, cupping her cheek. “You are unbelievably and absolutely incorrect about me being a good guy.”
She scoffed. “I’m really not. You donate to all the causes, and go to church with your mother, and you’re such a great uncle to Graham’s little feral amazeball kids and …” she swallowed. “Earlier, you said you didn’t want me to touch you, and–”
A finger touched her lips, the impact so soft and sudden in the dark, she startled into silence.
“I don’t want you to stop communicating, Bruce, but …” Her breath hitched as his warm breath fanned across her skin. “Stop talking now. I most certainly, beyond any doubt, want you to touch me.” His grin lit up the night. “You think I’m a good guy?” His fingers roamed, the broad palm of his hand sliding lower. The ghost of his lips met hers. “Let me show you some of the bad, bad things I have been dreaming about.”
“UNCLE BILLIAM!” The unmistakable sound of trouble approached on swift, tiny feet. “AUNTY brE! WHERE ARE YOU?”
“DINNER’S GETTING OLD!” a second voice yelled. Torchlight flicked this way and that through the trees.
“YOU MEAN COLD NOT OLD, YOU NINNY!”
“BILLIAM!?”
His fingers tightened; hand splayed wide across Bre’s arse.
“Kids,” she mumbled. “Always know how to interrupt the world’s best snog session.”
Her lips tingled, skin flush and prickling from the thorough way his lips explored hers, his beard scratching across her skin.
“I could get drunk on your kisses,” she told him, struggling to steady herself as he reluctantly stepped back. He was intoxicating, a drug that altered her entire perception of where reality began and dreaming ended.
“THERE YOU ARE!” Torch light blinded as Billy – and the tent in his pants – stepped behind Breanna, the hard warmth of his body pressed close.
“Children,” he said in a tone that demanded above her head, “who sent you?”
“Granny Holly says she needs everyone at the table,” Max said, all eight years of maturity weighing heavily as he eyed his younger sibling.
“I don’t think we’ll fit,” Lachlan huffed, crossing his arms, torchlight cutting the tops of the trees. “But that Sharee lady says it’ll be ‘picter perfect’?”
“You mean PICTURE perfect, you ninny!”
“Stop calling me that!”
“CHILDREN.” Billy’s warning had the boys’ spines straightening. “Tell Granny Holly we will be along presently.”
“Okay!” Lachlan turned, satisfied, towards the house.
“Lachlan! Wait!” Max ran off after his charge, clearly frustrated by his lack of ability to control his younger sibling. “Dad said we needed to stay together!”
“C’mon, lass,” Billy said, their boots shuffling through the grass. “There is always time.”
Later . That one word was becoming a prayer as thoughts too loud remained unsaid between them.
“My chin and lips are tingling.” The words tumbled out before she’d registered the thought, adding, “You know I’ll be mercilessly teased about ‘pash rash’ from the twins and Seth, spurring a million questions from Graham’s brats, right? And we didn’t find the pickle, not that we could in the dark, anyway.”
Billy’s sigh threatened to shake the nearby tree as he drew back, tipping his face to the stars.
“Later,” she promised, not sure what she was referring to. Resuming their heated snog session? Moving the delicious tingling friction of his beard to places much further south of her face? Finally stripping down and getting into their regularly scheduled clothing-optional evenings?
“I think we need a Contingency.” The words drifted absently as a re-drawing of lines began in her mind, their original plans torn up and re-written with new rules and boundaries.
Catching her hand, Billy spun her back to face him, so close her nose almost hit his chest. In the light from the house, he ducked his head and she noted the arch in his eyebrow.
“Later,” he echoed, his thumb running gently over her heated cheek. When her stomach growled, Billy drew back, marvelling at her midsection like it was the first time he’d heard such a sound, or noticed her big belly, pressed firmly to his smooth, flat stomach. “Come, Bruce.”
“I would have, in two more kisses,” she told him honestly. “This pregnancy thing is a trip!” Her stomach grumbled and rolled once more.
A laugh hid at the edges of his voice as he said, “Let’s get you … both of you …” his hand skimmed her mid-section hesitantly, “something to eat.”
“See? You’re a good guy. Taking care of me and everything.”
“Breanna, whatever you want from me, whatever you need, I will make sure it is given.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, Billy launched himself up onto the veranda. Propped against the screen door, he struggled to maintain a bland facade as she curtsied, whacked him in the stomach with a roll of her eyes, then disappeared inside with a curt, “whatever, nice guy.”