17. Noah
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘FAME WON’T LOVE YOU (FEAT. PARIS HILTON) BY SIA
“Call me back when you see this, Noah – Your dad.” The email is appended by the one I sent my father’s office detailing the Veronica situation seeking legal advice and protection for me and the girl in the video.
I expected a simple consider it done reply email. Not a summons from my paternal figure.
I stare at my dad’s reply for the fifth time. It’s simple, no-nonsense, autocratic even. The sad part is I’m not even mad about the tone of the message. Just pathetically glad he responded to me at all.
It’s close to two am and I’m still buzzed from post-match adrenalin. It’s the only reason I can think of for me to open the caller app and dial my father’s number.
Sydney’s half a day ahead of the States, so I figure he is at an important business lunch or at a lunch negotiation. Meaning he won’t answer my call.
But, to my surprise and discomfort, he answers on the second ring.
“What is the meaning of this email?” Dad demands, with no preamble.
I turn on the couch and settle deeper in the sheets. The couch is not made for my size or weight. My legs stick out of the damn thing every night when I stretch full body. And if I hadn’t given my word to Queenie, I’d be begging her to let me sleep on the fucking floor of my former bedroom.
But it’s important that Queenie trusts me. Call it delusion or whatever.
“Hello to you too, father. How is Sydney?” My heart knocks out of my chest, but I keep my voice neutral.
“Sydney’s as it has ever been. I—excuse me,” Dad says. Then he puts my call on hold, and I listen to the automated lady. I almost decide to end the call when he comes back. “Sorry about that. I’ve asked my assistant to hold calls till we talk about this. What the fuck happened, Noah?”
Life happened, Dad. When you were busy being a workaholic absentee father who thought to fix my life by giving me a mother I did not want, my bad choices happened.
“I detailed the situation in the email.” I swallow my hurtful, resentful words down and go straight to business. “Right down to the altercation I had with Veronica, the perpetrator of the video, at the diner.”
“This Veronica woman…she has video evidence of you assaulting a half-naked woman who ran away from you?” Dad sounds tired. Disbelieving. Sad.
“I did not assault anybody,” I grit out. “But yes, the woman…Queenie Madhavan was half-naked. And she …proceeded to exit the location in a hasty manner.”
“You’re not a lawyer, Noah. Talk like a normal person.”
I’m not remotely normal, Dad.
“Right. Sorry. So, yeah, she left in a hurry,” I admit. “But it was because of a different thing. Not because I misbehaved with her.”
“And this Veronica sent this video to the coaches at Triskelion?”
“Yeah, they saw it. She has a problem with my girl…” I sit up and run a shaking hand down my hair. Making it stick in all directions. “Dad, you have to believe me. The video’s caused a lot of damage for me and Queenie. Especially her.”
“She’s really your girlfriend? You’re not just saying that to save your sorry arse?” Dad demands doubtfully.
I nod aggressively. “She absolutely is, Dad. She’s the best part about this town.” The lie trips off my lips effortlessly. So much so I could think it’s the truth.
“And you’re not…” Dad hesitates. “Back in the weeds again?” It’s his code for the time I spiraled out of control and lost out on the career of a lifetime. Because I was weak and reckless.
“Very much in the garden, dad. No weeds,” I assure him quietly.
I even look out the window and make out the dark, scary outlines of the bushes growing by the windows. One of the main reasons I bought the cottage is because of the garden.
Mum told me once – If you’re ever in a position to buy a house, Noah, baby, get one with a view. A house takes a lot of work. But the view makes it worth it.
I swallow a lump when I remember her gentle words. The touch of her hand on my hair, tousling it. Me frowning and scrunching up my nose and whingeing, “Don’t do that.”
“I’m glad to hear it, son.”
Don’t call me son. You’ve not earned it.
I let out a shaky breath. I am a grown man. Almost twenty-four. I don’t want or need a father or a family to make my way in the world. And I am doing everything I can to make it happen, including allowing a bewitching, infuriating, curvy virago to occupy my bed.
“Thanks, Dad. Now, can you help me or not? Can I sue her for every penny she has?”
“You say she has deleted the video, already?”
“Yes. From her email too.”
“And sent an apology too?”
“Yes.” Although she point-blank refused to apologize to Queenie, when I pressed her on it. She really does not like Queenie. And I can’t be fucked to find out why.
“Then, the only thing you need is a cease and desist, to deter her from further distributing the offensive video. And a stern warning with the consequences of what would happen should she proceed to do so anyway.”
“Great. You think you can handle it for me?”
“I can’t do it personally. Australian defamation laws work differently than American ones. But I’ll talk to the De Rossi American counsel and make it happen. Give me twenty-four hours,” Dad murmurs.
“Awesome, that’s brilliant. Thank you. I really appreciate the help.” I hesitate and plunge on. “You can bill me for the services. I know your time’s valuable.”
“If you want to pay me for this, please, come home.”
“I don’t have a home, Dad,” I say woodenly. “You live on a Bondi Beach penthouse with your wife and daughter. It’s not the same thing.” Each word pricks my heart the way it did the last time I said them when I was seventeen and about to be captain of the under-19 World Cup squad.
He wanted me to try out only after finishing high school. I could not wait to leave home.
Dad sighs. And says nothing. Then, “So, how’s the camp going? Are you in anymore trouble I should know about?”
I grin. “Actually, I played my first match today. Scored a six off the first over. It was pretty awesome to see.”
“At least you’re not screwing it up this time.”
I blink. A familiar pang of… pain goes through. The one I experience because I expect praise and affection and get practical facts. I should be used to it by now but…
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say shortly. “I’m not screwing it up this time.” No matter what it takes.
“So, Bel and I are actually planning to come to Barrons?—”
“Actually, I have to go, Dad,” I cut short whatever his next words are. “But thanks for the help. I’ll let you know when the papers come through. Thanks so much. Cheers.”
I hang up on him before he can say another word.
I feel like shit. Like day old shit left to dry out in the sun. It’s always this way when I try and reach out to my dad.
He’s great with making a problem go away – translation, don’t bother me with it if money will do the talking. And, unfortunately, almost all problems will go away with enough money.
But it’s been a long, long time since I’ve had a hug from my dad. And heard him tell me he’s proud of me.
I slide back down to bed and stare at the ceiling. Then I punch my pillow and will myself to sleep. Because the alternative is continue feeling like shit for being rude to my father… or feeling like a dick because I have clear visions of walking into Queenie’s bedroom and making her re-enact the towel scene.
Queenie is luscious and curvy and the human equivalent of a sugar rush. I want to inhale her until I stop craving her.
The line of thinking does not help so I decide to get in a brisk HIIT workout. Exhaustion should help with the lack of sleep.
I check out my basketball shorts and sleep shirt. They’ll do for gear. I shove off the bed and hunt for my shoes. Find them and start toward the gym. I don’t bother with the lights because I don’t want to wake my roomies up.
I am still pulling on my shoes halfway up the stairs when I collide against a warm handful of woman.
I automatically grab her middle.
Queenie squeals.
“What are you doing?” She’s breathless. A small, dark shape. Enticing and seductive.
I caress her rippling back, reflexively. She presses against me. Her chest and tummy, with its curves and valleys, mash into mine, our bare legs touch each other.
Do not get hard, man. Do not get hard, I beg myself.
She pushes against my chest.
“You do that again and we’ll both fall,” I warn her and get a mouthful of her hair. It smells of lilies and honey. Sexy.
“Irritating man,” she spits out. But she still holds onto me, her grip slightly less death-like than a second ago.
My caress turns slow. Calming. Her skin’s sleep warm and all sorts of inviting.
She’s not just interesting or hot. Something about her specifically makes me forget everything else – my broken relationship with my father, my emotional dysfunction, my desperation to be great at camp. It’s like her superpower.
“Frustrating woman,” I say idly. Just to rile her.
“Ugh!” I can hear the eye roll and foot stamp in her growl. “What are you doing, Noah?” Queenie grits out.
“I’m going to the gym. For a workout.”
“At two thirty in the morning?” She’s incredulous.
I shrug. “There’s no right time to get the body moving.”
She sucks in a breath, which pushes her magnificent tits in direct contact with my abs. I angle my pelvis a discreet inch away. This puts my hand in direct contact with her tits.
God. I am a masochist.
I check out the shape of the white thing she’s holding. “Which book is this?”
“City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare.”
I smile. “Sounds intense.” I smile wider. “And ashy.” I trace the book with my pinkie closest to the book. “And why are you reading at two thirty in the morning?”
Queenie shrugs. “There’s no right time to read. And Jace and Clary were just about to—” She pauses abruptly.
“About to what?” I feel her waist. It’s delicious and cuppable. There’s no other way to describe it.
“Look, just let me get my water. You can go hike up your testosterone on the free weights,” the Hellcat bites.
I chuckle. “I am not lifting weights tonight. My arms are dead. I’ll run a couple miles on the treadmill.” Maybe five. Maybe ten. Maybe I’ll collapse on the treadmill because I finally got to hold Queenie Madhavan for more than ten seconds. And now her shape is imprinted on my skin.
“If you’re tired you should sleep, dummy.” Her concern is shrouded in harsh words.
“So says the doctor?” I tease her. I slide my hand an inch away. Give her the slightest breathing room.
Queenie sighs. “We need lights here on the stairs if this is to be a regular occurrence.”
“Maybe I’ll just bell you, like the Hellcat you are.”
I wait for her tart comeback.
Instead, she laughs, her teeth ghostly white in the darkness. It’s her sunshine laugh. The one I’ve waited ages to hear again. “Good one. I’ll let you have that one.”
The laugh rumbles through her belly and into me. Warm and husky and precious. I want to hold it. Hold her.
“I’m going to go get some water. You go on up to the gym. Okay?” She rushes through the words.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, okay.”
She sidesteps me and the loss of her hits me like a trail of pixie dust.
“Goodnight, Aussie boy,” Queenie says softly.
“Goodnight, desi girl.”
It’s a near thing but I don’t watch her descend the stairs, clutching her book to her chest. That would make me a lovesick Romeo and I’m not.
I’m not, I tell myself.
I run eleven miles on the treadmill instead of ten.