Chapter 3
Ada
Irush into Cece’s spare room at top speed, grabbing my tote bag and tossing a lip gloss, concealer, and a spare vape in.
I need to be fast. Time is of the essence when you’re running a game, and I don’t know how much I have left.
The stags were planning on ditching Stabbies after a single round, and I was forced to fall, tits first, into Henry Bellinger’s lap, squealing about seeing all of them again.
They barely seemed to remember me, but that didn’t stop my ex-schoolmates from staying for a good old-fashioned game of Waterfall. Still, without my cleavage in the frame, there’s every chance they’ll leave.
Tucking the tin into my tote, I catch sight of myself in Cece’s dresser mirror. The girl staring back at me seems like a stranger, all wide-eyed with a downturned mouth. I force myself to smile, and the stranger grows more sinister.
“What’s your endgame here?” she asks.
But fucked if my reflection knows. I give myself the finger.
I’m on a mission. I don’t need moralising, especially from the likes of me.
This is the first good opportunity to cross my path in months, and I’m not wasting it.
Boys might be boys, and they might even torture girls, but there’s no rule that says I can’t torture them back now I’m all grown up.
I grab the flask I keep tucked down the side of my bed, a twenty-first birthday present from Cece, and shove it into my bag as well.
“It’s go time,” I tell my reflection. “Don’t wait up.”
I don’t stay to see what she says.
I run downstairs to the main bar, compiling lists of possibilities in my head.
Anton, the Cirque Du Soleil clown who taught me how to count cards and swipe wallets, didn’t stop there.
He introduced me to all manner of chicanery, including how to give people things without them noticing.
Cece might not approve of revenge, but she keeps a ‘refresher table’ in Stabbies bathroom that’s been extremely helpful to the cause.
Do you know if you squirt moisturiser into a condom and tie it off, it looks disgustingly used?
And that said condom can be safely returned to the torn packet as though stuffed there by a gross, careless guy?
And would you be interested to discover I’ve already placed three such re-bagged condoms into the pockets of my brand-new drinking buddies?
Of course, said buddies might simply find them and throw them away. But they might also stumble home drunk, tear off their clothes and leave whatever’s in their pockets for their wives and girlfriends to find because they’re lazy, entitled fucks… I mean, either or, right?
Snickering, I jump down the last two stairs, push back my shoulders and plaster a big smile all over my face. Hello boys, I think, striding forward. Prepare to meet your… What the hell?
The booth where I left my prey is almost empty. Instead of a murderers’ row of dickheads, there’s just one guy. Jake Galvinson-Hardy-Boys or whatever the fuck his name is. He’s staring into his phone, and judging by the empty pint glasses around him, he’s not waiting on anyone.
I groan as I feel my established revenge plans go up in smoke. I’ll have to hunt down the stags, pray they haven’t been sidetracked by some other pair of tits and—
The Jake guy looks up. I step back into the shadows and observe him. He’s taken off his pink novelty headband, and he’s even better looking without it.
I might not have known his name, but I did notice him before.
I didn’t want to, but I did. He’s got a killer body and the kind of hard, no-nonsense face that’s always been my thing.
Still, I wasn’t lying to Cece; I didn’t recognise him from school or anywhere else.
But those massive shoulders and tatty ears could only belong to a rugby player.
I don’t like the game, but you can’t deny the bodies it builds.
On the subject of rugby player asses, New Zealand and I are in complete agreement: They’re top-tier.
His gaze returns to his phone. I could ask him where the stags went, but I don’t want to engage him in conversation.
Too complicated, and too much effort, for a guy who didn’t actively bully me.
I’m better off looking for Henry Bellinger and Co on my own, but first, I need backup in the form of tequila.
I make a break for the bar. Cece is nowhere to be seen, but Krissy comes right over. “Margarita?”
I shake my head. “No time. Double straight, please?”
“Coming right up.”
As Krissy pours me a massive Sierra Blanco, I remember when I was too self-conscious to order straight liquor at a bar, let alone a double.
Five months living above Stabbies has taught me you’d have to slur abuse through a brown paper bag to have a bartender care what you order.
I accept my drink with a smile and start downing it as Krissy dashes away.
If luck’s on my side, the stags might just be in the next bar over.
I can’t pull out a deck of cards and resume our game of Waterfall, but there’s a million things—
“Hey, Ada,” a deep voice says to my right.
I stop chugging long enough to side-eye whoever’s talking to me. The owner of the baritone is Jake Garlic-Haverbee, and I have to crane my neck to make eye contact. Goddamn, is he huge. I’m five-two, and the man could clearly drown me with one finger.
It’s too late to act with anything approaching class, so I empty the last of my drink into my mouth and swallow.
“Sup,” I say as lightly as I can with tequila burning the inside of my neck. “Jake, yeah?”
“That’s it.” He tilts his head at the bar. “Want another one?”
Another would be pushing it, even for me, but he’s approached me. This is an opener, and I’d be a fool to waste it. I need to know where the other stags are, and he is undoubtedly informed of that fact. “Sure.”
He raises a palm, and Krissy materialises out of thin air. “Oh my gosh, Jake Graves-Holland?”
He flashes her a big smile. “Hi. Can I please grab a couple of drinks?”
“Of course you can!”
Jake Graves-Holland, I repeat, as he orders a scotch and a double tequila.
The name rings zero bells, but Cece’s right, he’s into me.
I’m too old to play the ‘Oh, he couldn’t possibly be attracted to me’ game.
He’s giving me The Look and buying me a drink.
He wants it. Also, I almost banged Viggo Mortensen.
I’m not going to waste anyone’s time making out like I’m still an ugly duckling.
It’s my personality that makes me love cyanide, and I very much doubt an All Black approached me on a Friday night because he wants three kids and a white picket fence.
So, how am I going to use this? ‘Woo-Girl bimbo’ hardly seems like Jake Graves-Holland’s style. He probably likes the Snow White thing. Shy. Sweet. Sexy, but she doesn’t know it. Won’t you teach me all about my body, Captain Popular?
“All yours,” Jake Graves-Holland says, handing me the tequila.
Up close, his eyes are storm-grey, and his slightly twisted nose looks Roman.
I blame my genetics for my continued lusting after the Romans despite knowing better.
Though I doubt Jake Graves-Holland is Italian.
Odds on, he took a knee to the head during rugby and is too manly to get his face fixed up.
The choice speaks to his character and is unfortunately kind of sexy.
I wish I didn’t find things like that sexy…
“Thanks,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to buy me a drink.”
He leans in, bathing me in the scent of sharp, peppery cologne. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
I bury my smirk in my drink. Snow White type, indeed. I don’t have to take this too far; a drink and a flirt should be all it takes to get invited to the next stag party locale.
“Thanks,” I repeat in my husky little voice. “That’s so nice.”
Jake smiles so wide you’d think I’d just offered him a wristy. “Wanna take a seat?”
“Sure,” I say, backing my ass into a barstool. “But, I don’t want to keep you from your friends…”
“No stress. How have you been since school?”
I hesitate. Should I pretend that I have no idea who he is? Or acknowledge that Cece pulled the wool from my eyes? I decide to punt.
“Sorry?”
Jake’s tanned forehead creases, making him look all kingly and hot. “We were at Pukekohe High together? Me, and Henry, and pretty much everyone in the stag party?”
“Oh, right! You’re the big rugby player!”
One eyebrow goes up. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I mentally narrow my eyes at Jake Graves-Holland.
He’s smarter than his job would suggest, and he seems to remember me, which gives him the upper hand.
I wonder what he could possibly retain of the shell-shocked, lonely girl I was back then.
Probably just my boobs, same as his mates.
He was probably there when they were bullying me during study periods.
Watching us the way he watched us play Waterfall tonight.
Not participating, not helping, just witnessing the destruction.
Fuck you, I think. Fuck you all forever.
I hoist my Snow White smile back onto my face with difficulty. “Sorry, I was only in Pukekohe for a couple of years. We mustn’t have crossed paths.”
“You sat opposite me in English. You had a tartan pencil case. You got an ‘Excellence’ on your essay about The Kite Runner.”
My Snow White act hits the floor like a stack of bricks. “Huh?”
He grins, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. “I asked you for a highlighter once, and you said you didn’t have any. While you were highlighting.”
I gape at the man in front of me. Why don’t I remember him? We clearly interacted because I one hundred percent told rugby players I didn’t have pens, paper or highlighters while flashing them around, but I honestly can’t remember Jake. Do I have face blindness? Actual amnesia?
“I’m very protective of my stationery,” I say, taking a deep swig of liquid refuge. “Sorry for not giving you a highlighter.”