Chapter 9
Ada
Iwatch myself change in Cece’s full-length mirror like I’m getting ready to go on stage.
Seamed stockings, patent leather pumps, and a black mini dress with a corset bodice.
Laying the bait. Setting the trap. The look is…
a lot. Immodest in an entirely different way from my usual ‘jean shorts and wireless crop top’ combo.
But from the look of his social media, Thrasher Thompson has a type. His ex-wife and old girlfriends were all classic bombshells; long hair, red lipstick, pearl earrings, the works. I don’t want to disappoint.
Thrasher wasn’t my bannerman bully—that mantle is securely held by Jenny Wallis—but he’s up there.
We were seated next to each other in History, and his hands were constantly finding my arms, thighs, back, and boobs.
He was handsome enough, with his rugby forward frame and auburn hair, but he had ‘Young Bluebeard’ written all over him.
Not to mention, he never actually talked to me, just tried to feel my tits and make it look like an accident.
Nine months into my stint at Pukekohe Teen Prison, Thrasher, perhaps annoyed his gropings hadn’t yet inspired me to suck his dick, approached me at the bus stop, friends in tow, to inquire if it felt good when I masturbated with my flute.
There were no teachers around, so my response was, “Not as good as it feels to have a chin, sheep-fucker.”
Accusing Kiwis of violating sheep is a time-honoured Australian tradition, but you could tell the chin thing really got to Thrasher.
He clapped a palm to his lower face and shoved me with his free hand.
I looked up from the pavement to see Thrasher as shocked to have pushed a girl as I was to be pushed.
I remember thinking we’d both call a silent truce, walk away, and never talk about this again.
Then he balled his fists and stepped toward me. “Ugly cunt.”
The words barely registered. It was the tremble in his voice that stopped my heart, because I knew if he lost control and cried in front of his mates, he’d hit me. The terror I felt still makes sweat burst through my palms almost two decades later.
Thrasher didn’t end up punching me at the bus stop. Maddie Bower screamed, “What the fuck, Thrasher?” and he, Xavier McColl, and Will Sharpe booked it.
Everyone heard Thrasher had shoved me. Everyone agreed I deserved it.
Boys aren’t supposed to hit girls, but girls aren’t supposed to be mean.
The consensus was that if I didn’t want to get knocked over at a bus stop, I shouldn’t have told Thrasher he had a weak chin. Your fault, bitch. Shut up. Move on.
Thrasher didn’t move on. He grew a teen beard no one dared tell him to shave, and started calling me ‘Flute-Slut’ like it was his job.
I ghosted our shared classes, lying through my teeth whenever I got caught, telling teachers I had cramps instead of the truth, which was that I was probably a single misstep from getting clocked in the jaw. Or worse.
Post-graduation, Thrasher started sending late-night emails from burner accounts.
The tone drifted somewhere between ‘drunk sext’ and ‘musings from the desk of the Zodiac Killer,’ and I knew it was him from the first. His repeated use of the phrase ‘big rack’ made that obvious.
Eventually, he dropped the anonymity and started sending DMs asking, ‘Ever coming back to Pukekohe?’ as he puked heart-eye emojis all over my professional social media posts.
With two plane rides between us, his correspondence stopped being bone-chilling and started being funny. I screencapped his messages and sent them to Cece, and we all had a good laugh. Then Thrasher got married, and communications ceased.
But now, he’s divorced—I can’t imagine why—and in his head, I’m sure things between us are picking up right where they left off. Unfortunately, in my head, payback’s a bitch, and he owes me the Empire State Building. Plus interest.
I hum the Kill Bill theme as I paint my lips the colour of fresh blood. It’s completely over the top for a fake bartending shift, but since when do men care about shit like that?
“Where are you going?” Davis asks when I come downstairs. He scrunches his face at me like I’m in full Queen Amidala cosplay.
“Nowhere. But there’s a guy from school swinging by, and I need you on surveillance.”
He frowns. “Is he dangerous or something?”
What tipped that off? I make a mental note to hit the bathroom and practice smiling in the mirror. “No. He’s just a dick.”
Davis doesn’t look reassured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I remind him. “As far as Thrasher Thompson is concerned, I work here, and I can’t leave until my shift’s over. Which, again, as far as he’s concerned, is never.”
“Still…” Davis glances toward the bar where Cece is mid-gossip with Aggie.
I can tell he’s dying to rat me out, and I’m not going to let him. I move in closer. “Look, whatever you say, I’m doing this. Thrasher’s ten times worse than the guy who put gum in my hair, and his family basically owns Pukekohe. I’m hardly punching down, Mall Cop.”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t think—”
“Relax. He’ll realise he’s not gonna get laid and bail like the stag party guys did.”
Davis frowns. “Those guys didn’t bail.”
“Uh, yeah, they did? Unless you kicked them out?”
“No. Your All Black mate—” his mouth twists “—paid the bill, gave them a shitload of cash, and told them to fuck off.”
“Oh.”
So Jake was the reason they cleared house? He paid for everyone’s drinks and shoved his friends toward a strip club just for a chance to be alone with me? That’s kind of romantic…
… is what I’d say if I felt feelings.
“Not important,” I say to Davis. “Just keep your eyes peeled, Narc.”
“But—”
“Thanks, bestie,” I call over my shoulder on my way to the ladies’. “Nothing to fear but fear itself.”
I say that, but Davis’s annoying concern has rubbed off on me. No matter how much I practice giggling in the mirror, I can’t get it right. I return to my playpen, and I spot a man with reddish-brown hair and a full beard, scanning the room as if he owns it. My pulse spikes.
He’s just a guy, I think as I wave him over. He’s just some guy.
But he doesn’t seem like just a guy. The smirk he gives at the sight of me could freeze vodka. Stabbies seems to shift around him, turning my familiar haunt dark and melancholy.
I’m fifteen again, cold concrete under my ass, my heart pounding under my baggy school jumper as the threat of violence hovers so close I can taste it.
“Hey,” Thrasher says, bending to kiss my cheek. “You look good.”
The hairs on the back of my neck spike. He’s been drinking; I can smell whiskey on his breath.
I lied to Davis. This man is dangerous. I can feel it like I can feel my toes jammed into the points of my shoes.
Thrasher isn’t a kid anymore. He’s a fully grown adult, and this is real life, and I’m an idiot for saying he should come here.
“Hi…” I whisper, aiming for sexy and landing in scared. Also, I’ve forgotten his real name, and he knows it.
His beard twitches in disapproval. “Dan.”
“Dan,” I repeat. Please don’t hit me, Dan.
I glance over his shoulder and spot Davis watching us, stone sober and all business. His steady glare gives me the strength to sit back in my booth. “Can I get you a drink?”
“In a minute.” Thrasher’s gaze drags down my body so slowly it stings. He must like what he sees because I get another blood-curdling smirk. “Heard you fucked JGH?”
Muscle memory keeps my bimbo smile in place as I mentally curse the Graves-Holland bloodline back to the Stone Age.
So, Captain Popular ran his mouth about us, huh?
That would certainly explain the online thirst. Being with the king of Pukekohe would only make me sexier to these bottom-feeders.
All Black-approved seconds on a silver platter.
“How do you know about that?” I ask, sugar-sweet.
“Got my ways.” Thrasher inspects my body like it’s a meal he’s already paid for. “Boy reckons you’re a real freak. Can’t get enough.”
I hate the way I blush almost as much as I hate Thrasher Thompson. Fuck this dude. Fuck this entire idea. But before I can tell him to go play in traffic, he jerks his chin—still weak under his Ned Kelly beard—at the bar. “I’m gonna go say hi to Cece. Drink?”
“Sure,” I autoreply, like Pavlov’s dumbest dog.
He swaggers toward the bar without asking what I want. Cece’s disappeared, so he orders off Krissy while I hit my vape and weigh my options. If I tell him to leave as soon as he sits down with a drink, he’ll probably blow his stack. Then what? I need to sit tight and play smart.
Thrasher returns with a pint and a white wine for me. I hate white wine, but I accept the glass with a smile. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He raises his drink to my boobs. “Here’s to seeing these again.”
My disgust makes my decision for me. Revenge plan back on. And now I want the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower. Plus interest.
I force a giggle, tap my glass to his and drink. It tastes like corkboard.
“I had a thing for you at school, ya know?” Thrasher says.
I do know. I have a folder full of batshit emails to that exact effect. “Oh my gosh, really?”
“Yeah.” He leans across the table, hitting me hard with his whiskey breath. “Remember that day at the bus stop? I was tryna flirt, and you got all feisty with me?”
I fill my mouth with wine to keep from screaming. There’s retconning the past, and there’s calling that grotesque incident ‘flirting.’ How do you bend your brain enough to turn pushing a girl over into some cute teen folly?
I kill the rest of Cece’s house chardonnay before I trust myself to meet Thrasher’s gaze again, but I shouldn’t have bothered. Whatever he sees in my face, he’s obviously mistaking for shyness.
“I can’t believe you had a crush on me?” I say through gritted teeth.
Thrasher’s grin is ‘Philosophy PhD’ levels of condensing. “Everyone wanted a go on the hot nerd.”