Chapter 9 #2
The Empire State Building. The Eiffel Tower. All the king’s horses. All of his men. Plus interest.
“You thought I was a nerd?” I say, mock-wounded.
“Yeah. Proper nerd with big tits. You were a bit shy to try to poke, but I wanted to.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Good to know.”
He snorts. “Forgot you’re Aussie. You talk funny.”
I want to say, “I talk funny? This whole fucking country needs nasal decongestants.” What I actually say is nothing. I just giggle.
Thrasher launches into a rambling story about his housing renovations.
Apparently, slate tiles are expensive these days.
I ask relevant questions, if only to stave off boredom, but Thrasher’s One Of Those Guys.
The kind that like pussy but have zero interest in conversing with, much less listening to, a woman.
I stare glumly at my empty wine glass as Thrasher drones on about lode-bearing walls and wait for a pause. The second he draws breath, I head to the bar for tequila and a double scotch.
Endurance and advanced alcohol tolerance are my only assets in this situation.
If all goes well, I’ll get Thrasher drunk, hopefully wring something incriminating out of him and send him packing.
At least that’s my plan until he excuses himself to go to the bathroom and comes back with pupils the size of pinpricks.
“Wanna bump?” he slurs.
Of course. Fake Kiwi cocaine. The only thing missing from this horror show. I want to tell him to fuck off out of Cece’s bar with that shit, but running a con is like improv. You don’t say, ‘No.’ You say, ‘Yes, and...’
I sneak a look at Davis and find him mercifully buried in his phone. “Why not?”
Thrasher slides me the bag, his too-hot fingers lingering on mine. I take the ‘coke’ to the bathroom and tip a little down the toilet, pinching my cheeks to give myself a flush.
“One more drink,” I tell my reflection. “Then you can pretend to start work early and bail.”
“Saw that mag you were on,” Thrasher says when I return to my playpen. “Red dress?”
I know what magazine he means, New Image, November issue.
‘Christmas Wish’ had just hit number one in the UK, and New Zealand was trying to claim me like some reverse Russell Crowe.
The photos were pretty, but the headline was ‘Ada Renaldo: Making the Flute Sexy,’ which only served to further imply I was fucking myself with it.
I swear, the flute’s never going to beat those American Pie charges.
“I loved that dress,” I say truthfully. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah, you looked alright. You still play the flute?”
“Not lately. I’m thinking about getting on the wheels of steel. Becoming a club DJ.”
“Nice, you should,” he says, staring dead at my tits.
He doesn’t give a fuck. Jake would. He’d ask a bunch of questions about me being a fake club DJ. Maybe I should text him. Bring him to Stabbies and start some shit?
Nah, it’s too early for the ‘jealous punching’ stage of my revenge arc. And it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Thrasher’s trending toward dad-bod, and Jake… isn’t. I remember his abs, gleaming with sweat, and flexing hard while he fucked me. My mouth goes dry.
Unaware of the porn playing in my head, Thrasher launches into another monologue about roof insulation, and I consider smashing my glass and shoving the shards into my eyes. I might hate Thrasher, but no revenge is worth being this bored.
I shoot my tequila and prepare to bail when his phone rings. He holds a finger up to me like I’m his fucking PA and answers in a voice four octaves lower.
“Hey, mate. Yeah, take it outta the safe. Ten an hour... Nah, I don’t give a fuck if they’re in ’til midnight. Should’ve boxed it up yesterday. Pay ’em for six and tell ’em to get fucked.”
Curiosity alights in my gut like the Olympic flame.
I know from my research that Thrasher runs his great-grandad’s kiwifruit farm.
A quaint little multimillion-dollar operation built on stolen Māori land.
But that’s ancient history. What I just overheard?
That sounds like current crimes. Cash wages at a big operation like Thompson Farms means illegal wages, and it looks like Thrasher’s docking pay to boot.
“Later,” he snaps into his phone, ending the call. “Useless prick.”
“Everything okay?” I coo.
Forget the bimbo act, if this lead is half as promising as it sounds, I’ll be Lobotomised Housewife Barbie.
“Just work shit.” Thrasher swipes at his nose. “You know Shannon Strom?”
I believe he once tripped me during cross country. “Sure! He played rugby, right?”
“Yup. That’s who called. He’s my foreman.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s so cute!”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few boys from school working for me. You know Xav McColl?”
This is the worst thing about small-town knobs: they constantly force you to engage in endless games of ‘Nobody Recall.’ ‘Remember this guy? This lady? That dog? What about this dickhole?’
“I do remember Xavier!” I squeal. “He was here for the bachelor party last weekend, right?”
“Yup.” Thrasher wipes his nose again. “I was ’spose to come, but I had the kids that weekend.”
I try to look sympathetic instead of horrified that Thrasher Thompson has reproduced. I knew I should have figured out how to sterilise people via blow-dart instead of memorising all those sonatas...
“Henry works for me, too,” Thrasher says with a phlegmy snort. “So does Jem Applethorpe and a bunch of other guys who were at the stag.”
That would certainly explain why it was so bogged down with cunts… “Oh, wow!”
“Yeah. You remember Hayley Dean?”
MLM Goebbels? Absolutely. “Hayley works for you, too?”
“Her husband, Fletch,” Thrasher says, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “And Will Sharpe’s sister is married to my brother, Nick. Will sells me trucks and shit from his dealership. You remember him, right?”
My brain lights up like a firetruck, emergency sirens blaring. I knew most of Pukekohe had ties to Thompson Farm, but he’s got half my villain roster in his employ. The revenge potential of this feels like something I dreamed up on Xannies.
“Oh my gosh!” I squeak. “What a family affair!”
“Yeah, good to give back to the community,” Thrasher mutters, his mind clearly elsewhere.
‘Give back to the community,’ my hole. Rhys’s mum worked for Thompson Farms, and she hated it.
Said they paid peanuts and ran the place like a circus.
One of those animal abuser ones that are illegal now.
But as much as I’d love to call Thrasher a nepo baby coloniser and chuck a chair at his head, concussions only last so long.
Getting him jammed up for wage theft, on the other hand…
“You run a kiwifruit farm, right?” I say, brushing a hand down my neckline.
“Yeah. Big business for Pukekohe.”
“And on the phone, you said you pay cash? Maybe you could give me a job? I love kiwifruit!”
He shoots me a scathing look. “Unless you can bag four hundred an hour, you won’t keep up with the Fijians.”
“Are they the only people you pay cash?”
Thrasher’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
Easy tiger…
“Oh, no reason. Cece pays me straight from the till when I work here. That way, there’s no tax for either of us.”
Thrasher relaxes as much as a man with a septum crammed full of methamphetamines can. “Good way to do it. Keeps costs down.”
“That’s what Cece says!” I trace my cleavage absently. “Is that what you do? With the pickers at the kiwi farm?”
“Yeah, babe,” he tells my tits. “Cash-in-hand for all the foreigners.”
Glitter cannons explode in my head. Houston? This is Flute-Slut. We have fucking liftoff.
“That’s so clever,” I giggle, praying my evil joy looks like cocaine giddiness because fuck knows I can’t control it. Off-the-books wages? For every non-citizen picker on his farm? That’s gotta be five years in the can. At least.
Thrasher laughs along with me, too dopey to know how fucked he is. “Yeah, Fijians’ll bust their asses for nothing. If you need cash, I’ll have to put you to work some other way.”
Fuckin’ barf.
“You should!” I simper. “I’m a really hard worker.”
“I heard. You did overtime at the stag party, yeah?”
I’m confused until I remember Jake Graves-Holland and his big, fat mouth. Thrasher’s basically calling me a whore to my face… but I’m riding enough malicious joy to keep right on giggling. “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”
“Nah. Nothin’ like a girl who loves a good dicking.”
Dear Lord, why do you give with one hand and take so thoroughly with the other? Speaking of taking things…
I snatch Thrasher’s whiskey and gulp. “Oops, was that yours?”
He gives me a cold smile. “You drink like a Fijian. My guys pour half my payroll into their mouths.”
I stop giggling. Even on a hot streak, I can’t bimbo my way through this racist clown calling me a pisshead. Whatever his employees drink, it isn’t enough. If Thrasher Thompson was my boss, I’d be dead from alcohol poisoning on day three.
I don’t need to hear this dickweed’s xenophobic rants; I need details on the illegal labour scam he’s running.
“I guess I just really like tequila,” I say, playing with my A necklace. “Do you?”
“I like that dress. I wanna see what’s underneath it.”
His words are playful, but his eyes are cold as overpriced slate. I know what he’s really saying: ‘I’m done talking, Flute-Slut. You want more? Show more.’
I sense a fresh stack of poker chips hitting the table, a new hand dealt. How much can I get from him before he cashes out with my dignity? I cheat at cards, but I bet Thrasher does too, and his moral floor is in hell. If he can raise the stakes, so can I. My bimbo act is going to have to harden.
“I don’t take my dress off for anyone who asks, Daniel,” I say with only a trace of my former flirtiness. “You have to earn it.”
His eyes glitter like rhinestones. “Whaddya want?”