Chapter 9 #3
I want him to keep talking about under-the-table payouts.
New Zealand’s one-party consent laws make it perfectly legal for me to record him on my phone without his knowledge.
A little hard evidence, and I can flood every trade commission and newsroom on the North Island.
But I doubt even Thrasher’s thick enough to let me revisit the topic of his business practices so soon after spilling the beans.
And even if he is, it’s loud in here. There’s no guarantee of clean audio.
Still, there’s no way I’m going to a second location with Thrasher fucking Thompson.
My best shot at a confession would be taking him upstairs, but that would violate the sacred space of Cece’s apartment, not to mention my body.
What I need is to stall this asshole. Give myself time to plan without him pushing for sex.
Ideally, I’d get him to butt-chug a bunch of Stones ginger wine, but even I don’t think I can pull that off.
“I really want fairy bread ice cream,” I blurt. “You know, from Duck Island?”
Thrasher doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Let’s go get some.”
I sigh prettily. “I’d love to, but I promised Cece I’d work tonight.”
“Fuck her.”
I cast a deliberately shifty look at the bar. “I could leave early. Maybe when the dinner crowd clears out?”
Obviously, Cece wouldn’t give a damn if I ditched my fake-shift, but implying she would sets a good precedent: I break the rules for you, Thrasher, and you break the rules for me. For example, by talking about your dodgy bookkeeping whilst I record you.
“Bail,” Thrasher says. “Need to get it done, don’t we?”
Ten guesses what ‘it’ is. The first nine don’t count.
“I want to, but I have to stay until at least eight, and Duck Island closes before then. Could you maybe…?”
Thrasher gives me a sharklike smile. He thinks he’s winning, and why not? No more trying to convince me that having sex with him will be ‘fun’ or ‘a good idea.’ Now it’s a straight-up exchange.
“Sure, babe,” he says. “I’ll head there now.”
“Yay!” I bounce in my seat. “You mean it? You’ll really get me fairy bread ice cream?”
“If I do, can I eat it out of you?”
I dunno, Thrasher, can you die from swallowing too much of your vomit? I push the thought aside and gasp theatrically. “Daniel! You’d really do that to me?”
“Yeah, babe. Tons of girls have told me I’m the best at it.”
Sure, Thrasher. And Viggo Mortensen once told me I have beautiful eyes. Oh, wait, that actually happened, and the women who think you’re great at giving head were invented in it.
“Oh my gosh!” I squeal. “Dan!”
“Whaddya think?” He presses. “You want it?”
“Um, if you really get me ice cream… I think… yeah… you can do that to me.” I touch a finger to my lips. “Gosh, I can’t believe I said that. Tequila makes me so easy…”
“Good,” Thrasher says, the cold burn back in his eyes. “I’d better get going, then.”
“Thanks so much, Dan.”
“Sure.” He leans forward to kiss my cheek, bathing me in his sour breath. “I’m gonna smash your box like a pinata.”
I wish someone would smash my head like a pinata. “That sounds amazing.”
He gets to his feet with a truly terrifying grin. “Then I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye!” I call, then remember the baggie pressed against the underside of my left boob.
“Hang on, do you want your…?” I gesture vaguely at my bodice.
Thrasher pauses, then shakes his head. “Keep it on you.”
I watch him exit the bar, bile curdling in my stomach.
Leaving his coke with me isn’t generosity, it’s a contingency plan.
If I ditch Thrasher before he’s back with ice cream, or throw the baggie away, he can call the cops and say I’m holding, claim Stabbies is a front for drugs, get me banged up for possession, all manner of ugly things.
He might be an idiot, Thrasher, but I can’t deny he’s a man of low cunning.
I stare at the tabletop. I should be sprinting upstairs to plant my burner phone somewhere strategic and hit record. But I can’t move.
I’ve had a lot of terrible things happen to me in my life, but letting Thrasher’s face touch my pussy would be right up there. Is it worth it to bust him? Could I live with myself?
My mind swings to Jake, kneeling between my legs, genuine, careful.
I liked him, or at least wanted him, and I still couldn’t let him go down on me.
I hate Thrasher with every fibre in my body.
Even if I get seriously liquored up and eat every grain of his fake coke, just kissing him would feel like a violation. But what am I supposed to do?
I glance at the bar, desperate for Cece, but she’s still MIA. Davis has wandered off, too. Probably assumes I don’t need him now Thrasher’s gone.
I pull out my vape and drag, my chest tight enough to burst. I can compartmentalise day-to-day, but sometimes all the things that are wrong with me burst out, and I go under.
Call it an Autistic meltdown or emotional overwhelm.
Either way, I’m paralysed, my thoughts swirling like grime in tepid water.
A scared girl with a stupid plan fucking everything up.
A washed-up substance abuser who’s getting older by the second.
Help, I think.
But who could help? Who should? I made this mess. I deserve to sit in it.
I’m not sure how long I stare into space. Long enough for my ass to go numb. Long enough for Thrasher to reach Duck Island Ice Cream. I need to move, act, but I can’t. I’ll still be sitting here when he comes back, and everything crashes down around—
“Oi, Renaldo!”
The fog shatters like sugar glass. I turn. Striding toward my booth, looking so big and pissed off, I’m surprised the floor isn’t shaking beneath him, is Jake Graves-Holland.