Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
Alexia
“Okay, I think you're actually starting to morph into that couch.”
I look over in the direction of the voice and say, “Firstly, rude. Secondly, true.”
Aria's curled in the armchair with her sketchpad, not looking up, the rain almost deafening as it drenches the balcony.
I've been camped out at Elliot's house in Mt Lofty because it's a slightly closer drive to Adelaide uni than the beach house.
When I protested the offer to stay there, Betty just rolled her eyes and said, “Please, it's not out of the goodness of his heart. This gets you out of the beach house, so he can get back to the Mothership.”
I'd laughed at that and taken the keys with a sincere thanks.
I groan. “I've got two weeks left until my thesis defence. And I'm seriously behind.”
Betty's hanging off the other end of the couch, upside down, plaiting her hair by the handful.
“Please. Unless someone's invented some huge new thing in poli sci in the last forty-eight hours nobody's told you about, you're going to smash it. You know this shit inside out, upside down, reverse cowgirl riding a pogo stick.”
Aria shakes her head, clearly wondering how she ended up with this feisty woman as her best friend in the whole world.
“So, what time's your thing tonight?” Betty asks, still upside down.
I sit up, feeling my bones crack. Okay, maybe Aria had a point about how long I've been in the chair. “Seven. And I still don't know if Undertow's the right call.”
Aria waves my words away. “Obviously it is. It's home turf.”
I scrunch my nose up. “I'm not sure I should be thinking about it that way any more. You know, since the guys and I aren't...” I can't even say it out loud. Over. We're over.
Betty swears as she over-rolls and ends up on the floor with a thump. “Fine, but Hunter's also part owner, and Aria owns Hunter outright...”
“I do not own Hunter,” Aria says, still not looking up.
Betty does an eyeroll of inhuman proportions.
“Fine, Alexia, you're living in Elliot's house, and Elliot's hers too, so that makes it home turf by association. Fuck those guys!”
“I think,” I say, “fucking those guys is exactly what caused this whole problem.”
All three of us laugh, and it's the first time for me in days.
Aria closes the sketchpad and comes over, hauling me off the couch with more strength than her tiny frame would suggest she has. “Come on. You need a break. Let's get you ready — the more prepared you feel, the better this goes.”
“Do I even have to go?” I let her pull me up but plant my feet a second longer than necessary. “I sort of feel like I'm cheating.”
Betty's up and pointing a finger before I've finished the sentence. “You are not cheating. You're doing something for you, and anyway, you need a reminder of how in demand you are, because you've apparently forgotten.”
Aria tucks a piece of hair behind my ear like she's about to say something wise, and what comes out instead is, “I mean, it's up to you, but if you want some support, let me just say this, I've seen a photo of him and he has those forearms”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you know. Those types of arms.”
I blink. “That's not the supportive thing I thought you were building to.”
Betty grabs my arm and drags me upstairs. “Well, it's supportive of my personal interests. Come on, I've got the perfect outfit.”
At seven, I'm sitting on a stool at Undertow, wearing an outfit I may not have chosen but would like credit for somehow almost pulling off, a black a-line skirt, a burgundy silk shirt Aria says makes my collarbones look like they've been chiselled out of marble, a simple gold chain, and a pair of heels I'm fairly sure cost more than my last car.
I've checked my reflection in the mirrored wall four times in ten minutes, and every time I've looked away feeling good.
I am, for tonight at least, playing the role of a functional adult woman with her life in order.
Until the clock ticks midnight, probably. Then back to chaotic heartbroken stress troll it is.
“What time did he say he'd be here?” Aria asks between stolen sips of my mocktail.
“Seven. Five minutes ago he texted saying he's looking for a park.”
“That's nice of him,” Aria says, absentmindedly, “to let you know.”
We're both watching Betty climb over the bar, as she tries to grab the shaker from the bartender on shift, yelling something about how “it's all in the wrist, sheesh, anybody would think you don't get enough wrist action, which I refuse to believe for someone your age.” He's trying to shoo her off with a bar towel and losing.
“Oh, there he is,” Aria hisses, grabbing my arm excitedly as she cranes past my shoulder towards the door. “Oh, he's cute.”
I look. “He's fine, I guess.”
She looks at me, incredulous. “Fine? Alexia, no he's not 'fine'. Unless you mean, that man is fooooiiiiiiiiine. That man is tall, and handsome, and fills out a pair of trousers like it's an Olympic sport.”
A pair of arms comes around her from behind, and Hunter's mouth is suddenly at the back of her neck. “Sorry, what was that, baby?”
Aria whips around so fast her stool nearly goes with her. “Oh, it's nothing. I was talking about my type. Tall. Handsome. And...” She pats his cheek, entirely unbothered. “Oh, so Hunter-y.”
He grins down at her, pressing a hard kiss to her lips, then he gives me a supportive smile. “Just be yourself. You've got this. We're right there, wave if you need us.”
Just then, the guy sees me and nods.
I wave.
“Already?” Aria says, alarmed.
“Relax, baby,” Hunter says with a laugh. “I think she's waving at Tall Handsome Filled Out Trousers walking this way.”
I laugh, more out of nerves than anything else, and slide off the stool, reciting affirmations under my breath like I'm a fortune cookie.
An hour later, I've decided the guy, Lance, is exactly as advertised. Tall, handsome, and — pants thing aside — a good conversationalist.
“Fine, I'll give you Elements if you're taking everything into consideration, especially for a special occasion,” he says, turning his glass a slow half-circle on the bar top, “but you can't discount sitting down for a good old T-bone at Ribs and Rumps for an easy Monday night steak dinner.”
I give him a look. “It's literally called Ribs and Rumps, Lance.”
“Exactly. Sometimes I just want something that does the thing it says on the box. Or in this case, the menu. And the building. In giant lettering.”
I chuckle. “Fine. It certainly does that. Only, on the other hand, 'ribs and rumps' could also pretty much describe my Tuesday Pilates class.”
He laughs and tips his glass, conceding the point. “Hey, no complaints here. Win-win.”
We knock our drinks together and move onto our favourite coffee places in the Sydney CBD.
It's easy, talking to him. No heaviness, no tension, no undertow — no pun intended. I'm enjoying getting to know him.
Aria walks past with a tray of drinks, twice, each time throwing me a wink so unsubtle I'm amazed the whole bar doesn't see it. The second time, she gets swatted away by Hunter, who adds, “Would you let the woman work?”
Lance clearly hears it. There's a small, awkward beat, and then he just laughs. “Popular around here?”
“Something like that.”
I pick up a spring roll from the appetiser platter Aria had brought out the first time she walked past, and it's halfway to my mouth when someone barrels past behind me, knocking my elbow sideways and sending the chilli-oil-dipped spring roll straight for my shirt, a streak of chilli sauce blooming across the collar.
“Oops. Classic clumsy me.” I'm already grabbing at a napkin, dabbing uselessly, which just spreads it further into the silk.
“Don't rub it, you'll set it.” Lance is already reaching for his own napkin, dunking the corner of it into his soda water.
“Cold water, dab, don't scrub. My sister had triplets.
If my job at the business council doesn't work out, I could make a killing as The Stain Whisperer.” He leans towards me. “May I?”
I gesture at my shirt. “Please.”
He starts gently dabbing at the collar with the soda-soaked napkin, focused like it's heart surgery. “Might come out. Might not.”
“Either way,” I say, “good excuse to buy a new shirt.”
He huffs a laugh as he gets closer to my collar, brow furrowed as he scrutinises his work. “I think we got mos—”
“You know,” someone says from behind Lance, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, since you look like a nice enough bloke.”
I know the owner of the voice even before I've looked up. And Lance straightens, a look of confusion on his face.
“But you’ve got about ten seconds to explain,” Marcus continues, folding his arms as his gaze fixes on the man's fingers still pressed to my collar, “why you've got your grubby hands all over my girlfriend.”
I stare at him, trying to process that he’s here.
Before I can say anything though, he adds, “And I’m going to give you one second to remove them.”
“Sorry, buddy,” Zachary says from his spot behind Marcus, his tone eerily pleasant. “My friend here is very particular about men touching what belongs to him.” His smile drops. “But he's a veritable teddy bear compared to me.”
I shake my head, incredulous, and that's when I see Rhys on the other side of Marcus. All three of them wear the same threatening expression. I can't tell if it's aimed at Lance or me.
“Did you not hear what my mate just said about removing your hands,” Zachary says, “or do we need to show you exactly why you should have listened the first time?”
To Lance's credit, his hand doesn't move, and he glances at me in question. I shake my head again, about to tell him to ignore them, when Rhys reaches over and moves Lance's hand away himself.
“That's the last part of her you get to touch tonight,” he says, and his voice sends icicles down my spine. “Actually — that's the last part of her you get to touch ever.”
“Oh my god,” I say, utterly mortified. “I am so sorry, they don't usually...” I don't even know how to finish that sentence, because they absolutely do, usually.