Chapter 6
Tabby made it to Toby’s house in under five minutes. It looked even bigger in real life, horror movie huge. She hovered at the front gate, letting her breathing return to normal. The alcohol had sunk in, and some of her nerves had burnt away. It felt like now or never. She shoved open the gate and stormed up his pebbled footpath like the Terminator. Get in, get it done, get out.
His front door was navy with a little gold knocker. Ignoring it, she pounded her knuckles against the wood and waited for him to keep her waiting. Instead, there was a soft pad of feet, and the door swung open.
Oof.
His height struck her first. Even barefoot, he was so tall. She’d forgotten that. He’d been sitting at the Village Belle, not towering above her like a giant Ken doll. The second thing that struck her shouldn’t have been so surprising, but it was. He was so hot. Broad-shouldered and tan, his white t-shirt made his husky dog blue eyes look even bluer. She tried to picture Vince, the bartender, but couldn’t recall what he looked like. What did anyone look like except the man standing in front of her?
“Tabitha,” Toby said, his smile piercing her like lightning.
She clenched her teeth, inclining her head in a ‘you gonna let me in?’ gesture. He stepped aside, and she carried her heavy ass tattooing bag into his beachside mansion.
The foyer was enormous, all leafy houseplants and splashy modern art. Also, he had a fucking foyer. In spite of herself, she had to admit it was a nice place. Clean and pretty and smelling of rich-person candles. She recalled his parents’ dank little weatherboard shack, replete with wet dog carpets and gory sculptures of Jesus bleeding to death, and felt something close to pride in her nemesis. Shaking her head, she hoisted a blank look onto her face.
“Want a drink?” Toby said, closing the door.
The little click of the lock and the knowledge they were now alone made her mouth go dry. “Nope,” she called over her shoulder. “Where we doing this? And if you say, ‘the bedroom,’ I’ll sack tap you.”
Toby chuckled, and for the millionth time, Tabby wondered what had happened to the stammering mess that used to be her friend.
“Not the bedroom,” he said. “This way.”
He overtook her, heading for the floating staircase. “Can I carry that bag for you?”
“No,” she said, raising it protectively against her body. She came to regret that decision as she hauled it up two flights of stairs.
“Why?” she wanted to ask. “Why is your house so big, you prancing tit?”
But mostly, she was trying not to stare at his ass. Had he worn tight pants on purpose, or was she just being a sex pest? She hadn’t slept with anyone since Sparkling Whine went arse up. She should have. She’d come to Toby’s house with the lady equivalent of a loaded gun.
I’ll text Vince, the horny barman, before I come back for the next session, she told herself. This is way too dangerous.
Just when she was starting to think the stairs were never going to end and she was trapped in a liminal space, Toby veered into a massive living room with windows overlooking the ocean. There was a huge TV, a couch big enough for twelve and a massage table covered in a sheet. Beside it stood a small desk with a swivel lamp and a rotating chair, similar to the ones she used at Silver Daughters. Newer than the ones she used at Silver Daughters.
“Here, okay?” Toby asked, scanning her in a way that made her wish she’d done her nails.
“It’s fine.” She hauled her bag onto the couch. “You own a massage table?”
“Rented one. I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“So why are you still here?”
He smirked, his gaze flicking to the side as if to say, ‘Who is this woman?’ It sent another shower of sparks along her skin, and she buried her face in her bag, pulling out slip paper and ink pots at random.
Dearest lord, why must I be so sexually damaged?
Toby walked behind her, giving her the feeling she was prey circled by a predator. “Is the table fine? Does it work?”
“Yeah, should do.” She extracted her roll of protective wrap and began covering the massage sheet with thin layers of sanitary plastic. The table was waist-high, already adjusted to the level she needed to tattoo. God, Toby was such an asshat. Why did he remember how tall she was?
“Need a hand?” Toby asked.
“Not from you.” Satisfied the table was covered, she began wrapping the desk and chair.
“Looks like you’re setting up a crime scene,” Toby said. “Sure you’re not here to murder me, Tabitha?”
She wanted to say, ‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you, you sex freak?’ but caught herself in time. She wasn’t here to banter, she was here to do her job and go home. When everything was covered in protective wrap, she turned to look at Toby, and his dumb, handsome face almost knocked her sideways again. His cheekbones were so… and his skin was… what kind of blood-infused moisturiser did rich people have access to, anyway?
Toby raised a sandy brow. “Yes?”
“Tarp off and get on the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Shut up, nutsack.”
Tabby knew she was being rude—not cute-rude, asshole-rude—but Toby was totally unfazed. He swaggered over to the massage table and lifted his t-shirt.
Oof.
Oof.
Fucking OOF.
His body was entirely different from the one she’d once clawed, stroked, and bitten. Back then, it had been nice, but this was… impossible. All ridges and bulges and fitness magazine lines, his skin buttery tan like he spent his life riding horses shirtless instead of attending Christian school and playing Magic: The Gathering.
She mentally Photoshopped her tattoo onto his right bicep, and the effect made her want to smack something. It would look fantastic, interesting, and sexy without being pretentious. A unique piece of art that would have all the blondes in South Yarra telling their friends, ‘Toby thinks about stuff, y’know?’
It wasn’t fair, her providing more clout to a guy who already had way too many staircases.
Colombia, she reminded herself, pulling out her JBL Clip. Thirteen grand. Speaking of which…
“Where’s the money?” she said, pulling out her phone and connecting to the speaker. “You said?—”
“Five K up front.” He walked back to the couch and plucked up an envelope. “Here.”
She expected him to hand it over, but he just stood there, holding the envelope next to his abs like he wanted her to examine the hard ladders of muscle. Tabby ignored him, opening Spotify and selecting her ‘tattooing cunts’ playlist—all hard bass and angry female singers. Nothing light or romantic in sight.
“Cheers,” she said, refusing to look at him. “Put it in my bag. I’ll count it later.”
“I thought you’d want to check it wasn’t Monopoly money, but if you trust me…” Toby tossed the envelope onto her duffel and sat on the massage table, extending his long chino-ed legs in front of him. Tabby wished he was wearing shoes. The sight of his bare feet made everything feel even more intimate.
“I don’t trust you,” she said. “I just need to set the mood.”
Toby grinned until Missy Elliott started blaring through the JBL clip, rapping about what a bitch she was.
“Right,” Tabby said in the most businesslike voice she could summon. “You wanna look over the design before I put the stencil on?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve added more detail to the stag since last time.”
He shrugged. “I trust your judgement.”
Tabby scrunched her eyes at him. “Is this a power play?”
“Maybe I just trust you, Tabitha?”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what, Tabitha?”
He said it slowly, melting the syllables in his mouth like sugar flakes. Tabby rolled her eyes and took out her stencil and sanitation wipes. She pulled out her black tattooing gloves and tugged them on slowly, aware both that she was stalling for time and that Toby Tennant was staring at her ass. If only she could put a blanket on his head and pass it off as a standard tattooing procedure…
“So,” Toby said. “How’s things?”
“Sick,” she muttered. She needed to get laid. She should go out with Vince. Or head back to the wine bar after she was done here and fuck him…
She took a swift breath, collected everything she needed and walked toward the massage table. As she arranged her ink and wipes on the desk, she smelled him, a velvety aftershave that made her mouth water, and beneath it—and infinitely more dangerous—his sweet, puppyish Toby scent. It transported her back to their first hangout, sitting on his parents’ kitchen floor with Mopsy’s mongrel pups in their laps, talking about school and travel and the Pandemic board game. They’d played a round together, drinking tea and laughing until Toby got worried his folks would come home. She remembered kissing his cheek goodbye, and a wave of sadness rolled over her, so strong she almost dropped her bottle of grey wash.
“Tabby?”
He sounded like the boy from years ago, the one who got so uptight when he was losing at Pandemic that she’d dubbed him ‘Captain Wah-Wah’ and made crying motions with her fists until he threatened to chuck her out of his house. And suddenly she wanted to scream it. The thing she’d vowed never to admit.
You were supposed to be my friend.
“Hey? Tabby?”
She shook her head, furious with herself. “What, fuckface?”
“I… are you okay?”
You were supposed to be my friend.
She ripped open a sanitation wipe. “Aside from having to look at you? Sure.”
The smack of antiseptic blasted away Toby’s scent and her nostalgia along with it. Fuck telling him how much he’d meant to her. Fuck him in general.
“Hold still while I do this,” she said, gesturing for his arm.
“Okay.”
Grateful for her gloves, she scrubbed the cotton pad across Toby’s arm briskly, like she was cleaning an oven tray. “I’m gonna put the stencil on, then you can check the placement in a mirror before I start.”
“No problem.”
She unravelled her stencil and lined it with the swell of his right bicep. “So, you really do want a tattoo, huh? Two blondes aren’t gonna burst out of a cupboard and try to lure me into a surprise foursome?”
Toby grinned, instantly transmuting into the douche from the Village Belle. “Not unless you want them to?”
“I’d rather flush my face down the toilet.” Satisfied she’d sized everything right, she pulled the plastic protector away from the sticky side of the stencil and slowly lowered it onto his skin. To his credit, Toby stayed utterly still as she smoothed the template flat, letting purple temporary ink sink into his pores. She backed away from the table, glad to put some distance between their bodies. “Go look in the mirror before I take the other plastic side off.”
He got to his feet slowly, his stomach muscles flexing in new and fascinating ways. Tabby feigned interest in the almost imperceptive sea views through the windows as he walked to the other side of the lounge room and through a door. A light flicked on, and she felt safe to release a shaky breath. She was so rattled, and she hadn’t even started tattooing him. How the hell was she going to endure three hours of this?
By thinking about Cartagena, she reminded herself. By remembering the money. Speaking of which, yet again…
She walked to her bag and picked up the discarded envelope. It was thick with paper, and when she opened it, she saw a wad of green hundred-dollar notes. She pulled them out and counted five grand—more money than she’d ever physically held. Feeling a little dizzy, she stuffed it back into her bag. She could run, take the money and be in Colombia tomorrow, but then she’d be That Person. She’d done a lot of dodgy stuff in her life, but outright theft wasn’t one of them—at least not this kind of theft. Jacking a street sign with your name on it was one thing; stealing five grand and failing to do your job was another. She would have to do this. Tattoo Toby Tennant. Resigned, she sat in the rotating chair and arranged the lamp into the correct position. It was a cute little set-up, but that only made her feel worse. And where was Mopsy? Seeing the elderly breeding spaniel was the only thing she’d been looking forward to about this experience.
“All good,” Toby called from the other room. The light flicked off, and he walked back into the lounge. “On the table?”
“Yup.”
Tabby wheeled out of the way so he could settle, then peeled back the stencil’s protective film so there was nothing but the outline of her winter scene on his arm. The design was so perfect, even in purple, that she felt a stab of excitement. Whatever else, it would be cool to see this thing she’d made come to life. She took up her tattoo gun, comforted by its familiar weight, the feel of it in her hand.
“Do you want to know how much it’s going to hurt?” she asked.
“It’ll hurt as much as it does.”
“Neh, neh, nehhh,” Tabby imitated to cover how perfect an answer it was. Toby was a cleanskin, as they said in the biz, and holding cleanskins’ hands—especially dudes—as they winced through the needle was something most professional artists grew to hate.
“Good,” she said, starting the machine. “Hold tight.”
Toby tensed a little as she lined the needle with the stencil, but when he relaxed, she still couldn’t make contact. There was a moment when you touched a tattoo gun to someone’s skin. A point of no return. She hesitated, trying to savour it, and found nothing but nerves. She glanced up at him and found him staring back at her, his eyes pale and unreadable.
“Why do you want this tattoo, exactly?”
“That’s my business. You gonna start?”
“I guess.”
She clenched her jaw and kissed his skin with the needle. He flinched but mostly held still and there it was, the first ink he’d ever have, the start of her winter forest. Missy transitioned into Garbage’s ‘I’m Only Happy When It Rains,’ and Tabby felt heartened. She’d done this a thousand times, and she could do it again. She let her fingers move instinctively, tracing the needle slowly but surely around the lines of a snowy pine tree.
“Right,” Toby said. “What’s new with you?”
“Stay still.”
“I am staying still. How’s Scott?”
The ease with which he brought up his old boss irritated her. “He hates you. Says it all the time.”
Toby laughed softly. “You’re gonna play it like that, huh?”
“I don’t talk while I tattoo.”
“Bullshit. You always said your favourite thing was finding out weird stuff about people while they were in your chair.”
Tabby scowled. More stupid remembering. But then, he had always been like that. He knew where she stayed in Montmartre when she was twenty, the time she saw Skrillex in Flinders Street Station. He’d once bought her new laces when Morgan the puppy chewed through her Docs because he remembered she’d said shoelaces were unnecessary when string existed. “You can’t put string in your shoes, Tabs. It’s just wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she told his arm.
“Not even if I throw in a little extra?”
“I’m gonna take this moment to remind you I’m working ink under your skin with a needle.”
“Fair, but silence is boring.”
“You’re fucking boring. You and this Barbie playhouse you call a home.”
“That’s more like it,” he said with satisfaction. “Why don’t you just talk at me, then? Say whatever you want?”
For a second, she entertained the idea, telling Toby what a ballbag he was, then talking about the client she’d had today with the third nipple. But she knew that was dangerous ground. Talking about anything related to Silver Daughters could easily transition to talking about Jo. She’d never been great at keeping secrets, and as much as she wanted to deny it, she and Toby had been close once. It was all too possible she’d get comfy and spill the beans. She couldn’t let him keep baiting her into conversation, though. She needed to seize control of this situation.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “How about I ask you some questions?”
“Great. Lay it on me.”
“Do you feel guilty about ditching Scott with no notice, right when he was drowning at work?”
Toby’s arm stiffened. He didn’t say anything.
“Hmm, not so keen for chats now,” Tabby said, tracing a pinecone. “Okay, round two, are your parents still in that cult?”
A muscle flicked in Toby’s arm like a warning. “It’s… probably not a cult.”
“Sure, man, whatever helps you do blow at night. Round three, is Mopsy here? I can’t imagine your folks took her to cultland with them?”
She looked up to see a flash of incisor as Toby’s mouth twisted in irritation. Feeling perversely satisfied, she kept going. “I’m gonna say they left her with you, and since nothing in your house is covered in fur, I’m guessing you got rid of her?”
“I’d never get rid of Mopsy,” he said, anger burning in his voice.
“So where is she? Taking a little sojourn in the countryside?”
Toby stayed silent.
“Pretty cooked,” she said. “She spent years giving your parents puppies, way too many puppies, and she loved you more than anyone and now she’s all alone somewhere if she’s even still alive.”
“What are you trying to achieve, Tabitha?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Point taken,” Toby said in a tight voice. “No more talking.”
True to his word, he stayed quiet as she outlined half the forest, working her way toward the stag. But the silence didn’t help. It left her alone with her thoughts and she didn’t much like them. Toby might be a fuckhead and a rich bitch, but she’d been a dick about Mopsy, and the butterflies that took flight in her stomach whenever she glanced at his shirtless torso were undeniable.
So, he’d fucked her over, so what? She’d agreed to do this, and lashing out at him wouldn’t make the hours they’d have to spend together any easier to endure. She drew in a breath as she moved her needle along the Stag’s delicate antlers. “Look, sorry for grilling you like that. I’m having… it’s just… Sorry.”
Toby shifted slightly. “It’s all good.”
“Don’t be like that. Don’t just let me off the hook.”
He laughed. “You’re not on the hook. It’s cute when you get angry.”
Tabby lifted her tattoo gun. “Fuckin’ pardon?”
“I think you’re adorable when you get mad,” he said like that was a normal thing to say. “Can’t be that surprising. I told you that time you pushed the guy who threw a glass at Nightcat? Remember?”
No. And then yes. She and Toby had been chatting by the sound stage when a straggly guy in his twenties drained his beer and threw the pot glass toward the dance floor, collecting a pretty brunette in the back. Tabby had shoved him without a second thought, knocking him to the floor. He’d recovered quickly, grabbing her arm and shaking her as she kicked and screamed and then Toby had come out of nowhere, pulling the guy back by the roots of his curly hair and punching him in the stomach.
It was the one time she’d seen him angry, really angry, and it had transformed him. Gone was the meek little office jockey, and in his place was a white-collar superhero kneeling on the villain’s chest until security arrived. She remembered telling him how great he’d looked going all Superman as they sat filling out incident reports in the tiny pub office. It had been easy to say stuff like that back then. When he’d been someone else.
“Shithead,” Toby muttered. “He thought they were on a date, remember? Even though they were there for work?”
Tabby didn’t think she’d ever forget. The brunette crying as she begged the bouncers not to call the police because she’d done MDMA. Telling the straggly guy she was sorry for kissing someone else, even though they weren’t remotely a couple…
“You were great,” Toby said quietly. “We talked to the cops, and then we went to Maccas, and you said being angry gave you Elmer Fudd face, and I said you were wrong and that you looked more like…”
“What?”
To her amazement, Toby’s cheeks went pink like they used to. “I said, uh, you were adorable like, uh, Sailor Mercury?”
Tabby scanned her memories of McDonald’s and could only remember being annoyed the ice cream machine was out of order. “No…?”
Toby turned his face to the ceiling and muttered something. She wanted to ask what it was but decided it was safer to refocus on the tattoo. But as she continued her work, her insides were warm. Sailor Mercury? Had he really said that? Had she really not remembered him saying that?
A phone pinged in Toby’s left pocket.
“Mind if I get that?” he asked, already sliding it out.
As the rest of him remained perfectly still, Tabby knew she didn’t have a right to complain, but when he started chuckling at his screen, she wanted to slap it away.
“Blonde ambition hitting you up?” she asked, knowingly soliciting pain.
“Blonde ambition?”
“The two extremely nice women you were tongue-fucking at Village Belle?”
Toby didn’t blush. He didn’t even blink. “Nope. One of the guys from my podcast. He just ‘invested’ in a Nintendo 64 because he thinks it’ll be worth millions in twenty years.”
“Will it?”
“Hard to say. Investments are tricky that way.”
Tabby resisted the urge to imitate him again in a whiny kid voice. She’d been doing that too much lately, even if he was so fucking obnoxious, pretending to be all money-smart and grown-up. “Ahh, investments. The lifeblood of any predatory economy.”
“You’re opposed to people making money?”
“Rich people? Sure.”
“So you wouldn’t personally take money off a rich person?”
Tabby scowled. There wasn’t a lot of room on the moral high ground with five grand of Toby’s cash burning a hole in her bag. “I’m opposed to the finance industry.”
“Meaning what? There shouldn’t be banks? Everyone should bury gold bullion in their backyards?”
“No, just… you know what I mean. Eat the wealthy.”
“And how would you suggest we execute that? By actually cooking and eating bankers? Or imposing new taxes? Or what?”
Her scowl intensified. That was another annoying thing about Toby Tennant—he was hard to derail. Even when they’d been mates, he did this annoying lawyer thing, repeating her words back to her and trying to make her explain the dumbass things she said.
“Screw you. I know we’re all guilty under capitalism or whatever, but I’m allowed to think you’re a wang.”
“You are, but you can’t act like my job is professional kitten stomping either. Just because I work in finance?—”
“Congratulations.”
“—I’m not involved in predatory lending, or NFTs, or things that take advantage of the uneducated?—”
“And if the whole system takes advantage of the uneducated? Relies on profiting from a lack of financial education and fair access to resources?”
“Then I understand that must be frustrating, and sometimes I feel frustrated about those kinds of things myself?—”
“Gee, thanks, I’ll let the other plebs know you feel the occasional twinge of guilt. That’ll fix the subprime mortgage crisis.”
“Tabitha,” Toby said conversationally. “Do you actually want to discuss the subprime mortgage crisis, or is this about you ear-bashing me for hooking up with Olive and Lily at the Village Belle?”
Tabby almost dropped the tattoo gun. “What the fuck? I don’t care about your gross public gangbang!”
“Oh really?”
“Christ, you’re a douche!”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are. I bet you jerk off in airplane bathrooms and leave cum all over the mirrors.”
“I don’t. But I did once buy a girl a jet ski because she almost drowned giving me head in a hot spring.”
Tabby turned off her tattoo gun. She stared up at the smirking cunt that was Toby, feeling like her brain was about to come out of her ears. “You bought a jet ski? Like an on-water fuckhead-mobile for a woman because?—”
“She was blowing me underwater and refused to surface until I came and almost died? Yeah. I did.”
“What the fucking fuck?”
Toby didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Shit happens. Makes a good story though, don’t you think?”
She glared at him. “You really wanna know what I think? I think you should put a plastic bag on your head and duct tape your neck.”
Toby stopped smirking. “Sorry?”
“You almost killed a woman trying to nut in what I assume is a public hot spring, then you paid her off with a jet ski, and now you’re back-door bragging about it? How is that not cooked to you, bro?”
“Three things.” Toby held up three fingers. “I’m front-door bragging. It was a private hot spring. And she was the one who wouldn’t come up for air.”
Tabby could just picture it, Toby, with his arms sprawled over the edge of a hot pool like a king, another perfect blonde’s head bobbing in the water before him. She pressed her thighs together, unsure whether she was more disgusted by him or mad at herself for getting turned on. “Whatever, Tobias. You still almost committed manslaughter.”
The arrogant smile returned. “You are jealous, aren’t you?”
“Jealous because you almost flat-murdered a girl, then extorted her into silence with the world’s most obnoxious water-based vehicle?”
He shrugged. “She was sexy. I could afford it. No one got hurt.”
Tabby struggled to come up with an argument that wasn’t ‘So then buy me a jet ski, you fucking cunt!’ “Whatever. Your parents are still in a cult.”
Toby frowned. “No, they’re not.”
“They are. And here’s the scoop, Toby Tennant, no matter how many girls you fuck or luxury automobiles you purchase for coercion, you still grew up in a bizarre Christian nightmare and were covered in dog hair the bulk of the time.”
For a split second, she worried she’d gone too far, but new Toby bounced like a basketball. “You think I should, what? Be monogamous and living in a three-bedroom house in Eltham?”
“No,” Tabby shot back. “I think you should be living right here, in ass-douche towers, slowly but surely becoming wiener sibs with the entire Western Bulldogs backline.”
Toby laughed, and that irritated her worse than anything.
“You fucking suck, dude.”
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Not as good as that jet ski girl did, though.”
“How hard can it be to swallow something the size of a peanut?” Tabby said sweetly. “It’s crazy, but I think I almost remember when you used to be nice...?”
“Maybe you fucked it out of me?”
She felt like an oven door had opened on her face. Where did he even get the balls to bring that up? “The timeline checks out.”
Toby slid his free hand behind his head. “You still think about it, huh?”
The heat in her face rolled down her chest and into her belly. “LOL.”
“Okay, Tabitha. Whatever you say.”
“Right, fuck this.” She stood, pushing back the rolling chair. “I’m outta here.”
“Hey, whoa,” Toby sat up, his hands raised in surrender. “I’m sorry. I’m being a dick. Stick around, and I’ll stop.”
Tabby hesitated. The money Toby had given her was in her bag, and the tattoo on his arm was less than an eighth completed, but her pride was the real thing stalling her. She was the shit-talking queen of the southern hemisphere. She’d driven countless right-wingers off Twitter and gotten seven-figure pickup artists to delete their social media accounts. Getting so offended bantering with Toby Fucking Tennant that she stormed off wasn’t something she could live with.
“Fine,” she spat. “But shut up and let me tattoo, or I’ll stick you in the neck and bail. And no amount of jet skis will keep me from telling the cops you have dead kids in your basement.”
“Sure.” Toby gestured to her empty chair. “Please?”
This is a bad idea, Tabitha, a little voice said as she re-took her seat. But she couldn’t tell what it was referring to. The tattoo had already begun. She’d already humiliated herself by getting jealous and horny and threatening to walk off like a little bitch. What was left to do? To ruin? To achieve?
She ducked her head, switched her machine back on and focused on her work. Toby settled back into the massage table and scrolled through his phone, this time without giving her any indication of what he was doing. Tabby made her way across the stencilled stag in swift, determined licks. Then the pulsing Deathpact song transitioned into ‘Dog’ by Payday, and she realised she’d made a fatal playlist error. Melancholy guitar strings accompanied Payday, singing about a guy who’d lied, who was pretending to be something he wasn’t, who—despite her protestations—she still clearly felt something for.
Tabby felt Toby watching her, and it was like her clothes had vanished, leaving her naked and lonely. The song rolled and soared, and she refused to meet his gaze as she worked even faster. High above the ocean, in this big empty mansion, she and Toby Tennant could have been the last two people on earth.