Chapter 1
I’m driving the van up the Pacific Motorway with the windows up and the air-con working overtime. It’s already pushing thirty outside and the bitumen’s shimmering through the windscreen. AC/DC’s blasting out of the old stereo — “You Shook Me All Night Long” — because some things never get old and neither does a good 80s playlist. Highway to Hell next, then a bit of INXS if the mood takes me. Keeps the head clear on a job day.
Name’s Dave. Thirty-nine. Live on the Gold Coast in Australia. Recently divorced. No kids, thank Christ. Tall, messy blondish surfy hair that never sits right no matter how many times I shove it under a cap, blue eyes that have seen too many early starts and too many late finishes. Live in an old converted fire station three blocks from the beach in Broadbeach. Bottom floor’s the workshop — tools, timber, dust, the lot. Top floor’s still half-finished living quarters. Mattress on the deck most nights, walls open to the sea breeze when the wind’s right. The old fireman’s pole is still there. I’ve used it more than once when I couldn’t be arsed with the stairs. Still works.
I’m a tradie. Aussie slang for a tradesman — plumber, electrician, builder, or in my case a joiner. Self-employed. Kitchen fit-outs, renovations, repairs. Can knock up a solid kitchen in ten days if the timber’s good and the client doesn’t change their mind every five minutes. Quality and workmanship are what keep the phone ringing.
Being single again means the odd quiet night with just the tools and the radio for company. One part of me that still works without complaint and sits heavy in my shorts as I shift gears after a speed bump. Thick, about eight inches when it’s interested, and quietly reliable. Not something I advertise, but it hasn’t let me down yet. Small mercies.
Lydia was the opposite of small mercies in the end. She was thirty-six when she left — dark hair she kept long, sharp green eyes, a body she worked hard to keep tight. Used to fuck like rabbits, the two of us. Couldn’t keep our hands off each other for years. Once in the back of this same van parked up behind a job site after dark, her skirt shoved up around her waist, me buried deep while cars went past on the main road twenty metres away. Another time on the beach at midnight, sand everywhere, her biting my shoulder to keep quiet. Even against the kitchen bench in a half-finished renovation once, both of us listening for the client’s car. It was good. Proper good. Then the fire just… died. Arguments over nothing. She got quiet. I worked longer hours. One day she packed a bag and fucked off with her twenty-five-year-old personal trainer. Bloke with more abs than sense and a grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing. She took the house, the car, most of the furniture. Left me the business and the fire station. Turned into a proper bitch on the way out too — messages, lawyers, the lot. Still stings a bit when the radio plays the wrong song.
Today’s job is a full kitchen fit-out at my best mate Mark’s place. Mark and Jenny are away for the week at some Real Estate conference up the coast. Left the house to their daughter Abby. Mark rang last night while I was packing the van.
“Can’t wait to see the finished kitchen, mate,” he said, voice full of that usual piss-taking grin. “Just hope Abby won’t be too much of a pain in the arse while you’re there. She’s home from uni for the holidays. Try not to let her talk your ear off. Remember when she was twelve and wouldn’t shut up about that boy band? Nearly drove us all spare.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I remember. Braces and all. Used to bounce around the old kitchen like a bloody kangaroo on Red Bull.”
“She’s nineteen now,” Mark said. “Still talks a lot, but at least the music’s better. Don’t let her talk you into any of her uni parties or whatever the hell they do these days. Just get the kitchen done and we’ll shout you a beer when we’re back.”
I told him no worries and hung up. Abby’s always been a good kid. Shouldn’t be any trouble.
I take the exit, roll through the back streets, and pull up outside Mark’s place. Two-storey brick, neat lawn, the usual Gold Coast suburban setup. The van doors rattle as I kill the engine and AC/DC cuts out mid-chorus.
That’s when I see her.
Abby’s out the front washing her little white hatchback. Hose in one hand, sponge in the other. Tight little shorts that barely cover anything and a thin white singlet that’s gone almost see-through from the water. Tanned skin, no lines, long legs, blonde hair tied up messy. She’s bent over the bonnet scrubbing, arse out, and the water’s running down her thighs in little streams. Music’s playing from her phone balanced on the roof — something newer, not my 80s stuff.
I sit there a second longer than I should, hand still on the keys. The wet fabric clings to her, and every time she leans in there’s a soft bounce that has no business being that noticeable.
I open the door and step out.
She looks up, drops the sponge, and lets out a proper squeal.
“Hi Uncle Dave!”
She’s across the driveway in three steps and throws her arms around me in a big, wet, full-body hug. Tanned skin, damp singlet, the lot pressed against me. My cock gives a clear, traitorous twitch against the front of my shorts before I can stop it.
Fuck!... This week could be interesting… what could possibly go wrong….
