Losing Faith (Surfers Way) Page 6

  I’m just glad to have my friend home. So I decide to tell him.

  “It’s good to have you back, Q.”

  He swings our linked hands between us and winks at me. “Good to be home.”

  For one second, my heart forgets he’s a friend and his bluest of blue eyes flash at me with such promise, turning my insides into what would probably resemble a raspberry slushie. Great, now I’m thirsty.

  I walk faster, pulling him to keep up. The sooner we get this finished, the sooner I can get home and have a cold, cold shower. Quade Kelly is doing wicked things to my body, and I don’t think he has any idea.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You’re late again,” Dad says, catching me as I try to sneak in the back door of the Palace.

  “I’m sorry.” I exhale loudly. “I was”—drooling while delivering pamphlets—“distracted. Sorry.”

  He sighs and stands in front of me, placing his warm hands on my shoulders. “What’s done is done.”

  He tilts his head to the side and stares me down, making me feel as if I’m twelve years old again. Back when I used to tell him everything. Instantly, I remember crying to him when Quade got his first girlfriend. I was twelve; he had just turned fifteen. When Dad couldn’t understand what had got me so upset and demanded to know, I told him all about my giant-sized love for my bestie’s brother. He’d told me back then that I wasn’t old enough to understand love. Maybe not, but by the time I was eighteen I’d reckoned I had a pretty good idea.

  “Mail drop, no?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.

  I nod. “I had company,” I tell him. Maybe he’ll take it easier on me if he knew I wasn’t alone this time.

  The lines across his forehead deepen as his brows pull together.

  “Quade,” I say, my voice rough for some strange reason. “It was, you know, nice.”

  A slow smile pulls at the corner of my father’s mouth. His hands squeeze my shoulders, and before I know it I’m pulled into his embrace and he’s hugging me as if I’m about to take an extended overseas trip. “I forgive you den. I’d forgive you anyways, but dat boy … you need to …”

  The phone rings, echoing throughout the kitchen.

  I need to what?

  Dad clears his throat and holds me at arm’s length. “Be careful.”

  I roll my eyes at him. Quade is a friend. I’m not about to let him break my heart again.

  “Better get dat call. You get started, huh?” he says and kisses my forehead.

  “Yeah, Dad.” And then I can’t resist saying the words my old man has repeated since I first came to see him work in the shop. “Time to prep because there are pizzas to make and tummies to fill.”

  Dad picks up the phone. “’Ello?” He rolls his eyes at me and smiles. “Yes. Our daughter ‘as arrived. Love you.” He hangs up. As a teenager I’d hated Mum always checking up on me, but I kinda dig that she still does it now. You never know what could happen. One day you’re here, the next you’re six feet under the ground.

  “I’m off,” Uncle Marco says from behind me, startling me with his close presence. “De tables out back ’ave been cleared.” He runs his hands back through his dark wavy hair and gives me a crooked smile. I wrap my arms around his middle and hug him.

  “Sorry if I held you up,” I say in a quiet voice, feeling like crap.

  He leans down and kisses my forehead. “S’okay, love.” My uncle slaps Dad on the back, and calls out “ciao” as he nears the back door.

  I shrug and smile at Dad, and then get started kneading the pizza dough. Dad chops us some fresh basil and sprinkles it into the cauldron-like pot on the stove, which has a batch of our Runaway Beach famous Napoli sauce bubbling away. I chuckle to myself when I think of how many people in town have asked him for the recipe over the years. It’s a running joke with the locals. “Love,” he always tells them. “Love and tomatoes.” I know better. I know the recipe, but I still can’t produce that real rich flavour that he can.

  “I’ve been tinking about someting, Peppi,” Dad says, dragging me from thoughts of sea salt, pepper, and only the best-quality extra-virgin olive oil.

  “What’s that, Dad?” I say as I slap the dough down on the marble surface and fold it in on itself before working it through my hands again.

  “I tink it’s time we got some ’elp, no? You’re busy with all de study, and I know dat one of dese days you’ll be moving onto bigger and better tings.”

  I’m working on it, but I would never just up and leave. This town is my home, even if some people here wished I wasn’t a part of it.

  “I don’t want to leave you in the lurch, Dad. I won’t,” I tell him, even though we both know it’s my brother who did that. Ricky was all prepped to slowly take over so that Dad could ease his way into retirement. You can’t blame a man for wanting to spend more time on his fishing boat and finally get to work on his van. Who knows when he’ll get his chance now. At least he’s still fighting fit.

  “You wouldn’t be, love.” He turns to face me, regarding me carefully.

  “Something on my face?” I ask, lifting each shoulder to brush my cheek for stray remnants of flour.

  “No, Peppi. I’ve got a young girl coming in Monday night for a trial.”

  Wow. All these years he’s resisted help outside the family. What changed his mind? “You do?”

  “Is dat okay with you?”

  “Of course. I mean, it’s not like you’re about to share the recipe with her or anything,” I say, with a shrug of one shoulder.

  “Only a Marone can be privy to de secret sauce. You know dat.”

  I laugh out loud. “I do. So who is she?” Please don’t let it be any of the bitches from school. Please, please, please.

  “Her name’s Lily Turner. She came in ’ere earlier today and begged me for a job. She’s just turned eighteen, and ’as worked in a few fast-food places. De girl even said she’d work for two weeks for free so I could decide whether to keep ’er on.”

  “You’re not going to make her work for nothing, are you?” Does he have any idea how tough the industrial relations laws are? I was only reading about it the other day. If I owned a small business I’d be shit scared of all the regulations and hoops you had to jump through, let alone all the tax stuff. Urgh.

  “Of course not, Peppi. I said I’d make up my mind with one shift, so on Monday I’d love it if you could come in a bit earlier, show ’er around, and ’elp ’er get the gist of tings.”

  “No problem.” I work the dough some more. Do I know any Turners? I don’t remember that name from school. We would’ve only been three years apart. “You know I haven’t heard that name before. Turner.”

  “Your mother and I were talking ’bout ’er last night. Lily and ’er family just moved ’ere. Her foster dad, Daniel, ’as just started work at de hospital; he’s a physio or someting. Lily’s busting to get a job and fit in. Maybe Runaway is the change their family’s been looking for. I’m ’appy to give ’er a chance.”

  I swing my arms around Dad’s shoulders and kiss him on his smoothly-shaven cheek. “You’re a good man, Dad. The best, even. Love you,” I whisper in his ear.

  “Now, now,” he says. “You don’t wanna go giving me a big ’ead before de customers start coming in.”

  “They all love you as much as I do, Dad. Small head, big head. Just deal.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “You’re killing me in those shorts, Lacey Lou. Like you have no idea how much.” Quade leans in and positions his hands either side of me, blocking the doorway to the kitchen. His tank top is loose, giving me a good dose of toned, tanned skin.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. It happens every single time I’m around him and the more skin I see, the deeper I blush. I swallow down, trying to keep my cool. His cheeks rise to accommodate a huge pain-in-my-arse grin.

  “That blush kills me more, you know.” His voice is lower this time, and his chest rises as he takes in a deep breath.

  “Your sist
er is in the next room,” I say in a quiet voice. Jack Johnson blares from the speakers in her room, so I don’t know why I’m whispering.

  In a swift move, his head is at my ear. “I wish she wasn’t. Wish she was a million miles away right now and I had you all to myself. I’d throw you over my shoulder and—”

  I clear my throat. Why is he making this so hard for me? We’ve kissed once before, but I had to put the brakes on. I owe it to Faith to be honest before things between Quade and I go further. I thought it was best to tell her after exams.

  “We agreed to wait,” I say, placing my hand on his chest.

  “No, I said I was ready. You, on the other hand, made the decision to wait for the both of us. Something I’m still trying to wrap my head around.”

  “After the bonfire,” I promise.

  “You gonna make me wait another day? A whole twenty-four hours? At least give me a taste,” he says and weaves those strong arms around my waist, pulling me against him.

  His lips meet mine. His tongue teases at my lower lip. I moan against his mouth, fighting myself to hold back. I can’t. I want this too much. The kiss deepens. My breath hitches in the back of my throat as his tongue wrestles with mine.

  Oh God, his mouth is divine and his kisses … I swear they have the power to cause amnesia—

  The music dies. “You got that popcorn yet?” Faith calls out from the next room. “I’ve got the next episode of Suits ready to go.”

  Our lips part. We both sigh in unison.

  “She’ll be fine with it, Lace, if anything, knowing my sister, she’ll probably jump miles ahead and think how cool it’ll be to have you as a sister by marriage.”

  I wake with a start. My mad-beating heart thrums his name with every beat. Ever since we delivered the pamphlets around the neighbourhood, I can’t get Quade out of my head. And now I’m dreaming about old times. Great times. I get out of bed, get sorted and take Charlie for a long walk down the beach and around to the lagoon and back. An hour later, he’s still on my mind.

  Over the course of the day I talk myself out of showing up on his doorstep at least a dozen times. I change my clothes three times, settling for the tank top and black shorts I had on in the first place. After lunch, I’m out the door and on the way to his house. It’s as if my feet don’t give my brain a choice.

  I have no idea what I’m even going to say. Hi, probably. After that, we’ll both be listening to the kookaburras laughing as I stand there with my mouth wide open.

  With each step closer in the direction of his house, it’s as if my brain is ghosting away, drifting out through my ears along with words that need to be said. I can imagine the riveting conversation now.

  Hey … you.

  Hey, Lace. What you doing here?

  Um, dunno.

  As I take the final step onto his timber porch, my foot catches. I land on one knee, my arms flail around to balance myself. My head crashes into the bottom half of the front door.

  “Ow,” I whine quietly to myself, hoping like hell that Quade didn’t hear me barrelling into his house. For about ten seconds I lie there, breathing in and out slowly. Grateful that there’s no noise inside the building, with a shaking hand I use the doorknob for leverage. My head spins so I perch on all fours, concentrating again on my breathing as the dizziness thankfully passes. Please let Quade be out in the backyard, or in the shower. Matter of fact, please let him be out. In a minute, I’ll dust myself off and just go to work early. Dad will be impressed that I’m not late for a change.

  The door swings open, dragging the air from around me with it. I’m greeted by a very nice pair of muscular tanned calves and bare feet. Of course they’re a sexy pair of feet. He’s the sexy package.

  How hard did I hit my head?

  “Hi,” Quade says, amusement in his tone.

  “Hi,” I say, not daring to look up. If I do, I’ll be eye-level with his soldier.

  Quade puts down a large black dumbbell on the floor beside the door and offers me his hand. I caught him working out? Oh boy.

  “Did you just head-butt my door?”

  “Na-ah,” I grumble as I bring myself to my feet, ignoring his offer of help and instead clawing my hands up the sides of the doorframe. Act cool. “Just checking out your doormat. It’s nice.”

  “A rather close inspection, don’t you think?” he says through a hearty chuckle. “What does it say, Lace?”

  “I … ah.” I look down to check out if there is in fact a cliché “welcome” on the mat. My head swims as my eyes try to focus on a pair of black feet painted in the middle of a brown mat.

  A warm hand weaves its way around my hip, steadying me. My hands grip a pair of tight, rounded biceps for support. Strong muscles flinch beneath my touch.

  “What are you doing here?” he says, reducing the gap between us. The heat of his body radiates against mine and suddenly I’m light-headed for another reason.

  “I … ah. Oh.”

  “I think you’d better come inside. There’s a rather nice-looking egg growing on your forehead.”

  I press my hand to my head, quickly discovering the lump. An “ooh” noise escapes my mouth as the pain radiates from the point of impact.

  “You’re home alone?” I ask, peering in through the doorway for signs of his girlfriend.

  The lines across his brow deepen. “Yeah.”

  I let out a long breath and take a step back. He releases me, but he holds his hands out as if I still might need him for support to stand. “I’ll come in for a bit if that’s okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Get your arse in here so I can get you some ice.”

  “Okay, but I won’t stay long. I need to get to work soon.”

  He leads me through a short hallway and around to a living room, his hand resting on the small of my back guiding me, probably there as a safety net.

  The room doesn’t have a lot of furniture. There are two beige-coloured couches, a light timber coffee table, and a giant man-sized TV on the wall. Men’s fitness magazines strewn on the coffee table, giant-sized sneakers and thongs kicked off beside the lounge, and two baskets of washing are sitting in the corner. I guess it’s kinda what my place looks like. Except without all the unsolved murder stuff plastered to the walls.

  I take a seat on the closest couch and Quade walks through into another room.

  He returns a moment later with an icepack and a red tea towel which he wraps around the cold plastic. He gently places it on the wound and then picks up my hand from my lap and places it over the towel.

  “Thanks. So yeah, I need to go to work soon,” I remind him, because apparently I’m frightened of being in his house and the possibility of running into the love of his life.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s just see how you feel in a bit. I can ring your Dad if you’re not up to it. Matter of fact, give me your phone now.”

  “Why? Are you gonna ring him?”

  “No, I’m putting my number in there.”

  Well in that case …

  I unlock my phone and hand it to him. He taps away, grinning as he does. A second later a phone rings in the kitchen, stopping a moment later. I’m guessing that means he has my number now.

  “How you feeling?”

  In the time it took him to toy with my phone, the pain has faded some, the cool pack soothing my ouchy head.

  “I’ll live. I have to go in tonight though. I’ve gotta get stuff in order because tomorrow I’m training a new girl.”

  “New girl, huh? I thought your dad was always about keeping it in the family.”

  “Yeah, he is, but Uncle Marco and Aunt Cat want to cut back on their shifts and Dad gets a bit stressed out sometimes. I’m not there as often as he’d like.” And Ricky bailed.

  “’Cause you’re too busy head-buttin’ doors, huh?”

  I push his shoulder, but the wall of muscle barely budges. He really got strong. “Hey, watch it. It’s not like I make a habit of it.”

  H
e chuckles and dodges my second try at pushing him over. “So are you gonna tell me what you’re doing here? What prompted this visit?”

  Dammit. Why is he asking me that? Why do I have to tell him?

  Because that’s what normal people do. Have a conversation, answer simple questions.

  “I was on my way to work and thought I’d say hi.”

  A giant, world-class annoying smirk spreads over his lips.

  “What?” I say defensively.

  “But I’m not on your way to work, Lace. In fact, I’d say that you went well out of your way to come here.”

  “Shut up. I’m here. Deal with it.”

  “And you made an entrance in spectacular fashion. I just wish I had’ve witnessed it first-hand.” He chuckles.

  Really? He finds this funny?

  My mouth pulls into a smile of its own accord. I have to bite down on my lip from displaying a grin as annoying as his.

  “You laughing at me?” I challenge.

  “Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

  I punch him in the arm, not feeling the least bit bad about whether I hurt him or not. “That’s an arse-holey thing to do, Q. I should sue you for the faulty workmanship on your porch. Someone could get seriously injured.”

  “Well I should sue you for damage to property. Vandalism, even.” He pokes out his tongue, beating me to it.

  I take the cool pack off and place it in his hand. I actually feel okay.

  “Good to see you, but I’d better get going,” I say and smile.

  “I’ll drive you, Lace. It’s no problem.”

  “I’m sure you have other plans.”

  “Lace,” he growls. “Apart from almost knocking yourself out, it’s warm out there. I’m driving you. End of story.”

  He leads me through an internal door into a garage. He flicks the switch on the wall. The fluorescent lights spark up, revealing a shiny gunmetal grey Hilux.

  “My knight in a shining four-wheel drive.”