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Few things bugged William Sharp. Really bugged him, that was. His damn runaway mouth was one of them, and, as he discovered on his twenty-nine hour journey to the end of the world, so did the Chili Peppers playing on repeat five hours straight.
Ask him, and he was sure he could regurgitate every line from Californication—and that from hearing it through the headphones of the girl next to him. And hell no, he did not dream of being Californicated—wasn’t even curious, no matter how dirty it sounded.
Besides, if anything, he was off to be New Zealandificated.
Dunedinificated to be more precise. And that’s where he was right now, on a bench outside Dunedin Airport, luggage tucked under his knees, watching the student-heavy crowds pouring out of the terminal.
Increasingly nervous at the passing minutes, Will thought about checking his cell once more. He had a right to be nervous too; a week before he was due to leave, the family he was to board with bailed on him when their son decided to move back in. He’d felt like a train-wreck by the time he’d managed to organize something else.
But surely this wouldn’t fall through too?
Will dug out and checked his cell, re-reading the message Mrs. Wallace had sent him after he had tried insisting he take a shuttle.
You’ll do no such thing. I’ll be there to pick you up, just wait outside, hun.
He scanned the length of the building either side of him: it wasn’t that big, so if he was at the wrong ‘outside’ he was truly clueless.
Still, he didn’t see any woman holding his name on a cheesy sign, or any mom-aged woman at all. There were just students, and not returning, mature students like him. Young students.
Looking at them pass, he’d guess the average age was eighteen. His going-on-twenty-seven-self must have looked ancient next to them. Maybe Mrs. Wallace had been expecting someone younger?
He couldn’t remember whether he’d told her his age or not. She’d interviewed him over the phone, immediately taking a liking to him once he’d introduced himself—he’d even been up front about the whole being gay thing, because he didn’t want it to be an issue. Though he’d had no clue what to do about accommodation if it had been. Lucky for him she’d barely hesitated before going on to ask him if he had allergies. But his age? Maybe she’d accidentally picked up one of these teens. Will wasn’t that uncommon a name; it could happen. Maybe that Will hadn’t cared to clarify either, seeing it would have scored him a free ride and, and—
Gracious, he had to calm down. So what if his ride never came? He was almost twenty-seven—he knew how to order a cab.
He searched the parking lot for said cabs and started to feel his heart pump ridiculously fast when he didn’t see any. Christ. What on earth was he doing here if getting transport into town was freaking him out?
As he shook his head, mumbling to himself, he caught sight of a line of white cars just up from him, with green Dunedin signs and a number scrawled on the sides. Yep, there they were, right under his nose. He was an idiot. A blind idiot.
A guy he’d noticed a few minutes earlier, standing at the edge of the building with his hands in his pockets and cap shadowing his face, paced a few steps in his direction and away again looking equally frustrated.
He’d wait ten more minutes and if they were both still stupidly sitting/standing there he’d suggest they share a fare into town.
In the meantime, he wasn’t averse to just looking at said Standing Guy. He was tall, measuring him up to the students walking past him, and damn if he wasn’t the type he could get lost in; absorbing his every aspect.
Hmm, maybe Mrs. Wallace not showing up could be a good thing. . . .
Standing Guy leaned his trim figure and a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. His sleeves were shoved up, showing off his slightly tanned, corded muscles—not that it was his arms he was really focusing on, how could he when there was such an ass to ogle and—Stop objectifying!
He pointedly jerked his head toward a fresh crowd filtering out the doors, and lazily followed a couple of girls wearing what looked like all of their clothing layered on top of each other, topped with thick winter coats. They had to be sweating on a warm day like this. He was just right in his slacks and t-shirt, though it helped he sat in a wedge of sunlight.
Again he checked his phone. Ah, dammit, whatever—he was done with waiting.
He stood up, ready to waltz over to Standing Guy and suggest they snag a cab together, when his foot caught on the corner of his suitcase. He toppled forward, drawing attention to himself by whipping out a curse as he stumbled.
“You all right there?” came a male voice along with the sound of footsteps.
A blur of blue jeans hit his peripheral vision, and he knew by the frayed bottom edges it was Standing Guy. Will scrambled up, wishing he could keep his warm cheeks hidden. Okay, so maybe there was more that bugged him than he thought—he also hated how clumsy he could be.
He forced himself to meet Standing Guy’s gaze. “Thanks, I’m f-fine. Just have two left feet.”
“And a colorful mouth. I’ve never heard of that curse.”
“I can blame my sister for that—she taught me all the curses I know.”
He plunked himself back on the bench and fiddled with the zips of his suitcase like he had a purpose, when in fact, if anything, he just wanted to rip the zips off in punishment for tripping him up and making him look as stupid as he probably was.
Standing Guy slipped onto the other end of the bench, and Will dropped the zips and looked at him again. He hadn’t seen it so well before, hidden under his brown cap, but now Standing Guy was closer he could see the guy’s mouth was full and sharp, and his nose was almost Greek, but for a small dent at the bridge. Neither of those held anything to his steel-blue eyes. Steel-blue eyes that were smiling at him. Sweet potatoes. He gulped.
“You’re American, right?” came his deep voice again.
“Yeah,” Will said slowly, analyzing the situation. Standing Guy had sat next to him, now he was continuing to chat. Was he—could it be possible—interested in him? That was probably too good to be true. Nevertheless. . . .
He smiled back. “I’m from Pennsylvania.”
The sweet smile fell from Standing Guy’s lips. “No.”
“Sorry?”
Will’s mouth dropped open when he said, “You’re William Sharp, aren’t you?”
“Will Sharp. H-how’d you—” he spluttered before firmly pressing his lips together.
“Damn, I thought I was waiting for someone younger.” Standing Guy sighed and inclined his head toward the parking lot, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “My mum asked me to pick you up.”
Will slumped back against the bench. Well of course this would happen. Why the heck not? The universe loved making a fool of him—there he was, the sitting cliché checking out the guy whose mother he would be living with. Such an expected twist. He should have guessed it. Really, world, throw me a curve ball, why don’t you? He breathed out a half-chuckle, shaking his head. “So, you’re Vicky’s son?”
The guy just looked at him, the spark from before fading from his eyes. Now they were dull and flat.
Will frowned and pushed to his feet, careful this time not to trip and flatten Standing G—“Say, what’s your name?”
For a moment the guy pursed his lips as if he wasn’t going to give it to him, but then his jaw relaxed and, with a stiff shrug, he said, “Heath.”
“Right then, Heath, where’s the car?”
‘The car’ was a 1989 Holden Commodore. At first he thought it was a joke until Heath unlocked the boot and helped shoved his crap in the back. Will waited for Heath to open the driver’s door, jump in, and pull up the lock on the passenger side before he settled his lightweight self onto the torn leather seats.
He shut the door and tried for a smile to cover the sudden nerves he had about driving in this thing. It fell from his face as he tugged at the seat belt and it didn’t budge. God, this thing was going to blow up and he was going to die before he even got to experience living here at all. Not that a seat belt would do much against the car blowing up, but it would have made him feel a teensy bit better about the whole shebang.
“Need to lift it, then pull,” Heath said.
Following his instructions, Will managed to get the seat-belt to the lock-attachment-thingy—whatever it was called. But there he hit another snag, it fit in the tiny space, but it didn’t ‘click’.
He dropped the belt, and maybe his nervousness was showing or something, because Heath leaned over, took the belt, put in the latch, and then, pulling a heavy-looking political philosophy book off the wide dash, proceeded to knock it until there was a faint ‘click.’
“It comes out no problem,” was the only comment Heath had on the subject, before he started the car and it spit and spluttered to life.
It was an awkward forty-five-minute drive into the city. Every time Will tried to strike up a conversation, Heath brushed it off with a grunt or a yes/no answer—even to his open-ended questions. So, what do you study? Un-uh. What part of the city do you live in? Uh-hun-ya.
Was that . . . he didn’t study at all, or what? And was that just his mumbling brush-off answer, or a Maori name for his suburb? What happened to the guy he’d first met? The guy who cared to ask a stranger if he was okay?
After a quarter-hour, Will gave up with the questions. Guess it was obvious Heath didn’t want to talk; what wasn’t obvious was why the guy suddenly chose to dislike him. He hadn’t even had the chance to screw anything up, as he invariably did.
It was five minutes after that when the Commodore started to make some funky grunting sounds. To calm himself, Will set out a math equation in his head and tried to solve it, while he surreptitiously wiped his sweating palms over his slacks—which would see the wash as soon as was humanly possible.
Heath glanced over at his hands and Will stopped moving them. The guy then flicked on a CD. Maybe it was to cover the sound of the shuddering car-grunts, and maybe, even, it was a little thoughtful, but he almost wished Heath hadn’t, because what did you know? It was the flaming Chili Peppers.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Will muttered under his breath at the line dream of californ-i-ca-tion.
He rested his head back, watching the hills, the cheap housing, and the city pass by him. Then, as the Commodore screeched up an otherwise quiet, steep side street, a miracle occurred. Heath shut off the player and spoke. Well, first he cleared his throat and tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs a few times. Then he spoke.
“Look, see, thing is Mum’s not really right in the head at the moment. She’s hell-bent on you staying with us, but I honestly don’t see it lasting—and I sure as hell hope it doesn’t.” Heath glanced out his side window, lifting his cap with one hand and re-positioning it. “This thing, it’s gonna crash and burn, ay, and you’re gonna be stuck in the middle of it. Reckon it’s best if you made up some excuse and found yourself a flat quick-smart.”
What the . . . ?
“Ahh—”
But he was cut off as Heath jerked the car to the right and into a driveway.
“What do you mean crash and burn?” he asked Heath as he yanked on the handbrake.
Heath took off his cap and Will didn’t fail to miss his hand shaking as he did, then he tousled his dirty blond hair as he stared straight at the garage door.
“Just don’t get comfortable.”