Chapter Sixteen

Mikey Mistake

BRENDON

 

“Ripper of a match. Good on you, mate.” James thumps my back.

“Come over for a few coldies, Bree.” Eddy eggs me on to join them. Since arriving from London, I have avoided going out. But we did well today, so a celebration is due, and I should not keep putting off my mates. “All right.” I swing my bag into the boot of my steel-grey Ford ute and follow my mates to the pub.

The blokes are stoked—a sharp contrast to the mood in the team before the match. We were still smarting from the loss against the Scots last week. We hadn’t lost to them in a decade. The frustration of watching from the sideline piled on the misery. The coach had a bug up his arse about my fitness after London. Today turned out different. In the morning I found my name in the starting fifteen. I put in the extra grunt work during practice, determined not to allow the opportunity to slip away. The feet hitting the pitch and the noise of the home crowd were exhilarating. England were worthy opponents even if they were rebuilding their team.

Most of the team gather at a swanky bar in central Melbourne. The place is cozy with wood paneling, and the upholstery is all dark red velvet. Soft lounge music plays from hidden speakers. We take our seats on the mezzanine, which gives us a view of the bartenders mixing drinks downstairs.

I must be on my third drink of the evening. A hand rests on my shoulder. I look up and find Mike grinning wide. Shite. Are my eyes playing tricks? Nope, the cologne’s strong scent does nothing to hide the cigarette smoke ingrained in Mike.

“What are you doing here?” I don’t hide my sneer, pushing off Mike’s hand.

“I should be asking you. When did you return from England?”

“As if you don’t read the papers.”

“Aw, don’t be mean. We can celebrate together.”

“What are we celebrating?” James scoffs at Mike’s efforts to become pally.

“A small thanks to Bree for the F & T shot.” Mike drones on to narrate how my photo won him the world sports photography award. “My shout, mate.” Mike orders a round of drinks for all of us. The guys holler—the ones who are not aware of my history with Mike.

“Wait for me. Let me see off the blokes I came with.” Mike saunters downstairs.

I watch him make his way to the stairs. In some past life, the swaying arse would entice me, but now I hope he does not return. Would saying bugger off be impolite? We continue our banter till Mike reappears along with the waiter. He hands me my drink. “Here, Bree.” He clinks his glass to get everyone’s attention and raises a toast. “To the man with the winning face.”

Eddy taps my arm and warns me not to drink more. “Okay, mate, this will be my last. Can’t refuse Mikey, can we now?” I downplay his concern.

“Bree, you are full as a boot. I am calling the cab.” Eddy picks his phone to book an Uber.

“Don’t worry. I will drop Bree.” Mike stops him. Eddy turns to me.

“No problem, Ed. You get along. I will spend some time with the lads and call a cab,” I reassure Eddy.

“Are you sure? I can hang on for another fifteen minutes.” James is ready to stay.

“I am good. See you at practice on Monday.” My voice slurs as I wave them off.

Eddy frowns and leaves with James. The boys order one more round. Mike hangs on to the group, fawning about the award. The guys lap up the adoration, considering Mike is now shooting for a top sports magazine. I keep my mouth shut, savoring the drink. Who cares? The exhaustion of the game catches up by the time I finish my fifth drink of the night. A couple of drinks too much. “It’s getting late. I better go home.” I stand to leave. The room spins. Are my eyes wonky? My feet wobble, and I slump over the table.

“I got you, pretty boy.” Mike grabs my arm and pulls me up. I lean on him, and we exit the bar. Damn these legs. Why can’t they keep steady? I am so rat arsed. All I want is a bed tonight. Once inside the car, I rest my head on the window and doze off.

*

Oh, man, someone clobbered me with a bat. A thousand cannons are blasting inside. I open one eye to see where I am. The place is dark, but the moonlight filtering through the curtains gives me a sense of the room. The mauve walls are familiar. However, this is not my room. So, where am I?

I sit up, blinking my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The freaking headache does not help. The duvet drops to the floor when I stand. My feet shake, and I stumble, landing on my bum—someone groans. I turn and shake the body covered in sheets.

“What are you doing, Bree? Go to sleep. Too early to wake up.” The naked man’s voice is muffled by the pillow on his head.

This can’t be true. I search for the night lamp on the side table and flick it on. The person next to me groans again. I snatch the pillow from him. He turns over toward me. The face confirms my worst fear. “Mike, what the hell are you doing in my bed?”

“The bed’s mine. You were pissed, so I brought you here. Better than driving all the way to the suburbs in the middle of the night.” Mike props himself on his elbows.

I don’t believe him and scan the room. The beheaded sculpture on the table across the room catches my eye, reminding me of what happened two years ago. Shit! I should not be here. Not buck naked, at least. Where are my clothes? I scan the room and locate them on the chair by the door. On unsteady legs and a head about to splinter into pieces, I walk the few steps to grab them. I put on my shirt. “Where is my ute?”

Mike sits up in bed. “The Ford is parked on the driveway. You were too tipsy to drive. The keys are by the door.” He walks and stands beside me. “You don’t have to leave, Bree.”

He tugs my shirt. The man is a fuckwit. I step away. “Don’t be an idiot, Mike,” I snap at him as I button up my shirt and pull up my pants.

“What’s the hurry, Bree? We had a nice root last night, ay. How about we have a bit of fun again? We can be bonk buddies.” Mike rubs his hand over my bum. I shove it off. What a wanker. His groping would get me horny in the past; now, his touch is nauseating.

“MIKE,” I warn him. “We have been over this many times. There is no us.”

“Don’t go crook on me now. Your dick had a different opinion when we were banging each other last night.”

I stare at Mike in disbelief. Mike is a habitual liar. If he is saying the truth, I am damned. God, what did I get myself into? I rack my brain while I put on my shoes. Nope, no recall. “I was rat arsed,” I blurt, more for myself. When I lift my face, Mike is glaring at me. He is about to blow his fuse. Before he throws a tantrum and gets violent, I need to leave.

Mike blocks my way. “You are still not over the curry boy.”

My fists ball. Did he insult Saaransh? I ignore his jibe and shove him to the side, taking the stairs down to the exit. The keys are on the table by the door. I turn to the stairs before leaving.

Mike stands at the top of the staircase. “You won’t find anyone better than me, Bree. The curry boy is not worth it.”

I move out of the house and slam the door shut. The chill cools the lava coursing through my veins. Even a few minutes with Mike are suffocating, reminding me of years of horror. I reverse the Ford ute out of the driveway, tires crunching over the gravel. When I am on the road, I glance at Mike’s house. He stands at the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He hasn’t changed a bit—still, the same demanding, possessive, hotheaded, jealous freak.

“You should have bloody known,” I cuss at my image on the windshield. The years away in England coming to naught. Mike always found a way to hang around, using his journalist credentials to barge into my life. Two years of staying away from my family and home. Hoping he would move on. What the fuck will I do about last night?

And now he knows about my Saaransh. Shit. When did Saaransh become mine? Saaransh has not made any effort to contact me after London. While here I am, getting itchy over a few words Mike hurled at Saaransh. What does Saaransh mean to me? This is a question I struggle with every day.

Get a hold of yourself, Bree boy. I squeeze the steering to firm my resolve. Saaransh is the past, so let’s keep him there. Once I am out of my funk, the throbbing head reminds me I need to find a pharmacy or a coffee shop. A few kilometers down the road, I see a road sign for a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. To take the exit, I turn left on the crossing. My head swirls with the movement, and I squeeze my eyes to stabilize myself.

The loud honk startles me. I open my eyes and find a kangaroo on the road. The headlights from the truck across the road are blinding, forcing me to take my hands off the steering wheel to cover my eyes. The SUV swerves. In a frantic effort to control my Ford, I swing to the right. My head jerks and hits the roof. Everything goes black.