Derek answered his phone on the first ring, his heart pulsing. “What have you got?”
Howard clucked his tongue. “Some information, but I still think you’re an idiot for pushing for this house so har—”
“Who runs HFA? Who’s Mara?”
“Look, as far as my guy can tell, ’Housing For All’ was started in 2018 by—”
“Hang on.” Derek jogged to the random shit drawer and grabbed a notepad and pen. “Keep going?”
“H. F. A.” Howard stretched every syllable. “Is exactly what that smarmy American cunt told you it was—they buy properties and sell them at a per cost basis to poor people. Fuck knows how they figure out how poor you have to be to get a free house, but it’s what they do. Fucking ridiculous.”
Derek had spent a lot of time thinking about HFA. How helpful it would have been if his mum owned a place instead of bouncing them from town to town. He held his tongue though. Arguing with Howard was pointless. “Right. So, who runs it?”
“No idea. The Mara that works there is a Mara Kennedy. That ring any bells?”
The excitement rushed out of him like blood from a cut. It couldn’t be his Mara.
“Hello…?”
“Yeah, I heard you. Mara Kennedy.”
“Not the bird you thought it was?”
“Nah, she’s Mara Temple.”
God knew why he’d thought it might be Mara. She’d grown up as poor as he had. She was more likely to own a house from HFA than work there.
“Right. Well, there’s no wiggle room as far as putting the hard word on HFA goes,” Howard said. “Focus on finding somewhere else to park your trophies. Terrace Avenue’s gone.”
Derek scrubbed a hand across his forehead.
“Hardiman?”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“Good. I’ll get Doreen to email you this arvo with some new properties. And don’t dwell on HFA. Word on the street is they won’t be around for long.”
“You just said there wasn’t a way to put the hard word on them.”
“There isn’t. But a few of the boys at Manchester have gone to the Minister for Housing. What HFA are doing’ll be illegal if they get their way.”
Derek frowned. “What’ll be illegal? Giving people a place to live?”
“Undercutting auctions.”
“How is bidding higher than anyone else undercutting an auction?”
Howard snorted. “Alright, Rockefeller. We both know you don’t know shit about real estate.”
Derek had once raised his hand in history class to ask if Captain Cook really killed a bunch of indigenous people and got sent to the principal’s office. This felt a lot like that.
“Hardiman?”
“Yeah, I’m here. But if you’re expecting me to cry for property developers, you’ll be waiting for a while.”
Howard made a huffy little noise. “You wanted to shake HFA down when you thought you’d get a house out of it.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” Derek gave up. Howard was just like his old man. He’d go to his grave defending two and two made five just to spite you. “Thanks for looking into HFA. We done?”
“As long as you promise not to do something stupid like go back to their office with another pitch?”
He couldn’t help himself. “I could offer to buy some land for them.”
Howard groaned.
“Or go in on a deal or—”
“Listen, dickhead. You’ve got money, but you don’t have stupid money. And the people running this thing—the American and Mara Whoever-the-fuck—they have stupid money. You can’t make a deal with them.”
“But—”
“You spent too many summers fucking your way through Vegas for that.”
Derek scratched a fat black line through the notepad. “Fine. I won’t go near HFA.”
“Good. Now go have a fun Friday night and leave money shit to me. Say hi to Willow for me.”
He hung up.
Derek sat for a long moment scratching at the notepad. He was pissed, but he knew Howard had a point. He should leave money shit to him. Three years ago, he was bleeding cash like a stuck hog—to his sisters, to his friends, to every girl who wanted him to buy her a tattoo or a motorbike. He was making six figures, almost seven, and he’d checked his bank account one day and saw he had a negative balance. He’d gotten a referral for Howard at the club, and despite the shit fire that was his finances, Howard had taken him on. He’d frozen his spending and given him an allowance. He’d made him move in with Byron to save money. He’d found him sponsorships and ad campaigns, invested in sheep farming and storage units. The only reason he was in a position to buy a place was because of Howard.
He had an hour before he was due at Willow’s place for pre-drinks. Grabbing a beer, he headed to the lounge room. He sat on the couch flicking between a few Instagram conversations. He was chatting to a few girls, but he wasn’t sure anyone was worth inviting out. He might be better off meeting someone at the party. As he scrolled, his phone dinged. Another message from Alannah.
I know you think breaking up is for the best but when we were together, you made me feel things I never thought possible. I only want what’s best for you Derek and the truth is, you need to grow up. You keep pushing away anything meaningful just so you can fuck ten different girls every weekend and if you don’t stop, you’re going to end up old and alone. I think what we have is worth fighting for. I hope you do too.
Derek stared at his screen in horror. “Jesus, fuck.”
He and Alannah had dated for three months. They’d never said ‘I love you’ and now she wanted to fight to stay together. Well, he didn’t, and he was pretty sure Alannah didn’t either. He knew when women were more into his job than him. Alannah wanted to be Mrs Derek Hardiman. The way she’d looked at him sometimes… like she could already see herself on the cover of Women’s Weekly. If that was what she wanted, fine. But there was nothing sexy about a girl who wanted to jump on his bandwagon and ride it for the rest of her life.
When they’d met, Alannah seemed cool. Super into law school and the gym and her mates, but as soon as they got together, all she wanted to do was come over every night and watch TV with him. Then the sex went weird. They fucked all the time, but not like Alannah wanted it—more like she was running a pit stop, servicing him whenever she felt he needed it. So, he ended it. Told her she was awesome, and he hoped she’d meet someone else. And she’d called him a cunt, said she hated him and laid a monumental guilt trip on his head.
You’ll end up old and alone.
Derek stood, his pulse hammering in his ears. Not tonight, he fucking wouldn’t. He reopened Instagram. The first picture on the home page was his ex Millie kneeling on the beach in a thong. If he DM’d her, she’d come over and do anything he wanted…
…And then they’d fight over whether he’d fucked the stripper at Mark’s stag or not.
“Where’s your proof?” she’d yell, like that was a possibility. How did you prove you hadn’t fucked someone?
Fuck Instagram. Fuck his exes. It’d have to be someone at the party. He wasn’t good-looking like Byron or fun like Willow, but that didn’t matter. He was famous and cut and chicks liked him. Besides, Byron freaked girls out with his too-pretty face and Willow got in his own way half the time.
But they’ve both had proper girlfriends, a small voice said. Your relationships burn up like rockets re-entering earth. Alannah said it. You push meaningful shit away.
But how could he push away what he didn’t have? He’d never been in anything meaningful. Except for Mara. And he didn’t want to think about Mara. So, he had to meet someone tonight. But the problem with casual shit was everything had to stay surface level. He wasn’t going to bring up what he was into with a stranger and have them post it online or play along because they wanted to give ‘Derek Hardiman’ what he wanted and get hurt.
It was all so fucking complicated. He’d love to just have a woman upstairs, tied to his bed and writhing for his cock. Calling him ‘Daddy’ while he…
Derek groaned. Not helpful. As he chugged his beer, it occurred to him that he could just give up. Stop dating and put an anonymous ad somewhere asking women to meet him for rough sex three times a week. Or he could pay for it like everyone already said he did.
But if he stopped dating, he’d be saying goodbye to kids. To having the kind of family he’d always wanted to be a part of.
On the other hand, how was he supposed to start a family with someone he was bored of fucking in two weeks? Someone who was probably just as bored of fucking him?
Mara was the only person who’d ever wanted it as much as he did. She’d been so innocent when they got together, he was the first guy she’d ever even kissed. But that hadn’t stopped her from being a complete nymph. She’d wanted everything, all the time. Within a week he was spanking her on the reserve behind her house. She’d loved getting choked, held down, and forced to come. And she’d loved calling him Daddy. He’d been going down on her in the grass one day and she’d just said it.
He could still remember how it felt to hear that word ringing in his ears while he tasted her. He’d rutted the ground so hard he’d almost come in his pants. He’d managed to hold off until she came, then he’d risen, grabbed her hair, and pulled her mouth onto his cock. “Suck Daddy, baby. Suck him deep.”
Derek realised he was gripping himself through his jeans, rubbing hard through the denim. He needed to do something about it, or he’d be useless all night. The only good thing about living alone was being able to wank wherever he felt like. He opened Pornhub on his phone, determined not to think of Mara, but as he pulled himself into his hand, she was the only thing on his mind. Her perky tits and big blue eyes. The blissed-out, almost pained expression when he slid his fingers inside her.
Derek gave in and opened the hidden folder on his phone. He punched in the passcode, his fingers shaking as he wondered, as he always did, if the last little piece of her was gone. But she was still there. Mara naked at nineteen, her legs spread for the camera.
He groaned as he took her in, his hand already pumping. Her small breasts were pointed at him. The lipstick on her mouth perfectly matched the red of her tiny cunt. She looked elfin and perfect. His little doll. His pretty girl. He tugged himself, imagining licking down her flat stomach.
“Daddy, that tickles,” she’d say, squirming against him.
“Stay still for me, princess.”
He pulled himself harder, picturing her tied to his bed, black cords digging into her skin. She’d be crying she was so horny, the way she used to cry when he made her wait all day at school, tracing circles into her thighs under the desk.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” she’d whimper. “Please?”
And although he’d never fucked her at school, he did it now. He slid into her virgin pussy in their English classroom, feeling her pull tight around him as she screamed his name. The cunt he’d only touched with his fingers and tongue would be so tight and sweet, he’d—
Derek came all over his stomach with a groan. The warm stream seemed to go on forever, pulsing across his hoodie and his jeans. Still, he couldn’t stop. When it was over, he lay back on the couch, panting and feeling vaguely disgusting, the way he always did when he pulled himself off. It didn’t help that he’d wanked to a picture of his teenage girlfriend like a borderline pedophile.
His screen went dark, erasing Mara from view. He was glad. For years he’d tried not to look at it. He’d even deleted it a few times. But in the end, he always re-downloaded. He couldn’t stop himself from coming to it for more than a month, no matter who he was dating.
People think there’s something wrong with you, Howard had said.
Well, they weren’t fucking wrong.
Derek stood, swearing as he noticed the extent of his come. He stripped off and took everything to the laundry.
Mara Temple. His blue-eyed girl. His first and only love. What did her cunt taste like now? How did she do her hair? Did she still think about him? Or was he just a footnote in her past? Some guy she’d never even slept with but who’d still managed to fuck her over.
“Leave it,” he told himself.
There was no point. He’d Googled Mara a million times and nothing ever came up. A few times he’d considered a private detective, but he had no idea how that worked in Australia. It sounded like a good way to get scammed, like those dickheads who kept hiring fake assassins on the dark web.
And what was he supposed to do if he found her? Show up at her door and beg her to forgive him? Pray he hadn’t built everything up in his head and she still loved him, and they’d get back together and start a family and he wouldn’t die alone trying to get a fuck on Instagram?
It was ridiculous. Pathetic.
He dumped his clothes in the washing basket and pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a new hoodie. He collected his wallet from the kitchen and was almost at the door when he paused, pulled out his phone and Googled HFA.
The company had a slick silver website but as he scanned the pages, Derek couldn’t find pictures of anyone. He went to lock his phone, then he saw something. Below the HFA banner was a line. The motto of the business or whatever.
Houses matter because people matter.
He knew that line. How did he know that line?
Like an incoming train, the memory rushed forward. High school English. They’d been analysing news articles and Jana Pilkoff said poor people should live on the street, or some stupid shit she’d gotten off her racist dad. Mara had heard her and started shaking, literally shaking, with rage. He’d never seen her so upset about anything. They’d both lived in public housing—plenty of kids at their school had. Still, it shocked him that she’d taken Jana’s comment so personally. He’d offered to tell her to shut up, but Mara had refused. Instead, she’d gone to Mrs Woodley and changed her oral presentation topic from climate change to…
“Public housing,” he muttered. He could still see her slideshow, clear as a bell. ‘Houses matter because people matter’ by Mara Temple.
“Holy fucking Jesus, fuck.”
Derek found himself sitting his back against the cold door. It was her. Mara Kennedy. Mara Temple. She worked at HFA. He knew how to find her.
He needed a beer. He needed a plan. He needed to shave his moustache. Mara was in Melbourne and he was going to find her. He was going to see his girl again.