Ugh, cuteness. Spare me and my hypocritical vagina. I swipe to Thrasher’s message:
You working at that bar tonight?
Promising. Extremely promising:
I am. Do you want to come visit me? I can take a break and have a drink with you whenever I want!
Mostly because I’m not actually a bartender, but Thrasher doesn’t know that. Text bubbles appear:
Cool. See you soon, sexy.
Ladies, gays, and theys—we have a taker. I reply right away:
Yay! Can’t wait!
And I mean it. I can’t wait to see Thrasher Thompson again. Just not for reasons his sleazy little mind could comprehend.
9
Ada
Iwatch myself change in Cece’s full-length mirror like I’m getting ready to go on stage. Seamed stockings, patent leather pumps, and a black mini dress with a corset bodice. Laying the bait. Setting the trap. The look is… a lot. Immodest in an entirely different way from my usual ‘jean shorts and wireless crop top’ combo.
But from the look of his social media, Thrasher Thompson has a type. His ex-wife and old girlfriends were all classic bombshells; long hair, red lipstick, pearl earrings, the works. I don’t want to disappoint.
Thrasher wasn’t my bannerman bully—that mantle is securely held by Jenny Wallis—but he’s up there. We were seated next to each other in History, and his hands were constantly finding my arms, thighs, back, and boobs. He was handsome enough, with his rugby forward frame and auburn hair, but he had ‘Young Bluebeard’ written all over him. Not to mention, he never actually talked to me, just tried to feel my tits and make it look like an accident.
Nine months into my stint at Pukekohe Teen Prison, Thrasher, perhaps annoyed his gropings hadn’t yet inspired me to suck his dick,approached me at the bus stop, friends in tow, to inquire if it felt good when I masturbated with my flute.
There were no teachers around, so my response was, “Not as good as it feels to have a chin, sheep-fucker.”
Accusing Kiwis of violating sheep is a time-honoured Australian tradition, but you could tell the chin thing really got to Thrasher. He clapped a palm to his lower face and shoved me with his free hand. I looked up from the pavement to see Thrasher as shocked to have pushed a girl as I was to be pushed. I remember thinking we’d both call a silent truce, walk away, and never talk about this again. Then he balled his fists and stepped toward me. “Uglycunt.”
The words barely registered. It was the tremble in his voice that stopped my heart, because I knew if he lost control and cried in front of his mates, he’d hit me. The terror I felt still makes sweat burst through my palms almost two decades later.
Thrasherdidn’tend up punching me at the bus stop. Maddie Bower screamed, “What the fuck, Thrasher?” and he, Xavier McColl, and Will Sharpe booked it.
Everyone heard Thrasher had shoved me. Everyone agreed I deserved it. Boys aren’t supposed to hit girls, but girls aren’t supposed to bemean.The consensus was that if I didn’t want to get knocked over at a bus stop, I shouldn’t have told Thrasher he had a weak chin. Your fault, bitch. Shut up. Move on.
Thrasher didn’t move on. He grew a teen beard no one dared tell him to shave, and started calling me ‘Flute-Slut’ like it was his job. I ghosted our shared classes, lying through my teeth whenever I got caught, telling teachers I had cramps instead of the truth, which was that I was probably a single misstep from getting clocked in the jaw. Or worse.
Post-graduation, Thrasher started sending late-night emails from burner accounts. The tone drifted somewhere between ‘drunk sext’ and ‘musings from the desk of the Zodiac Killer,’ and I knew it was him from the first. His repeated use of the phrase ‘big rack’ made that obvious. Eventually, hedropped the anonymity and started sending DMs asking,‘Ever coming back to Pukekohe?’as he puked heart-eye emojis all over my professional social media posts.
With two plane rides between us, his correspondence stopped being bone-chilling and started being funny. I screencapped his messages and sent them to Cece, and we all had a good laugh. Then Thrasher got married, and communications ceased.
But now, he’s divorced—I can’t imagine why—and in his head, I’m sure things between us are picking up right where they left off. Unfortunately, in my head, payback’s a bitch, and he owes me the Empire State Building. Plus interest.
I hum theKill Billtheme as I paint my lips the colour of fresh blood. It’s completely over the top for a fake bartending shift, but since when do men care about shit like that?
“Where are you going?” Davis asks when I come downstairs. He scrunches his face at me like I’m in full Queen Amidala cosplay.
“Nowhere. But there’s a guy from school swinging by, and I need you on surveillance.”
He frowns. “Is he dangerous or something?”
What tipped that off? I make a mental note to hit the bathroom and practice smiling in the mirror. “No. He’s just a dick.”
Davis doesn’t look reassured.
