“Not lately. I’m thinking about getting on the wheels of steel. Becoming a club DJ.”
“Nice, you should,” he says, staring dead at my tits.
He doesn’t give a fuck. Jake would. He’d ask a bunch of questions about me being a fake club DJ. Maybe I should text him. Bring him to Stabbies and start some shit?
Nah, it’s too early for the ‘jealous punching’ stage of my revenge arc. And it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Thrasher’s trending toward dad-bod, and Jake… isn’t. I remember his abs, gleaming with sweat, and flexing hard while he fucked me. My mouth goes dry.
Unaware of the porn playing in my head, Thrasher launches into another monologue about roof insulation, and I consider smashing my glass and shoving the shards into my eyes. I might hate Thrasher, but no revenge is worth being this bored.
I shoot my tequila and prepare to bail when his phone rings. He holds a finger up to me like I’m his fucking PA and answers in a voice four octaves lower.
“Hey, mate. Yeah, take it outta the safe. Ten an hour... Nah, I don’t give a fuck if they’re in ’til midnight. Should’ve boxed it up yesterday. Pay ’em for six and tell ’em to get fucked.”
Curiosity alights in my gut like the Olympic flame. I know from my research that Thrasher runs his great-grandad’s kiwifruit farm. A quaint little multimillion-dollar operation built on stolen Maori land. But that’s ancient history. What I just overheard? That sounds like current crimes. Cash wages at a big operation like Thompson Farms means illegal wages, and it looks like Thrasher’s docking pay to boot.
“Later,” he snaps into his phone, ending the call. “Useless prick.”
“Everything okay?” I coo.
Forget the bimbo act, if this lead is half as promising as it sounds, I’ll be Lobotomised Housewife Barbie.
“Just work shit.” Thrasher swipes at his nose. “You know Shannon Strom?”
I believe he once tripped me during cross country. “Sure! He played rugby, right?”
“Yup. That’s who called. He’s my foreman.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s so cute!”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few boys from school working for me. You know Xav McColl?”
This is the worst thing about small-town knobs: they constantly force you to engage in endless games of ‘Nobody Recall.’‘Remember this guy? This lady? That dog? What about this dickhole?’
“I do remember Xavier!” I squeal. “He was here for the bachelor party last weekend, right?”
“Yup.” Thrasher wipes his nose again. “I was ’spose to come, but I had the kids that weekend.”
I try to look sympathetic instead of horrified that Thrasher Thompson has reproduced. IknewI should have figured out how to sterilise people via blow-dart instead of memorising all those sonatas...
“Henry works for me, too,” Thrasher says with a phlegmy snort. “So does Jem Applethorpe and a bunch of other guys who were at the stag.”
That would certainly explain why it was so bogged down with cunts… “Oh, wow!”
“Yeah. You remember Hayley Dean?”
MLM Goebbels? Absolutely. “Hayley works for you, too?”
“Her husband, Fletch,” Thrasher says, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “And Will Sharpe’s sister is married to my brother, Nick. Will sells me trucks and shit from his dealership. You remember him, right?”
My brain lights up like a firetruck, emergency sirens blaring. I knew most of Pukekohe had ties to Thompson Farm, but he’s got half my villain roster in his employ. The revenge potential of this feels like something I dreamed up on Xannies.
“Oh my gosh!” I squeak. “What a family affair!”
“Yeah, good to give back to the community,” Thrasher mutters, his mind clearly elsewhere.
‘Give back to the community,’ my hole. Rhys’s mum worked for Thompson Farms, and she hated it. Said they paid peanuts and ran the place like a circus. One of those animal abuser ones that are illegal now. But as much as I’d love to call Thrasher a nepo baby coloniser and chuck a chair at his head, concussions only last so long. Getting him jammed up for wage theft, on the other hand…
“You run a kiwifruit farm, right?” I say, brushing a hand down my neckline.
