‘You werenot!’ Charlie cries. ‘What? Tell us. Was he good?’
‘Okay, it might not have been him, cos I only saw him from behind,’ Curtis smirks. ‘But whoever it was had an ass you could open a jar of pickles with.’
Even though our wholesome family dinner ends with a story of a very aggressive four-way fuck in a Castro leather bar, it’s sonice to come home from footy training to a hot meal and a table of people who accept me.
I wonder if I’d feel better about life if this had been every night growing up.
Safe. Warm. Happy.
14
HEAVENSENT
CHARLIE
I got Zeke to cover my Thursday shift at the bar, because tonight, I have a date with Mason Shaw.
I’ve been buzzing about it since we kissed. I was keen to hook up, but when Mason stood up to follow me to the glory hole, he stacked it – wasted. Brayden called him an Uber.
When Mason messaged me the next day, he surprised me by saying he wanted to take me on a proper date.
Obviously, I said yes. I’m crushing on Mason hard. I want to marry him and spend the rest of my nights curling my fingers into his pelt of chest hair (which I have never fully seen, but assume exists) and spooning his meaty cub arse (definitely exists, and in my imagination is as furry as his pecs). If I was a contestant onFarmer Wants a Husband(a reality-TV show that absolutely should exist) the audience would find me overly schmaltzy, but this is who I am. A punk in the streets and a sap in the sheets.
Before I can marry Mason, though, I’ll need to hire a hitman to assassinate Brayden. Lying little shit. Can’t believe I didn’t click that he foiled my plans with Mason at the Court. Conveniently, Brayden’s been nowhere to be seen since I found out he duped me. He’ll keep. Bears Perth have their Den Night at the bar next week and even my wrath isn’t enough to keep Brayden from sniffing around for bear dick. I’m not gonna hold back when I see him.
There’s also a Reyna-shaped spanner in the works. She finally bit the bullet and met up with her now ex-boyfriend Ben, who told her he wanted to see other people and wound up seeing a whole heap of Reyna’s vocabulary spat into his eyeballs. When she calls me all devo on Thursday arvo, I invite her over to my place for what we usually call a ‘Flop Day’, where we day-drink rosé, chain-smoke and watch music videos on the living room big screen.
Reyna’s not a crier. In fact, I’ve never seen her shed a tear, which is fine, cos I’m crap at handling emotional people. She doesn’t cry today, either. She just rants a lot about Ben, and plays The Rapture’s ‘No Sex For Ben’ three times in a row, and by the last go she’s almost shouting the chorus, half-angry and half-laughing.
‘Do you want to crash here tonight?’ I offer, ultimately willing to do it but hoping she’ll say no. ‘I can cancel my date if you need.’
Reyna throws an unlit menthol cigarette at me. ‘Ew. No. I would never cockblock you like that, Chucky! I will absolutely survive. But thanks for the tea and sympathy. Or rather, rosé and bitching.’
After Reyna leaves, I hurl myself into the shower: Mason will be here soon.
I’m styling my scruffy hair with my trusty hair wax – which has the colour and appearance of congealed cum – when the doorbell rings. I look at my cummy hands and realise what an unhinged impression that would make for a first date.
‘Zeke, can you get the door for me?’ I call into the corridor. ‘It’s Mason.’
Zeke’s getting ready for his bar shift, and calls back all throaty and hoarse, like a teenager whose voice is breaking, ‘I gotchu, bro.’
I smirk. It’s weirdly adorable to watch Zeke find himself. He’s adding ‘bro’ to the end of every sentence, and he ‘froths’ things now, refers to anything good as ‘elite’. If this was high school, I’dtell him to quit being a tryhard. But playing with the Centurions has put a light back in his eyes. When he first moved in, he was a walking ghost. Now, Zeke’s alive again and coming out of his shell in a way I never would’ve predicted for him.
I hear him greet Mason, talk about footy training, laugh.
As I spray the bottle of Hugo Boss cologne Ahmed forced on me (‘You always smell like an ashtray, Charlie!’) I notice I’m humming an upbeat Killing Heidi song that reminds me of when I was young – a rare song both my parents loved, one of the only things they ever agreed on – and I’m smiling.
Holy shit – am Ihappy?
Maybe Zeke’s happiness is contagious and it’s spread to me.
I check myself out in the mirror. Choppy hair, long-sleeved black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, spiked wristband I got from the Coventry Village markets, silver-studded belt I got at Dangerfield, ripped black jeans that show I have no arse but am at least slim. Gotta roll with what you got. And my trusty black-and-white Converse hi-tops.
I sidle into the living room to see Mason’s in his red-and-black checked flanno and denim, hair slicked back and beard trimmed. He looks hot, like the mythical Farmer Who Wants a Husband. He breaks eye contact with Zeke to look at me, checking me out, and says, ‘Hey, Charlie – these are for you.’
Mason whips out a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of twelve red roses from behind his back and thrusts them into my hands.
My brain flashes through multiple reactions.
