Floored

By Ainslie Paton

They're a car crash waiting to happen...so why do they keep crashing into each other?

From the moment Fetch gets knocked off his Harley, crawls into Driver's car and offers her an obscene amount of money to drive him from Sydney to Perth – no questions, no names, no chit chat – they're stuck with each other. By the time they arrive, they're stuck on each other. 

It's lust at full throttle, with no seat belts. It could be more, but he's a fake and she's a liar.  They're both neck deep in crime, and only one of them is on the right side of the law.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780857991492

Ainslie Paton

Ainslie Paton always wanted to write stories to make people smile, but the need to eat, accumulate books, and have bedclthes to read under was ever present. She sold out, and worked as a flack, a suit, and a creative, ghosting for business leaders, rebel rousers, and politicians, and making words happen for companies, governments, causes, conditions, high-profile CEOs, low-profile celebs, and the occasional misguided royal. She still does that. She also writes for love.

Book preview

1: Tricky

Neighbourhood Watch wore washed-out blue plaid pyjamas under a towelling dressing gown. He had old man brown tartan slippers and thick-framed glasses. He had a comb-over starting at a side part, a spit off his left ear. You could see pink scalp through greasy greying strands. He smelled of spilled hot milk and his face was as red as the tank on Wacker’s chopper.

Fetch stood on the front verandah with him. Better he did this than one of the other guys, or it might get real goddamn nasty. It wasn’t Neighbourhood’s fault the Black Pariahs had moved next door. But it was probably the reason for the bags under his eyes, and the depreciation of his neat, triple front, cream brick, three bedroom home.

But no shit, Neighbourhood Watch was going to call the cops this time, unless…

Fetch put his hands out in a placatory gesture, smoothed his accent and ditched the slang. Not that a slightly less ocker tone or the Queen’s English was going to make the difference. He wore a fist full of silver skull rings, and Maisy had thought it was funny to put little plaits in his beard. Shirtless except for the leather vest and the tatts, he didn’t exactly look the picture of conciliation. He looked like ‘lock up your daughters’. But he was the best option Neighbourhood had of not wishing he’d had a second cup of Horlicks, plugged his ears, and gone to bed.

Mr Thomas—Patrick isn’t it? Yes, I’m sorry. I know it’s late, I know it’s loud. I know it’s not the first time. I’ll turn the music down.

It’s the middle of the night. Some of us work for a living you know. I’ve had enough of this. The drugs, the loud music, the profanity. Neighbourhood pointed out to the lawn in front. It was a wasteland of sand, weed, dog shit and bindies. Last night there was a young woman out there topless. This is a good family neighbourhood but you people are trashing it.

Hey, I understand. Better than Patrick Thomas, upstanding citizen of Robinson Street, Meadowvale could ever credit. Fetch knew if Neighbourhood didn’t hurry up and take his jammies and his moral outrage back next door things would get real ugly, real quick.

You frighten my dog, Betsy.

Neighbourhood was lucky Wacker hadn’t barbequed Betsy and served her sliced thin with sweet chilli sauce. Yeah, sorry about that. Fetch got up close to poor Patrick. Steel caps to slippers. All the better to intimidate him into going the fuck home. You see the thing is, Mr Thomas. It always amused him how threatening being polite could be when you looked like you were fresh out on parole. It’d be better for everyone if you went home and forgot about all this. It’d be better if you didn’t come here again. She’s a cute dog, Betsy, and your daughter, Madeline, isn’t it? Yes. She’s cute too. You want it to stay that way, right? So the best idea is, you stay on your side of the fence and you don’t worry about what happens over here.

Neighbourhood was desperate to back up, bolt down the verandah steps and run next door as fast as the dangling crutch of his jamma pants would let him, but his sense of outrage kept him standing there. Or he’d forgotten how to use his legs.

Do you understand what I mean, Mr Thomas? You see, what no one wants, least of all your good self, is the cops paying number 10 Robinson a visit.

Neighbourhood went to object, his mouth flapping open and bobbing, then thought better of it. He backed off, turned tail and went down the walkway to the gate, opened it, went through. Then he protested. Before he went back to number twelve, he left the gate open.

Oi, Fetch. What was that about?

Fetch turned to see Wacker in the doorway. All 6ft 4 inches of him. With an impressive girth to match his imposing height, and the evil glitter of his beady black, miss nothing, eyes.

You lonely, Fetch? You tryin’na make new friends? Wacker braced his dinner plate sized paws on the doorjamb. I thought I told you. We keep to ourselves. We especially don’t want fuckin’ nosey neighbours in our business.

I was—

I know what you was doing. You was having a little chat. Wacker advanced. All the better to intimidate. You’re a bit dim, aren’t you boy? If the Reds hadn’t vouched for you, I’d be wondering whether you can piss standing up. Now you do as you’re fuckin’ well told. Get back in there and make nice with my Maisy’s cos. She’s an ugly, fat little porker, he gave a beery laugh, but she’s family, and everyone has to do their part.

Fetch ducked his head and moved past Wacker, eyes on the floor. He didn’t need to be called out over this. His ribs were still sore from the last beating he’d taken. A visit from the boys in blue would be more welcome. And it was two in the morning, and some people did have to work. So if he could find cousin Nikki and get her to slow dance to something less Marilyn Manson and more Hannah Montana, it would mean the neighbourhood could sleep better, and he’d have survived another day as a patch member in the employ of the infamous Stephen Wakenheim, vice-president of the country’s newest and best organised outlaw motorcycle gang. Drug manufacturer, race fixer, cyber criminal, pimp, den of iniquity landlord, and all round good guy. If you liked the idea that he’d done two stints in Long Bay and only last week knifed his own brother to within a heartbeat of martyrdom.

Jesus, wouldn’t Mum be proud of her baby boy now.

2: New Car Smell

At least the hapless buck chucked in the gutter. It was so hard to get the smell of vomit out of the Statesman. Both times Caitlyn had to do it, she’d scrubbed for hours and the stomach churning scent of sick hung around for days.

Story of her life. The unfortunate, lingering smell of something gone bad.

Customers liked new car smell. It was a status thing. Part of the reason they liked hiring a car instead of jumping into a taxi. It went with the uniform she wore: a crisp white long sleeved shirt and fitted black skirt and jacket, with a stiff peaked black cap which she tucked her hair under, and low-heeled shoes. No jewellery, and just a lick of a neutral tone lipstick. All improvised because she hadn’t been able to find a supplier of uniforms for female chauffers other than fancy dress hire shops and websites, who made them way short, way tight, and way pornographic—not anything remotely like what a professional driver should wear.

Though she was kidding herself about the professional driver thing, the least she could do was look the part. She could drive, like everyone else, and had a perfectly clean, accident free record, but that was more fluke than good management. It only meant that at twenty-seven she hadn’t spent too many years accumulating miles, being exposed to other bad drivers, and raking up incidents.

At least in the usual manner.

It was the uniform for all its ‘melt into the background’ blandness that had gotten her into trouble tonight. When she arrived to collect them from the club, Hapless, the buck, and his mates Hopeful and Hardly were convinced she was part of the surprise strip show. Only because Hapless’ father was sober was she saved from being seriously manhandled before the real stripper showed up in a latex nurse’s uniform and used the Statesman as a prop in her dance of a thousand pelvis grinds. That was before the throwing up started, and well before she dropped Hapless and his entourage to their hotel.

It was the first time she’d been mistaken for the stripper—what were they thinking—though wandering hands were a regular occurrence. But enough was enough. First thing tomorrow she was buying a pair of plain black tailored trousers. The skirt left her too vulnerable; sent the wrong signal.

Story of her life. All the wrong signals and practice perfect susceptibility.

Now all she wanted to do was sleep, because tomorrow she was booked for another buck’s night and had to do this all over again. The picking up, putting down and waiting, the intense politeness in the face of drunk, drugged, and plain old boorish behaviour. Plus the abuse. Let’s not forget the abuse. Which ranged from the benign—‘Oh fuck, we have a woman driver’, to the more humorous, ‘It’s a chick. We’re all going to die’.

At least in trousers instead of a skirt she’d avoid hot hands on her skin. After Justin she didn’t want anyone touching her skin. For a long time. Maybe forever. She was off men, and being touched, at least until she was sure she was finally safe from Justin; he moved to Silicon Valley or a small, bare cell—or both. Preferably both.

Morning was a reality when Caitlyn put her key in the door and let herself in. The flat smelled stale like mothballs. She’d thought being above a dry-cleaners would make the small, old, studio apartment smell all sorts of chemical clean. But no—just nose itching naphthalene. She thought she’d be used to it by now. Six months. Didn’t they say you could get used to anything in six weeks? Well, not anything. It was going to take a lot longer to get used to feeling so deeply humiliated, and maybe forever to get over feeling so unalterably stupid, and the whole ‘sins of the father’ thing was too much to contemplate. And the need to keep looking over her shoulder…

It was better not to think about that. That was just a new fact of life.

She went to the bathroom and turned on the hot water, undressing while she waited for the pilot light on the old heater to ignite. She shivered on the tiny coloured tiles, watching for the blue and orange flame, and wondering if naphthalene and natural gas were in any way an explosive combination. It was like an igloo in here. She really should buy a bathmat.

How the stripper managed not to be covered in goose bumps, teeth chattering, by the time she got down to a g-string and pasties with the stiff breeze blowing across the harbour, she didn’t know. How she didn’t get arrested was another question. She’d had an incredible figure and dead eyes.

Caitlyn knew she was the only one who’d noticed the eyes, or worried about her being cold, or getting charged with indecent exposure. When her striptease ended and the stripper had given the buck a very public lap dance on a park bench, she’d simply bundled up her clothing, shrugged on a coat, got in a rust bucket Mazda and driven off. Not one of the nine men who’d hooted and cheered for her bump and grind, or the two other male chauffers who’d tried to look like they weren’t enjoying the show, bothered to help her collect her gear, or offered to walk her to her car. In fact, not one of the men had spoken to her without using the words, ‘take it off’, ‘babe’, a swear word, or variations of ‘cor’, raah’, or ‘auw’. She was a much-loved abandoned toy. No wonder her eyes were dead.

Caitlyn had blue toes when the pilot light eventually came on and held, and hot water flowed through the showerhead. She stepped over the lip of the tub and got under its heat. This really was a crappy flat. But it was what she could afford after the licence was paid, the Statesman bought and registered, and the monthly payments got made. In addition, it had the very attractive advantage of being as far away from any connection with her old life as a latex nurse’s uniform was from a real stethoscope.

If Caitlyn’s old life was ignorant bliss, this—the lukewarm water, the chemical smell, and the obscure address—was breadline reality. This is where you lived when you’d screwed up and you were trying to start again. This is where you lived, without a phone connection, using a post office box, when you didn’t want anyone to find you, and it was a reasonable bet they wouldn’t.

Dry, warm and tucked up in bed, she stared at the fingers of sunlight invading the room. If she continued to book night jobs and needed to sleep late, she should hang a sheet over the window to help the threadbare curtains keep the light out. That would mean buying another sheet. And a bathmat. And trousers. At this rate she was going to need a second job to keep her first job floating.

Still, she was alone, and free, and safe. In control of her own destiny again. She wasn’t some man’s plaything. His dupe. His walking, talking, promise of respectability, or his fall girl. Even though she was rigorously staying off the grid as much as possible, she wasn’t reduced to earning her living as a stripper.

Her eyes weren’t dead. They were wide open for once. If it meant she could pull herself out of this hole and build herself a new life, she’d never blink again.

3: Claim

There was nothing porky about Nikki. But she wasn’t credit card, need to run around in the shower to get wet thin, the way Wacker liked his women. Skinny with breasts so big they defied a chick’s ability to stand upright.

Nikki was blonde and freckled and cute, if you looked past the horrible music video slut eye-makeup and the skanky clothes. She’d been here a week after running away from home. She was sixteen and she should’ve been in school.

Fetch would’ve been happier to see her cuddling stuffed animals and giggling over Facebook posts than he was to find her curled up next to him in bed. He sighed and stretched, tried not to wake her. He didn’t have a lot of time for this today, but maybe since they were alone, he could talk her into abandoning cousin Maisy and going back home, back to school, or tech college, or pretty much anywhere but 10 Robinson Street, before it was too late.

Or he could get up and leave her.

She wasn’t his responsibility. She wasn’t the job. And some people had to work for a living. Some people even had two jobs, neither of them likely to lead to a secure retirement. He sat up and leaned against the wall behind the bed. He needed coffee something bad. Mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on Play-doh all night. He needed to get out of here and get on with the drops. More today than normal. That had to mean something. But even one more day in this place could be too late for Nikki.

So far Wacker had been easy with her. He hadn’t auctioned her off, or rostered her for suck circle duties. If she wasn’t family, he’d have had her in one of the cathouses taking bids for her virginity before her backpack had even hit the floor. In deference to Maisy, he’d let Nikki choose who to pair off with and she’d chosen him. And that was a problem. Because deference and Wacker were only casual acquaintances, so unless Fetch claimed her, she’d revert to being Wacker’s property to dispense with as he saw fit. Not even Maisy could do anything about that. Them was the rules.

At least she’d kept her underwear on. He wondered when she’d crept in and how he’d managed not to wake. That was bad. That meant he’d gotten comfortable in the house. Comfortable was not a good development. Comfortable could get you killed, or at least badly beaten before breakfast.

Ah, what to do about this kid? For a few fleeting moments he wondered if it might not be best to claim her to keep her safe. Better him than Johno, Tod or Grumble: a sadist, a drunk and a drug addict. Or Wacker himself. He’d muck her up permanently and use her to score points in his ever-loving war with Maisy. Shit, this was so screwed up. What he really wanted to do was bundle her up and take her home to his mother. She’d sort Nikki out; have the girl back in school getting straight A’s before the nail polish remover on her black painted toenails dried.

If he claimed her, she’d be in his bed every night. He didn’t think he could get away with not showing off bloody sheets. Nikki was a present, or a reward, or a bonus, or some other fucking nasty kind of prize that was supposed to be a binding agent between him and Wacker.

Fuck. He had to get her out of here. It was the only way.

He gave her shoulder a prod. Nikki, wake up.

She came awake slowly. She’d been drinking heavily last night. She’d have a sore head and a sick stomach. Under the circumstances that was helpful. He could get away with saying she was too drunk and he didn’t fuck comatose chicks. That would win him another day and the usual round of ridicule over his being soft in the head, over his ‘sensitivity’.

She blinked up at him, eyes unfocused and bleary.

How do you feel?

Um.

That good. He hunkered down so he could look in her red-rimmed eyes. Listen Nik, the party’s over. It’s time for you to go home. You’ve had your walk on the wild side and before it all goes too far, you need to go.

She was all sleepy kitten. No. Fetch, I want to be with you.

No you don’t. I’m too old and cranky. Anyway, I don’t do sixteen year old schoolgirls. So you don’t have an option.

Wacker said I was yours.

Wacker doesn’t own you. He can’t give you away. You own you. You have to start acting like it.

But I want to be with you.

No. You don’t. I’m not very nice.

She showed her pretty teeth. She really was a cutie. And frigging young. Yeah you are. You’re the nicest of everyone.

He pushed hair out of his eyes. Why did you come here anyway?

My parents don’t understand.

She thought she was being winsome and damsel in distress. She thought that would work on him. What, that you have ambitions to be a crack whore?

She struggled to a sitting position, but her face paled from the effort to stop feeling motion sick. My father pushes me around.

Fetch sat straighter too. He kept his eyes resolutely on her face. Your dad hits you?

Her forehead crinkled, but her eyes widened. She’d been shocked by the suggestion. Her dad probably didn’t want her dressed like jail bait either. Fetch would bet he wasn’t hitting her, or doing anything worse. Nikki sniffed as if she was about to cry. It wasn’t good acting. I don’t want to talk about it.

He moved so quickly she gave a little gasp of shock. He grabbed both her arms and pulled her close. He breathed nasty morning breath on her. So you’re used to being roughed up then. That’s good. You know your place. Crack whore on P plates.

No, I… She tried to pull away. She had no chance. He moved a hand to the back of her neck and anchored her. She wasn’t going anywhere except home.

No, you what? he mocked.

I—

You listen to me, Nikki. I’m going to work now. I’ll be gone all day. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to get dressed, wash that black crap off your face. Tell Maise you’re going to run an errand for me.

She nodded. Bambi caught in the crosshairs. Except she thought she was frolicking in the freaking meadow.

You’re going to take the five hundred bucks I give you.

She nodded again. She didn’t know where this was going.

You’re going to walk to the station and stand at the taxi rank. When a driver pulls up, you’re going to get in and give him your home address.

Now she got it. No… I—

He squeezed the back of her neck. Enough so she’d know he wasn’t mucking around.

You’ll do it, Nikki. And you won’t ever come back here.

He held her neck, he held her eyes. He was going to be late with the first drop. He’d be running behind all day. When he got back, Wacker would want to know why he was so incompetent he couldn’t manage to make a few deliveries on time. But he’d have given the poor kid her life back and sent her home, where bad things were less likely to happen to her.

It’d be easy to explain, once a runaway, always a runaway. He could let Wacker think he’d gone hard on her and frightened her off, or better, that he’d been a stupid enough fuck to be nice to her, and she’d run out and stolen his money. Yeah—that worked much better. It was more in line with his profile of not too bright, but earnest delivery boy. They’d laugh at him and forget about her.

There were tears in her eyes now. Poor silly kid. He relaxed his grip and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Go. Have a good life, Nikki. She let go a genuine sob. He pulled her against his chest. Go back to school, study hard, get a qualification. Fall in love with a nice boy who doesn’t think he owns you. He gave her a little shake. Stay away from Maisy and this kind of life. It’ll fuck you over.

What about you? She was looking up at him with eyes like planets.

I’ll be all right. You don’t need to worry about me.

But I will. You really are the only nice one.

Fuck, he’d let himself get all soft there for a minute. She’d seen through his tough guy routine. He pushed her away roughly and stood up, shocking her with his sudden looming nakedness. The other men were all taller than him, heavier. He was a runt in comparison, but by no means small outside the company of giants Wacker kept around as enforcers.

He looked for his jeans. Go home, little girl.

He found them on the floor and pulled them on, grabbed a t-shirt that wasn’t too dirty and shrugged over his head. He sat on the bed with his back to her and stuffed his feet in socks and heavy boots.

Fetch.

He felt her little hand on his back. He stilled. He really was going to be late. He’d ditch the delivery protocol and take his bike.

Thank you.

He nodded in acknowledgement, making the bed bounce. She understood. She’d be all right. He combed his fingers through his tangled hair and dug cash out of his pocket, putting it on the bed for her. It felt oddly like prostitution. But he’d be the only guy in the house, in the chapter, in the whole damn club, who was paying a girl to leave him alone.

He didn’t look back at her, and he slammed the door on his way out. Best she was confused and forgot about him real quick.

He made the first two drops without incident. Coded paperwork, he couldn’t make head or tail of in one, and cash, probably around ten G in the other. Using the bike made it all quicker, but it also exposed him. The bikes tended to call attention to themselves; people noticed them, remembered them. Plus he could get picked up by a speed camera, or be unlucky enough to be pulled over. That’s why they used taxis for the drops. Quick, efficient, anonymous. And if they hit anything, you just did a runner.

It was drop number five where his luck ran out: a pedestrian crossing, a pensioner, awkward with a four-pronged walking stick, a woman with a toddler trying to wrestle an overfull supermarket trolley across the road and hold onto the kid at the same time. He watched the young mum struggle with the independent thought of the trolley wheels and the self-determination of the kid. He was the first vehicle in line. It was fifteen seconds of mayhem. The trolley veered sideways, the old bloke’s stick got caught in its struts. Mum let go of the kid to make a grab for the old man to stop him toppling, and the kid made a bid for freedom. He shot across the street, making straight for a guy with one of those dogs that looked like wolves, and Fetch’s face met tarmac as he was thrown sideways off the bike.

He hit the road, the bike crashing down on his leg as he scrambled away to avoid it. He looked up to see the driver behind him and the two behind her getting out of their cars. He’d been rear-ended in a four car pile-up.

Are you okay? It was the mum, leaning down over him. She had the kid by the hand. The guy with the dog was beside her. The old man was holding onto the trolley.

He got to his feet; put a hand to his cheek, sticky with blood. But all his limbs were working, nothing broken, though the bruising would be a bitch. The bike however—DOA. Shit. He didn’t have time for this. It was way too complicated. He needed to keep moving. He’d have to risk calling it in. He took out his phone, and made the call.

I’ve had an accident.

Didn’t you get a toilet training certificate before they sent you out?

Fuck off, Stud.

Raucous laughter was followed by, What do you need?

He said, Towie, gave the address and hung up.

The dog guy and one of the other drivers helped him right the bike and drag it to the side of the road. Traffic started flowing around the other cars. He pulled his saddlebag off the bike and waited until the tow truck arrived. When they started to load it, he backed off. His knee was already stiffening up. He went down the street to a council bin, dropped his phone, crushed it under his heel, fished out the sim and pocketed it, and dumped the remains of the plastic.

He kept walking. He needed a taxi. Nothing doing. It was 3pm, driver changeover time. He found another bin and dumped the sim card. Two streets over his luck changed again.

4: Luck

He was a surgeon, famous for separating conjoined twins. Caitlyn would’ve been happy to drive him around for weeks. In a previous life: Before Justin—she’d have been happy to take him to lunch, dinner and breakfast the next morning. He was Indian, born in Madras, educated in London. He was handsome, with large dark eyes and milk coffee skin. He had a Daniel Craig accent and liked a good chat. It was his first trip to Australia. He was consulting on a case—another set of twins, joined at the spine. He was a cricket tragic and proud of it. And a practiced flirt, and it was hard not to give in to that.

She’d picked him up at the airport and driven him to Westmead Children’s Hospital. Someone else would get the gig to drive him anywhere else he needed to go. The job had been an extra, on top of providing transport for minor celebrities to and from a movie premier and a nightclub into the small hours of the morning. She’d had about four hours sleep and was feeling every missed moment in her gritty eyes and stiff neck. Parked in the hospital’s drive after the wonder surgeon disappeared inside, she dropped her head into the headrest and closed her eyes. Five minutes, if she could just sit here quietly for five minutes.

The back door went thunk, and she opened her eyes to see Grizzly Adams slide into the back seat. I’m not a taxi.

He leaned between the seats and slapped a fist full of cash on the console. A thousand bucks says you are.

He’d been in some kind of an accident, or more likely a fight; his cheek was grazed and bloody. She looked at the money. She saw a bathmat and new curtains, a rug for the bedroom floor. He was a passenger like anyone else, even if he looked like his job was to officially frighten small children. She could only really see his scratched up face in the rear-view mirror, tucked in between a lot of hair and sunglasses. God knows what the rest of him looked like.

Where to?

He wanted to go to three suburban addresses, two close by, and one further afield, and for her to wait at each. Then he wanted to be dropped off at home. Simple. She checked the addresses on her GPS and headed out.

Unlike Dr Wonderful, Grizzly wasn’t talkative. Unlike Dr Wonderful he didn’t inspire lust-filled musings. He sat slumped in the back seat, head turned to watch out the window. The first stop was a house in a quiet street. Front lawn needed a good mow and a coat of paint would’ve done wonders for it. She parked, and he got out and went to the front door. He carried a saddlebag over his shoulder, and he limped, favouring his left leg. When he disappeared inside she closed her eyes. There was no way to know how long he’d be. He hadn’t said a word after giving her the addresses. She could’ve asked, but there was something about him that made her want to limit contact. She pulled her hat down further over her eyes and smiled. This was a take the money and run situation if ever she’d seen one.

Caitlyn sighed audibly when the back door thunked again. He’d been gone less than a single Adele song on the radio. She switched it off and started the engine. He was settled back in the seat again, but now he had a bunch of tissues held against his cheek. She had tissues in the car; she should’ve thought to give him some. She had antiseptic too—a full first-aid kit. She’d been so worried about Grizzly being a bear and eating her, she’d completely ignored the fact he could do with some kindness.

I have Dettol for that, if you’d like?

His chin came up. She met his glasses in the rear-view. Thanks. I’ll be right.

She bit back the ‘are you sure’ that hovered in her throat. He didn’t look like a man who was unsure. Now she’d seen him full-length she realised he was a bikie. A fair dinkum Hell’s Angel, except the back of his leather jacket said Black Pariah. It was impossible to tell how old he was. The full wild man beard, the shoulder-length dark hair, the row of piercings up his ear, the dark sunnies. He was tall; filled out his dirty jeans with the promise of strength, and had a broad, square shoulder line and a deep resonant voice.

By the time they arrived at the third address, she’d decided he was up to no good. He wasn’t on a visiting spree because the stops were too short and no one appeared to greet him or wave him off. He was some kind of delivery boy, but there was no way to tell what he was delivering, other than it was relatively small and valuable. He never left the saddlebag in the car. He carried it to and from each ordinary looking house they went to. This really was a take the money and run job in more ways than one. The sooner she dropped him off at this last address the better.

Driver, do you mind if we add another stop?

She lifted her eyes to the mirror. He was sitting forward. It’s on the way.

He’d paid her a thousand dollars cash for three hours work that would ordinarily have earned her about two hundred and fifty, less if there’d been a booking fee on top. He looked fearsome, but he’d been no trouble and spoke politely. He was up to something, but it couldn’t be anything too terrible. Who was she to judge anyway? Yes—he could add a stop.

She drove him to a small shopping centre and parked in the adjoining car park to wait for him. He got out, then tapped on the driver’s side window. She’d already turned the engine off. She cracked the door and got out, standing in front of him, the door held between them.

I’ll be a bit longer this time. You might want to go for a walk, stretch your legs. Can I bring you back anything?

He smelled of old leather and petrol up close. His cheek had stopped bleeding, but it was savagely grazed.

What happened?

He looked surprised she’d asked, his eyebrows shooting up over the frame of his sunnies. But not as surprised as she was. What happened to limiting contact? I mean to your face, and you’re limping.

He smiled for the first time. Made him look younger. I had a little run-in with some bitumen. Came off second best.

Oh, God. Are you okay? Should you see a doctor?

He hooked a finger over the nosepiece of his sunnies and pulled them down. He looked at her with startlingly blue eyes, surrounded by thick black lashes no decent man deserved to own. But then he probably wasn’t a decent man. He was probably a drug courier. And she was consorting with a criminal. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’d been closer than consorting. She’d been virtually a conjoined twin.

No, thank you. I’m good.

He blinked at her, dropped his chin. Sure?

Yes, thank you.

He pushed the sunnies back up his nose and nodded. I’ll try not to be too long. You look tired.

Me? The way her voice squeaked was embarrassing, the blush that heated her cheeks was more so. He wasn’t supposed to notice anything about her. Under her hat and with her own sunnies on what could he possibly see to give him that impression?

He laughed. Yeah, you. You’ve tried to have a catnap at least three times now. I keep interrupting.

Oh. I promise you I’m perfectly safe to drive.

Hey, I was kidding. I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t safe.

He was smiling, and trying to put her at ease, but she didn’t think he was kidding. He’d picked up on her weariness with deadly accuracy. In her new trousers she was covered neck to toe. She was almost as camouflaged by her work costume as he was, by his gang one, but he made her feel naked.

How about I bring you back a coffee?

I have a thermos. I’m fine, thank you.

Now you’re kidding me. Thermos coffee! He shook his head. That wouldn’t keep a fly awake. How do you take it?

A real brewed, hot coffee sounded wonderful. She turned to rummage in the compartment where she kept change for meters.

My treat.

She looked up. He’d backed off to stop her handing him the coins. A flat white would be fantastic. Thank you.

He gave her a salute, turned and walked towards the shopping centre doors, stepping to the side when he got there to let a woman with a stroller go through first. It made her smile. Mr Black Pariah looked like trouble but he spoke well, paid attention, and had pretensions to be a gentleman.

He wasn’t that long. But long enough for her world to feel blurry at the edges, for her body to feel like she’d pulled a dozen muscles. He didn’t forget the coffee. And now she really needed it, to help get a handle on her nerves. She watched him come across the car park, the limp still evident, his saddlebag slung over his shoulder, a phone company bag in one hand, and a coffee carry-out tray in the other. She had the window down and he held the tray out. She took it with a smile while he slung his gear in the back seat.

He came back to the window. Can I drink in the car?

She lifted the tray to him. I think I can trust you. What a laugh. He was the least likely candidate for trust. Well, maybe