Willow looked offended. “Why would I mean anyone else?”
“I dunno. I just ditched Alannah. I don’t want anything to get back to her.”
Willow rolled his eyes. “The point of dumping someone is getting to rail strangers again. Come on, they’re Alexis’s mates. They’re hot. They’re ex-schoolgirls.”
“Aren’t most chicks ex-schoolgirls?”
“Oh, he’s being a funny cunt today.” Willow turned to their teammate, Patrick Normal. “Hardiman’s being a funny cunt today, Psycho. Whaddya reckon? Should we get on board?”
Before Normal could answer, Willow sprinted up the hall and shouldered him into the wall. As Normal groaned, Willow turned to grin at him. “Think about it, man. Come out.”
He considered it, then remembered the auction. “I’ve got something on tomorrow morning.”
“So? Sleep when you’re dead.”
Derek weighed the odds. A brutal hangover or a night pacing the empty house. “Fine, I’ll come. But I’m not getting pissed.”
Nine hours later, he and Willow were shown through the back of Ivy, Willow beaming like an idiot the whole way. He rubbed some of the boys raw with his flashy, ‘man of the hour’ thing, but it wasn’t an act. Sloan Williams was genuinely delighted with every scrap of fame and fortune that came his way. Which was the only reason Derek could put up with him.
They got a private booth at the back, then Willow went to the main part of the club to collect his girls. They were hot. Two blondes and a redhead who looked like Byron’s missus, Beth. One of the blondes made a beeline for him and Derek’s guard went right up. He couldn’t help it. He’d played AFL for ten years, been big name for eight, and before he got anywhere with a woman, he assessed how likely she was to try to steal his come and impregnate herself with it.
“Hi! I’m Emma,” she said, extending a hand. “It’s so crazy to meet you!”
Derek was trying to think of a response to this when he saw her. His mouth dried over and his heart pricked like he’d taken a pill. It wasn’t Mara. Mara was shorter and her hair was darker. But this girl was round-faced and pretty with blue eyes and a small mouth. She sat at the edge of a booth, her sneakered foot bobbing to the music.
Emma tapped his chest. “Heyyy, if you want to talk to her instead, go do it.”
But Derek didn’t want to talk to her instead. He wanted to watch her and think about Mara. Smart. Cute as fuck. Weird in all the right ways. And the way she kissed him like she’d die if she couldn’t get enough.
Daddy, she whispered in her sweet voice. Daddy, my flower hurts. Daddy, can you please—
“Hel-lo?” Emma tapped him harder. “Are you okay?”
Derek blinked. “Sorry, I’m a bit out of it. It’s nice to meet you. How do you know Willow?”
Mollified, Emma launched into the story. Derek listened and drank and tried not to stare at the girl. She didn’t look like Mara. No one did. She was just a whisper of the girl he used to know. A girl he hadn’t seen for more than ten years.
Drinks. Too many drinks.
He kissed someone. Emma. But someone else too. Maybe the redhead who looked like Byron’s missus. It wasn’t a betrayal, but he’d never tell his mate. It was too weird. And where had the Mara girl gone? He’d wanted to talk to her after all. See if she had the same voice as Mara, like a velvet ribbon running through a wooden banister.
“Hey, mate, you okay?”
Willow. Willow or maybe Normal.
“I’m fine,” he told the blur. “I might head.”
“Probably a good idea.”
It had to be Normal. Willow never let anyone leave anything.
He staggered out of the back of the bar, wanting a smoke but not smoking. Wanting a kebab but not eating. He could have asked one of the girls home with him, Emma maybe, but he hadn’t and that was okay. There would be more nights. More girls.
He ordered an Uber and fell asleep in the car, making it feel like he got home in a second. He got into bed without showering and picked up “Fool’s Assassin.” His eyes blurred as he looked at the page. He tried to refocus, but the book tumbled from his hands. He closed his eyes in defeat, his head throbbing gently.
3
“Mini quiche?”
Derek took the pastry from the tray and shoved it in his mouth. “Thanks.”
The girl holding the serving platter smiled up at him. “Another?”
“Why not?” Derek took a second quiche. “Cheers.”
The girl gave him a slow smile. “I’ll be back soon.”
Derek watched her walk away, silver tray aloft. Decent ass. Bringing him food. He could probably ask her out. His stomach turned over at the thought. He was too hungover. Too hungover and too aware of the three messages Alannah had sent him telling him he was a cunt.
A guy passed with a tray of chicken skewers and Derek took three. Maggie would be pissed, but she wasn’t here. Trays of orange juice in champagne glasses were. Derek took one and drank deeply. The free food and drink was probably an attempt to put bidders in a better mood. It wasn’t working. Of the crowd of people crammed into the backyard of Terrace Avenue, he was the only one eating. Married couples pecked around anxiously, some of them so wound up they looked green.
Still, if they were at the auction, they had money, so there was no sense feeling bad for them. The sugar in the juice was perking him up. He ditched his empty glass and grabbed a fresh one.
The corner of the yard was full of suits. Property developers, he’d bet. They’d buy the house for the land, bulldoze the redbrick property, and throw up a dozen shitty townhouses. One of the suits caught his eye, his weasel face lighting up with recognition. Derek pulled out his phone. Howard might want him to ‘flex a bit of star power’ but he was in no mood to talk, least of all to property developers.
The auctioneer was bouncing around the backyard like a kid on Christmas. He was big and round and stank of cologne and his suit was shinier than any of the developers’.
“Oh, it’s gonna go for over two million,” he boomed to one of the green-looking couples. “Don’t let that put you off, though. It’s a fabulous house. You’d bloody kill yourself for not putting up the money now, wouldn’t you?”
Derek choked on his chicken skewer. Around the yard, heads turned, and the auctioneer gave a loud cackle. “Sorry, folks, I didn’t mean it like that.” He nudged the husband in the ribs. “You get what I mean, though? You’d be devastated if you didn’t give it your all. Put it all on the table, folks. That’s my advice.”
Derek turned away. This was hell. He’d give, maybe not a million, but at least ten grand to go home and get back into bed. But he wasn’t leaving without 101 Terrace Avenue.
When he’d told Howard he wanted a place, he wasn’t looking for perfect—just somewhere to live. But the minute he’d seen Terrace Avenue, everything changed. The house itself was fucked— battered floors, creaky staircases, and barely functional bathrooms. But it had great bones and a massive backyard. And best of all, it was in the heart of Fitzroy, less than fifty feet from Bright Stadium, home of the Hammerhead Sharks. If he bought Terrace Avenue, his new home would be right beside his old home for the rest of his life.