Chapter 5

It was a great night until she walked in.

A few blokes sit around me watching an old Manchester United game airing on the flat-screen television located above the bar. We bonded over beers, our frustration over the penalty kick, and despite my initial hunt to get laid tonight, I’m content just drinking a schooner and unwinding with same-minded company.

Jerry, the Irish backpacker with the mouth of a sailor, decides to take a piss leaving the barstool beside me empty. Honestly, I’m beginning to enjoy the break from his profanity until she stumbles into the bar wearing a tight, little black dress and high heels that ride up her lean legs just shy of her knees. Her long, reddish curls bounce as she moves around, making every man and his dog turn their eyes toward where she stands.

She has an infectious laugh, unaware her grand entrance along with her group of friends is causing a scene. None of them seem fazed by the attention, especially the chick with the short, white dress and sash, who practically throws herself at the bar and demands a drink. She turns to face me, flashes her tits to catch my attention, but I don’t waver. It seems to piss her right off.

“You’re hot,” she tells me with an unintentional burp following. Giggling, she covers her mouth. “Oops.”

I don’t do fake tits, sweetheart.

Then, curly pulls up beside me, oblivious she’s standing so dangerously close to me, I can practically smell her skin. It smells fucking good, something girly but oh so fucking sweet.

In the corner of my eye, I can see she’s struggling to compose herself, barely able to stand straight, relying on the bar for support. Judging by her indecisive nature to order a drink, I assume this is common behavior for her. A typical American girl. I bet she’s going to fangirl over my accent and throw herself at me.

Until she doesn’t.

She has a chip on her shoulder, and it’s a large one at that.

I’ve rubbed her up the wrong way, and when it comes to playing the game of cat and mouse, you’re dealing with the master.

I throw down a twenty, paying for her beer until she voices her offense at my rude gesture which then forces me to up the ante. Now, to be clear, I have no idea if she will chug the whole glass to prove a point. I assume she will do that girl-pout thing then call defeat.

Fuck, was I wrong.

I pull out the money I owe her after the bet, reluctantly handing it over which she happily accepts.

“You know, it’s rude to assume my accent is fake. As an Australian, I’m offended,” I retort, watching her lick the remnants of the glass.

“Fine, then, let me test you?” She places the glass on the countertop, flicking her hair away from her face as she gazes at me with curiosity. “Do you put shrimp on the barbie?”

My expression remains flat. A pathetic first attempt. “Firstly, we call them prawns, not shrimp. And secondly, I like to throw a good snag on the barbie.”

“Snag?” She laughs, almost snorting. “What kind of made-up word is that?”

“S.A.U.S.A.G.E.S,” I annunciate. “It’s an abbreviation.”

“Fine, so while you’re eating your ‘snags’…” she uses air quotes, “… do you cuddle with your pet kangaroo?”

I roll my eyes. This girl is a piece of work. “Sure, if I want to get throat punched. Sweetheart, give up now while you still have some dignity.”

Her laughter stops, and she slows until she looks ready to hurl right in front of me. The color of her face drains almost to a pale white.

“You okay?”

“What do you care?” she bites back. “I’m fine.”

When a woman says she’s fine, she is so far from fine it’s not even funny. She’s North Pole to fine. And curly here is anything but fine.

“How about you ease up on the beer? You’ll pay for it tomorrow.”

“Maybe I want to pay for it tomorrow.” Her hazel eyes flicker with anger. “Maybe I need to live a little because a hangover will be a nice change from a world I don’t want to be in.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, stumbling off the stool and crashing into a bloke beside her. She asks him to dance, glancing at me to goad some sort of reaction. I’m not going to give it to her—talk about high maintenance.

The corner of the pub has a small dance floor with a DJ playing pop music. The music isn’t exactly what I would listen to, yet I can appreciate the sounds of Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It.”

Sitting at the bar, I watch them despite my reluctance. It’s the train crash waiting to happen, and no matter what you do, you can’t avert your eyes.

The last fifteen minutes involve a woman who has belittled my accent, thrown shade to my culture, and cost me two hundred bucks. Yet, for some reason, I’m glued, examining the way her hips moved in sync with the beats, how her hair bounces around, cascading against her olive skin, and how her dress rides up her toned thighs as she dances. She has a fantastic body, I’ll give her that.

In the pit of my stomach, there’s an unsettling sensation. I try to ignore it along with a stir of anger beginning to boil inside me when the dumb bloke puts his hands on her arse. She appears to be having fun until he gets too grabby, and her hands push him away.

The idiot doesn’t appear to listen, and when I see her struggle, I feel compelled to rip him off her and tell him to back the fuck off. So, I make my way through the now-busier crowd. When I reach them, I tap on his shoulder intending to warn him to respect her wishes. He doesn’t waver, purposely ignoring me and grabbing her with an even stronger force.

I can immediately see the struggle in her eyes, and with one swift move, I pull him off her until he loses his balance, falling butt first onto the hardwood floor.

“Oi, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yells, pulling himself up.

The dickhead is slightly shorter than me, and considering I’m six-foot-two, he still has an overpowering stance compared to a lot of the men around us.

You can take him, Olly. You’ve taken on bigger blokes than this dickwad.

I’m about to punch him straight in his smug face until she shakes her head, begging us to stop. Immediately, my focus shifts to her, noticing her eyes filling with tears. I can’t help but be distracted by her emotional plea for us to stop the madness, that is, until a fountain of vomit flies into the air, landing all over the bloke’s white shirt.

Damn, that has to completely suck.

He yells, dry retching as I grab her hand in a mad rush to pull her outside. Absolute perfect timing as her body falls over the railing and the remaining contents of her stomach spill into the bushes.

Attempting to pull her hair out of her face, she cries, “Leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone once you can walk in a straight line.”

“Go away. I’m already humiliated. I don’t need you making it worse.”

“I would go, but my kangaroo hasn’t arrived yet. He was my ride back home.”

In between her heavy breathing, I could have sworn I saw a smile, but it fades rapidly, overshadowed by the cold, harsh reality of drinking too much alcohol.

“Why did you help me?”

“Well, you didn’t seem too pleased with his hands all over your arse, and my pa always taught me to respect someone’s arse. So, yeah.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe my pa said that?”

“No,” she mutters, her breathing slowing down. “I don’t believe you would respect someone’s ass. Far from it.”

She says the word ass with her accent lingering, no trace of the missing letter ‘R’ which we Aussies are so fond of. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, having been here for a few days, but I was so far from home. Talking to her was different than talking to the girls back in Australia. Suddenly, the dreaded homesickness consumes me. I miss people pronouncing the word arse correctly. I miss Pa and his stupid Dad jokes. I miss Ma’s homemade lasagna with the double layer of cheese and garlic bread which has way too much butter on the top.

I pull away, creating distance between us. “You okay to get home?”

“Why? Let me guess… you want to make sure I’m okay. Then invite yourself in for a nightcap, which ends up overnight because I’m drunk and have no clue who’s in my bed. You’ll tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had, while I ride you like a drunk cowgirl, and when I wake up in the morning, you’ll be long gone…” She takes a deep breath, then continues… “So how about I save you the trouble of the cheesy pick up line and say let’s go?”

“Actually, no,” I correct her. “It’s not safe at night, and I just want to make sure you can get home. I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“You’re a jer?—”

“Oh,” I quickly interrupt her. “I’m not really a cowgirl position type-of-guy either, I prefer to take girls from behind.”

With a downward gaze and flushed cheeks, she crosses her arms, angling her body away from me. “You know what? I’m fine. Go back to whatever you were doing. I’ll be fine.”

Wow! A double fine.

“I mean, if you really want me to come back to your place,” I tease, because watching her angry is oh so satisfying.

“Stop right there, okay? I’m not looking for a fling or whatever the hell you think I’m looking for.”

“I think you’re looking for a man to make you feel alive. You know, forget about your problems if only for one night.”

Silence falls upon her. “You’re wrong. I just …it doesn’t matter because I will never see you again and just because you’re hot means nothing.”

In a panicked frenzy, she unties the top of her laced heels, sliding her shoes off until her bare feet are firmly on the pavement. Without the height of her heels, she falls below my chin. Much smaller than she appeared to be.

Without a goodbye or a gracious ‘thank you for helping me not vomit in my hair,’ or ‘go home loser who doesn’t understand the word no,’ she walks down the path with her back to me.

Part of me wants to yell out ‘thanks’until she stops midstep and turns around to face me one more time. There is something in the weight of her stare. It’s unexplainable, drawing me in, but I have no idea why. Perhaps I’m being an idiot—take her home. Yet, some voice inside me warns me to stay away. She has her own problems, and I surely have mine.

Before I call it a night, I stumble back into the pub, apologizing to Dan for the altercation and offer compensation for the mess. This night has turned into one financial disaster after another. I may have money, but throwing it all on some stupid bet is very unlike me. I can almost hear Ma’s voice berating me from the other side of the world.

With the clock striking midnight, I make my way home, or whatever you want to call it, to drown in my homesickness in some much-needed sleep.

Just shy of the front door, it dawns on me—I never even got her name.

I’ll name her curly, not that I will encounter her again.

Some things are never meant to be.