‘Love To Crush You’

‘Love To Crush You’

Excerpt

‘Mr Falconer is the handsome bar and venue entrepreneur, one of the most successful publicans to have taken Sydney by storm.

His career took off when his first location, Toby’s, went stratospheric a few years ago. Since then, he’s established a slew of trendy venue brands.

Each is designed to wow punters with elegant entertainment and premium food. Let alone their out-of-this-world alcohol selections and outstanding service.

The kingpin’s charm, personality, looks, and bank balance have garnered him many admirers.

Falconer guards his personal life with fierceness, but in recent times, eagle-eyed photographers have spotted him on the streets with international supermodel Flávia Orcata.

She has been his on-and-off girlfriend for the past eight years in between many lovers and girlfriends, more gorgeous than the next.

Still, the pair are not usually found together, their busy schedules to blame. Given Mr. Falconer’s value of privacy, their relationship status remains unknown.

What’s also enviable is that Falconer is not only a hospitality titan. He was also a decorated special forces soldier before retiring to civilian life. Which adds to his mystery and appeal.’

A loud sigh echoed in the staff lunchroom.

‘I can’t believe he’s our boss-boss. He’s so hot, I’d jump him in a minute.’

Tina, one of the Beach Room’s managers, was hunched over an iPad, her glazed eyes fixed on an article in the latest edition of her favourite online gossip rag.

Salma gave the woman a cursory glance before focusing on her plate balancing on the small high table before her. Not caring one iota about the Forrester - or was it Falconer - person Tina cooed over.

She moaned under her breath, rubbing her aching leg.

She sighed, exhausted. Relieved she’d managed to survive the eight-hour shift that she’d extended into ten for the extra cash.

But her energy reserves were dwindling. So, too, her patience and pain threshold. With the last hour to go, she was counting down the minutes. Until she’d escape, drive home and collapse into bed.

Tina, sensing Salma’s disinterest, changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the new bartender they hired? He’s even hotter than Falconer,’ waving the magazine before Salma’s face.

Salma sighed again, exasperated by her colleague’s fixation on physical appearance. ‘I’m not keen, hon. Can we please talk about something else?’

Or not talk at all?

Tina shrugged, turning to one of the other workers in the room to continue her gossip.

Salma chewed her meal in silence, her thoughts turning to her car crash of a life.

How had she gotten here? Why had she let Hawaii derail her so much? How was she, once the youngest global champion in her sport, now a 31-year-old woman waiting tables? What happened to conquering the world she’d once ruled?

Miserable and soul-crushed, she threw out her dinner scraps and dragged herself back to work.

An hour later, she pushed through the crowds at The Beach Room.

Set over Bondi’s golden sands, the interior showcased beach-inspired elegance in 360 glass. Guests ascended to the skies above the sandy shores to enjoy made-to-order cocktails. Where the beauty of the panoramic water views surrounded them.

Today, however, Bondi’s answer to luxury rooftop bar escapism sucked at Salma’s soul.

Revellers gathering for Christmas parties packed the place. One of the most feted seasons for the hospitality industry, yet the most dreaded by the servers on the ground.

It was busy, crowded, even shouty - a scene she’d have avoided if she wasn’t working.

The space heaved as it did most nights. The bright lights behind the expansive servery turned on as soon as the sun dipped under the horizon, giving Salma a piercing headache.

She squinted at the DJ, revving the crowd from their elevated box as yet another bouncy track began to play. Only adding to Salma’s misery.

She sidestepped as the all-glass elevator spat out fashionistas and trendsetters swarming into the space. They took photos in front of the famous glass views for their gram. All eager to get a mention at one of the most illustrious watering holes in Sydney.

Salma swung past the hordes with her tray, keeping it steady. It overflowed with seasonal, delectable share plates. Designed to complement the bar’s signature cocktails, five of which were also on the tray.

Just as she rounded a corner, a sharp pain shot through her thigh.

To her horror, her leg gave way, and the entire load crashed. It fell against a table, exploding over the laps of five men hustled around it.

Panic bloomed in her chest as the guests leapt from their seats.

She gaped at their expensive suits, now stained with food and drink. They, in turn, all glared down at her on the floor, their faces incandescent in a mix of shocked surprise and rising anger.

A wave of curses rose from their lips as they tried to mitigate the disaster, mopping the liquid mess with the pitiful pile of already sodden napkins.

She dared not meet their gazes, focusing more on stumbling back to her feet.

One of the men leaned over and extended a hand.

She glanced up at him and jolted at the blue-eyed hottie, the tallest and most rugged of the five.

He had dark brown hair to the shoulders and a manicured beard.

Although plastered in the dregs of an espresso martini and a classic daiquiri, he carried himself with an irresistible mix of casual yet sartorial style.

He oozed confidence and class in equal measure. Not the kind she bumped into every day.

‘You OK?’

His voice, a baritone growl, sent shivers down her spine as he pulled her to her feet.

‘I’ll be OK, I -.’ She trailed off, mortified, a hot flush suffusing her face.

With a breath, Salma shook her hand from his. Regaining her composure, she rushed to the mess on the floor.

She couldn’t stop apologising. Her words tumbled out in an incoherent jumble. She even fumbled as she tried to clean up the shards of glass and turn around her fuck up.

‘Settle down. You’re fine.’

The stranger’s words were calming, and she managed to string together some sense. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered, mortified. ‘Been on my feet for ages, and I must have slipped. Let me clean this up for you.’

The last few weeks for Salma had been tough. Her leg was acting up more, the pain spiralling out of control.

‘Breathe. Take your time.’

So she did, bent over, hands on knees, pausing for a beat as her heart rate slowed and her muscles throbbed and rippled in pain.

When she could, she glanced at him to find his cerulean gaze on her. ‘I’ll bring you fresh napkins and free drinks on the house.’

The tall man nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Damn this to hell.’

The bitter words came from the stouter and more sharp-featured of the gathered group. He attempted to wipe cocktail syrup from his white shirt while shooting daggers at her. ‘How did she get a gig here if she can’t keep the grog off customers’ laps?’

‘Hey, Macca, chill. Give her a break.’

The no-nonsense command came from the man who’d helped her to her feet.

His deep voice rumbled as he addressed her. ‘Bad day, that’s all. We all have them.’

He, too, brushed slivers of orange and lime peel off his suit.

Yet he gave Salma a measured look laced with some concern that reached up to his piercing blue eyes. Something in the way he looked at her made her feel like she was more than a server who couldn’t keep her clumsiness at bay.

‘It’s all right. Just an accident. You okay?’ He repeated his earlier question, adding a quick, fleeting touch to the back of her hand.

A bolt of electricity flew between them as she reacted to the touch. Salma jolted at a strange flutter in her stomach. She checked herself as an ache grew between her legs.

Resisting the unexplained yet delicious sensation, she went back to her cleaning. Trying to ignore him and the disaster around her, she disassociated.

She flinched at a tap on her shoulder as she tried to gather the plates and glasses. Looking up, her eyes met the silver-blue beauties once more. Him again. With the voice and the model slash rock star looks.

‘Let us help.’

He gazed down at her from his tall height. His light silver-blue eyes studied her with an intensity that slammed to her core. Abruptly, he turned to the men at his table. ‘Brothers. Let’s do this.’

Salma shifted at the unexpected lurch through her body.

Her brow rose at his command, which launched four of his mates into action.

She stepped aside, wide-eyed, as they set aside their sodden suit jackets, rolled up their sleeves and pitched in to tidy up the mess.

She rushed away and returned with cleaning gear.

A faint smile danced on her lips when one of the group members, Dave, made light jokes about butter fingers. They laughed off the incident, putting her at ease.

However, the silver-blue-eyed cool cat stayed by her side—not saying a word until they cleared up the last of the debris.

He worked like he had some idea of how to clear a mess. He crouched next to her, the material of his pants straining against his thick thighs. His shirt moulded to his muscled chest. His hands veined and sprinkled with dark hair, his forearms a work of sculpted art.

Salma sliced her eyes over to his profile. To where his dark brown lustrous hair, thick and wave, fell over his temple. He had thick brows above those stunning eyes. Which she sensed could warm into a heated pool of cerulean bliss.

They’d also blast you with ice if you angered him.

Her gaze drifted to his groomed moustache and beard, which she suddenly wanted to touch. To trail a finger down the sensual mouth and chiselled jaw underneath.

His beautiful, rugged masculinity would leave most women breathless. Not the type of guy who would muck around on the floor, wiping up spilled booze.

He took her now-dented and cracked platter, tossing it into a bin. He nabbed the broom and dustpan to sweep away glass shards while she stepped back, hiding her incredulity.

When done, he accepted her offer for a towel and hand sanitiser. As he tidied himself up, his piercing gaze locked on hers. He held out his now clean, lean, tanned, veined, strong hand.

She took it, and a jolt of electricity ran through her veins.

‘Cole.’

The silken, irresistibly sensuous, rumbling baritone was a smooth, lush dream.

His palm, not so much. This was no pretty boy with satin hands. No, this man had done plenty of hard work outdoors. Evidenced by the rough skin, calloused scars, and heat, plenty of heat.

‘Salma,’ she replied, shuddering as a thrill ran through her.

‘Nice to meet you, Salma,’ he rumbled, head cocked to the side as he studied her.

While he didn’t smile, his eyes crinkled at the corners. Her gaze followed to where the light lines extended to the threads of silver at his temples.

She estimated him to be in his late thirties or early forties.

He took care of himself. Going by the muscled chest showing under the open neckline of his shirt.

Her eyes noted and appreciated the way his body moulded into the well-fitting suit he wore.

She found herself smiling, buoyed by his warmth and that of his friends. Except the one who still glared in her direction.

‘How do you like working here?’

‘It’s passable.’ She served him with a shrug as she put her cleaning kit away, tucking a small mop under her arm.

He gave her a nod. ‘Your boss a good person?’

She lifted a brow, wondering where his line of questioning was going. ‘My line manager is OK, I guess.’

‘Don’t let them give you a hard time in there. If they do, let me know.’

For a fleeting moment, she wondered why he would care. Or if her shift boss would listen to him, but she didn’t press the issue. She had much more on her plate at this moment.

‘I won’t. Let them give me a hard time, I mean.’

She was stammering and gave up trying to explain herself. ‘Your free drinks are coming up.’

She turned to leave, bin and mop set in hand.

Then came a rumble of harsh words behind her.

‘Is the fuckin’ cripple going to get docked for ruining my $200 Tommy Bahama shirt? I got this delivered yesterday, boys.’

This came from the salty, stout man who still hadn’t gotten over the incident.

The barbs nailed the already horrible day into a catastrophic coffin.

She didn’t wait to hear what else he said. Limping away, her stomach churned. She pushed back into the bustling kitchen, her leg aching and throbbing. Tears pricked the edge of her eyes as she tried to compose herself.

She took a deep breath and threw the cleaning kit into a cupboard.

At the bar, she ordered another batch of cocktails and drinks from the mixologist to replace the ones she’d decimated.

With a catch of relief, she spotted Louie, one of the other servers she was friendly with, on the floor.

Salma limped to him and tapped his shoulder. ‘Louie, could you do something for me please? My leg’s killing me.’

He was a kind guy with a good soul. After hearing her out, he agreed to take her replacement order to the table of five men. Salma didn’t have it in her to face them again.

She headed to the staff room, done for the day.

Alone, frustration boiled inside her as she yanked open her locker.

Her heart pounded hard, and tears threatened. The raging man’s callous words cut deep. Triggering pain and an overwhelming sense of helpless rage.

‘It’s not my fault,’ she whispered as she threw her bag over her shoulder and lit out.

None of it was.

Gnawing at a nail, she brooded as she limped to her car. She had to let the incident go. She couldn’t let one rude customer ruin her day.

Nonetheless, it was hard, so hard.

She’d once been a rising star in competitive surfing, poised for greatness. A freak encounter with nature shattered her dreams and left her with scars, twisting her flesh from mid-thigh to under her knee.

The subsequent dearth of her career, the endless media hounding, and the crushing of her dreams had spiralled her into depression. Worse still, her surfer boyfriend, Glen, broke up with her, unable to deal with her agony.

Back then, she’d faced a long road to recovery. Now, her leg ached less most days, but some were hell. More so when her mind wouldn’t let go of the unbearable loss of her past success.

It’d been a coincidence of bad luck that she’d had a heavy load today. Just when the aching exhaustion got too much to bear

The incident replayed in her mind like a B movie, the stranger’s sneering words ringing in her ears.

Apart from her crushed body, the bar life wasn’t her scene any more, she concluded. Too many tossers, self-fluencers and alpha male wannabes frequented The Beach Room for her liking.

Add to that the screeching, high-maintenance VIP guests. Plus, the taxing effort on her body. It was all Salma could do not to scream after every shift.

Something had to give. At 31, she needed to step up and take on more responsibility for her future.

She’d made some sound decisions in recent years. She’d used most of her surfing career income to pay down a cute semi in Bondi Junction.

She’d also paid off most of the mortgage and had an excellent credit rating. She owned a serviceable SUV. Salma also had enough in the bank to keep her going for a few more years.

But, with all her lucrative surfing contracts gone, she needed a long-term fallback.

Which bartending would not quite provide.

Neither would she be able to handle long shifts standing on her feet for hours for much longer. The incident tonight pushed her toward the inevitable.

Brent Simons, an old university mate and principal of a leading school, had approached her months ago with the promise of a great career.

Then, she’d put him off, needing more time to think about the direction of her life.

Now, she made up her mind.

Salma decided to leave the stress of bartending in the dust.

A few weeks later, she took a full-time teacher’s position at Bondi Prep, a K-6 school founded on diversity and excellent scholarship.

As a K to Year 2 teacher, she’d finally put her English, Math and Literature degree to use. While also working with children, which she enjoyed.

It helped that the money on offer and the school’s reputation were fantastic.

Most of all, it’d be a chance to find her way in the world, to rebuild her hopes and dreams.

Never again would she let her heart and soul be crushed to pieces.

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