“I’m also marrying her because, well, just look at that.” He motions his hand up and down as if he’s presenting her as a grand prize on a quiz show. “When she wears those damn boots, I wanna take her out back, bend her over and drive—”
“Right behind you, Jones,” Mac grumbles.
A loud chuckle rises up my throat. Where the fuck did he spring from? His timing is always impeccable.
April walks right up to Jones, the tips of her boots nudging Jones’s black leather dress shoes.
“Damn I love you in a suit,” she whimpers.
“You happy, beautiful?” he asks, pulling his shoulders back and straightening his neck.
April tugs on the lapels of his jacket, smooths her palms down his chest, and then curls them around his waist.
“I’m more than happy. In fact, I’ve got a right mind to take you out back and—”
“Right here, Peaches,” Mac says and walks to the side of Jones, out from behind a rack of suits.
“Daddy, oh, hey. I just meant I was gonna, um, take him out back and show him some, um”—she swivels her head towards some glass cabinets—“cuff links. I hear they got in some new stock. Out back.”
“Relax, Peaches. I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that my only daughter has sex. Your old man is getting a bit of action these days too, you know,” he says with a wink.
“Ew! Way too much information,” she cries.
I laugh again. This shit is too funny.
“What?” Mac says with a shrug. “You’re having the sex, I’m having the sex. We’re all adults.”
“Daddy, just no. We’re not having this conversation.” She sticks her fingers in her ears and makes a ‘la la la’ noise.
****
Saturday
“God I love the smell of dirt and exhaust in the morning,” Mac broadcasts loudly as he walks about our camp at the track at Raymond Terrace.
It smells that much sweeter waking up to it. I’m glad we got on the road last night after trying on the suits, instead of leaving at three am on the Saturday morning like we’ve done before. It makes for a long day that way with a good four hours on the road before the day even starts.
I take in a deep breath, letting the familiar smells settle into my soul. He’s right.
“Nothin’ else like it,” I say.
Mac moves in closer, but instead of focusing on the bike that’s in pieces in front of me, he’s looking at my face. Do I have grease all over my cheeks? What?
“You’re sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage, son,” Mac says as his blue-green eyes continue to wander over my face.
I wipe at my brow. I’ve been working all morning, but my body has been doing whacky things since I gave up the grog. Sweating has definitely been a major side-effect.
“Just trying to get through it, Mac. Doin’ my best.”
“It hasn’t gone unnoticed, son.”
I acknowledge his comment with a nod. I’m relieved that he’s picked up on the effort I’ve been putting in, but I have a long way to go. Once I’ve sorted out my own problems, I’ll be in a much better headspace. Then I can really focus on what I’m doing and start looking ahead.
“How we going with Billy Boy’s?” he asks, as he inspects Billy’s bike.
“I’ve changed the jets and then I’ll put the new exhaust on. I’ll have it finished in about half an hour.”
“Good work.”
Mac slaps me on the back and gives me a nod.
****
Jones walks into camp and pulls off his helmet and gloves.
“Apart from your words of wisdom at the start and finish line, I’ve hardly seen you today,” he says, flopping into a camp chair. He has dirt over his face and his blond hair is knotted and damp with sweat. He’s been pushing the limits this round.
“Head down, arse up, you know?”
“You comin’ out with us to dinner?” Jones asks as he strips off his jersey and starts unclipping his body armour. “I think the plan is to get cleaned up and head out in about an hour.”
Dinner on tour. Synonymous with eat and then get shit-faced, make a fool of myself and pass out somewhere, sometimes in the company of a chick, sometimes in a hotel garden. There’s no point staring in the face of temptation all night. I’m better off watching a movie in my room. It’s time I told Jones, and while we’re alone is the perfect opportunity. If he gives me shit I’ll have to suck it up. I have to fucking do this. For Vinnie. For myself. For Suds.
“Just gotta finish this exhaust and then I’ll be right. I’ll grab something quick to eat, but then I’m gonna head back to the hotel.”
“A couple of the Yamaha reps are planning on stopping by. I think they’re in the mood to party.”
This shit is gonna be harder than I thought.
“I’ll be happy to say g’day, but then I’m gonna bail. I’m fuckin’ wiped, you know?”
Jones rubs his hand across his chin and stares me down. “You good?” he asks. The concern in his tone gives me the balls to tell him.
“I’ve been sober for eight days, mate, and I’m trying real hard not to go back. If that makes me a shitty friend for not going out on the piss, then I’m fuckin’ sorry.” I grit my teeth, anxious for his response.
“Hold up. Who said anything about you being a shitty friend?”
“I just … fuck.”
“You’ve been sober for eight days?”
“Yup.”
“Good on ya.”
“So that’s cool if I don’t stick around?”
“Of course. You’re a brave man to do what you’re doin’.”
“I don’t feel it.”
“I’ve worried about you for a long time, buddy. I’m just glad you’ve finally realised that you have a problem.”
“Yeah.” I let out a long breath through pursed lips. “It’s gonna be hard staying dry in Vegas. I won’t be the usual life of the party. That’s if you still want me there.”
“Shut the fuck up, De Luca. I want you there. You’re best man for a reason, and it’s not for your ability to write yourself off.”
I guess that’s sorted then. He wants me there. Huh. Suds was right.
That woman is smarter than I gave her credit for.
****
As a team, we have dinner at the pub. I drink about a litre of Coke with dinner, which leaves my stomach churning. I make sure I talk to the Yamaha guys, but then give Jones the nod and slip out back. It’s time to leave before temptation grabs me by the scruff of the neck.
This round, I don’t drink a single drop. There are no bar brawls with fuck-head mechanics, and no fucking about with easy women.
I wish I were home.
Home.
Suds makes my place a home.
I wonder how it’s gonna feel once she’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SOPHIE
Saturday
After a full day of study, I put the books down and flick on the kettle. Once it’s boiled, I fill the noodle cup with water. I could’ve made something with the Italian bread Rocco had left out, and the mushrooms I saw in the fridge. For some reason, I didn’t feel right about cooking something like that without him.
While my dinner brews, I have a quick shower. I put on the daggiest clothes I can find and set myself up in front of the TV.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, ‘De Loser’ flashing on the display.
“Hey,” I say, as a smile stretches over my face.
“Hey,” he grunts. “What you wearin’?” he asks, as if he’s channelling Fabio or something.
“Oh my God, really?”
“Yup. Really.”
“Nothing. I’m buck-naked eating noodles on your couch, if you must know.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“You’ll never know, because you’re not here.”
Suddenly the call is disconnected. The phone rings again. This time, it’s a face-time call from Rocco.