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‘Fair enough.’ The phone muffled then Jack was back. ‘I want my best man here to celebrate with, so hurry up, would ya!’
‘On it.’ He slipped his arm into the one and only ironed shirt. ‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’
And he did just that. Striding into the packed Roundyard Pub less than thirty minutes later, Connor kept an eye out for Jack and his rowdy footy mates as he zigzagged through the noisy crowd, making sure to give a quick ‘g’day’ in passing to the faces he was familiar with. Knowing the group of blokes invited to the bucks party well enough, he knew they’d most likely be hunched over a pool table, and considering they’d been here since five, well on their way to being tanked up by now. A quick scan in that direction confirmed his thoughts when he spotted Jack being huddled into what looked like a footy scrum as his head was ruffled by the loudest larrikin of the bunch. Oh, Lord help him get through this – partying hard just wasn’t his thing anymore. Making his way to the bar, he grabbed a beer for himself and one for Jack, then wandered towards where Jack was giving him a lopsided grin.
‘Hey buddy.’ He passed Jack the schooner and got a back slap in thanks. Raising his glass to Jack’s outstretched one, he smiled. ‘Cheers to being a kept man by a wonderful woman very soon.’
‘Oh yeah, a big cheers to that.’ Jack clinked his glass against Connor’s, succeeding in sloshing almost half of his beer onto his jeans. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Gingerly, he tried to wipe it off, then realising it wasn’t going to happen, shrugged, and took a glug. ‘Not too sure how much longer I’ll last, this mob are drinking me under the table.’ He half snorted, half laughed. ‘I’ve become a lightweight the past couple of years.’
Grinning at Jack’s red cheeks, a byproduct of the alcohol, Connor nodded. ‘Yeah, don’t worry, me too, buddy.’
‘Oi, Jackster, it’s your shot.’ The tallest of the lot tossed an arm around Jack’s shoulder and dragged him towards the pool table. ‘Hey, Gunn.’ He called back over his shoulder.
Connor raised his beer in greeting, then pulled up a bar stool at the corner of the barrel-style table. With the rowdy group on a totally different wavelength to him, he enjoyed stepping out of the limelight and just watching the goings-on. As long as he was here for his best mate, that’s all that mattered – thank goodness Jack had called and woken him up, otherwise he might have slept straight through to the morning. He never would’ve forgiven himself if he’d gone and missed Jack’s bucks party.
Grabbing the pool cue and taking his shot, Jack somehow sunk two balls. A loud cheer erupted, and suddenly the groom-to-be was being lifted into the air before being dumped unceremoniously back to the floor. Chuckling, Connor shook his head. Poor Jack was going to have one whopper of a hangover tomorrow. As for himself, he was glad he’d be driving home and waking up fresh as a daisy.
There was a lull between songs coming from the jukebox, and the boisterous cackle of women caught Connor’s attention, drawing his gaze from the pool table and over to the other side of the pub. His heart skipped a beat. And then another. He knew the sound of that honey-sweet laughter anywhere. From his dark corner, he spotted Sammie, and the ache she’d left in his chest the day she left, the one he’d felt beneath his armour at the bakery two days ago, returned. But he couldn’t pay it any attention, because not long after the wedding day she’d be long gone, just like she’d gone after his brother’s funeral. Leaving him to mourn the losses of both his twin sibling, and his one true love, with one painful punch.
‘Well, well, well, bugger me dead, if it isn’t Gunn himself.’
The hairs on the back of Connor’s neck bristled, and he turned to see the only face on this planet he longed to never see again – the man who’d cheated with his then girlfriend of almost two years. ‘Lumley.’
Lumley smirked. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you in here again.’
The smug look on the bloke’s face made Connor want to sock him one. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Just after everything that went down the last time you were here, is all.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’ Even though he recalled every second of knocking Lumley to the ground, then being dragged off to the cop station, Connor pretended to be baffled. ‘So, how’s things going with Jasmine?’ Even though Connor knew she’d cheated on Lumley, too, he couldn’t help but ask.
Lumley’s smug smile all but disappeared. ‘She ran off to Cairns with some bloke from her work, but you know what, I say c’est la vie.’
‘Go figure, a leopard never changes its spots, hey.’ Connor gave Lumley a hard slap on the back, causing him to shuffle a little to the side. ‘And while I got you, I never got to thank you for saving me from the likes of her.’ He raised his almost empty glass. ‘So, cheers to you.’
Eyes narrowing, Lumley remained speechless for a few lengthy moments, and then said. ‘You’re a smart-arse bastard, Gunn.’
‘Cheers to that, too,’ Connor added right before Lumley was dragged off by one of his quick-thinking, sober mates.
His jaw clenching, Connor watched the cheating son of a bitch trudge begrudgingly towards the front doors, then disappear outside. This was why he didn’t like being here. But for this one night, he’d grit his teeth and bear it. For Jack’s sake. At least, from where he was sitting, he had a bird’s-eye view of the most stunning woman in the room. Now that was something.
CHAPTER
8
Having escaped performing the methodical moves of Ike and Tina Turner’s ‘Nutbush City Limits’ dance by the skin of her teeth, Samantha took a quick glance back at the dancefloor and smiled. With Shea having the time of her life, she allowed herself to bask in the glow of a maid of honour’s job well done as the barman hustled to and fro, filling her order. Pressing the side button of her smart watch, she squinted into the glow of the screen. It took her a few moments to work out it was already a quarter past ten, and she’d clocked up over twenty thousand steps for the day. Good god, it was no wonder her feet and lower back were aching. Climbing into bed tonight was going to feel mighty good. With her at the helm of the get-together, the hens’ party had been in full swing for the past four and a half hours. It had evolved from a dignified dinner of Shea’s all-time favourite of garlicky chicken Kiev, beer-battered chips and dressing-drenched garden salad, to a few hilarious party games that had proved a hit, to a now bedraggled-looking bunch of women – Samantha somewhat included – trying their best to appear sober when they very clearly weren’t.
As the Nutbush ended, gleeful female voices began to sing way out of tune to Cold Chisel’s ‘Khe Sanh’, while Samantha paid the hefty dinner and drinks bar tab before Shea got a chance to – a pre-wedding gift from her. From here on in, the ladies could pay for their own drinks. With the laden drinks tray now in hand, she carefully made her way from the bar and back to the makeshift VIP area, her credit card clenched between her teeth. Placing the tray down and onto the table, she felt a sudden stampede of boots, their owners all wearing matching pink sashes that read Shea’s Biaches – a tasteless addition by one of Shea’s friends who Samantha wasn’t familiar with, and didn’t want to be. Only two of the attendees were girls she’d gone to high school with and, as the night had stretched on, with the topics of conversation mainly about Country Women’s Association gatherings and lamington drives to raise money for the hall, along with the highs and lows of raising children, she’d felt increasingly like a fish out of water. She wasn’t about to let Shea cotton on to this, though, or so she hoped – tonight was all about her lifelong bestie. She was doing her upmost best to fit in with the crowd.
‘One, two three, annnnd, bombs away.’ The announcement came from a short middle-aged lady Samantha couldn’t for the life of her remember the name of.
The ten women tossed their heads back. Samantha jiggled on the spot as the tequila warmed her belly and the corners of her eyes twitched as she sucked on the piece of lime. She and Shea saluted their successful shots with a high five as some of the group dashed back towards the dance floor, and a few to the opposite direction where the toilets were. Right then ‘Macarena’ blared from the massive speakers at the sides of the dance floor. Clearly keen for another choregraphed boogie, Shea grabbed Samantha’s hands and tried to drag her towards the flashing lights, but by literally digging the heels of her stilettos in, Samantha avoided another sweaty bout of dancing.
Feeling a little wobbly on her feet, she flopped into one of the three lounge chairs that had been cornered off for the hens’ party and grabbed a handful of Bombay mix from the bowl at the centre of the table. She was usually a red wine kind of gal, and the sparkling wine was going straight to her head, as were the three shooters she’d now had over the course of the evening. While munching on a couple of curry-flavoured dried peas, she thought about how the night was going to end – women without shoes, lots of hollering in the street as they hailed the one and only taxi, maybe even a pit stop on the way home for someone to heave their dinner into the scrub. Her stomach backflipped at the thought. Oh lordy, she hoped it wasn’t going to be her. She also hoped the couple of more wayward women attending had listened when she’d asked them not to organise a stripper, because Shea’s one firm request had been that she didn’t want one.
Sacrilege! had been one of their replies. A hens’ night without a stripper will be like a cake without the icing had been another. Samantha was in agreement with Shea; yuck to some stranger rubbing themselves all over you.
Glancing around the rowdy pub, she felt a sense of country camaraderie. She had initially questioned Shea’s choice of location for her hens’ party, seeing as the bride and groom should never be caught dead at the same place, but then, where else would her friend celebrate in a town as small as Gum Tree Gully? The publican and his staff had done their best to try and separate the bucks and hens, and so far, so good. Every seat was taken, and there was a boisterous crowd milling around every corner of the horseshoe shaped bar, so there was enough degree of separation to allow no unwanted run-ins with the blokes.
