Boy Next Door (Parkside Avenue Book #2) (6 page)

She laughed. “My daughters used
to fight over who got to do that.”

“I haven’t seen them around much.
Where are they?”

“Amy spends most of her time at
her boyfriend’s apartment, nowadays. It’s really only Vanessa and me now, but
she’s out more often than she’s in. Although, I am expecting her home soon,”
she said, placing the tin in the oven. “It might be a good idea if you weren’t
here when that happens.”

“Why? Are you not allowed
friends?” I ran my tongue over the spoon and wiped my finger around the edge of
the bowl, collecting a splodge of mixture, before spontaneously deciding to dot
a blob onto the tip of Cora’s nose. My question was left unanswered, when at that
very moment, Nessie arrived home.

“Um, what’s going on, Mum?” She
stood in the doorway, surveying the scene.

“Oh, Vanessa,” Cora began, as she
wiped the mixture from her nose with a tea towel. “It’s not what it looks
like.”

“Actually, it’s exactly what it
looks like,” I said. “Two people making brownies.”

Nessie narrowed her eyes. “I was
told you were the gardener, not the cook.”

“I’m anything your mother wants
me to be.”

“How nice. Did she want
handprints on her bum?”

“What?” Cora twisted to see
behind her, and laughed. She had dimples when she laughed, cute little dents
which plumped out the fullness of her cheeks. “That was very naughty of you,
Johnny.”

Not half as naughty as some of
the things I wanted to do to her. I shrugged. “But funny, right?”

She smiled. “A little.”

I smoothed the back of my fingers
down her arm. “I’d better go.”

“Yes. You had,” Nessie spat. “And
don’t bother coming back.”

“Vanessa!” Cora scolded.

“It’s okay,” I said, holding up
my hands in defeat. Nessie didn’t have to like me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cora.”

Chapter Eight

“You were gone all day again, Bro,”
Kendrick said, upon my return. He was busy clicking the console of his computer
game and didn’t look up as I entered.

“I have a job to do.”

“Paps made a casserole. It’s in
the oven, if you want some.”

“Great. I’m starving,” I said, as
I went to search out the food. Smelling chocolate all afternoon, without
getting to eat the final product, had my stomach growling to be filled.

Kendrick’s voice drifted down the
corridor. “So, when are you gonna spare some time to spend with your baby bro?”

“How about tonight?” I shouted.
“If you’re thinking of going to the club, that is. I said I’d go back to the
game.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? You were
lucky to make it out of there in one piece, yesterday.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, well I hope so.”

Kendrick remained focused on the
screen as I curled up on the sofa with my meal. Perhaps now was a good time for
that chat. “How was college today?” I asked.

“Same as always. Hate the joint.
Can’t be bothered. What’s the point when there’s fuck all out there? Ah, shit.
I lost a life.” He threw the controller beside him with disgust.

“You still need a qualification,
and I promise, if you finish your course, it’ll be all good, Rick,” I said,
between mouthfuls. “Look on the bright side. You’ve only a couple of weeks left
at college.”

Kendrick stretched and leaned
back with his arms spread out across the top of the seating. “Yeah, but I need
funds now, Bro. Liam’s got a big job coming up, and he says it might warrant an
extra pair of hands, if I want in.” He surveyed me, frowning. “Dude, you need a
haircut. You’re beginning to look like Smokey.”

Ignoring his jibe, I asked, “What
kind of job? And who’s Liam?”

“A mate of mine from the club. He
does up old cars and sells them on. I guess the job’s something like that. He
hasn’t come up with the details yet.”

“Are you sure it’s kosher?”

“Course. Liam’s sound.”

I nodded, wishing I could have
been around more. If Kendrick’s friends had altered in line with his
appearance, I’d have liked to meet this Liam for myself. “How long have you
known him?”

“All year. If you’d been here,
you’d probably have been closer to him than me, by now.”

“How come?”

“He’s a gambler, like you.”

“Poker?”

“Street racing.”

Great, a tosser with a turbo. “That’s
illegal.”

“So is unlicensed poker.”

He had a point. “But poker isn’t
life-threatening.” I shovelled the last of the casserole down my throat and set
the plate down.

Kendrick sniggered. “Depends on the
players.” He jumped up. “You ready?”

***

Three thunderous faces greeted me,
when I entered the poker room, making me seriously question my mentality about
returning. I was no wimp, and could hold my own in a fight, but I wasn’t
stupid, and I didn’t fancy my chances if ganged up on by the men who watched me
warily as I took my seat. Still, the desire to pocket more dough was stronger
than my concern over how I was going to escape the club with my face intact.
Contrary to my earlier words, I’d only packed a couple of hundred into my
wallet, with no intention of letting the other players relieve me of my
previous night’s winnings, and I fully expected to repeat my good fortune.

The evening’s victims followed immediately
behind me, and I didn’t miss the smug look that passed between Snakehead and
Yellow Shirt, who had made the change to pink, tonight—the combination of the
fuchsia colour with his straw-like hair was not a good look, but the muscles straining
the bright material told me I’d better keep my opinions to myself. It was clear
the pair expected a bumper haul from the upcoming game, and it was almost a
shame I’d have to disappoint them.

When I’d returned to accept my
fate, I’d left Kendrick at the bar, awaiting Liam. Nerves about his mate’s
business jingled in the back of my brain, but I pushed them aside when the
first cards were dealt. Distractions meant failure. I had to get my head in the
room.

With six players, the pots were larger,
and after a shaky start, I found my stride and thrashed the living crap out of
them. It didn’t go down well.

“Shitface motherfucker!” The
snake’s eye developed an angry twitch. “You were supposed to be losing.”

“Oh yeah? Who said?”

“You did. You said we’d win it
all back.”

“Nah. Your brain’s been polluted
by too much ink. I said you’d get the chance.” I bent over the table, holding
eye contact as I scooped up the pot. “Not my fault you’re all losers who can’t
hang on to your dough. I beat your asses fair and square.”

Snakehead sprang to his feet,
bracing his hands on the table. “I’m gonna pound your brains so hard you’ll be
shitting them out for a week.” His two sidekicks rose and puffed out their
chests, and even though I’d been expecting a similar conclusion to the evening,
I’d been hoping for a less violent one. I had a quick decision to make: fight
or flee. It wasn’t a tough one. I backed against the door, twisted, and flung
it open, before speeding through the bar as fast as I could. I never spotted
Kendrick. If I had, I would have grabbed his collar and dragged him outside
with me. Instead, the sound of stools falling and disgruntled calls of ‘Hey,
watch it fuckface’, followed me into the street.

The trio was hot on my heels, but
the men were old and slow, and with some nifty, evasive tactics, I was able to
outwit them by ducking down a side street. I waited in the shadows, willing my
lungs to refill. Then, when the sound of frustrated cussing faded into the
night, I emerged and jogged home. I’d been lucky. I knew that. Mixing with the
seedier section of society was a dangerous game, but a couple of grand was a
couple of grand. Easy money if you lived. Shame I’d probably just used up my
last chance of fishing in that ample pool.

***

The following day, I had a phone
call. One of my leaflets had pulled through and incited a response. Two hours
of pounding the pavements had, at least, turned out to be worth more than a
couple of aching muscles. I was invited to meet up with the owner of a local
restaurant to discuss the redesign of his outside terrace. It was precisely the
kind of job I’d hoped to secure. Hardcore was an easier deal than landscaping,
and promised a bigger pay cheque at the end. I was already planning it in my
head, without even seeing the setup, when I started work on number twenty-one.

It was looking good. Three days
of hard work had left the front of the house with a more respectable exterior,
and I was pleased with my effort. All that remained were the finishing touches.
I’d taken my planner along and was busy making a list of the plants needed to
fill in the spaces left by the removal of dead ones, and a few annuals to add
splashes of colour, when Cora emerged for her morning run.

“Hi there.” I waved.

“Morning, Jonathan,” she said, as
she began to stretch.

Great. Just when I thought I’d
cracked that hard shell of hers, she was playing it cool. “The name’s Johnny.
Plain old Johnny. Not short for anything, so you don’t get to pull the polite
aloofness with me.”

She heard me but made no comment.
“It’s looking much better,” she said, her eyes pointedly avoiding mine as they
roamed from the driveway edge to the crab apple tree near the living room
window. “You’ve done a wonderful job. I’m very grateful.”

Yeah, so grateful you can’t even
look me at me. “It’s not finished yet, and you’ll be pleased to know, it’s time
for the best bit. We’re going to make this garden as pretty as you. Are you
free this afternoon? I’d like us to go plant shopping.”

“You don’t need me for that.”

“Actually, I do. I need to know
what you like.”

“You’re the expert. I’m sure I’ll
like whatever you choose.”

You’re not getting out of it that
easily, woman. I’d been thinking up ways to spend time with her, and there was
no way I was going to let her stub out one of my better ones. “I was taught to
consult the clients and work with their choices. I wouldn’t be doing my job
properly if I imposed my taste on you.”

“I really don’t mind.” She lifted
her arms behind her head, drawing out her triceps.

Damn. This was as hard as pulling
a stubborn root from the ground. “If you’re not free this afternoon, I’ll wait
until you are, but I insist we do it together.”

Her chest fell heavily. “Fine.
You win. But can we go straight after lunch and not take too long? I have a
hair appointment at three.”

I let out a breath of
satisfaction. “Twelve-thirty it is then. You have a date.”

Her head shot around with a
decidedly flustered expression, as she finally met my eye. “How did you know?”

My eyebrows shot up with
realisation. “I meant with me, buying plants. What did you mean? Do you have
another one I should know about?” My heart hammered in my chest, threatening to
explode out of my throat.

“I have a date, yes, not that you
need to know about it.”

“Humour me.”

She paused long enough for my
fists to clench with jealousy at the image forming in my head. “My friend,
Diane, has decided I need to meet her latest boyfriend’s work colleague. She
set me up without my agreement.”

“And you’re going? When? Tonight?”

She shrugged. “You were the one
who said I should be dating again.”

With me. With me. I wanted to
shout, but I swallowed the words. Stay cool, Johnny. “And I meant it. It was you
who insisted you weren’t ready.”

“Diane is very hard to say no
to,” she said, as she began jogging on the spot.

And I’m not? Jealousy seared up
my arms and into my chest. What if she hit it off with this random dickwad, and
I’d missed my chance? As far as I was concerned Cora belonged to me now, and it
killed me to think of another man putting the moves on my woman. “But …”

She ran down the driveway and
waved. “Twelve-thirty,” she shouted back. I stared after her, my whole body
tight with envy. Fuck.

I was still rattled when I
arrived home for lunch. Pappa was in the kitchen, polishing the silverware. He
had a whole bookcase full of trophies from local shows. His Largest Onion and Straightest
Cucumber were his favourites, and had pride of place in the centre spot, but it
was his Best Hanging Basket cup that sparkled under the cotton cloth in his
hand.

“Oh, hello, son. I didn’t know
whether or not you’d be eating at home. Sorry I haven’t started to make
anything yet.”

“I don’t expect you to wait on me
all the time, Paps. I can look after myself,” I said, kicking myself for my
tone. It wasn’t Pappa’s fault I was losing grip on the one woman I’d ever truly
desired. “Will soup be all right for you?”

“Soup’s good.” He nodded.

I pulled a can from the cupboard.
“Kendrick around?” I asked, as I opened it and poured the thick liquid into a
microwavable container.

“Haven’t seen him all day. I’ve
been meaning to ask you if you’ve had chance to have a word yet?”

“A bit, but I get the impression
he wants to work rather than study. I’m hoping his absence is a sign he’s
actually turned up to class today.” The microwave pinged and I shared the soup
into bowls.

“Yes. Let us hope so. Jobs are
hard to find, and doing well at college would stop him hanging around with
those low lives.”

“What low lives?” I asked, moving
the can of silver polish to one side and replacing it with a bowl.

Pappa slurped his soup. “I’ve
seen that Murphy boy dropping him off on a few occasions, different car every
time, most likely stolen. Boys like him are bad news. Come from bad stock.” He
waved his spoon and a splodge of soup landed on Best Hanging Basket. He’d be
pissed when he noticed that, and had to clean it again. “His father in and out of
prison for pushing drugs, mother in the psych ward. What chance has a kid got
with parents like that? Liam Murphy probably has his spot behind bars already
reserved, and I wouldn’t like to see Kendrick going down with him.”