Lingerie For Felons (7 page)

He nodded.

‘And you play racquetball. With Hunter Monroe?'

His mouth was now a tight line. ‘Yep,' he confirmed. ‘But I just call him Hunter.'

‘What?' My brain couldn't keep up.

‘You know,' he laughed. ‘I just call him Hunter. Not HunterMonroe.'

‘Funny,' I snapped.

Wayne sighed, turning to look into my eyes. ‘Hey, Rocket, is this a political thing? I mean, 'cause really, I'm just not that political. And hey, let's face it, there's not much between your guys over here, you know. They're basically identical.'

‘Oi-dentical?' I shook my head, trying to decipher the word through that accent.

‘I-dentical. Eye-dentical.'

‘Identical? As in, the same?' I blinked at him. ‘The same? You are trying to tell me that you think the Democrats and the goddamn
Republicans
are the same?'

I was speechless. Almost. Actually, come to think of it, I never get speechless, no matter how angry I get.

In fact, I get speech-ful, if that's a word.

‘Yeah, it's true,' he continued. ‘I've even asked people about it.'

‘Not the right people,' I insisted.

‘Okay.' He sounded really annoyed now. ‘Let's get this straight. The main difference seems to be around abortion, yeah? And, correct me if I'm wrong here, but even then, you get some Republicans who are pro-choice, and some Democrats who think any woman who exercises her rights under the law should be shot.'

My head was spinning. How do you explain the complexity of this stuff to someone who didn't grow up here? And yet, it's not really about American politics at all. Or about complexity.

‘They are not “oi-dentical”,' I bit out. ‘And it's not about the US, or Australia, or anywhere. Wherever you live, and whatever the sides call themselves, it's really simple.'

I slowed right down. Not because I thought he was stupid, but because I wanted to get it right.

‘One side believes life is chance. We...they, I mean, they believe we need to protect and care for each other, and collectively insure ourselves against those chances. The other side thinks that if life fails you, it's because you're lazy, or bad, or inadequate, and therefore you don't deserve support. Or...' I groped for the words. ‘Or, at best, maybe just a token, so the good people can sleep easy at night.'

Those big dark eyes searched mine, which felt like they were on fire. He held up a delicately patterned plate covered with slender, brown squares. ‘Chocolate?'

‘Some other time,' I said, as I picked up my bag and slammed the door behind me.

The whole scene replayed in my head as I stood panting against his door on the cold, dark street. Hunter Monroe. The Republicans. Politics doesn't matter. It's all the same.

Of course if it had ended there, it would have been too easy.

Date three — One week after Hunter Monroe

The day after our disastrous second date, Wayne sent flowers to my office.

Big, ostentatious flowers.

I hate those kinds of flowers. Well, I
should
hate those kinds of flowers. But they were actually pretty beautiful. And the card read ‘So, teach me then'.

I was very tempted to throw them in the bin, but I didn't.

And then, the next day, he sent some more.

This time the card read ‘One more chance? 2pm Saturday, Hoover Oval'.

Weird. Hoover Oval was the local sports field near where Wayne lived. Surely he wasn't suggesting taking me to some sporting event? I hate sports the way other people love them, like a hobby. I yell at the TV when the Superbowl's on as much as anyone, but the content of my screaming is way, way different. Something like ‘Dear mother of God! I could feed Africa on what this costs!'

Oh, sports, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

One: sports bore me. Let's face it, even complicated sports generally involving chasing, kicking or swatting some ball around some field, court or pool.

Two: famous sportsmen are like children. On speed. They wave their fame (and sometimes their penises) around in a most unseemly fashion.

Three: what I really hate most of all about sports is the whole hero thing. This idea that they are so
courageous
. So
heroic
. That they have
such huge hearts
. Doctors in war zones are brave. Skinny catholic priests opening up halfway houses for junkies in the Bronx are heroic. Racehorses have huge hearts. Sports stars are just people. Skilled, genetically blessed, hard working people. But people nonetheless.

So I have no idea how I ended up at Hoover Oval on the designated Saturday.

But I did.

Wayne was out front to meet me. No borrowed clothes this time. Just me. In blue jeans, Doc Martens, a Bob Marley t-shirt and a colourful poncho I'd bought from a market in Washington Heights. Before I could say ‘I hate sports, what are you doing inviting me here?' he had broken into a huge grin, swept me up in his enormous bear-like arms and squeezed the protestations right out of me.

‘Ah, Rocket,' he almost yelled in my ear. ‘I am so glad you came.'

And he looked so pleased, and so crinkly, and I so had not been hugged like that since I'd been three years old, that I just kind of smiled half-heartedly and followed him into the ground. I really needed to prepare myself for his charm onslaught, or I was never going to be able to say the things I needed to say to him.

Once inside, he told me he'd brought me along to see him play something called rugby league. A team of ex-patriot Australians and New Zealanders played an amateur league each Saturday. His game didn't start for an hour, and another game was on as we settled into the stands, so he said he'd talk me through it.

Oh yay. Bring it on.

Needless to say, I couldn't follow a single word he said. It wasn't just that his accent got thicker as he slipped into ‘footy' speak, or that I was not terribly interested, it was also because the rules were utterly absurd. The game seemed to consist of a whole bunch of guys jumping on another guy every few yards and the ball changing hands every now and then. There appeared to be very little identifiable scoring.

But they sure were having a great time. And the guys were gorgeous.

Wayne kept calling people over to meet me. He'd start with ‘meet m' mate Wozza' — or Blue or Spanks or Fugly — and then describe the position they played, how good — or, more often, how crap — they were, and how they got their nickname. I'm not even going into Spanks.

I guessed the average age of the players to be around 30. Wayne, at 28, was on the younger end. Apart from the weirdest and cruellest set of nicknames I had ever heard, the guys were really lovely. All big and shy and pleased I was there.

They almost all said something along the lines of ‘Gee, you've done alright there, mate' to Wayne, while looking me up and down in a way that was somehow less offensive than it should have been. And then they would motion over their woman friend, if they had one, and say something like ‘meet m' wife/girlfriend Raelene/Kaelene/Gaylene' while pushing her forward to participate in the conversation.

‘So, what do all these guys do for work?' I asked Wayne. Some wore shorts with a school-kid trim on them —
stubbies
, Wayne later explained. Others sported bad track-pants, like you used to have as a kid with elastic around the bottom. The rest wore bicycle shorts.

‘Um…' Wayne looked over at the group of guys standing closest. ‘Fugly's a…um…corporate lawyer I think. And Ferret's some global software negotiator thing that none of us understand. He only plays every third week. He's based in Paris the other two weeks. Um…. Wozza does some finance thing in insurance…'

I mentally pinched myself. Had I really assumed all Australians were surfers or crocodile wranglers? I hated people who thought like that. Didn't I?

As the time drew closer for Wayne's match to start, he made sure I was settled with a group of women. The other guys kept calling them ‘the girls' or ‘the ladies' but I noticed Wayne pointedly referring to them several times as ‘the women', while his friends looked on and nudged each other.

He ran off to get changed into his jersey and warm up.

‘You're in for a treat, Lola. The Wombats are good,' said a sweet-faced little thing who I later found out was a software engineer. I think she was a Sharon. ‘They haven't lost a game this season. And they won't today. They're playing the Wallabies. And the Wallabies are useless, as well as being a bunch of pricks. Too fat, too old.'

‘Oh. Great,' I responded. ‘Er, what exactly is a wombat?'

‘It's an animal,' a Raelene on the other side of me contributed. ‘It eats roots and leaves.' The gaggle of women fell about laughing. ‘Oh, sorry,' Raelene said, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘Cracks me up every time. Drink?' Raelene had a broad, smiling face and was holding out a cardboard box of wine and a plastic champagne flute.

‘Absolutely,' I sighed, realising I was rapidly losing my aversion to alcohol.

I'm not sure if it was the wine, the company or the sunny day, but I had a blast. The game perplexed me, despite the women's efforts to help. But my favorite bit was when one of the Wombats would score a try and the women would all leap to their feet with wild abandon, yelling things like ‘good on ya, Gazza' and ‘take that, you fucking pricks'. Wayne seemed to get his fair share of ‘go Wayne, go you little beauty!' and I felt weirdly proud. And, watching him throw his huge frame around, and the way he would smile and hug the other guys when something seemed to go right, I was getting pretty turned on, too.

I caught myself once staring at his huge hands as he absent-mindedly stroked and rotated the football, waiting for a kick.

‘Raelene… Ah, can I ask you something?'

‘Want another drink, love?' she asked, eyes on the game.

‘No, well yes, but something else. Do you think the Wombats are sort of…heroic?'

‘Eh?' She looked at me like I was mad. ‘No, love. They're fuckwits, mostly. But they give us a great laugh chucking themselves around like they're 18 again.'

After the game, the players ran off to get changed. It seemed to take a long time. The other team and all their supporters had left and only assorted Wombat hangers-on were left. The women I was with were getting impatient.

‘Farking ‘ell, where are they? I'm dying to get down the pub.' Little Sharon was red in the face and stamping her feet.

Suddenly, there was movement from the dressing rooms, and all eleven Wombats slunk out of the doors like men on a mission. They lined up speechlessly in a row about three metres from where we stood, turned around, then quite unexpectedly yanked their shorts or track pants or bicycle pants down to their knees and exposed their buttocks. Weirder still, there were letters written on most of the 26 individual buttocks. After a speechless couple of seconds, the penny dropped for us all at once, and for me in particular. If you concentrated very hard, you realized that, spelled out in magic marker across this hairy, white canvas, were the words ‘I AM NOT A REPUBLICAN'.

I felt myself grow red under the screeching and laughter of the women.

But I also realized that I liked this guy. Or at least, I wanted to see where this went.

‘Oh my God, love,' whispered Raelene. ‘You are so getting lucky tonight.'

And I did.

But with the two of us, nothing was ever as easy as that.

Wayne and I went back to his place and he prepared another divine meal. A quickie this time: a Thai curry with herbs from his garden. We gulped it down like we hadn't eaten for a week. I was just topping up with some excellent white wine when Wayne manoeuvred me over to the couch. And there we were again, sitting way too close.
Déjà-vu
.

Except this time there was no internal battle about what the hell I was doing here.

I knew. He knew. It was just a matter of time.

‘So,' he said. ‘You haven't told me what you thought of my sign.' He grabbed my hand and covered it with his. Then he lifted my hand to his face. ‘And, y'know, Rocket, I'm real sorry for how I handled things last time.' He paused. ‘Not for Hunter Monroe.' He grinned. ‘Or for...who I am. But I'm sorry I upset you.'

I blinked, and nodded.

And something hot and dark slipped its leash.

First it was slow.

He reached across and took my chin in one of those big hands. He watched me, eyes open, the whole time he leaned closer. Slowly, slowly. Then he raised one long finger and used it to press first one, then the other eyelid shut. ‘Don't think,' he said, pressing his fingertips to my temples. ‘Turn that busy brain off. Just for now.'

Still slow, he pressed his lips against mine, and kissed me so softly I wondered for a second if I'd imagined it. My tummy flipped and dropped like I was perched on the highest point of the rollercoaster, contemplating the drop.

And then we were lost.

Lost in a jumble of arms and legs and lips and stomachs and clothes coming off faster than I could keep track. He picked me up and carried me to his bedroom like I didn't weigh a thing. My mind wasn't forming coherent thoughts, but I had just enough intellectual grip to croak out ‘Condom.'

‘Eh?' He was obviously distracted.

‘Condom.' I pulled at his heavy arm, pinning me to the bed as he burned a succession of kisses across my breasts. ‘Wayne. Condom.'

‘Huh?' He looked up from his task, eyes dark and unfocused. ‘Do we need one?'

My body froze. I pulled away. ‘What do you mean?'

He half sat up, positioning his weight on one elbow. ‘You're not...er?'

‘No, I'm not.' Cold shivers laced my spine. He had no idea. The interruption made me start to shiver about what I was about to do. I began to babble. ‘Or what if I said I was and I really wasn't? And what about you? What about diseases? You could have anything.'