Stan (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Stan

The jug didn’t
make it back to the fridge.

Instead Bel
slammed it onto the counter, excess water sloshing over the edges as she cut me
an acidic look before she turned away, storming a familiar path toward the hall
door, pushing through and slamming so hard the photo frames on the wall jumped.

“What is going on?”
Ellie exclaimed in annoyance. Ringer also looked none too pleased that his
relaxing evening was being disturbed by Bel and my dramatics. I personally was
just relieved I hadn’t worn the jug of water.

“Nothing,” I said
unconvincingly as my glower focused on the closed hall door. “Hey, is that
movie over? Might be time to call it a night.”

Ringer clicked the
TV on mute as he stood. “Mate! Are you serious?”

“Yeah, look, I’ve
got a big day tomorrow and I just don’t—”

“Don’t worry about
it.” Ringer switched off the TV and chucked the remote on the couch. “You want
a lift home, Ellie?”

“Ah, yeah, thanks.”
A stunned Ellie looked from Ringer to me.

I sighed, weary. “Sorry,
guys. I’m just … yeah.”

Ringer grabbed his
car keys from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Mate, you got to stop being a
doormat.” Ringer stole an apple on his way out, taking a big bite. “Shee your
tomomorerh,” he said before heading out the front door.

Ellie smiled a
small smile. “Don’t you listen to him,” she said, hugging me goodbye. “Don’t
you dare change, Stan.” She pulled back, looking earnestly into my eyes. “But
just so you know, when it comes to Bel, the jury is still out for me.”

I stared back her,
genuinely confused by her words. Women completely confused me. It was like they
spoke a different language.

She smirked. “Don’t
be blindsided by a pretty face. You’re a good guy, Stan. I want you to be
happy.”

And before I could
reply the sound of Ringer’s insistent blast from the car horn sounded. Ellie
rolled her eyes.

“I better go.”

***

Wild night all
right.

Scrubbing the
remnants of burnt food off from inside the microwave, wiping up spilt water off
the bench, and fluffing up the cushions on the couch that were all skew-whiff
thanks to Ringer.

I wasn’t sure how
I planned to break it to Bel about her list of duties I had kind of lied about
her committing to. I might have even let it slide, I thought, seeing as she
seemed a bit out of her comfort zone tonight. I felt bad she wanted to go to
bed so early, but after the jug slamming tantrum and the expected storming out
of the room, seriously, that door was going to need new hinges soon. It only
made me more determined to make her pull her weight around here. She sabotaged
my weekend; well, revenge was so sweet. And just when I thought that maybe I
would just let bygones be bygones, Ringer and Ellie’s words would drill into my
mind.

Don’t be a
doormat.

Don’t be
blindsided by a pretty face.

Over and over the
words played in my mind as I held Bel’s glass of water in my hand. I had been
thinking of getting a fresh glass and taking it to her, but then the words rang
true in my head.

Man up, Stan, I
told myself as I scoffed and poured the water down the sink. No more Mr Nice Guy.
From now on, it would be all business; from now on, it would be all hands on
deck. She wanted to get me back for sabotaging my weekend; well sweetheart, now
you are going to join in on the weekend fun. No lounging around her luxurious
caravan, no freedom in her days. If I was to suffer, she had to suffer: pure
and simple. No more feeling sorry or falling for the doe-eyed looks from those
big green eyes. No way, no time for that.

I switched off all
the lights with a new determination. This was business Stan: bad-arse,
no-nonsense Stan. I tried not to think about the fact I hadn’t left the kitchen
and hall light on with the subconscious thought of what if Bel got up in the
middle of the night—strange place—and she was pretty uncoordinated, a definite
inability to find light switches. Besides, the last thing I needed was her
breaking a leg; I needed her to help out around the park tomorrow. I stilled in
front of my door, glancing to Bel’s closed door with a smirk.

Sweet dreams,
Belin-DA!

Being in bed by
8:45 p.m. on a Friday night was a new low. I could have stayed up, but solitary
confinement seemed like the order of the night. Even though the house was big
and now plunged into semi-darkness, I could still very much feel the unnerving
presence of the infuriating girl next door. The girl I had to stop thinking
about. Instead, I decided the night was too young, and I made my way over to my
old stereo, partly for entertainment and partly to annoy said neighbour. A
little laugh escaped me as I turned up the volume as Levon Helm and the Band
started up, and I sung each and every word expertly with Levon and boys at the
top of my lungs.

When I get off
of this mountain, you know where I want to go?

Straight down
the Mississippi river, to the Gulf of Mexico

See, Levon knew
all about it—if I had my way I would be heading to Mexico, too.

Any place but
here, thinking about anything other than the girl who keeps haunting my
thoughts. The night had turned into a one-man party and there was only one
thing for it. I had the tunes; all I needed was a beer or two … or ten.

Hangover be
damned.

Chapter Thirteen

Bel

You have got to
be kidding me!

The beat of the
bass caused the pictures on the wall to vibrate, and the thudding of the music
could be felt in my temples and almost redirected the rhythm of my heart. I
groaned, stuffing the pillow over my head, which only served to muffle my
swearing.

He was
deliberately trying to torture me. I had been fooled into thinking he was sugar
and spice and all things nice. That he was the better person, mature, and
thoughtful in his way of getting over the fact I had completely ruined his
weekend. Instead he planned to torment me. Slave me around the park with
‘chores’. Who the hell did he think I was?

Deep breath,
Bel. Deep. Breath.

The three of them
were probably partying it up now the killjoy had gone to bed, now they could
finally relax. I threw the pillow across the room in frustration. It made
absolutely no difference; the music was so loud, so mind-numbing, it was
obviously coming from Stan’s room. Was there seriously no other stereo in this
house? Or had he deliberately used that one? Maybe he was in there partying …
with Ellie. My stomach twisted in that unsettling way it did anytime I thought
of them together. I shook it from my thoughts, instead pacifying myself that at
least it wasn’t romantic music—any Barry White and I would have been sick.

As it were, I
would stand to be seriously sleep deprived. I wanted to rip the door open to
demand he turn the music off, but that is exactly what he had wanted … no
doubt. Instead I lay there in the dark, glaring at the ceiling, plotting of
ways to seek my revenge on him, somehow, some way. Maybe I could sabotage the
power to the house? No, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing and would probably
electrocute myself. Maybe I could sneak back to my caravan and have a deep,
peaceful night’s sleep? What was he going to do about it? Tell my mum and dad?
Actually that’s probably exactly what he would do, and the last thing I needed
was to ruin their weekend and for them to come home to yell at me. No, I would
just ride it out, ride him out.

Listen to the
music, it couldn’t go forever.

Twelve a.m.—boom-boom-boom.

Stan be damned.
Ringer, Ellie be damned. My parents be damned. Let him ring them, dob me in and
sabotage everyone’s weekend; I couldn’t care less. I had had enough, for the
sake of my sanity and the ringing in my ears, I couldn’t take it anymore. I
yanked the covers off and skimmed my way to the door, not easy when you’re mad
as hell. I grabbed blindly for the door handle, whipping it open, blinded by
the hall light and blasted by the music, the music that blared from Stan’s
room, the door wide open. All the better to deafen me with. The combination of
the loud music and Stan’s upbeat singing, singing I could barely believe was
still going all these hours later.

The night they
drove old Dixie down

And the bells
were ringing

The night they
drove old Dixie down

And the people
were singing

They went,
"Na, na, la, na, na, la"

I stood in his
doorway, watching on in disbelief as a sprightly Stan lay against his bed head,
air drumming in only his boxers. No shirt, no pants. Just sitting quite
comfortably, empty stubbies of beer by his side. He didn’t even miss a beat
when he saw me standing in front of him, my arms crossed over my singlet top.
My anger had morphed into disbelief as I watched Stan unwind in a way I had
never seen. I thought he might have been embarrassed; instead, he sang louder,
reached over to his beer and saluted me.

“The Band,” he
yelled over the music. “My absolute favourite.”

No shit,
Sherlock.

I smiled sweetly,
nodding with interest as I walked casually over to the stereo player, lifting
up the CD cover and reading the back of it with mock interest.

I reached over and
innocently pulled the cord out of the wall, plunging the room into the most
delicious silence. My ears were ringing.

“Hey!” Stan
exclaimed in outrage.

“Enough is enough,”
I yelled back, mostly because I was still deafened. I yanked the other end of
the cord out of the stereo.

“Consider it
confiscated until tomorrow,” I said sternly.

Stan’s mouth gaped
in horror. “I gave you pizza. I gave you water.”

“You’re drunk,” I
said.

“Not nearly
enough,” he glowered, squinting into his empty stubby.

“It makes me
laugh; beer is always the answer, is it?”

“I don’t know. It
seemed like wine was the answer to all your prayers last night.”

I felt the minimal
humour I had held in the victory of the cord slip away. “I don’t like you very
much when you drink.”

Stan looked at me,
really looked at me stone-faced, glowering in a way I half expected to look at
me all the time, not just now. “Yeah, well, I don’t very much like you at all.”

I hadn’t expected
the way those words would plunge into my heart, the way they made me feel so
wounded by the way he had declared it with such a serious undercurrent of anger
that went far beyond his stereo cord.

I didn’t get him
at all. Was he nice? Was he sweet? Or was he like all the boys I had ever
known, the douchebags that were all about the boys and fishing trips and beer.
I started to believe that the Stan I was seeing before me was maybe the real
Stan—the one only a certain few got to see—the unhinged Stan that listened to
music in the comfort of his own little shack on the edge of the caravan park.

And as I thought
all these things, a quick character assessment rolling through my thoughts,
Stan spoke again, swinging to his feet and standing rather steadily considering
all the empty stubbies next to his bed. He stood in front of me, his eyes
looking down at me, deep, smouldering, as if he had a million secrets hidden
behind them. He stood so close and it was then I realised that this wasn’t the
first time I had been in his room, standing before him half dressed. But this
was different. The air seemed warmer, the space more enclosed, maybe it was the
dull lighting or the way he was looking at me. He wasn’t angry, it was
something else, another emotion that I couldn’t quite name. I was only aware of
my breathing and my heart thudding against my chest; my eyes flicked
momentarily to the deep swallow of his Adam’s apple and the way his breaths
felt against my skin. He stood so close. What alarmed me more was the fact I
didn’t step back, that even though there was room, I chose not to. For no real
reason of knowing, I was cemented in place, not through fear or anger but by
being ever watchful of the shadows that danced across his face in this moment
that stretched on forever. A moment that changed almost as if in slow motion.
His hand reached out and slowly slid down my arm, blazing a trail of fire down
my skin. Down, down until he reached my hand, slowly his fingers worked on
uncoiling mine from around the cord. My chest heaved embarrassingly shallow as
his ever-watchful gaze stared into my eyes. Each finger that unravelled mine
felt so intimate, almost as if he was undressing me. And just as he slid the
last piece of cord from my hand, he broke my gaze for a mere moment as he threw
the black cord back onto his bed, before looking back down at me with a smile.

“You better go get
some sleep,” he said deeply, his voice like warm butter, the cocky smile that
lifted the corner of his lips the only thing that had me blinking myself into
the present.

“Sleep?” I
repeated like an idiotic robot. I felt like I had been hypnotised; maybe I had?
But more to the point, it was a serious case of sleep deprivation and a pure
lack of oxygen that seemed to be sucked out of the air anytime Stan was near me
like he was now. It was the most unsettling feeling. I wanted to fight against
the emotion, the butterflies that fluttered against the pit of my stomach.

Stan nodded. “Big
day tomorrow.”

I blinked, trying
to grasp onto his words. I was the one that was acting drunk.

Stan grabbed me by
my shoulders, turned me around, and as good as frog-marched me out of his room.
Confused and coming to my senses, I found myself standing in the middle of the
hall, and I spun around in time to catch Stan’s boyish grin.

“Those toilets
aren’t going to clean themselves, you know,” he said with a wink. He slammed
his bedroom door closed, my mouth gaping in incredulous outrage.

No, I got him all
right. Stan was not nice, or sweet. He was something else entirely.