Slow Grind (Men of Mornington Book 1) Page 2

  “Nothing good enough to share,” he says. “It’s not looking great, but what can you do, huh?”

  “Shit, man.” I run my hand through my dark, cropped hair. What the fuck do you say to that? “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Maybe come over for a few drinks with the guys? I just need a night off from all this shit, you know?” He sounds tired. And angry. Not that I blame him. When you get cancer in high school and beat it, you think you’ll be fine for the rest of your life. Not Max, though. Twenty-seven years old and he’s going through this bullshit again. I’d be pissed off, too, if, after all that, things were still looking grim.

  “Yeah, sure, of course. We already planned on coming over if you didn’t invite us. Consider us a walking get well soon card.” With a laugh from Max, we confirm a time, and he disconnects the call. It looks like I won’t be breaking and entering tonight, which disappoints me. I was looking forward to the rush.

  Tossing my phone on the kitchen bench, the urge for a strong drink consumes me. One to make me forget for a second that I’m going to see my best mate who’s so sick there’s nothing anyone can do to help him. Above the fridge, in the small cupboard, a half-full bottle of expensive scotch is the first thing I see. Not even bothering with a glass, I twist the cap off and take a swig from the bottle. The haze kicks in quickly as the liquid hits the pit of my empty stomach, lighting a fire along its path.

  I quickly run through a shower, making sure to wash away any remnants of Darla from my body. Tossing on a pair of dark jeans and my favourite Zeppelin tee shirt, I grab my keys and phone I left in the kitchen. On the way to the car, I text the guys and let them know ‘Operation Rescue Max from Self-Loathing’ is in effect and to meet me at his apartment in the city. From my place, the drive is short, and I arrive just in time to see Max’s mum leaving his building with a scowl on her face and tear stains on her heavily made-up face.

  “Andrew,” she coolly states, acknowledging my presence as I step out of my car.

  “Ms. Rosewood, it’s nice to see you again. How’s Max feeling?”

  For a long time, especially when my parents were going through their divorce, Ms. Rosewood was like a second mum to me. She never complained about me staying over or eating her out of house and home during my teen years. She never seemed bothered by my presence until Max got sick for the first time when we were seventeen. It was like she looked at me as if she didn’t understand why Max got sick and not me. It hurt until I got old enough to understand she was hurting herself and didn’t know how to express it.

  It was Max’s sister, Aubrey, who made sure to keep the peace. Ms. Rosewood was determined to keep Max from anything she thought would hurt him. Aubs made sure Max’s high school years weren’t affected too badly. It was hard enough for him to go in for chemo and radiation, miss a lot of school and nearly miss our formals. Aubrey was always there—even though she was six years younger than us—to put their mum in her place. Sweet kid, Aubrey. Grew up too fast for her age, if you ask me.

  “He’s not well, Andrew. Please talk to him. I just want to help, and he’s not letting me. If I can’t fix this, the least I can do is make it easier for him.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, but I’ll have a chat,” I promise her. “He’s stubborn, though.”

  “Just like his father.” She grimaces and slides into the driver’s seat of her luxury car. I turn to head into the building to find out what they fought about this time when Max comes storming into the parking lot.

  “Just go upstairs. I need a second with my mum.” He tosses me the keys and stalks angrily toward his mother’s car. She’s crying, no less. Excellent job on the guilt trip, Ms. Rosewood.

  I nod my head and do as he asks, not bothering to mention how terrible he looks. It’s only been a few weeks since we last saw each other and already, you can see the effects of his disease ravaging his body. His skin’s pale, cheeks sunken in, and he’s probably lost another eight kilos he didn’t have to lose. It’s frightening.

  “What was that all about?” I ask as Max storms back into the apartment, out of breath and frail. He throws himself down on the couch, muttering something incoherent under his breath. I’ve never seen him this angry, but fighting with his mother isn’t anything new.

  His mum can be hard work. I know she means well, but everything about him is off-the-charts wrong. As a kid, Max was always teased for shit his mum was doing. The whole school knew she was sleeping with our English teacher, but Max—being the kid he was back then—buried his head in the sand and pretended everything was fine. His dad had to have known what was going on, but for whatever reason, he ignored it, too—until he’d had enough. Then, when she had an affair with one of her husband’s students, he finally called it quits. That’s when he took Max’s sister and went back to the States, where he’s originally from. He wanted Max to come, but he’d just started Uni, and it made more sense for him to stay. Besides, Max could never leave Melbourne. He’d miss me too much.

  “You know my mother,” he mutters, his dark eyes blazing. “She just shits me sometimes with the games she plays.”

  I wince and take a sip of my beer. I know better than he realises. After our year twelve formal, I crashed at Max’s house because I was too pissed even to walk home. In the middle of the night, I got up to get something to eat, and his mum came on to me.

  We made out, but then I realised what the fuck I was doing and backed off. The first rule of friendship is never touch a friend’s mum, no matter how hot she is or how horny you are. I’ve never told any of the guys or even my sister. I’ll take that secret with me to my grave.

  “What’s she done this time?” I laugh, knocking back the last of my beer. I hold the empty bottle up and take aim, tossing it into the bin. Boom! I slap my hands together and reach for another drink.

  “She told Aubs the cancer’s back. I told her I didn’t want her knowing until I had a plan. The last thing I need is her all the way over there worrying about me.”

  “Aubrey,” I say with a smile. It’s funny how I was just thinking about the goofy kid; now Max is bringing her up. Has to mean something. “How is the kid?” I ask. The last time I saw her was when she was twelve, and she was yelling at me for leaving Max hanging from a tree. By his underpants. Covered in honey. Next to a beehive. What can I say? I was an arse back then. I did mention she was protective of her big brother, didn’t I?

  “Kid? Dude, she’s twenty-one. I wish she were still a kid,” he mutters, shaking his head.

  “Twenty-one? You’re kidding me,” I say, my mouth twisting into a grin. I can’t imagine that wiry little tomboy all grown up. She’ll always be that little girl with the pigtails, covered in freckles. Then again, we just celebrated Em’s twenty-first with a huge party. I wonder what she looks like these days? Em’s always been a pretty girl, though she ruins it with all the piercings and hair dye, but Aubrey was a little more on the awkward side. Cute, but awkward. Kind of nerdy in a way—like Max. Nose always buried in a book or writing in that diary of hers.

  “Don’t even think about it, Drew,” Max growls.

  “What?” I laugh, holding my hands up in self-defence. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, well, keep it that way,” he grumbles, shaking his head.

  A knock on the door interrupts us, and we both look up to see Nash, Sam, and Cam standing there. They stroll in, Sam dropping a six-pack in the fridge before collapsing on the couch next to me. Sam and Cam are twins. They were impossible to tell apart as kids, and they loved pulling jokes on Max and me. Nowadays it’s much easier since Sam has beefed up and Cam has a beard.

  “Hard day?” I grin at Sam. He shoots me a look, which only makes me laugh.

  “Fuck off, Drew.”

  I’m always giving him shit about his job. Sam’s about as alpha as they come. With a full chest of tattoos and a Harley, he somehow ended up the Purchasing Director for one of the biggest lingerie store chains in the country. In a
ll honesty, I couldn’t think of a better job than staring at scantily-clad women all day long. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it, I suppose.

  “Naw, come on, man, don’t be like that. If you’re mad at me, who will I ask for advice on what colour thong suits my skin tone?” I chortle.

  “Dude, I’ll shove my fist so far up your arse you’ll be wearing that thong around your neck,” he growls as the other guys howl with laughter. I reach over and slap him on the back, pulling him into my arms for a hug.

  “You wouldn’t hurt me, mate,” I tease. He groans, struggling out of my grip. “Now that we have that out of the way, let’s play some poker.”

  Five best mates since primary school, and we’re all so uniquely different; I bet some wonder how we ever became friends in the first place. Sam is the alpha, Max is the protector, Nash is the roughneck—always in trouble for something—and Cam is the peacekeeper. Then there’s me, the joker of the group, though the guys might argue man slut is a more appropriate name for me. I’ve never been shy about my love for women, and lots of them. Separately, we’re successful and handsome, but together, we’re a powerhouse of badass, and so close—even after all these years—that when you mess with one of us, you get all of us. That goes for cancer, too.

  “Are you still fucking Darla?” Cameron asks, dealing out the first hand. Unlike Sam, Cameron is typically reserved. He’s not usually interested in who we’re sleeping with, who’s a good lay or even who has the best rack. Out of the five of us, he’s the quietest.

  “As a matter of fact, I am, though I wish I weren't,” I say, tossing a fifty-dollar note into the center of the table. “The woman barely gets off my dick long enough for me to shower.”

  “Oh, poor baby,” Max interjects. “Fucking a beautiful woman must be so terrible,” he adds in his typical sarcasm.

  “I’ll take her off your hands, if you’d like,” Nash jokes, tossing a few chips in the centre of the table.

  “She’s all yours, mate. You’ll have to brush up on your handyman skills, though. She likes her appliances fixed before she takes the dick,” I grin. “Hey, maybe I can take back my fifty-dollar buy-in and put Darla on the table instead?”

  We laugh in unison and Max wins the first hand. Nash deals out the next, and the laughter, jokes and game continue well into the night until everyone except Max is so pissed we end up crashing at Max’s place. I’m not even sure who won, but considering my pockets aren’t full of cash, it wasn’t me.

  At some point in the middle of the night, I pull myself off the couch and go into the kitchen to hydrate myself and find Max sitting on a barstool, staring off into the night.

  “What’s going on, dude?” I ask, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “She wants me to go back and stay at home.”

  “Who? Your mum?”

  “Yeah. She’s not taking no for an answer. And how can I keep ignoring the fact I’m not getting any better?”

  “It’s going to be okay, Max. You’re Superman.”

  “Well, Superman may have found his Kryptonite, and it’s not the cancer. Her name is Rosalind Rosewood.”

  “It won’t be so bad. Aubrey’s coming, right?”

  “Yeah, she is, but I kind of wish she wasn’t. I miss her. I just don’t want her to see me like this,” he mutters, glancing down at his worn dressing gown. “And you know she’s going to fight with my mother. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “Well, I’ll be there every step of the way.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  “Always.” I clap him on the back and head back to the couch. When I lie down, all I can think about is Max never getting better. I remember thinking about him dying when we were younger, but then the cancer went away. It has to go away again, right? He’s not even thirty, and we’ve barely lived.

  “There’ll be more time,” I reassure myself even though I’m not sure I believe it. “It’s going to be fine.”

  Chapter Two

  Aubrey

  “Excellent work, Aubrey. Very impressive,” the shrew that is my instructor points out as I rehearse for my final. I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and smile. Finally, I feel like I’m getting somewhere.

  This is by far my favourite class, even if it is the most punishing on my body. My dad’s only condition about paying for college was that I double major in dance and something else. I chose business. So, while the other dancers only had to worry about their final performance—which would also serve as an audition piece—I was studying my life away for the Econ final. Dad said I needed a backup plan, so a backup plan I have. However, if I’m not accepted at a good company, I’m not sure how well that backup plan will be while I wallow in his basement as a homeless bum with no job.

  Toeing across the floor en pointe, I rest in a final bow. When I drop, I glance around the room and find twenty eyes on me and me alone.

  “That was amazing!” Jacey whispers, staring at me with glazed-over eyes.

  “It’s just a little something I threw together, no big deal,” I mumble, brushing off the compliment. I’ve never been really good at accepting the praise of others when I dance. Everyone has an outlet to escape the tragedy of real life, and this just happens to be mine.

  In only twenty-one years, I’ve tried to study every form of dance I can—from tap to hip-hop, and jazz to ballet—but ballet is by far my favourite. There’s just something about the fluidity of the movements—the grace, elegance, and strength. Anyone with rhythm can practice enough to learn a hip-hop number, but for a dancer to stay en pointe for more than a second or two—that’s true strength.

  “You could just say thank you, you know,” Jacey teases, and I blush. Again, not good with praise, except from the professors, instructors and company leaders, as their opinions are the only ones which will decide my future.

  “Only a few more weeks until your final showcase. Remember to rehearse in your spare time and use class time effectively. Until next week,” the instructor says, dismissing class.

  I slip out of my pointe shoes, tossing them in my bag, and slip into a pair of flip-flops. Jacey does the same and follows me out the door.

  “Are we going to Kappa tonight?” she asks, and I groan, pulling my long, chestnut hair out of its tightly-wound bun and tying it back in a loose ponytail instead.

  “I can’t,” I laugh. “I have so much homework. I’ve kept a 4.0 GPA this long, it seems silly to throw it all away in the last semester. I’ll see you later, though?”

  “Maybe not,” she jests with a wink. “Raul’s been sending some serious signals my way. I might just act on them tonight.”

  “Don’t you dare bring him back home. I can’t deal with you guys burning up the sheets when I need to burn the midnight oil. I swear I’ll have to kill you this time.”

  “Oh, shush. I won’t bring him back. If I’m not home by one, just assume I’m at Kappa, and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  *****

  After rushing through a quick shower and not bothering to wash my hair, I slip into a pair of Nate’s baggy sweat pants and an equally large tee shirt. Spreading all my books and notepads across the bed, I dig into studying until my eyes refuse to read another word. Knowing I got a few solid hours of work done, I neatly put everything to the side and curl under the blanket for some much-needed rest.

  What the actual fuck?

  The shrill ringing of my phone pulls me from a deep sleep and a fantastic dream about the boy who lives down the hall. Not only am I annoyed that someone has the nerve to interrupt the few hours I have to myself, but my dream was just getting to the good part. Typical.

  As I flick on the bedside lamp, the dim glow is bright enough to let me blink a few times to allow my eyes to adjust. Frustrated, I reach over to the nightstand to grab my phone, only to find it’s not there. Then it stops ringing. Pulling my hand back, I try to decide whether to get up and check or roll over and go back to sleep. How important can a call be at three in the morning? J
acey could need me, but she’ll keep calling until I answer. More than likely, it’s Nate looking for a little drunken booty call. On any other night, I’d be cool with it, but I’m too exhausted for him or his penis. My dilemma is decided for me when the stupid thing starts up again. Groaning, I climb off the bed, trip over my Econ book and rummage through my duffle bag until I find the ringing bastard.

  I’m ready to rip Jacey a new one, but her name’s not the one illuminated on the screen. Neither is Nate’s. Looking toward the heavens, I ask whoever’s up there, “Why me?” and watch the name flash over and over again.

  Mother. I groan and rub my aching head. Why would she ruin a perfectly good year by calling me? It’s been nearly five years since I’ve had any communication with her. We don’t talk. Like, at all. We don’t even email. It’s not that I don’t love her; I think human beings are programmed to love the person who birthed them, regardless of wrongdoings. It’s that whole unconditional love thing. And I know my mum loves me, but we don’t like each other. We haven’t in nearly a decade since I left Australia.

  In all my pondering, the ringing stopped again and just as quickly started back up.

  “Hello,” I answer, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my tone.

  “Aubrey? Is that you, sweetie?” Her voice is so saccharine, I’m nearly gagging, and all I can think about is how badly she fucked up all our lives.

  The downward spiral of our turmoil-filled relationship started just after I turned twelve. My father was a professor at Monash University, which is ironically where he met my mum before Max was born. Our home wasn’t far from the University, so it wasn’t atypical for me to pop in to spend time with my dad while he was grading papers or between lectures. Apparently, my mother didn’t take this into account when she decided to have an affair with his TA … in his office … while he was in the lecture hall teaching his class. It was nearly ten years ago, but I remember it vividly, which, after years of therapy and medication, I wish I didn’t.