Paradise City (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

You would probably expect that my heart would flutter, or my knees go weak at the sound of Ballantine’s voice, but when I found myself caught in the crossfire of a serious alpha male stare-off, well, it wasn’t so great.

Dean was the only one who seemed to be amused, his attention fully settled on Ballantine over my shoulder.

‘Who’s the jail bait?’ Dean tilted his head, talking as if I wasn’t even there.

‘Lexie,’ I snapped before Ballantine had a chance to answer for me. Maybe it was Ballantine’s presence or the fact that Dean was being a dick, but I had somehow found my voice and I felt quite good about it, until Dean’s cool gaze rested on me again. I wanted to recoil but I stood my ground, trying not to think about how truly scary he was. Helping me steady myself was the feel of Ballantine’s hand on my lower back.

‘She speaks,’ Dean mused.

Ballantine interrupted by slamming a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. ‘Just two Cokes, if that’s not too beneath you.’

Dean looked at the note as if it was some kind of squished bug on the counter. He stepped aside. ‘Sherry,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘can you grab the kids a couple of Cokes?’

His eyes washed over us with an air of smug amusement. ‘Excuse me, I have some business to tend to. Check the board for your shift, Ballantine. You’re pulling a double tomorrow night.’

Dean unhooked a set of keys from near the cash register before stalking towards the back of the bar and out of sight. I glared after him, a burst of anger rising in my chest, disbelieving of how arrogant some people could be. I mean, who the hell did he think he was? I was just about to voice that thought when it dawned on me.

Wait a minute.

I turned to face Ballantine. ‘You work here?’

‘Yeah, go figure, huh? Thanks, Sherry.’ Ballantine winked past my shoulder at the girl who had worked with impressive speed to ice a couple of pots, fill them up with Coke, dump them on the bar, and hand Ballantine back his change without spilling so much as a drop.

I shifted, annoyed at the way they seemed so familiar with each other. Did they work together behind the bar? Did they do
more
than just work together? Oh, hell. I looked over Sherry’s womanly shape with her black, skin-tight jeans and black tank top. Her long black hair lent a rebellious edge to her with the odd matted braid highlighted throughout. She looked so street smart, exotic and fierce the way she worked the bar, owned it. She didn’t even flinch in Dean’s presence, even when he barked orders. I wished I could be that confident.

Ballantine grabbed our Cokes, nodding his head towards one of the empty booths. ‘Might as well kick back in here, now the big bad wolf is gone.’

‘Yeah, what the hell is his problem?’ I asked, glancing back to where Dean had just disappeared as I followed Ballantine to the table.

‘Oh, he’s a charmer, isn’t he?’ Ballantine said, laughing as he slid into the booth.

‘Well, that’s not exactly the word that springs to mind, no.’

‘Don’t worry about Dean, he was born with bastards’ disease.’

I choked mid-sip of my Coke, spluttering and coughing. My eyes watered as I laughed through catching my breath.

‘Bastards’ disease? That sounds serious,’ I managed.

‘I’m afraid it’s terminal,’ Ballantine deadpanned, which only made me laugh more.

‘But seriously, who gets away with running a business like that? I’ve never known anyone to be so –’

Ballantine grabbed my hand, which was resting on the table; the warmth of his touch and the unexpectedness of it caused me to break off mid-sentence. He turned my hand over, exposing the soft skin of my palm.

‘Now, I didn’t bring you here to talk about Dean Saville,’ he said quietly, tracing my lifeline with his finger.

I swallowed, trying to keep my rampant mind focused, even though the workings of Ballantine’s fingers were doing strange things to me. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ I asked, causing Ballantine’s eyes to flick up, breaking his intense study of my palm.

He shrugged lazily, taking his hand away and leaning back against his seat. ‘It’s the place to be, isn’t it?’

I placed my hand into my lap, disappointed at the break of contact. ‘Well, not if you work here, too. I’m guessing this is the last place you want to be on your night off.’

‘You guess right,’ Ballantine said, a smirk lining his face.

‘You should’ve said. I would’ve been happy to go anywhere.’

With you, I would willingly go anywhere with you.

‘What, and miss all this? The snake pit? No, it’s every new person’s rite of passage to experience Arcadia Lane,’ he said.

‘Arcadia Lane?’

‘That’s where we are. It’s kind of like a cesspool of activity for all the local delinquents and ignorant tourists. You have the boardwalk at the end leading out to the pier with more hideous attractions to behold.’

‘Wow, sounds awful.’

Ballantine leant forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. ‘Trust me, you’ll love it, everyone who doesn’t live here does.’

I leant forward too, placing my elbows on the table. ‘You sound rather jaded, Mr Ballantine.’

He smiled, broad and heart-stoppingly gorgeous, as his finger traced a bead of condensation that dripped down his glass. ‘Maybe I am. Tell me, new girl, is Paradise everything you thought it would be?’ His eyes lifted to look at me with interest, waiting for me to answer the million-dollar question.

I thought for a long moment. It was a simple enough question, but one I didn’t quite know how to answer. In many ways the place exceeded my expectations, like sitting in a bar opposite a gorgeous surfer late on a school night, and the amazing feeling of having the beach at your disposal. School was most certainly different, as was my relationship with Amanda. These were the things I should probably be vocalising but didn’t quite know how.

‘It’s not exactly how imagined it would be, no.’ I chose my words carefully.

‘What’s been your biggest misconception?’

Amanda.

But I really didn’t want to open that can of worms. Plus, when it came to Amanda, there was no answer to that problem.

‘Well, things like surfers.’

‘Surfers?’ Ballantine repeated with a frown.

‘Yeah, well. I kind of imagined that you would all have long blond hair, and say things like “gnarly, dude” and “cowabunga”.’

Ballantine squinted. ‘I think you’re mistaking a surfer for a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.’

Again I choked mid-sip, realising that my stereotyping of a surfer was in fact quite off.

‘Really? You never find yourself screaming “cowabunga!” when you catch an impressive wave?’ I teased.

‘Never.’

‘Oh, see? Illusion shattered.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Ballantine said. He was trying to be serious but was failing rather miserably as his lips curved involuntarily and a lightness lit his eyes. He shook his head and took a sip of his Coke.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘You’re a funny girl, Lex.’

‘Oh?’ I didn’t know how to take that. Was I funny ha-ha? Is that what he meant? ‘Yeah, I ain’t from around here,’ I mimicked a southern drawl.

‘You most certainly are not.’

‘I know. I’m pretty tragic, huh?’ I tried to lighten the tone, prove I could be self-deprecating, but when Ballantine didn’t laugh, didn’t even so much as smile, I wanted to slap myself for being stupid. Yeah, definitely not funny ha-ha, just funny in the head, more like it.

He thought for a minute, shaking his head. ‘You’re different and I like it,’ he said, leaning over to grab my empty glass. ‘Another?’ He held it up in question.

I was still getting over the compliment as I nodded my head quickly. I watched on as Ballantine weaved his way through the tables back to the bar, back to the busy Sherry. But surprisingly, this time no jealous part of me stirred, because as he chatted to her, he was glancing back at me. I couldn’t believe this was my life now, sneaking out with the hottest guy in school, hanging out at the hottest nightspot in Paradise. If we did nothing more than sit here, drink Coke and talk all night long, then I would be more than happy. I didn’t know what would come after this, and a little piece of my insides twisted with the thrill of all the possibilities. Would we end up back on the beach? Parking at Wilson’s lookout? Or would I be dropped back home with a handshake? No, I tried not to over-analyse: low expectations, never be disappointed – just like Uncle Eddie, remember? I laughed to myself. Way to go, Uncle Eddie. He knew what it was all about. I shook my thoughts aside because regardless of whatever was to come, I was here with Ballantine, and that was all that mattered.

Nothing was going to burst my bubble, I thought smugly, until of course I glanced towards the entrance of the Wipe Out Bar, and suddenly realised that my bubble wasn’t going to burst, it was about to explode.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I hoped I was seeing things, that it was some kind of trick of the lighting or a paranoid mirage, but of course it wasn’t. Because the eyes locked on me from across the room with burning intent were Uncle Peter’s.

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

My eyes flicked towards Ballantine, but he was already looking to the door. Uncle Peter’s focus was clear. Me. And that was precisely what he made a beeline for. A straight, determined line to stand before our table. It was about that time that I stopped breathing. Maybe if I passed out I would avoid the humiliation that was to come: the shouting, the screaming, the public ranting that would ruin my reputation and ensure I’d never be able to show my face here ever again. And as I braced myself for the worst, Uncle Peter spoke quietly.

‘Get in the car.’

It was still powerful enough to hit me like a physical blow. I blinked, stunned, and moved to stand without argument or question. I looked over at Ballantine, who stood across the room like a statue, holding two glasses of Coke as he watched Uncle Peter escort me to the door. Uncle Peter stopped under the giant surfboard sign, simply pointing to the Volvo parked outside.

‘Now,’ he said, delivering the one-word direction with enough emphasis that I wanted to run. But of course my mind wandered elsewhere, noticing that he wasn’t following, watching as he doubled back into the bar.

‘Where are you going?’ I blurted out, my heart spiking in panic.

‘Just get in the car,’ he snapped, before disappearing back inside.

I wrung my hands, pacing anxiously, fearing that Uncle Peter, from whom I had never heard so many words in such a short space of time, was going to murder Ballantine.

It wasn’t his fault. Sure he had driven to our house and knocked on my window. But I had opened it, climbed out. I was mortified; God only knew what Uncle Peter was doing or saying to Ballantine. To hell with more trouble. I threw caution to the wind and headed back inside, only to run directly into Uncle Peter who now seemed angrier than ever.

‘Car. Now.’

I spun around, making quick work of the distance between me and the car. Heat flooded my cheeks, hot tears burned my eyes, and as if matters couldn’t get any worse, walking in the opposite direction coming towards us was Dean Saville. I wanted to die.

•

I made a point of not making eye contact with Dean as I skimmed past him. The last thing I needed was a smug look from the likes of him. I also managed to avoid conversation throughout the car ride home, which wasn’t too hard as Uncle Peter wasn’t much of a conversationalist anyway, and even less so when he was furious apparently. And, oh, how he was furious. He gripped the steering wheel with a white-knuckled intensity. I wanted to ask what he had said to Ballantine, but on the other hand the last thing I wanted was to initiate conversation with a crazy man. He looked like he might nail my window shut and pull a nightshift on the porch with a shotgun. Typical, I thought, how often had Amanda snuck out over the years, and the one time to get caught it was just me, on my own. The devil child who was probably corrupting their sweet and innocent daughter. Pfft, what a joke.

The car pulled up into our drive; the dashboard clock read 00:37. I tried to slink my way out of the car but was stopped by Uncle Peter, who chose now to break the silence. ‘I won’t be telling Karen about this,’ he said.

I stared at his profile for a long moment wondering if he was being serious. He looked serious; but then, he always looked serious.

My shoulders slumped in relief.

‘I don’t want you to see that Ballantine boy anymore.’

Oh God, relief short-lived.

‘Is that the deal I have to strike? You won’t tell Aunty Karen if I promise not to see Ballantine again?’ I asked in disbelief.

Uncle Peter sighed. ‘Either way, you’re not to see him, so it’s up to you. I can tell her if you want.’

‘No! No, I mean, I would rather she not know,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me, I’m not doing it for you,’ he said.

Ouch!

‘I don’t want this house to be turned upside down any more than it is. This time I keep the peace, next time –’

‘I know, you’ll tell.’

‘Next time, you go home.’

That caught my attention. Go
home
? That was far worse than any other threat I could possibly face. I would be good. I would try to be with all my power. I would be.

‘I promise this won’t happen again,’ I said.

‘Well, make sure it doesn’t.’ And just like that, Uncle Peter slid out of the car and made his way towards the house.

It wasn’t until then I realised that being good meant one thing.

No Ballantine.

•

Amanda was waiting for me, the lamp in our bedroom was on. She still looked washed out but she sat up quickly enough when I entered the room.

‘Oh my God, where have you been?’ she asked in a hushed voice.

My defences slammed down, a newfound anger rising to the surface as I pouted about how unjust the world was. Getting caught, humiliated in front of Ballantine, and Dean, and then the clincher: forbidden to see the one person who made my Paradise experience what it was.

‘Did you tell your dad?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

‘No, he woke me up. He came in to check if I was okay and you were gone. How could I tell him when I didn’t even know where you were?’ Amanda looked authentic in her claim. I didn’t have the slightest clue how he managed to track me down, nor did I care. The damage had been done.

‘Are you in much trouble?’ she asked, concern marking her eyes, eyes that had dark circles under them.

I went to tell her that I was banned from seeing Ballantine, but thought better of it. She didn’t have to know who I’d been with or that I’d been banned from seeing anyone. The last thing I needed was for her to ask a million questions or jump to any conclusions. No, I wanted Ballantine to remain a secret: my secret. It would make my future endeavours of not being near him easier. If such a thing was possible.

‘Where did you go?’ she asked.

I was in no mood to answer twenty questions. I moved to the lamp and clicked it off, plunging the room into darkness mainly to shield the tears that threatened to fall.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.

Nothing mattered, not anymore.