Page 1 of Worth the Scandal
Chapter One - Scarlett
“Honestly fuck Jason, fuck him and his baby cucumber sized penis. He didn’t deserve you anyway Scar. He’s a hypocrite and a shit footballer…” Jen’s voice trails off, and I give her a half assed wave away as I saunter off to get some air. If I have any regrets from the night so far, it’s telling her about the measurements of Jason’s bottom half. Look she’s not wrong but I wish she would stop reminding me that I was played by a man whose ego is bigger than his package. Like I know—I wasted 5 years on a man, with a tiny dick and empty promises—no one’s more disappointed about that than me.
Besides there’s bigger things to be sad about anyway, my mum for instance. A topic she won’t tolerate me dwelling on for more than a few minutes, my guess is because it makes her remember she’s gone too.
The chilly Sydney air bites at my face. For a place where summers can melt your false eyelashes off, the winters know how to hit back too.
Behind me, the balcony door slams shut—cutting off the heavy thump of bass from inside the townhouse, now it’s just me and the cold, finally. I needed a second to contain myself after Jen’s pep talk and that last tequila shot—what numberwasthat? No idea. I wasn’t counting anyway. After the first few my alter ego takes her place amongst the burn of the liquor and zest ofthe lime. That’s when I become little Miss carefree and little Miss sad and cautious leaves the building—usually anyway.
I grip the balcony railing—ice cold under my fingers—staring out over the busy city, my eyes adjust to the buzz of lights and equal parts darkness. Even through the storm cloud of tequila, it’s beautiful—cold as hell this time of year, but beautiful. I’m glad I came; mum always loved the city views at night. I only agreed to go out with Jen, my best friend—since kindergarten, which was like 23 years ago—and an even better, well I guess worse influence, under a few conditions:
1. I’m allowed to get absolutely shit faced. Something I was a pro at these days.
2. We dance the night away.
3. She hooks up with someone, I don’t.
4. She doesn’t let me fall for any man’s bullshit tonight, especially not one who’s an athlete.
There was a fifth rule, but my brain has no chance remembering in this state, I blame the wide variety of cocktails I consumed at the pub. I make a mental list and check off number 1 as done and dusted. The city lights shine, and people below are laughing as they walk from club-to-club, hand in hand. That’s when the “moments with mum” highlight reel starts playing—images flicker through of
mum,
me and mum,
dad and mum,
and I get caught up in a memory of the way mum and I would hold hands and walk these streets too, not with the same destination as the crowd below but on the way to dance practice. Just around the corner when we first moved here, when I was 12, or to our favourite coffee spot more recently when she’d come tovisit with dad after they moved back to our little hometown. She always ordered a cappuccino no sugars because she was “sweet enough” she’d say with that dry laugh of hers. A wry smile tugs at my lips; it always does when I think of her that way.
Great, someone’s presence interrupts before I can delve deeper into my mum memory file, I’ve been keeping that file neatly tucked away for the few quiet moments Jen’s let me have alone recently. I push the tears back that are welling up on the rims of my lower eyelids, blinking through the stings, before my unknown guest slides over the plastic milk crate to use as a chair behind me.Oh god how long have they been standing there.
A husky voice cuts through the cold and my seemingly harmless city-gazing.
“You’re very close to that edge, darling.”
Darling? Ew. The only people who call me that are my grandpa and the old man behind the bar at the local pub. My mysterious guest has a thick country accent, like real deep in the sticks, I’d know an accent like that anywhere, it’s all small town, red dirt, cowboy.Okay that’s kind of hot. A thought that tells me she’s really here today, little Miss carefree and she’s ready to get rowdy.
I turn sharply—too sharply—and my balance wavers. A large muscular hand shoots out, but I hold up a finger, stopping him before he makes contact.Settle down Prince Charming.This princess doesn’t need saving, just another tequila shot.
“No, thank you. Hands off.” I’m never one for pleasantries with the opposite sex, and especially not given my current female rage status. I smirk and my eyes raise to meet the owner of that hand, Mr Mysterious.
He mirrors my facial expression, unimpressed no doubt, but compliant. Like a gentleman.Country boys.
“Suit yourself. But you look like you could use a hand… and about a litre of water.”
“Well if you must know, I’ve sworn off water and men—decided my taste in tequila far outweighs my taste in men so you know naturally I’m indulging more in tequila and less in men” I shoot back gesturing to Mr Mysterious when I lump him in my “men” category. He seems pleased with my answer and my little spark of sass.
I do a—what I’m sure is very subtle—once over of the man in front of me now, taking in the authentic player polo stretching across his broad frame. Ah. The opposing team from tonight’s game. That explains what kind of party Jen dragged us into after our ‘quiet’ drinks at the pub. I barely remember anything after we said goodbye to our favourite bartender, Riley—leaving behind the Jolly Frog into the cold winter night, like two women off on a secret stealth mission with a common goal, lose the ability to walk. She said and I quote “Riley don’t ask questions, just keep the tequila shots and the French martini’s coming, you’re the only man we are being polite to tonight for the purposeyouserve us the forget about our problems potion.” Riley laughed, I know we’ve been the highlight of his bartending shifts for the past 4 years Jen, and I have been living inner City chasing our dreams.
I almost forget I am not alone as I reminisce on where the night started and my favourite pub. Mr Mysterious—he looks important, but I don’t remember seeing him on the field. I’d remember a body like that. He’s broad, demands space, brunette hair that drops over his forehead in messy waves, white strong smile, and a solid as fuck jawline, with just the right amount of stubble. He looks clean and well maintained but also gives off the allure of tall, dark, and handsome, like he’s got secrets behind those lips that he darts his tongue over ever so slightly when his eyes drink me up and down too. I’m glad I wore the mini dress and boots combo tonight and not the jeans I had originally laid out. Jen said we were going out to look hot andmake a statement even if it was only to the Jolly to watch the game—yeah, I know she lied.
Slow down tequila, we are getting ahead of ourselves with this “man” my worst personality trait honestly—if they look good and smell good, I forget they’re the reason I’m drinking in the first place,where were we? Right water!
“Well, how nice of you to offer,” I say, snatching the bottle from his hand and taking a swig—only to immediately spit it out. Vodka.Okay Mr mysterious I see you.
He chuckles, those eyes roaming over my mouth and back up to meet my gaze as he hands me the actual water bottle at his side. I watch as he bends down to grab it, my eyes lingering a little too long. It’s been a while since I let myself be the life of the party. Don’t get me wrong—I love a party, love a drink as much as the next single 26-year-old. But in today’s news I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown. It’s been one thing after another lately with work, and boys and men. Surely the universe is testing me with this irritatingly handsome country boy. And besides my mum just died.Heavy I know.
So, whatever I’m doing tonight, it’s just to drown out the gaping, aching emptiness inside me.Drown it out, indeed.
