Ringer by C.J. Duggan Page A

not to glower at
him.
    Ringer laughed. “Might want to dry off
before you put these back on.” He placed them neatly on the deck, grinning up
at me; the bastard was enjoying every minute of this.
    “Night, Miranda.” He saluted his brow and
made his way back towards his room, pausing near my door. I looked on with
annoyed interest as I fumbled my way out of the trough.
    Ringer bent down and picked up the black
cardi he had pulled off me earlier.
    “Hey, put that back,” I yelled, stumbling
onto the decking. My bare feet padded a long determined line towards him,
reaching out for my cardi that he lifted above my head out of reach.
    Such a fucking child.
    I took a calming breath, and held my hand
out.
    “Give me back my cardi.”
    “Actually,” he said, thumbing the fabric
and looking over it, as if it was a rare diamond. “I thought I might keep it as
a trophy.”
    My hand dropped to my side in frustration.
“Goddamn it, Ringer, give me it back.”
    Every time I lost my shit, it only served
to entertain him to no end; his slow, wicked smile was not lost on me even as
he turned and leant by his opened door. He made sure he was looking at me as he
lazily turfed my cardi into his room, landing in a pile on his unmade bed. “You
want it?” He tilted his head. “Go and get it.”
    My mouth gaped. He had thrown it expecting
me to fetch it like a dog; furthermore, I would never step inside Ringer’s
room, not in a million years.
    “We’re even now,” I bit out, my hands
balled into fists as my eyes burned into his.
    Ringer let out a blast of laughter, causing
me to flinch at the unexpectedness of it. He shook his head at me. “Oh,
sweetheart, we’re not even anywhere near close to even.” And with that, he
turned and closed his door behind him, leaving me on the verandah barefoot, and
in a puddle of water.
     
    ***
     
    Yep! Ten seconds’ bliss was not worth this amount of torture.
    As the sun crept its way up to tinge the
sky with colour, I tiptoed my way past Ringer’s closed door, not without
resisting the urge to mumble insults under my breath. I headed towards the main
house past the Mazda, God rest her soul; I couldn’t bring myself to even look
at her. It was solely because of her I was heading to the kitchen at this
ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. I decided to partake in the usual Henry
tradition of a cooked breakfast, plus I had some major sucking up to do with my
parents if I wanted to get this car fixed. It took every ounce of my being to
clamp down the rage I had for my mother from last night as I pushed the wire door
wide open.
    “Good morning!” I beamed.
    My mum stood frozen, hovering a spoonful of
eggs between the plate and pan; she looked like she had seen a ghost, and even
Dad paused from his newspaper, a line pinching between his brow as he wearily
looked at me as if seeing a stranger.
    “You feeling all right, luv?” My dad folded
his paper, pushing it aside as he watched me with guarded interest.
    My smile dipped slightly. “Of course, why
wouldn’t I be?” I half laughed as I pulled a stool next to him at the island bench.
    “Moira still snoozing?” I asked innocently,
plucking a grape from the fruit bowl. Mum double blinked, unfreezing from her
stance as she quickly started dishing out the eggs before they went cold.
    “Ha! You won’t see sleeping beauty before
noon,” said Dad.
    “Sounds about right.” I scoffed.
    “From memory, you’re not exactly a morning
person either,” said Mum, looking at me sceptically.
    And she was right, I wasn’t a morning
person at all; still I hadn’t exactly fancied running into Ringer this morning
and I had planned to butter up my parents while I had the chance to have them
to myself.
    Mum sat a plate of bacon and eggs down in
front of Dad. “Miranda, can you go knock on Ringer’s door and see if he would
like some breakfast?”
    My grape caught in my throat causing a
coughing fit; my eyes watering, I grabbed at Dad’s orange juice