didn’t exist would have driven me bonkers. Stripping was my creative outlet, even though people scoffed when I tried to explain that, and I knew I’d have to give it up completely, soon enough. At twenty-nine I was getting too old, and it didn’t exactly do wonders for my PI reputation either, but I knew I’d miss it. Not to mention the fact that I was hopeless at painting and sure as shit couldn’t play guitar. Maybe I could write a book about my adventures, seeing as how everyone else seemed to be. Although they weren’t so much adventures as an embarrassing list of fuck-ups.
At Ormond Esplanade I jogged on the spot as I waited for the walk sign, dashed across the road, and then I was running south along the bay, dodging bike riders, roller-bladers, dog walkers and young mums with high-priced prams. Grey-green water lapped the sand of Elwood Beach and a soft, salty wind cooled the sweat on my face. I sprinted all the way to the lifesaving club and stopped for a drink at the bubbler before turning and running back. At the public toilets I veered onto the grass and pounded up the hamstring- and lung-punishing Elwood Hill. Leaning against the white wooden lookout I stretched my quads and tried to get my breath back. Up there I could see the palm trees of St Kilda, the arc of the Westgate Bridge and the skyscrapers of the CBD. On a clear day Geelong was visible across the vast curve of Port Phillip Bay, but that morning a hot haze hung in the air, smelling of ozone, reminding me of the one occasion I’d visited Los Angeles.
I was fourteen, and it was the last time I’d seen my dad, who lived there with his new, American family. We’d never been close—he and my mum had split when I was tiny—but after that last visit we’d never spoken again.
My email from last week hadn’t worked either—just bounced back with the message ‘delivery failure’. I debated with myself whether it was worth tracking him down, and wondered why I wanted to contact him anyway. Because Mum wouldn’t talk to me? And what did I hope to get out of it? Money? Fatherly advice? A tearful reunion?
Yeah, right. He’d never tried to get in touch with me.
I ran down the other side of the hill past the dense scrub, which, combined with the public toilet, made the area such an attractive gay beat, sprinted across the park then up Glenhuntly Road past the Elwood Lounge, video store and cafés. Left on Broadway, then I slowed to a shuffle. I’d almost finished my loop when one of my shoes finally carked it, flopping open like the mouth of a panting dog. Rivulets of sweat ran down my back, seeping into the waistband of my shorts, and I was just nearing my unit-block, mentally planning my day, when I got the creepy feeling I was being followed. I whirled around and saw a stretch limo with tinted windows come to a halt behind me. I didn’t have to be a detective to put it together—white limo, Alex’s wedding day. For half a second I had the idea he’d gone AWOL from his own nuptials and had come straight to my place to tell me so. Then the driver’s door opened and out popped Sean.
He was wearing a tuxedo and a shit-eating grin and he leaned one arm on the roof of the vehicle. In the other hand he held a bouquet of orchids, filched from the wedding party by the look of things. I’d been so caught up being angst-ridden about Alex that I’d forgotten how goddamned gorgeous Sean was. He was a couple of inches taller than me, a young-looking thirty-five with a boyish face, and his perfectly formed lips had a pronounced rim that always caught the light. His short red-gold hair ruffled in the breeze, setting off his perpetually glinting, slate-blue eyes, and beneath the monkey suit I knew his body was lean and tightly muscled. My heart was beating fast and I couldn’t remember how to breathe. Act casual, I told myself.
He tilted his head, inverted his eyebrows and put on his best Connery-inspired Bond drawl. He already had a Scottish
At Ormond Esplanade I jogged on the spot as I waited for the walk sign, dashed across the road, and then I was running south along the bay, dodging bike riders, roller-bladers, dog walkers and young mums with high-priced prams. Grey-green water lapped the sand of Elwood Beach and a soft, salty wind cooled the sweat on my face. I sprinted all the way to the lifesaving club and stopped for a drink at the bubbler before turning and running back. At the public toilets I veered onto the grass and pounded up the hamstring- and lung-punishing Elwood Hill. Leaning against the white wooden lookout I stretched my quads and tried to get my breath back. Up there I could see the palm trees of St Kilda, the arc of the Westgate Bridge and the skyscrapers of the CBD. On a clear day Geelong was visible across the vast curve of Port Phillip Bay, but that morning a hot haze hung in the air, smelling of ozone, reminding me of the one occasion I’d visited Los Angeles.
I was fourteen, and it was the last time I’d seen my dad, who lived there with his new, American family. We’d never been close—he and my mum had split when I was tiny—but after that last visit we’d never spoken again.
My email from last week hadn’t worked either—just bounced back with the message ‘delivery failure’. I debated with myself whether it was worth tracking him down, and wondered why I wanted to contact him anyway. Because Mum wouldn’t talk to me? And what did I hope to get out of it? Money? Fatherly advice? A tearful reunion?
Yeah, right. He’d never tried to get in touch with me.
I ran down the other side of the hill past the dense scrub, which, combined with the public toilet, made the area such an attractive gay beat, sprinted across the park then up Glenhuntly Road past the Elwood Lounge, video store and cafés. Left on Broadway, then I slowed to a shuffle. I’d almost finished my loop when one of my shoes finally carked it, flopping open like the mouth of a panting dog. Rivulets of sweat ran down my back, seeping into the waistband of my shorts, and I was just nearing my unit-block, mentally planning my day, when I got the creepy feeling I was being followed. I whirled around and saw a stretch limo with tinted windows come to a halt behind me. I didn’t have to be a detective to put it together—white limo, Alex’s wedding day. For half a second I had the idea he’d gone AWOL from his own nuptials and had come straight to my place to tell me so. Then the driver’s door opened and out popped Sean.
He was wearing a tuxedo and a shit-eating grin and he leaned one arm on the roof of the vehicle. In the other hand he held a bouquet of orchids, filched from the wedding party by the look of things. I’d been so caught up being angst-ridden about Alex that I’d forgotten how goddamned gorgeous Sean was. He was a couple of inches taller than me, a young-looking thirty-five with a boyish face, and his perfectly formed lips had a pronounced rim that always caught the light. His short red-gold hair ruffled in the breeze, setting off his perpetually glinting, slate-blue eyes, and beneath the monkey suit I knew his body was lean and tightly muscled. My heart was beating fast and I couldn’t remember how to breathe. Act casual, I told myself.
He tilted his head, inverted his eyebrows and put on his best Connery-inspired Bond drawl. He already had a Scottish
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