The Do-Gooder Page 3

  Livvy returned to her stool and sat, red cheeked and fascinated, as we went over the anatomy and basic process of male arousal (hypothetically speaking, the boys were not required to demonstrate). We'd just covered the warning signs of STIs (again, hypothetical) when the door burst open and a couple of art students (judging by their 'edgy' outfits and the art paper they had tucked under their arms) burst in.

  They didn't seem to see Livvy sitting off to one side; instead their eyes alighted on me leaning down to point out the difference in testicle size and shape between Stefano and Alan. A compromising position if ever there was one.

  "Oh my God!" The first one squealed, immediately starting to back out again, but the other stopped dead, narrowing her eyes contemptuously.

  "So I guess the rumours are true."

  I didn't know her, but her words and the poison in her tone told me she knew me. Well then.

  "Yep, all true," I said with a brittle brightness. "You just missed me sucking these two off and it's about to get even skankier so, unless you're willing to pay for the show..." I made a little shooing motion.

  As her lips pulled up in a grimace and she turned to go, I shouted after her, "And probably bring disinfectant next time you use this studio."

  "Nice, Lara." Alan snatched up his robe and looked at me crossly as the arty types disappeared with snorts of disgust. "I'm on the look-out for a girl, you know, and now everyone's going to think you and me-"

  "Don't worry, Alan," Stefano interrupted. "No offence, but they're not going to remember either of us. We were just sex mannequins in the soap opera that is Lara's life." He grinned at me and threw an arm across my shoulders. "I'm just proud I got a guest star."

  "Yeah, well, bully for you. Are we done here?"

  Alan had clearly reached the end of his tether so I thanked the boys and sent them back to the cupboard to collect their clothes. We were done for the day.

  "Well!" As soon as we were alone, Livvy blew a breath out followed by a shaky laugh. "That was..."

  I waited for a moment, but it soon became clear she didn't know what word she was looking for.

  "Glad to hear it." I checked my watch and went to fetch my gorgeous, buttery soft leather messenger bag, trying not to make a face as I caught sight of Livvy's less illustrious equivalent.

  "Now, go buy a mirror because your homework is to check yourself out." I pushed my bag snobbery aside and pulled a sheet of paper out of a side pocket, passing it across to her. "I want you confidently able to name all your nooks and crannies."

  "Nooks and...? Oh!" Livvy smoothed out the paper I'd given her detailing the parts of the vagina and giggled in nervous understanding. "Those nooks and crannies. OK."

  I wasn't one for goodbyes, never had been, and with our business concluded, I headed out. As I exited the studio, however, the door didn't close with the bang I expected it to and, looking back, I realised that Livvy had followed me and was now coming alongside me.

  "So how do you know Stefano and Alan?" She asked chattily and I just barely bit back a groan.

  Occupational hazard: sometimes good deed recipients thought you were their friend.

  "I helped Alan out once a while ago," I replied shortly, not going to go into it any more than that. "And I'm dating Stefano."

  "You're dating him?" For a split second Livvy's expression was truly something to behold, but then she quickly schooled her features and said, a little tentatively, "I'm sorry, I thought he was gay."

  "Oh, yeah," I agreed heartily, "the boy loves cock."

  I was hoping Livvy would get the hint that I didn't talk about the arrangements I had with others, but I could see she was opening her mouth again, no doubt to query, in that guileless way of hers, how that would work. She was interrupted before she could get another question in, however, by a round of piercing wolf whistles from a bunch of boys lounging against the Life Sciences building.

  Ah, joy, a pack of dogs had been let off their chain.

  "Hey, baby," the ugliest of the group shouted out. "I got a good deed for you right here." He grabbed his crotch and thrust it towards me crudely while the rest of his buddies cracked up as if he was the height of hilarity.

  I stopped and looked down at the proffered bunch in his shorts frankly. "What, that little thing?" I enquired sweetly. "That's barely a mouthful, hardly worth my time."

  The guffaws turned to 'ooohs' and I moved on, ignoring the spiteful, and entirely unoriginal "Bitch!" that was thrown at my back.

  "That was horrible."

  Busy enjoying putting an extra kick into the sway of my hips as I stalked away, I was surprised when I heard Livvy's voice next to me. I looked down and saw that her mouth was pinched in disapproval as she trotted along in my wake, her short little legs working to keep up with my longer ones.

  "Not really," I disagreed, a litany of moments that I considered truly 'horrible' parading through my mind before I clamped down on them. Hard.

  "That people just shout stuff at you, though, doesn't it bother you?"

  "No."

  She didn't need to know that the memory of Fletch's face when he'd told me to let it go had made sleep difficult over the past couple of nights. That was different anyway, he'd brought Donny up, and I was never going to forgive him for it.

  "But-"

  "It's fine," I interrupted her firmly. It was ridiculous to me when people went on a rant on my behalf. The people who did it never knew about what I'd done; they'd never seen Salida's expression, or heard my mum's screams when I'd finally got round to checking my messages that night.

  Timid Livvy had seemed to swell with righteous indignation when she'd been questioning me, but now she deflated a little. I took the opportunity of her retreat to say, "Look, get yourself that mirror, I'll text you about the next lesson," and then march away before she’d properly grasped that I was leaving.

  I didn't waste time on people who didn't get the way things worked with me. If Livvy was going to get all preachy about it then she was going to have to find someone else to lift her sex education out of plastic womb territory.

  I'd been intending to go straight back to my room, but decided instead to use the time to resolve a few of the outstanding deeds I had written up in Big Blue. I only had half an hour before I needed to get ready for the designated driver deed that was going to take up that evening, but to someone as well organised as me, that was plenty.

  Catching sight of Carter Storey, I tapped him on the shoulder to inform him that the girl he was going to take out on Saturday was allergic to pollen so silk flowers or chocolates would be a better bet for a gift. The way his face paled and his effusive thanks suggested to me he'd been planning some allergen rich bloom, so I chalked that deed up as a first date well and truly saved.

  I then snagged Janine Schuler and passed her the truly impressive 'I need an extension because…' note I'd mocked up for her last night. I held my tongue during this exchange, not making mention of the fact that someone who needed someone else to write an extension request for them was probably going to struggle when it came to the essays required in an Arts Degree.

  Academic failures on my mind, I slid my phone out of my bag and hooked Darren Simmons up with Patricia Cornish who I knew would get him through the maths component of his first year Management course come hell or high water.

  Finally, I nipped into the female toilets on the bottom floor of the Law School to remove the graffiti suggesting that Gareth Flindell didn't know how to satisfy a woman. I carried hardcore wet wipes in my bag at all times for just such a situation; graffiti removal in various toilets made up a significant percentage of Big Blue's contents.

  Pleased with the successful use of my time, I made it across campus to my residential building only to see that someone had written 'slut' on my door. Again.

  I was beginning to think it was being billed as a rite of passage for first years or something, such was the regularity that the familiar string of letters appeared across the whiteboard affixed to my door. A
t least it was nice handwriting this time; the last one had looked like the perpetrator had been having some sort of seizure at the time of writing.

  I made no move to wipe it off. People no doubt thought I left the word there because I liked the attention, but that wasn't it, there was just no point rubbing off something that was sure to appear again within the week. Besides, it usually disappeared not long after I first saw it and I assumed the hall cleaner rubbed it away.

  Entering my room, I hung my bag on the hook on the back of the door and then turned to survey my personal space critically. Although I kept the door and windows firmly locked, I was always wary for the 'Slut Scrawlers', as I had christened them, upping the ante and looking to do some scrawling inside my personal domain. It was perhaps paranoia, catty comments hardly translated to break-ins, but I checked for it just the same.

  I saw immediately that everything was as it should be. And, when I said 'should be' I was referring to a very specific thing. Back in high school my room at home had been a tip; my bed always a jumble of twisted sheets, my dressing table a sticky mess of lipsticks, nail polish, receipts and concert tickets. After I'd pledged to attempt 'good', however, I'd swept all that stuff off into the bin and, since then, I'd kept everything scrupulously tidy.

  'Control freak', Fletcher would've said, and maybe he would’ve been right, but if there was anything that night three years ago had taught me, it was this: I would a hundred times prefer to be in control than out of it. Especially when it came to him.

  ----------

  "So who's coming out tonight?" Daz drummed his fingers against Jai's head, flattening his mate's spiky do, and copping a shove for his trouble.

  The three of them, Daz, Jai and Fletch, vaulted the boom-gate leading to the car park of Jai's building and loped towards his Ute where they'd dumped their boards and wetsuits that morning after their surf.

  "What's on offer?" Fletch asked, throwing his mate a bone even as he knew that neither he nor Jai gave a rat's about going out that night.

  "Mer wants to try that new club." Daz pulled the tray canopy back and started to pull out his gear while the others grimaced behind his back.

  "Not for me, mate," Jai said with a shake of his head. "Can't stand that crap."

  "And I'm out," Fletch added. "I've got that huge-arse essay due tomorrow and I've done jack on it so far."

  "Pussies, the pair of you. And where the hell are you going?" Daz added as Fletch slung his bag onto the bitumen and headed towards the stairs leading up to the rooms.

  "Aw, are you gonna miss me?" Fletch mocked, blowing his mate a kiss and receiving a rude noise in response. "Careful, you don't want to make your girl jealous."

  Daz knew what he was up to and the look he sent him told him what he thought about it, but he didn't make any further comment and Fletch reached the stairs and started leaping up them two at a time.

  With the confidence of having made the same journey many times before, he jogged past the doors leading off to the ground and first floor and continued up to the second storey.

  The corridor was empty, caught in that no-mans-land between class and a sleep-in, and he moved down to number 213 unobserved. He was glad of the lack of onlookers as he stopped in front of the familiar door and let out a curse under his breath, glaring at the word written there in black texta.

  What the hell was wrong with people?

  In one quick swipe of his hand, he'd erased 'slut' from Lara's door. He wanted to have got to it before she'd seen it, but wasn't holding his breath.

  Maybe it didn't get to her, but it got to him, it twisted deep into his gut and made him slam the hand now smeared with black ink into the door leading back down to the stairs harder than absolutely necessary.

  Lara might have wanted to bear what had happened as a badge of honour; he just wished that she'd remember she wasn't the only one left wearing it.

  Chapter 3 – The Little Townsend

  "Woooooooooooh!"

  "Hell yeah!"

  "Tonight's gonna go off, boys!"

  I slowed to a stop at a red light and glanced into the rear-view mirror to the backseat where my three passengers were grunting and slapping each other's knees in some sort of masculine version of Miss Mary Mack.

  So far they'd burped, scratched and yelped their way through the whole drive, making me gladder than ever that I'd refused to let any of them sit in the front.

  Craig, the ringleader of the little gang and the good deed recipient of the night, caught me looking and, as I watched through narrowed eyes, his chest puffed up slightly and his howls deepened. It'd be almost cute how excited they were if it wasn't so freaking loud.

  I was the group's designated driver for the night and was actually pleased with their insistence that we go to a new club a good hour's drive away from campus. It would be good to spend some time on a dance floor not populated with people who hated me. My realm of relevancy was very limited; I wasn't so narcissistic that I didn't get that being known on one, relatively small, uni campus didn't translate to celebrity outside that very specific sphere. In fact, I was relying upon it for when I finished my degree and got out into the real world.

  The light went green and I pulled out onto the highway as a fresh stanza of baying and yowling started up from the back. Fun times…

  I found a park a few streets over from the venue and reversed my snazzy little car easily into the spot, marvelling once again at the impressive impact a dead brother can have upon the style of car your father guilt-buys you.

  I stood by while the boys scrambled from the back, looking for all the world like a litter of eager puppies, and was charmed despite myself as the last one murmured a polite, "Thank you for the lift," upon his exit.

  The night was crisp and I situated myself in the middle of the little gang as we walked towards the club, using them as wind blocks as I was smart enough not to bother with a coat on nights out like this. I liked my clothes and accessories too much to have them spilt on, infused with cigarette smoke, lost or stolen, so it was my rule to go out as often as possible jacket and bag-less.

  That night my ensemble consisted of a pair of short black shorts and an electric blue bra with a loose fitting white tank thrown over the top and cinched in with a silver belt. The heels on my feet exactly matched the blue of my bra clearly displayed through the low neck and armholes of the tank, and I had my driver's licence and ATM card wedged firmly in my cleavage. My long hair was loose and tousled and I'd darkened my eyes with grey shadow and layers of mascara. I felt good. Game on.

  There was a massive queue up outside the club, but there was no way in hell I was standing around in the cold, so I confidently marched up to one of the bouncers, staring him straight in the eyes. It was, perhaps, a more popular move to be flirty at this stage, but I preferred the more direct approach…and a smidgeon of forward planning.

  One good deed deserved another, after all, and I'd helped this particular hulk of club-protecting muscle get the job only two weeks ago. After padding his resume, not with outrageous past employment claims, but with far more welcome correct spelling, I was hopeful he'd consider that entry-worthy.

  The club Gods were obviously on our side that night as he stared back at me for the briefest moment before moving aside. Reaching back, I gathered Craig and his friends up, pushing them before me with an off-hand, "They're with me."

  And then we were in, handing our money over to a bored-looking girl in a black tutu in the dark corridor, before emerging out onto the mezzanine level circling a sunken dance floor.

  "Didn't I tell you?" I turned to see Craig slapping his mates on the back and shouting over the heavy thump of the bass. "She's awesome, right?"

  The boys looked at me with shining faces and I mentally ticked the 'good deed validation' box before waving them away. "Find me when you're ready to go," I instructed them. "Have fun."

  True to form, they bellowed out their intention to follow my advice and then made a beeline for the large brushed metal bar
that curved round the circular mezzanine. They were swallowed up almost immediately in the sea of similarly dressed guys in the same quest to liquor up before unleashing themselves on the writhing mass of dancers below.

  For my part, I headed straight for said mass, my hips already starting to move along with the infectious beat.

  Dark, anonymous clubs were my thing and I slipped into the group of dancers easily, twisting and turning through the gyrating bodies on a quest to find a patch to myself. Instead I found myself falling, naturally, perfectly, into sync with a group of people whose movements automatically drew me in. These guys were not your basic 'bump and grind, hands in the air' folks, they had style and the flashing lights revealed smiles of welcome as I slipped into their rhythm.

  Hours melted away like this, happily, sweatily, until my head started to get fuzzy and I realised I was in serious need of a break and some water.

  Being the designated driver, I hadn't paid much attention to the bar since leaving the boys there, but now I skirted my way round the other dancers and bounded up the stairs to the crowd buying drinks. Late as it was, the group up here had thinned slightly and I was able to snag myself a position up against the curved counter, the metal cool against my palms.

  The girl next to me was receiving her drink as I arrived and, my eyes automatically following the movement, I glanced over and saw that there was something incredibly familiar about her. She was way too young to be at the club, that was blatantly obvious despite her mature outfit and artful make-up. And it was this link to 'young' and the shape of her profile as she took a sip of her drink that clocked me to who she was.

  Saskia Townsend. Fletch's little sister. Well holy shit.

  "Hey, Saskia, is that for me?" I reached over and plucked the drink out of her hand, taking a pull at the thin, black straw and wincing as the sugary sweetness of her lemonade and vodka slid down my throat. "Thanks. The carding here's pretty slack, hey?"