Page 74 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series
Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.
“I just…I just wanted to say hi,” Annie continued. “Australia is amazing. Hunter is…has been showing me the station. I hope Dylan is okay. I really need to talk to him. There’s something I need to… I really need to talk to him. Please tell him I said hello. I hope you’re looking after him. Love you.”
The recording ended with the dial tone followed by a long beep, indicating there were no more messages.
Monet closed her eyes, her throat so tight she couldn’t breathe, her body one big lump of agony, the feel of Dylan’s hard body a mocking pressure.
No more.Just like her and Dylan. No more.
The thought cut through Monet. Slicing into her heart.
Just as Dylan’s hands slipped from her body and he stepped away.
“Ah fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck!”
Chapter7
Dylan watched the two-hundred-foot Scooby-Doo float past him and thought,Okay, Sullivan, youreallyaren’t in Kansas anymore.
He couldn’t stop shaking his head, even as his face ached from smiling. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was singularly the most surreal, amazing, bizarre, joyful thing he’d ever experienced. There wasn’t anything like it in Australia. Not even close. Every time he thought he’d wrapped his brain around what he was seeing, around the corner would float another gigantic cartoon character, dragging twenty-odd struggling people underneath it at the end of ropes thick enough to hog-tie a bull, and his brain would go,nope.This can’t be real.
He’d never laughed so much.
Which was pretty bloody amazing, given the fact the last two days had been a tormenting hell. An enjoyable, euphoric, completely fucked-up-wrong tormenting hell.
After he’d heard Annie’s voice on the answering machine, he’d been hit by guilt. Guilt so hot and cutting he hadn’t slept a minute. Monet’s sofa—which was also a fold-away bed—had turned into a torture device, the place where he tossed and turned as he replayed Annie’s words over and over again in his head.
I hope Dylan is okay. I really need to talk to him. There’s something I need to… I really need to talk to him.
His first response had been to call Farpoint straight away. But when he had, no one answered. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect there was a conspiracy afoot. Of course, hedidknow better. He was the get-your-hands-dirty, sweat-your-arse-off brother when it came to running Farpoint. Hunter was the don’t-fuck-with-me-bankers, let’s-talk-business brother. With Dylan on the other side of the world, Hunter would be tackling both their jobs.
That would explain why he never answered the damn phone, but what about their mum? Where was she? Hazel wasn’t just the person who made sure he and Hunter were eating right, she was the matriarch who made sure they were running the cattle station the way it should be run. Why the hell wasn’tsheanswering the phone?
He didn’t have an answer for that. Nor did he have an answer for his situation. The call from Annie had tied him in knots and made him feel like shit and it had only gotten worse the next morning.
He’d looked at Monet as she’d walked from her bedroom, his chest tightening, his morning hard-on jerking with painful want at the sight of her, and said, “We have to talk about?—”
And Monet had shaken her head and replied, “We have to start from scratch.” Then she’d crossed the room to where he was perched on the edge of the sofa, his bloody erection tenting the crotch of his boxers, his heart thumping fast in his chest, and held out her hand and said, “Hello, Dylan. I’m Annie’s friend, Monet. It’s nice to meet you. Want me to show you the city while we wait for your luggage to turn up?”
It had been an unspoken message—we messed up.
He’d shaken her hand, said, “G’day. That would be great,” and fifteen minutes later they were out the door, heading for Central Park.
The next two days had passed just like that. Two acquaintances connected by an absent friend, one showing the other a city she knew and loved, the other enjoying every bloody minute of it, even as his gut churned and his heart ached and his mind told him over and over again he could do this forever, with this woman. Only this woman.
Only Monet.
Two days of enjoyable, euphoric, completely fucked-up tormenting hell. Three sleepless nights saddled with guilt, lust, desire and, ultimately, anger. Angry that he’d let himself fall for Monet. Angry that twice when he’d tried to call Farpoint, he’d turned into a chicken-shit gutless wonder and killed the connection before he could hear a voice. Because if he spoke to Annie and she said she was missing him, that she wanted him to come to her in Australia, he wouldn’t be able to say “okay”.
Not when he wanted to be with Monet.
And now here he was, watching a collection of inflated cartoon characters the size of Farpoint’s secondary storage shed, laughing and smiling and enjoying himself so much with Monet that every grin she gave him pierced his heart, every whiff of her scent drove him mad and every minute by her side became the most wonderful, exquisite torment of his life.
“Oh look.” Monet turned to face him, her smile wide, her cheeks flushed from the cold air, her eyes hidden by the same large black sunglasses she’d been wearing when he’d first met her. “It’s SpongeBob.”
Dylan threw a glance at the bizarre, massive yellow rectangle with crazy eyes, dressed like a nerdy schoolboy. “Who’s SpongeBob?”
Monet burst out laughing, her hands touching his chest, giving him a little shove. He wished she hadn’t. It made his heart thump bloody hard in his chest and his groin tighten. Two days he’d been denied kisses, touches. Denied holding her, tasting her sweet sex on his tongue. That simple contact of her gloved hands on his shirted chest was like a red-hot branding iron searing his flesh.
