Wild About the Man

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Crap. Figuratively.

And, obviously, literally.

7.05 a.m.

Clem, knee deep in rubbish, lifted her hot heavy hair off her neck and yanked the perspiration-covered radio from her shorts. She couldn’t do this, she really couldn’t. She wanted to go home … she wanted a macchiato, a hot stone massage, sushi. She wanted her life back, damn it!

She pushed the call button to cry uncle. ‘Nick, this is Clem.’

‘Giving up already, Red?’

I was until you said that. ‘No, I thought I’d just let you know that I think you are a loathsome toad.’

‘Switch to channel thirteen, Red, if you’re going to curse me.’

‘Oh, I haven’t even started to curse you and I think I’ll stay on the open channel. People of Two-B, your boss is a loathsome toad.’

‘You said that already.’

‘Give me a minute to come up with something a bit more creative.’

9.35 a.m.

Nick, sitting down at a table in the staff dining room, remembered that Clem hadn’t eaten yet. He sighed, thumbed his radio and called in. ‘You hungry, Red?’

Clem’s voice was sharper than the canine teeth on a leopard. ‘I’m knee-deep in fetid organic waste, gunky tin cans and soaked paper, Sherwood. Of course I’m not hungry. Tu es complètement débile!’

Nick looked up, saw the amusement on the faces of his staff and raised a hand. ‘I know I’m going to regret this, but can anyone translate?’

Janet, a junior receptionist, giggled. ‘Um, I think she called you a moron, boss.’

Nick hauled in a deep breath. Giving her a radio was not his brightest idea. ‘Channel thirteen, Red.’

‘Bite me.’

10.45 a.m.

‘Nick …’

Was he ever going to get any work done today? ‘What now?’

‘There’s a monkey.’

Nick stared at the requisition form in front of him and dashed his signature at the bottom of the page. ‘Uh huh. We have them. What’s it doing?’

‘Looking at me.’

‘Looking at you how?’

‘Um … just looking. Kind of cocking its head …’

Nick grinned. ‘Maybe it’s just surprised to see an It girl in a rubbish dump. Ignore the monkey and get back to work, Princess.’

Nick picked her up at twelve and Clem ran out to meet the Landy, barely allowing him to stop before hopping up on the running board.

‘It’s about time you got here.’

Nick put his hand to his nose when she climbed up next to him. Shaking his head, he jerked his thumb to the back seat. ‘There is no way you’re sitting next to me!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you reek? Good grief, what did you do? Roll in something dead? Sit in the back, on the edge of the back seat and as far away from me as possible.’

Clem considered refusing, then the thought occurred to her that he might make her walk home, wild animals or not. She was tired and stiff and … starving. So she climbed over to the back seat, sat on the edge and held onto it with a death grip. If she fell out and he drove over her then it would serve him right! Not that that would work for her … but she’d like to see him trying to explain her demise to her father.

Hah … whoah! She wobbled and clutched the seat in front of her. ‘Will you take it easy? I’m used to sitting on a seat!’

On the drive back to the house, Clem’s eyes kept returning to the back of his strong neck, the breadth of his shoulders. He needed a haircut and she spent far too much time looking at his hands, easy on the wheel. They were worker’s hands, she thought. Tanned, with short nails, a couple of nicks and scars. He held the wheel like she’d imagine he’d hold a woman, easily and competently, as if he’d been doing it his whole life.

She wondered how they would feel on her skin …

‘Red, we’re here.’

Nick’s voice shattered her reverie and she jerked her eyes up and looked around. They were parked on the patch of grass outside his house so she stood up and jumped down from the side of the Landy, her ruined shoes in her fingers. She looked at them and sighed … Poor shoes.

Clem started for the house but a pair of fingers snagged the waistband of her denim shorts and she was brought to a sudden halt.

‘What—?’

‘Where do you think you are going?’ Nick growled.

‘I am going to shower.’

‘You are not going into my house smelling like that,’ Nick told her, pulling her backwards. Clem twisted in an effort to get out his grip and nearly managed it until a strong arm bounded around her waist and hauled her against his chest.

Nick swore. ‘You’ve given me your stench!

Damn it, Red!’

He easily held her with one hand and grabbed hold of the spigot of the garden hose, flipping the tap open with his knee. Without warning, he dropped Clem and turned the hose on her and she gasped when a stream of cold water hit her in the face.

Clem slapped her hands to her face and turned her back to the deluge. ‘Nick!’

‘Princess?’ The water hit her shoulder, the back of her neck, drenched her hair.

‘I’m going to disembowel and string you up for the hyenas!’ she shouted in between her splutters.

‘You can try,’ Nick said, aiming the water at her bottom. ‘What on earth did you sit in, Red?’

Clem twisted to look. ‘A bag burst and I slipped. I think it’s a mixture of rotten tomatoes and cabbage.’ She tipped her head back as Nick aimed the water at her chest. ‘Actually, that’s kind of nice. It’s the first time I’ve felt cool since I got here.’

‘I think that’s a spinach leaf on your ankle.’

‘Eeew.’ Clem reached down and picked the leaf off her skin. ‘So, am I clean enough to go into your precious house?’

‘Not in those clothes. Strip.’

Clem lifted her eyebrows. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Nick looked impatient. And amused. ‘I can still smell you and ninety per cent of the smell is in your clothes. I’ll get you a towel if you’re feeling modest.’

Oh, she was very tired of that smirky smile, that expression that said he was dealing with the village idiot. He wanted her to strip?

Well, OK then …

Clem narrowed her eyes and, without removing her annoyed gaze from his face, lifted her vest and pulled it up and over her head and dropped it to the grass. Standing in her low-cut lacy scarlet bra, she reached for the snap of her denims.

Nick tried to looked insouciant but she saw the telltale muscle jump in his jaw. So she flipped open the buttons and deliberately wiggled her shorts down her legs, slowly revealing a brief pair of matching panties. The hosepipe in Nick’s hand dropped as she stepped out of the denims—destined to be burnt—and she swung her hips as she sauntered up to him.

His eyes were everywhere they shouldn’t be and, for once, she was OK with that because he didn’t notice what she was doing. In a flash she lifted the pipe and directed a stream of water at his crotch before whipping it up and directing it into his open-with-shock mouth.

Grinning, she dropped the hose and, listening to him splutter, walked into the house. She hadn’t been a lingerie model for nothing.

When Nick brought Clem back to the house it was after five and she was shattered. She showered, hopped out and could still smell the rubbish dump on her skin so she hopped back in. She’d used up half a bottle of her favourite shampoo and she still reeked of … something vile.

It had been a dismal day, she decided. After her hose down—with neither of them referring to her impromptu striptease—a shower and a huge salad sandwich in the staff canteen at lunch time, Nick had carted her off to the laundry room, where she was given a pile of sheets to iron. After she’d burnt two million-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, the housekeeper had thrown a hissy fit, picked up the sheet and cursed her in her native language. She’d been hustled out of the laundry, told that she was useless, that she was making the sheets smell and was put to work cleaning out The Pit.

That was an experience she’d rather not repeat. Not as bad as the recycling but sticky floors, grimy bar, dirty glasses. Ugh.

Clem pulled on a sleeveless sage-green patterned top, cream shorts and flip-flops and walked into the lounge, towelling her hair dry.

Nick was also freshly showered, dressed in white cargo shorts and a button down navy shirt, and he looked up from his laptop that sat on the kitchen counter.

‘Do you want a glass of wine? Or a beer?’

‘Something soft?’ Clem responded, rubbing the ends of her hair. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

Nick looked surprised. ‘At all?’

‘Yeah. And no, I’m not a recovering alcoholic, nor have any addiction problems. My mum was killed in a car accident and the other driver was drunk and stoned.’

Why had she told him that? Apart from the very rare comment to Jason, she never discussed her mother with anyone.

‘I’m sorry.’ Nick turned away from her and looked in the fridge. He pulled out a box of fruit juice. ‘This OK?’

‘Thanks.’ Clem watched him as he pulled out a glass and poured her juice. Their fingers brushed as he handed the glass over and sparks shot up her arm. OK, now she was just being pathetic.

Clem bunched the towel in her hand and wrinkled her nose. ‘Nick, I still stink.’

Nick grinned and her heart pitter-pattered. ‘I’m sure you don’t.’