Jilted. Rachael Johns

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СКАЧАТЬ a game of football—which hadn’t been nearly as often back then—and always where they came to celebrate a win. After Ellie had left he’d come even more. It had become his second home.

      Back then, he’d step inside and smile. The aroma of cigarette smoke mixed with beer, sweat and cheap perfume always comforted. The run-down decor? Strangely alluring. The music? Exactly what he would have chosen. The people? Folks he’d grown up with, folks he’d die for. Folks he knew would do the same for him.

      But times had changed. Although he still loved his football, he wasn’t the carefree larrikin of a decade ago. Not frequently anyway. He was a long way from the Flynn who’d streaked across the oval. In the years since, the law had sent the smokers outside, and although he wasn’t one of them, there was something wrong about a pub without that smell. New owners had renovated and The Commercial Hotel had lost its rural character. Its beige walls with a chocolate feature and the leather-upholstered bar stools could have been transplanted from any city establishment. The people he’d loved had moved on or changed. At least the music still had the right vibe.

      He barely had the chance to nod at Rats and Whitney or take in the others hanging around before Lauren had an arm round him and was practically licking his ear.

      “My shout, Flynn. What are you having?”

      “Just a Coke, thanks.” He extracted his limbs from hers and moved along the bar to Rats.

      “Hey, mate.” Rats slapped Flynn on the back and grinned. “Good to see ya. S’pose you’ve heard?”

      “Grapevine wouldn’t be working if I hadn’t.” Flynn looked straight ahead.

      “Doubt she’ll be here for long,” continued Rats. “She’s only back to help Ms. T. Surely a broken ankle won’t take long to mend. Right?”

      Flynn wanted to ask if anyone had seen her yet, but he didn’t want to look like he gave a damn. He didn’t give a damn. So instead he said, “Free country. She can go where she likes.”

      “True, true.” Rats took a sip of beer and pulled Whitney into his side. “So, mate, we’ve been talking and you don’t have to say yes straightaway but...”

      “There’s no one we’d rather want as our best man,” gushed Whitney, reaching past Rats to take Flynn’s hands. “Please, please say yes.”

      Hell. Flynn supposed he should have seen this coming. His friends hadn’t planned a long engagement and Rats had been decked out in the best-man suit the day Ellie had left him standing at the altar of St. Pete’s. But today? Just the thought of setting foot inside a church made his skin crawl.

      “Sure,” he managed. “It’d be an honor.”

      “Yippee!” As Whitney shrieked, she leaned forward and kissed Flynn on the lips. It was only quick, and entirely platonic, but whoops went up around the pub.

      “Did he say yes?” Lauren returned with a bottle of champers, four delicate glass flutes and no sign of a Coke. “This calls for a toast.” Behind her were Emma and Linda with another bottle and more glasses.

      As glasses were filled, Rats edged close to Flynn. “I’ll get you that Coke, mate. You don’t have to drink to take part in the toast.” Rats was one of the few people who knew just how dependent he’d become on booze before his dad died.

      “Don’t be stupid,” snapped Flynn, suddenly feeling like a tiny shot of bubbles would work wonders for his tension-infused body. “I can handle a glass on a special occasion.”

      “Fair enough.” Rats held up his palms in surrender, but Flynn couldn’t miss the worry in his friend’s eyes. “Just looking out for you.”

      Flynn didn’t reply. He was tired of people looking out for him, like he was some sort of pathetic child. He took a glass and raised it along with everybody else’s.

      “To Flynn,” Lauren said, staring at him as if he were the only person in the room, “for completing our fabulous bridal party.”

      “To Flynn,” chorused his friends.

      He took a gulp and only as the bubbles caressed his throat did he register Lauren’s words. Dinner was ordered soon after, and once the pub grub had been devoured the group broke up—some playing pool, others chatting near the dartboard. This was Flynn’s chance to escape, but just as he was about to make a sly departure, Lauren pulled up a stool next to him. She barely sat on it, however, and Flynn got the impression she was angling for a spot on his lap, instead.

      “You know,” she drawled in an unmistakably seductive tone, “the best man gets first pick of the bridesmaids.”

      “Is that so?” Flynn took another sip to stop himself from saying the first thing that came into his head.

      “It’s tradition. And it just so happens I’m maid of honor.” Was she actually singing her words? “Care for a top-up?” she asked, swaying the half-full bottle in his face and pointing to his glass.

      Rats and Whitney were now wrapped in each other’s arms, ignoring the rest of the pub. Emma was chatting up the new barman and Linda appeared to be kicking her brother’s butt at darts. Flynn looked again at the bottle and then back to Lauren.

      “Just one more.”

      * * *

      WHEN THE BOTTLE was gone, Flynn ordered Lauren a glass of wine and a beer for himself. For a second he thought twice about the choice. Common sense almost won, but then he glanced around him at the scene of country people having good, clean fun—the music loud, the laughs many, the atmosphere charged and happy—and he wanted that. It’d been years since alcohol had owned him. He’d only have one more.

      One became two, two became four and before he knew it, he’d dragged Lauren onto the makeshift dance floor and was partying like it was 1999. As the barman called for last drinks, Lauren sank her arms around Flynn’s neck and pressed her curves against the steely length of his body. Of course, he reacted. He wouldn’t be male if he didn’t.

      “I’ve had a great night, Flynn.”

      “Me, too.” His words slurred slightly.

      “You can’t drive home like this. The cops will pick you up for sure.”

      He leaned his cheek against her hair and breathed in her pungent berry scent. “I’ll sleep in the back of the ute.”

      “Now, Flynn...” Lauren’s hands crawled down to cup his buttocks and pull him tightly against her. Her words slithered into his ear on hot, wanton breath. “I’ve got a much better idea.”

      And then her lips were accosting his. Her tongue took liberties as it swept his mouth, probing for access. His hands floundered as he tried to grab out for balance, to latch on to reality before he did something he might regret, but he got hold of a breast instead, the soft, round orb sending short, sharp messages to his brain. His body took on a life of its own. He couldn’t remember the last time he was kissed—the farm had been his sole focus for quite some time—and suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. He was twenty-nine, for crying out loud. He should have a little fun while he could. Besides, since he’d been in Lauren’s company, he hadn’t thought about Ellie once.

      So he kissed Lauren СКАЧАТЬ