Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“What’d you say to get them to leave the bike?”
“They rightly figured they’d be in bigger trouble if they kept going. I know their mums. Lock your bike up next time. Your helmet will show up somewhere, no doubt.”
He went on his way, and Carl followed with a thought. A small-towner, everyone’s-your-friend-and-neighbour kind of thought. “Are you heading through Berhampore? Can’t ride without a life-saving headpiece, I spotted cops out this morning.” Carl leaned in where his bike rescuer was stretching a muscular arm into the ute. He pulled out a towel and flung it around his neck. “I’m doing this thing where I try not to get into trouble.”
Judgy laughter, muffled through the towel as he wiped his face.
Carl looked from his stolen bike to his wet shorts and grimaced. “As you see, it’s going well. Can I pop my bike in the back?”
Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude reached back into the bed of the ute—and pulled out a bright red helmet and oversized, equally red jacket. He pressed them against Carl’s chest. “You’re set.”
Carl blinked as his rescuer hopped into the driver’s seat, and sighed, patting the vibrant headsaver. “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in small-town Tassie anymore.” He called out louder, “Where do I return these?”
A hand popped out of the open window and flashed a wave. And, with a roar of the engine, the ute peeled away from the curb.
Carl donned the jacket and Toto, found one of his shoes, and made do. At least the jacket was warm. And it smelled good—the pleasantest trace of aftershave lingered at the collar, and he kept breathing it in. The helmet was a perfect fit too, but he’d had to tighten the chin strap, which he’d perhaps done a little too tight, because it was rubbing under his jaw at his rather sensitive spot there . . .
He shook off the vision of the helmet’s owner. Beautiful but a bit . . . aloof? Seriously, how much trouble would it have been to drive him? If this were Tassie . . .
He’d have bigger problems.
Carl screeched to a tire-burning halt as a crying strawberry-blond kid stepped blindly into the street.
The kid scrambled back with sorries and more tears, and Carl—well, tears really worried him. He stopped and asked if they were okay.
The kid looked panicked. “Bee sting.”
“Oh shit,” Carl said, frantically making a plan to flag the next passerby and get them to call for an ambulance. “You allergic?”
“N-no,” they cried. “It just hurts. I want to go home but I don’t want the other kids to see me. Boys sh-shouldn’t c-cry.”
“Aw, kiddo. Boys can cry whenever they like! Where d’you live?”
“B-berhampore.”
Thirty-minute walk. Or five minutes on the back of Carl’s bike. He took Toto the Red Helmet off and set it on the boy. “Hop on, I’ll get you home quick.”
The boy hopped onto the bag rack and clung to Carl all the way, then thanked him and streaked towards his house with the helmet on. At the same moment, a cop unfolded from a car across the road and trundled towards him. Carl knew from experience what that grimace-and-swagger meant. He bowed his head and gritted his teeth. Riding without a helmet. Another ticket.
So much for avoiding trouble.
He was on his way again, pushing his bike up the hill, when someone called from behind him. He turned to a young woman with bright strawberry blond hair and guessed at a glance she was related to the boy; if he hadn’t been certain from the hair, the red helmet she carried would’ve clued him in.
“Thank you for helping Leo home.” She tapped Toto and gestured to his red jacket. “You’re not from Over The Raindough.”
Over The Raindough. Is that where Bike-Rescuing-Surf-Dude worked?
“How do you know I don’t work there?”
She laughed and pointed diagonally across the road to a bright red bakery façade he hadn’t noticed. “I work there.”
Really? “Do you know a tall guy there?” Carl asked her after a short explanation how he ended up in half of the delivery uniform and how he’d come to help Leo—her son, she said—home. He took Toto when she handed it back to him. “Around my age? Surfer type?”
She smiled brightly. “Ah, you mean Berhampore’s heartbreaker. You don’t get out much. He’s working the early shift tomorrow.”
Heartbreaker? Beautiful and probably knew it, a little aloof . . . That fit. “Heartbreaker, eh?”
She giggled. “You’ll see.”
“I just want to return these when I’m done with them.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Muuuuum!” Leo yelled from behind the fence. “You left the stove on, and this jam isn’t helping.”
Carl chuckled. “He means honey, right? Onion helps too.”
“Honey! I knew it was one or the other.” She started running back to Leo, frantically apologising. “Head full of straw, I have.”
Carl waved, and Leo’s young mum shut her gate and whirled back, yelling. “By the way, there’s another reason I know you don’t work at Over The Raindough.”