Page 36 of The Rebel

She waves away my concern. ‘You know I’m good at what I do so let me have this indulgent fantasy for a while.’

I drop a kiss on her forehead. Man, I am such a sucker. She tilts her head up and flashes me an approving smile that makes me feel like a god.

‘Can we play twenty questions?’

‘No.’

I’ve already revealed too much and I don’t like the way she looks at me when I do, like she can see all the way down to the dark part of me where I lock away my innermost shame.

‘Too bad, because I want to play.’ She tweaks my nipple and I swat her hand away. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

‘Pink.’

Her nose scrunches. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘It is.’ I trail a fingertip from between her tits to her navel. ‘The gorgeous blushing pink of your skin after you come.’

The same pink suffusing her cheeks now. ‘You’re not going to turn every question into a sexual innuendo, are you?’

‘Possibly.’

Especially if it saves me from revealing too much.

‘What’s your favourite car?’

She’s not going to be deterred so I decide to play nice for a while. ‘I don’t own one but if I did it would be something sporty.’

‘Convertible?’

‘Of course.’

She nods in approval. ‘Nice choice. How old were you when you lost your virginity?’

‘Now who’s turning things sexual?’

She shrugs and the sheet covering her top half dips. Bonus. ‘I’m curious.’

‘Fifteen.’

‘That’s young.’

‘An older woman took advantage of me.’

A frown appears between her brows and I smooth it away. ‘Not in the way you’re thinking. I was living in Melbourne at the time, in a really great foster home. The parents had a kid of their own and fostered another three for a time. The eldest foster daughter was seventeen and one of her friends in the same year at school…well, let’s say she found me rather appealing.’

‘So you like older women?’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Then the answer is no.’

Her smile is cute and coy and utterly irresistible, like the rest of her. ‘What’s your biggest regret?’

The lightness of the last few minutes fades as I recall the exact moment I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

Pa called me the night before he died. We talked about sport, the economy, and an upcoming car rally. He never pressured me into returning to work alongside him, but that night I heard something in his voice, a fatigue that tainted everything he said. I felt like shit and didn’t sleep much after that call—an insomnia that only intensified when I got another call the next day, informing me Pa died.

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