Page 7 of Fire Fight

I open drawers to find supplies of everything I could need. Lotions and perfumes and a sliding tray of makeup more extensive than the posh department store in town. There are combs and nets and fancy clips, a hairdryer with a full drawer of attachments along with separate curlers and straighteners.

“He said he wasn’t sure what we’d need, so sent his secretary to buy a range.”

“A range.” I roll my eyes at the understatement and Mum wrinkles her nose, nodding, face alight. “If you don’t want him,I’llmarry him.”

I want to indulge in every luxury on offer, commit every perfect second of blissful extravagance to memory before our internal messiness infects this sparkling clean household and we’re inevitably asked to leave.

She bursts out laughing, close to hysteria—and I know because I’m halfway there myself. The change from a week ago is so extreme I can’t quite believe it’s happening. Yet the evidence is all around me.

I knock my knuckles on the vanity counter.

It’s real.

Mum raises her eyebrows at me. “Swim?”

Before he left, Arnold told us about a path at the back of the property, zigzagging down the cliff face to a private beach. Apparently, other teenagers use a swimming platform in the harbour that’s an easy distance away, and he suggested it might be a good way to meet and make new friends.

And hell, yes. I’m on board.

There are half a dozen new swimsuits in the wardrobe, all in my size. I choose a black one-piece with a multitude of cut-outs, exposing almost as much as the bikini I leave behind.

While I’m admiring myself in the full-length mirror mounted on the rear of the wardrobe door, a sparkle of reflected light draws my eye. I walk closer, squinting into the corner as I turn my head from side to side, trying to find it again.

“Cadence?” my mother yells from downstairs and I jump, putting a hand to my chest as I laugh to release the tension.

Closing the door behind me, I hurry down the stairs, ready to check out yet another feature from my new fairytale life.

CHAPTER THREE

CADENCE

The traildown to the private beach is cut into the side of the cliff face, a metre across at its widest point with a foot or two of leeway on either side. We pause at the top to lean on the iron railing and stare across the harbour.

The sparkling beauty of the water against the backdrop of the hill range fills my heart with throat-tightening joy.

An unusual attack of shyness hits me when we reach the beach, and I see the teenagers laughing and jumping around on the swimming platform. They look completely at home, born to this extravagant lifestyle and even the perfect fit of my brand-new swimsuit can’t wipe away the fear they might judge me because I’m not.

“Aren’t you going over?” Mum is surprised at my reticence when I’m usually gregarious, quickly making friendships, even if they’re shallow. “They look harmless enough.”

“There must be ten of them out there,” I mutter, hugging my knees to my chest, sitting on a rainbow striped towel. “That’s gang numbers.”

She lies back, supporting herself on her elbows to keep everything in view. “Would you like me to swim out with you? Tell them all to treat my girl nicely.”

I laugh, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. My mother has been known to embarrass me—deliberately—on occasion, just to satisfy her perverse sense of amusement.

At least, that’s my assessment. She might legitimately think she’s helping.

There are nine when I count properly. Six boys and three girls. A few of the males are worth closer inspection, but my mind immediately shuts down the observation.

Not a surprise considering what happened with the last boy I crushed on.

Even before the ‘incident,’ I’d been useless at that stuff. Awkward or reticent when everyone else was enthusiastic. A few pashing sessions under the bleachers form the extent of my experience. A casual grope on top of my clothes.

But while what happened with Drake made me wary—for good reason—these teenagers aren’t like the damaged youths at my last school or the gang members living near our emergency hostel. They’ll be normal, well-adjusted, probably with a shrink on speed dial to sort out any fledgling crises. Daddy’s credit card to sort the rest.

Chances are they won’t be interested in my impoverished arse, but one might be in search of a fixer upper.

There’s no harm in looking.

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