Page 95 of So Wild

When no one came to the door, he called her number and found it disconnected. Confused, he’d called his dad again and this time Greg Sanderson picked up. After shouting at him that he wasn’t home and it was incredibly rude to just ‘show up at other people’s houses’, Scott was informed that Marina had ‘gone.’

Scott’s insides had gone cold, bare statistics whirring through his brain—one Australian woman is killed by her former or current partner every week. His father had never been physically violent, but in that moment Scott was sure something had gone wrong. The mere fact that his father hadn’t told him anything about this said something had gone wrong. “Dad, where’s Marina gone to?”

“None of your business.”

But Scott had refused to drop the subject and after a lot of huffing and puffing his dad said Marina was staying with her sister—she’d left him eight months ago. Or as his dad put it, “I got sick of all her shit. I told her to pick up her act, or get lost.”

That was all Scott managed to get out of his father before he launched into the subject of the DaSilva house. He ranted about the failed heritage application and Scott’s treachery for over an hour, refusing to say where he was or what he was doing away from home. Finally, he hung up and Scott returned to his car, sick with unease. He checked Facebook and made sure Marina was alive and sat back in his seat, fighting full blown panic.

He’d known his father had gotten more unpleasant since he’d left for university, but now Scott wondered if he was off his trolley. The evidence was piling up—his wife had left him, he was acting erratically and he was obsessed, properly obsessed with owning the DaSilva house. Still, Scott had no idea what to do about the situation. His dad would sooner die than see a doctor or a psychologist for a mental health assessment, and he wasn’t going to be moving his old man into his apartment. He wasn’t scared of his father, anymore, but there was little love in his heart for Greg Sanderson.

You’re lucky your mother’s not around, she’d be fucking mortified to hear you’d gone against your own family like that!

“How dare you talk about mum,” Scott muttered as he backed into the street. “She was a saint, she deserved better than you. I’m glad Marina left. I wish mum had left.”

But that was a story that would never find a path in reality. His mother had stayed in her cold white home until she died and now there was only him and Greg, alone in the world.

Scott supposed there was never a good time to find out your dad was crackers, but right after a big move and in the midst of a love crisis only made things worse. Without the drums he’d have done something stupid by now. Called the police on his old man or driven around to Sam’s to propose on bended knee. Instead, he’d re-learned all of the Arctic Monkey’s back-catalogue—a far less destructive outlet. He went to the fridge, grabbed another beer and sat back down behind the drums, contemplating his next song.

He’d settled on Pumped up Kicks when he heard his doorbell buzz. He rolled his eyes, knowing it was either a salesperson or the Jehovah’s Witnesses. His street seemed a favourite hangout for both. The yuppies around him must be lonely or something.

Reluctantly, he put down his sticks and walked to the door. He was still sweaty, bare-chested and in shorts but hoped it would motivate his unwelcome guest to leave quicker.

“Hang on,” he called as the buzzer rang again. “Almost there.”

He arranged his features into what he hoped was an intimidating neutrality and swung the door open. “I’m not—fucking hell.”

It wasn’t a salesperson. It wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness, either. No, this was more evidence of a kind and benevolent God than any Jehovah’s Witnesses could hope to inspire in him. Samantha DaSilva was standing on his doormat holding out a red Tupperware container and wearing her old school uniform. The grey dress and knee socks that had haunted his fantasies foryears.

He tore his gaze away from the swells of her breasts with difficulty. “H-h-hello.”

Fucking stutter.

“Hey,” she said, smiling softly. “Can I come in?”

He should have asked if she had an answer for his ultimatum first, but all he could think about was the fact that she was here, not only here butin her old school uniform.

“Of course, come on in.”

Scott stepped out of the way and watched her walk through his front door, noting the hem of her skirt was much higher than it had been as a teenager. She had black bow tattoos on the backs of her upper thighs and a thin black line ran down her legs to her calves, giving the illusion she was wearing suspender stockings.

Scott’s cock thickened against his thigh and he wondered if he’d have the willpower to say one word to her about their future, or if he’d simply beg to be set free from her spell.

Sam raised the red Tupperware container. “Where can I put this?”

“The, uh, kitchen is to your l-left,” Scott stammered. “Samantha, what are—”

“In a minute,” she said. “Just let me put this down.”

He followed her to the kitchen, trying to adjust himself inside his shorts. The job became much harder when he realised she was wearing the same shoes she’d worn to school, the black leather ones with the little heels. He’d spent his entire adolescence imagining them digging into his shoulder blades while he went down on her. The sight of them was like bare tits or a well-rounded ass in a G-string. Christ, he was going to mumblefuck his way through the entire conversation…

Samantha slid the container onto the counter and then turned. For someone who’d shown up at his house in a literal schoolgirl outfit, she looked bashful, shy even. “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here dressed like this?”

Scott didn’t trust himself to talk. He nodded.

She looked down at her feet. “It’s hard, but I’m just going to blurt it out and hope for the best, okay?”

“Okay,” Scott managed.

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