Read Online Lingerie For Felons by Ros Baxter - Free Book Online Page A

Australians were surfers or crocodile wranglers? I hated people who thought like that. Didn’t I?
    As the time drew closer for Wayne’s match to start, he made sure I was settled with a group of women. The other guys kept calling them ‘the girls’ or ‘the ladies’ but I noticed Wayne pointedly referring to them several times as ‘the women’, while his friends looked on and nudged each other.
    He ran off to get changed into his jersey and warm up.
    â€˜You’re in for a treat, Lola. The Wombats are good,’ said a sweet-faced little thing who I later found out was a software engineer. I think she was a Sharon. ‘They haven’t lost a game this season. And they won’t today. They’re playing the Wallabies. And the Wallabies are useless, as well as being a bunch of pricks. Too fat, too old.’
    â€˜Oh. Great,’ I responded. ‘Er, what exactly is a wombat?’
    â€˜It’s an animal,’ a Raelene on the other side of me contributed. ‘It eats roots and leaves.’ The gaggle of women fell about laughing. ‘Oh, sorry,’ Raelene said, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘Cracks me up every time. Drink?’ Raelene had a broad, smiling face and was holding out a cardboard box of wine and a plastic champagne flute.
    â€˜Absolutely,’ I sighed, realising I was rapidly losing my aversion to alcohol.
    I’m not sure if it was the wine, the company or the sunny day, but I had a blast. The game perplexed me, despite the women’s efforts to help. But my favorite bit was when one of the Wombats would score a try and the women would all leap to their feet with wild abandon, yelling things like ‘good on ya, Gazza’ and ‘take that, you fucking pricks’. Wayne seemed to get his fair share of ‘go Wayne, go you little beauty!’ and I felt weirdly proud. And, watching him throw his huge frame around, and the way he would smile and hug the other guys when something seemed to go right, I was getting pretty turned on, too.
    I caught myself once staring at his huge hands as he absent-mindedly stroked and rotated the football, waiting for a kick.
    â€˜Raelene… Ah, can I ask you something?’
    â€˜Want another drink, love?’ she asked, eyes on the game.
    â€˜No, well yes, but something else. Do you think the Wombats are sort of…heroic?’
    â€˜Eh?’ She looked at me like I was mad. ‘No, love. They’re fuckwits, mostly. But they give us a great laugh chucking themselves around like they’re 18 again.’
    After the game, the players ran off to get changed. It seemed to take a long time. The other team and all their supporters had left and only assorted Wombat hangers-on were left. The women I was with were getting impatient.
    â€˜Farking ‘ell, where are they? I’m dying to get down the pub.’ Little Sharon was red in the face and stamping her feet.
    Suddenly, there was movement from the dressing rooms, and all eleven Wombats slunk out of the doors like men on a mission. They lined up speechlessly in a row about three metres from where we stood, turned around, then quite unexpectedly yanked their shorts or track pants or bicycle pants down to their knees and exposed their buttocks. Weirder still, there were letters written on most of the 26 individual buttocks. After a speechless couple of seconds, the penny dropped for us all at once, and for me in particular. If you concentrated very hard, you realized that, spelled out in magic marker across this hairy, white canvas, were the words ‘I AM NOT A REPUBLICAN’.
    I felt myself grow red under the screeching and laughter of the women.
    But I also realized that I liked this guy. Or at least, I wanted to see where this went.
    â€˜Oh my God, love,’ whispered Raelene. ‘You are so getting lucky tonight.’
    And I did.
    But with the two of us, nothing was ever as easy as that.
    Wayne and I went