Read Online Luck in the Greater West by Damian McDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Damian McDonald
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scholarships when theyâd suggested it, but this would be something she really wanted to write about. Since the hospital, Patrick had become such an inspiration. He was handsome, but not egotistical â as far as she could tell â he was independent, but looked quite young. He seemed a bit shy, and she found this so appealing when she thought about how the boys at school acted. And he lived here, in Brunei Court, where she thought only people with financial and social problems lived â Loserville, the kids at school called it. But Patrick wasnât a loser. He was an angel.
While she got ready to ask her first invented question, Sonja and Patrick smirked at each other. He poured another glass of wine.
âWould you like one? Oh. Sorry, are you old enough?
âNo, um, not really, but I would like one.
He got her a glass.
âWill this be all right with ya mum?
âYeah, she said, because it was too late now, and maybe her mother wouldnât care anyway. Maybe.
The bottle, a deep vein, was between them. Like cherries, or blood, the wine was on her lips and her teeth.
âSo, she began, reading from a hastily manufactured script: where were you living and what were you doing before you moved here?
âOkay â And he told her.
His story was proved almost immediately when two guys came knocking. Bought some marijuana. Sonja witnessed a criminal act. But it seemed far removed from what sheâd expected of a transaction deserving of jail time.
She asked to look at the drugs. She had never seen them before. They looked appealing, like food. She asked for another glass of wine.
âNow, you see. I donât think you can use me as your, um, interviewee.
âWell, no. I guess I canât tell my teacher. I donât want to get you in trouble.
âSorry. I know itâs probably heavy for you. I donât know why I agreed to talk to you. But I did want you to come back. So â
âThank you, Patrick. And itâs not really heavy. I mean, it kind of is, but now that Iâve seen it, you know, drug dealing, itâs not heavy at all.
âYa know, I donât usually like people calling me Patrick, everyone calls me Whitey, but I like the way it sounds when you say it.
He poured them each a glass of wine.
âPatrick, she said.
âJesus, now weâre getting too deep, he said, and they both laughed.
He took another sip of the still-coursing wine. He leaned back on the crate, supporting himself with his arms behind him, his hands, veined with dark wineblood, spread on the floor. She sawthe trickle of hair below his navel again. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open. She was a little drunk. Sheâd never felt drunk before. Sheâd had wine, even vodka, but it had just made her sleepy. This was the opposite. This was an awakening. Patrick looked so beautiful. He smelt so delicious. She knew she could fall in love with him. She knew she already had. Whereas an hour ago it was an intense but unidentifiable feeling, now it was omnipresent, and nothing could be more right. She leaned across the two-seater and had to drop a bare knee to the floor. She kissed him on the mouth, quickly, and then again, long enough to taste his wine. He brought himself forward and looked at her, maybe a bit shocked, but he smiled and kissed her back. He moved so his arm was around her waist and she between his legs. He kissed her again and the wine, separated into tumblers a few minutes before, was re-flowing in their mouths.
His breath was hot, and his body so hard and strong. His face was soft as he moved from kissing her mouth to all over her face. And her neck. It drove her crazy. She was no longer drunk.
Her little black-and-red dress had bunched up on her thighs, and she could see him looking at her panties. Tutti-frutti they said. She wondered why sheâd worn them. They were so little-girly. She took them off â she felt like they would burn if they
While she got ready to ask her first invented question, Sonja and Patrick smirked at each other. He poured another glass of wine.
âWould you like one? Oh. Sorry, are you old enough?
âNo, um, not really, but I would like one.
He got her a glass.
âWill this be all right with ya mum?
âYeah, she said, because it was too late now, and maybe her mother wouldnât care anyway. Maybe.
The bottle, a deep vein, was between them. Like cherries, or blood, the wine was on her lips and her teeth.
âSo, she began, reading from a hastily manufactured script: where were you living and what were you doing before you moved here?
âOkay â And he told her.
His story was proved almost immediately when two guys came knocking. Bought some marijuana. Sonja witnessed a criminal act. But it seemed far removed from what sheâd expected of a transaction deserving of jail time.
She asked to look at the drugs. She had never seen them before. They looked appealing, like food. She asked for another glass of wine.
âNow, you see. I donât think you can use me as your, um, interviewee.
âWell, no. I guess I canât tell my teacher. I donât want to get you in trouble.
âSorry. I know itâs probably heavy for you. I donât know why I agreed to talk to you. But I did want you to come back. So â
âThank you, Patrick. And itâs not really heavy. I mean, it kind of is, but now that Iâve seen it, you know, drug dealing, itâs not heavy at all.
âYa know, I donât usually like people calling me Patrick, everyone calls me Whitey, but I like the way it sounds when you say it.
He poured them each a glass of wine.
âPatrick, she said.
âJesus, now weâre getting too deep, he said, and they both laughed.
He took another sip of the still-coursing wine. He leaned back on the crate, supporting himself with his arms behind him, his hands, veined with dark wineblood, spread on the floor. She sawthe trickle of hair below his navel again. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open. She was a little drunk. Sheâd never felt drunk before. Sheâd had wine, even vodka, but it had just made her sleepy. This was the opposite. This was an awakening. Patrick looked so beautiful. He smelt so delicious. She knew she could fall in love with him. She knew she already had. Whereas an hour ago it was an intense but unidentifiable feeling, now it was omnipresent, and nothing could be more right. She leaned across the two-seater and had to drop a bare knee to the floor. She kissed him on the mouth, quickly, and then again, long enough to taste his wine. He brought himself forward and looked at her, maybe a bit shocked, but he smiled and kissed her back. He moved so his arm was around her waist and she between his legs. He kissed her again and the wine, separated into tumblers a few minutes before, was re-flowing in their mouths.
His breath was hot, and his body so hard and strong. His face was soft as he moved from kissing her mouth to all over her face. And her neck. It drove her crazy. She was no longer drunk.
Her little black-and-red dress had bunched up on her thighs, and she could see him looking at her panties. Tutti-frutti they said. She wondered why sheâd worn them. They were so little-girly. She took them off â she felt like they would burn if they
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