Read Online Night Beach by Kirsty Eagar - Free Book Online

wrong.

    The
only
other
person
who’d
understand
this
is
Anna.
But
she’s
in
Canberra.
    Tonight,
though,
there
is
one
thing
saving
me
from
my
spectacular
talent
for
earning
    disapproval.
Kane.
He
probably
isn’t
there.
He’s
probably
woken
up
from
his
jet-‐lagged
    sleep
and
headed
out
drinking
with
his
mates
like
he
always
does
on
Saturday
nights.
    But
I’m
sick
for
him
and
a
part
of
me
wants
to
wallow
in
it.
Hide
away
in
my
bedroom,
    watch
the
night
and
ache.

    We’ve
inched
our
way
up
the
hill
and
we’re
nearing
Wilmette
Street.
    ‘Should
I
keep
going?’
Hollywood
asks.
    ‘Um
.
.
.’

    Hollywood
turns
into
Wilmette
Street,
and
I
look
past
him
at
the
view,
debating
whether
    or
not
I
should
go.
Our
street
feels
like
the
top
of
the
world.
Seeing
the
lights
of
the
    houses
below,
the
oil
slick
of
moonlight
on
the
ocean,
makes
me
want
things
I
can’t
even
    define.
It’s
like
straining
to
hear
a
whisper.

    Some
kind
of
promise.

    ‘So
your
home
boy
slipped
one
to
Greg
Hill,
hey?’
    I
focus
on
Hollywood,
thrown
by
the
sudden
change
in
subject.
‘What?’
    ‘The
biff.
Today.’

    ‘Kane?’
Why
is
it,
when
you
like
someone,
you
feel
caught
out
just
saying
their
name?

    ‘Did
he
say
what
it
was
over?’
Hollywood
asks.
‘Was
it
to
do
with
the
boardriders’
    thing?’

    ‘What
are
you
talking
about?’

    ‘Greg
blackballed
his
membership
nomination.’
    I’m
not
surprised
that
Hollywood
knows
this
–
a
surf
break
is
a
small
town.
But
what
    does
surprise
me
is
that
Kane
wanted
to
belong.
Although
I
suppose
it
makes
sense.
    Boardriders’
clubs
are
the
veins
of
Australian
competitive
surfing.

    Anyone
up-‐and-‐coming
has
been
pushed
through
them,
honing
their
skills
at
monthly
    comps.
But
they’re
not
like
other
sports
clubs,
where
little
Johnny
can
just
sign
up
–
at
    least
not
down
at
Walls.
It’s
second-‐generation
surfers
from
around
here
only;
the
ones
    with
the
right
dads.

    ‘Kane
should
watch
out,’
Hollywood
says.
‘You
know
what
Greg
did
to
that
other
guy
last
    year.’

    ‘What
guy?’

    His
top
lip
curls
and
he
puts
more
nose
into
his
voice,
giving
an
uncanny
impersonation
    of
Greg
Hill.
‘So
he’s
in
the
car
park,
wetsuit
pulled
down
around
his
ankles,
like
he’s
    getting
ready
to
take
a
shit
or
somethin’,
busy
dripping
metho
into
his
ears,
the
soft
.
.
.
    And
I
say,
“Hold
still
a
second,
mate,
you’ve
got
something
on
ya
face”,
and
he
stands
    there
waiting
for
me
to
brush
it
off,
the
faarkin’
idiot,
like
I’m
going
to
fix
his
faarkin’
    hair
or
something.
But
what
I
do
is,
I
get
my
lighter
and
–
flick,
flick
–
I
light
that
bastard
    up
like
a
faarkin’
birthday
cake.’

    Hollywood
pulls
over,
and
I’m
staring
at
him,
shocked.

    ‘Are
you
serious?’

    He
nods.
    My
grandad
used
methylated
spirits
for
every
medicinal
purpose
known
to
man,
and
a
    few
he’d
invented,
so
I
know
all
about
putting
a
couple
of
drops
in
your
ears
after
you’ve
    been
swimming
or
surfing
to
stop
ear
infections.
Would
burning
an
ear
drum
like
that
    send
you
deaf?
    ‘Who
was
it?’
I
ask.

    ‘Dunno.
No
one
from
around
here.’

    It’s
then
that
I
notice
Kane’s
ute
parked
out
front,
spotlit
by
the
Audi’s
headlights,
and
I
    get
this
beautiful,
heady
rush.

    Maybe
he
hasn’t
gone
out.

    Hollywood
is
saying
something.
    ‘Sorry,
what?’
    ‘I
heard
you
went
home
with
him.’

    ‘Kane?
We
live
in
the
same
house.’

    ‘Isn’t
he
with
that
Lauren
chick?’