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“Apart from that. And not the small town boy makes good story either. Something I don’t know.”
“Bossy.”
He must’ve pulled a face because she leant back from the table, “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you. We don’t have to do this.”
They sure didn’t. But it would be interesting to see what it would take to shock her. “I didn’t learn to read until after I learned to drive a car.”
She looked bemused. She’d been watching him closely, she’d seen the Kindle.
“Visual dyslexia and teachers who didn’t know what to do about it, when I bothered to show up at school. I caught up, but not till my late teens.”
“Where were your parents?”
“I was a foster kid. Moved around so much no one picked it up, and I was good at hiding it.”
“That’s incredible. You have come a long way from Tara.” She said that like a caress, and damn if it didn’t make him feel relaxed, even though he was starting to get cold. “My turn. Truth. Why do you want to interview Parker?”
“Hah. Too easy. You wasted a good question. It’s a career-making interview. You know that long parental shadow? If I can get the definitive interview, I get to step out from under it. If I can get Parker to spill secrets, particularly about why he’s started buying up shares in Avalon mining, it’ll be a genuine breaking story. Parker doesn’t do media interviews. But all of a sudden he’s available. His people think we’re tame, that we’ll fall over our own feet to write a puff piece. That’s not my intention.”
“You’re right. I wasted a question. Who cares about bloody Will Parker?”
“I do. There has to be a reason he’s so deliberate about avoiding the spotlight and I wonder if it’s the same reason he appears to have built his empire out of nothing.”
“Maybe he has a terrible physical affliction—he’s a hunchback or a vampire.”
She laughed. “If he’s a hunchback, I promise I won’t be mean to him. But if he’s got fangs, I’m going to do whatever I can to stick a stake in his intentions to soft soap the Australian public.”
“I’m glad I’m just a boy from Tara and you’re just my fellow detainee.” Though she was so inspired and engaging, he was beginning to want to define detainee a different way.
“My go. Truth. Any scars?” she said. She touched her chin. She wanted the story.
Let’s see if this got her. “Hell yeah. You sure you want to know? We could be here all night.”
“I thought that was the detention plan.”
“Funny. You ready for this?”
“Only if it’s show and tell.”
“You asked for it.” It had to be said. He gestured to the back of his neck, but kept his eyes on hers. “There’s a scar here from where they removed the hunch.”
He’d hardly got the words out before she shoved the table so it butted against his gut, plates skidding, chopsticks scattering. She was choking on her laugher. “I get one dare for that. You are so going down.”
“No, no dares. Truth.” He pushed his sleeve up, displaying a burn scar. “Petrol fire.” He ran a finger under his chin, “Fight. Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tapped his nose, “Got this broken to go with it.” He pulled the neck of his shirt to the side, showing his pec and the faded line of stitches. “Knife.”
Her mouth dropped open. She had a freshly poured cup of tea in her hand, held aloft, forgotten.
“There’s more.” She shook her head, frowning. She’d heard enough. “Hey, it was a tough neighbourhood. What about you?”
“Nothing to speak of compared to you. Fifteen stitches from a badly split knee. I fell out of a tree.”
“Show and tell.”
She smiled, looked down at the waistband of her jeans. Her momentary loss of composure over. “Nice try. No way.”
“My question then. Most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”
“Death knocks.”
