CJ held out his birth certificate and I took it. It wasn’t what I was expecting him to ask me. We’d been joking and even flirting with each other, getting comfortable, so his serious questions threw me for a six.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched over a little, doing that ‘trying to make himself smaller’ thing.

I hated that he felt bad and alone. Being illiterate must be so isolating, I couldn’t even imagine. So I stood beside him, leaning against the counter, just like him. We touched from shoulder to thigh and I gave him a bump with my hip. “Of course I can.”

I unfolded the piece of paper and held it out between us both so he could see it. I read it out loud, word for word.

“Name: Clinton James Davis. Mother’s name: Lindy Mears. Her age when you were born was nineteen. She was unemployed.” I’d never seen anything in his file about a mother. “Did you know her?”

He shook his head. “Nope. She bailed when I was one. Apparently she was hardly around before then anyway. Dad said the drugs got her in the end. His words were ‘he met her in a crack house, left her in one.’”

Jesus. “Sorry.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “After that I was looked after by whoever was in the house. My brothers or my dad. Sometimes no one. Then when I was two, some bible-bashing door knocker found me at home by myself. I was a mess, apparently, and they don’t know how long I’d been alone or when I ate last. Dad was on some booze-bender. In town. DOCs were gonna take me until Pops said he’d move in. He stopped drinking right then and he’s been looking after me ever since.”

“He’s a good man.”

“He’s the best.”

I gave him a smile and went back to reading the certificate. “Your father is Dwayne Davis. He was thirty-one when you were born. Unemployed.”

CJ made a low hum. It sounded like distaste, but he said nothing.

“It says they weren’t married, and there were no previous children to their union.”

“My brothers aren’t on it?”

I shook my head. “No. The notice of birth was filed two days after you were born.”

He frowned and stared at the floor. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone, despite what his birth certificate said. But instead, I said, “Your brothers. Tell me about them.”

“I’m the youngest of five boys to four different mothers. Richard’s the eldest. Then there’s Kenny, Stephen, and John’s ten years older than me. They’re um, they’re all in jail. Like father like sons.” He sighed. “They haven’t seen the outside of a jail since they turned eighteen, and they did juvie before that. They weren’t around much when I was a kid, so it’s not like I know them. Richard got done for armed robbery. Kenny did theft, break and enter, but had time added for stabbing an inmate. Stephen and John got done together for break and enter, unlawful imprisonment, assault. They broke into a pub, thinking it was empty, but it wasn’t. They tied up the barman and held him there but couldn’t open the safe.”

Jesus Christ.

“That’s why they call it Davis Row,” he mumbled. “It’s not just the cops or community services workers who call it that, but the locals in town too. And it’s not just my brothers or my dad. My uncles weren’t much better. All of ’em were in trouble for something.”

“Not you and Pops.”

He shot me a sceptical look. “Uh, you’re my parole officer. That kinda means I found some trouble.”

“But you’ve stayed out of jail.”

“Because of Pops. Well, I’m pretty sure I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

I folded the birth certificate and handed it back to him. “You’re lucky to have him. And he’s lucky to have you. He looked after you and now you look after him. I never knew my grandfather.”

He slid the paper into his pocket. “Pops isn’t my grandfather.”

What? But . . . “What?”

“He’s my dad’s uncle.”

“Your great-uncle?”

He shrugged. “If that’s what you call it, I guess. But I was little and called him Pops and it stuck. And we just told the doctors he was my grandfather and no one ever questioned it. He wanted better things, ya know. He was different to the rest of ’em, but he got lumped with me when I was two, and by the time I was old enough for school and he could work full-time, he got sick.” He shook his head and scowled. “It’s not fair. Emphysema is so cruel. Why do the good people suffer? Why can’t people like my old man suffer instead? Pops is a good man. He raised me when my own father didn’t. He never complained. Not once. He never got asked to look after me, he just stepped up when no one else would.”

God, I wanted to hug him. And then I thought, fuck it. That’s exactly what I’ll do. I pushed off the kitchen counter and stood in front of him. I slowly put my hand to his neck and his eyes went wide, but I didn’t stop, and he didn’t stop me. So I leaned in slowly, giving him plenty of time to react, and gently pulled him against me.

He was rigid, uneasy, but he didn’t recoil, and he didn’t tell me to fuck off.

“You can hug me back, you know.”

Then I realised that maybe no one had ever bloody hugged him before either. Pops was a great guy but none of the Davis clan seemed overly affectionate. Without pulling away, I said, “I’ve wanted to hug you for a while.”

Still, with his arms by his sides, he asked, “Why?”

“Because sometimes people hug as a way of saying things are gonna be okay.”

I could feel his chest rise and fall, then slowly, unsurely, he raised his hands to my sides, and after a few rapid heartbeats, he slid his arms around me. Then he held on tight and fisted my shirt and he breathed in real deep. I felt it, the moment something in him gave way. He gave in and let himself be held.

And there, in my small kitchen with the hideous linoleum floor, I broke down a small part of the wall around CJ Davis’ heart.

Only when he let go did I pull back, but not very far. With my face close to his, I cupped his cheek and ran my thumb along the edge of his bottom lip. His eyes were dark; his breaths were short and sharp. God, I wanted to kiss him so bad. I wanted to feel his lips and taste his tongue. I wanted to hold his face and thread my fingers in his hair and kiss him for all I was worth . . .

But I couldn’t.

I took a step back and let out a rush of air. “Holy shit,” I said breathlessly.

He looked dazed, a little confused. “Right.”

I held up two fingers. “Two and a half weeks.”

He rolled his eyes but he smiled. “I still haven’t said I’ll let you.”

“Let me what?”

“Kiss me.”

I knew what he meant. I just wanted to hear him say it. “You won’t ‘let me.’ You’ll beg me.”

He rolled his eyes and pushed my shoulder. “Fuck off.”

I snorted out a laugh, thankful the tension between us had simmered. “How about I show you what printouts I did and the information booklets I got?” Not waiting for him to answer, I took the folder from the bench and went into the lounge room. I fell into my couch arse first and opened the folder. He sat beside me and I took out the first sheet of paper.

“When we were at the RMS, I saw this and it got me thinking,” I explained. It was the standard eye test everyone had to do when getting a licence, with a big letter at the top and the letters getting smaller each line down. I handed it to him. “The one I saw at the licensing desk had an E on top, so I Googled it and printed it, but the one you have to read from might not look like this. I’m pretty sure they change them around a bit. I thought we should practise the letters so they don’t think you need glasses or something and refuse your first attempt.”

He frowned at the paper. “What if I get it wrong?”

“You won’t. That’s why I printed it. So we can practise.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

I made a face. “No. Think of it more like practising and being prepared.”

“So, it’s cheating?”

“Not at all.” I cleared my throat, because I had no clue if it was technically cheating or not. “So, what are you like with letters like this?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “E . . . F . . . P?”

I nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. “Keep going.”

“T . . . O . . . Z?”

He was slow, unsure, and he said each letter like it was a question, but he got them right. I nudged him with my elbow. “Perfect.”

He blushed. “Yeah, well, Pops helped me a bit when I was growin’ up, and letters by ’emselves I can do okay. Put them all together in words and then add a whole lotta words on a page and I come unstuck.”

“Well, for this eye test, you only need to read letters one at a time.” I took the piece of paper, stood up, and crossed the room. I pointed to the fifth line down. “Can you read this line from there?” I was about two metres away, but he did fine.

“P . . . E . . . C . . . F . . . D?”

“Now cover your right eye and read the line above it.” He did that and then again with his left eye covered, and he managed just fine. “Excellent. Your eyesight’s perfect. But we can keep practicing it though, just to make sure we nail it.”

He took the booklet for the rider licence and turned to page one. “This’ll take me forever.”

“No it won’t. I’m gonna help you. We’ll get through it in no time at all.”

He shook his head. “When’re you gonna help me? The course thing is in two weeks. I can’t be reading this whole thing and learning all those rules and shit.”

I sat back down beside him and took his hand, and I don’t know if I shocked him or me the most but I never let it go. “CJ, listen to me. You can do this. I know you can.” He looked about ready to argue, so I kept going. “How long have you been riding a motorbike for?”

He shrugged a bit. “Since I was ten, probably.”

“And you can fix one when something goes wrong?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you’ve never been pulled over by the cops yet?”

“Nuh.”

“So, you already know most of the rules. Stop signs, give way signs, roundabouts, intersections, pedestrian crossings . . .”

He squinted at me. “Yeah. I ain’t stupid.”

“Exactly. So what are you worried for?”

“I ain’t ever sat a test before.”

Of course he hadn’t. “Well, I’m sure they have mock tests, like trial ones, online. We can do those this weekend. You know the answers. You just need to get used to how they’re gonna ask you the questions.”

“This weekend?”

“Yeah. Are you free?”

“I, um, I guess so.”

“I can pick you up after soccer if you want. You can make sure Pops is good and I can drive you home after dinner. How does that sound?”

He made a face. “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”

I grinned at him. “Well, I don’t want to push you, but . . .”

“We’ve only got two and a half weeks?”

I chuckled. “Yep. Come on, I’ve gotta get back to work. I’ll drive you home.”

“What do I do with all these?” he asked, looking at the folder full of papers.

“Well, you can take them home or you can leave them here. Whatever you want.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t want my dad to know.”

“Then leave them here.” I gave him a smile, stood up, and went into the kitchen and grabbed my keys and wallet. CJ followed with his hands shoved back into his jean pockets.

He was kinda quiet again as we got into the car and headed out of town. Eventually, he said, “Thanks for what you’re doing for me.”

“It’s no problem. Thanks for agreeing.” I wanted to keep the conversation going, so I asked, “What are you doing tonight and tomorrow?”

“Uh, tonight’ll just be the usual. Pops watches his soaps on TV and then the quiz shows. He likes ’em. Sometimes I’ll watch with him, sometimes I’ll be fixin’ stuff outside. Then I cook dinner and make sure there’s enough wood inside for the fire. Not very exciting.”

“Sounds nice though.”

“Yeah, it is. Well, it was. Until my old man got home and bitches through it all. Does nothing to help. He washed up a few times, but the novelty of that wore off pretty quick.”

“That’s gotta be rough.”

“Well, it was easier when he wasn’t there, that’s for sure.”

“Do you think your brothers will come home when they get out?” I asked. God, I couldn’t imagine what that would be like.

“Nah. They’ll stay around Sydney. But they’re never out for long anyway; a few months, tops. Two are in Silverwater, one’s in Goulburn, and one’s in Long Bay.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. Richard, he’s the one in Long Bay. He won’t ever come out.”

“Do you go to see them?”

“Nope. I don’t even really remember Richard. He was in juvie when I was born and pretty much went from there to one jail or another. Don’t really remember Kenny either. I remember Stephen and John, but not much. They were out of juvie when I was like five or six but went back to jail after their stupid robbery went wrong. When they were out, all they did was beat on me.”

“Bloody hell.”

He sighed, long and loud. “What about you? You know all about me and my fucked-up family. What’s yours like? Perfect? Like the Forrester family from Pops’ soaps?”

“The Forrester family?”

“Yeah, from The Bold and the Beautiful. It’s his favourite show.”

I barked out a laugh. “Do me a favour. If you wanna keep your bad boy reputation, don’t go telling people you watch The Bold and the Beautiful.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He rolled his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. About your family.”

My stomach sank and my heart squeezed. My mouth was dry and I had to swallow. “My, um, my mum and dad, and my sister . . .” God, I couldn’t even bring myself to say it.

“Your mum and dad and sister what?”

“They died.”

He stared and I let out a steady breath, looking at the road⁠—anywhere but at him.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It was a car accident. Kind of. Three years ago. It’s a long story.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep.”

“Man, I’m sorry. Were they your only family?”

My chest felt all tight and there didn’t seem to be enough air in the car. Fuck. I pressed the button to roll down my window. I needed fresh air. “Can we not talk about it?” I said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Shit, man. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

I took some deep breaths and we drove in silence the rest of the way. When I pulled up at Mr Barese’s shop, CJ turned in his seat to face me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I scrubbed my hands over my face. I had better control of myself now. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

He made a face. “So, this Saturday . . . ?”

“Yeah. I can, um, I can pick you up after soccer.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. If you had a mobile phone I could text you.”

“Nah. I never had a need for one.”

“Well, you have my office and mobile number if you need to call me. If any plans change or whatever.”

“Yeah. It’s on some papers at home, I think.”

I pulled out one of my cards. “Here. Just in case.”

He took the card and slid it into his wallet. “Thanks.”

“Have fun at work tomorrow.”

He snorted. “Yeah, thanks.”

“If your dad gives you a hard time about not being at home . . .” I wasn’t sure what I was offering.

“Don’t worry about him. See ya Saturday.”

He got out of the car and Mr Barese greeted him with a smile. I waved them off and drove back to town. I had work to catch up on after spending the entire morning with CJ, and I needed the distraction.

I hadn’t thought of my family in a while. I didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse. Or both. And it didn’t matter how much time passed. I didn’t think it would ever matter. Those wounds ripped open, as fresh as the night the police came to my door . . .

* * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing house calls, and it was the perfect distraction. I took work home with me to keep myself busy, and I spent all day Friday doing work placement calls⁠—anything to keep myself occupied.

I spent all Saturday morning getting shit done around the house, but I was excited to get to the soccer fields. Gallan gave me a grin and a fist bump. “We good?”

I grinned right back at him. “Yeah, of course. You seemed to be getting on okay with that guy when I left.”

He laughed. “Meeting him again tonight too.”

That was a pleasant surprise. More often than not, random hook-ups were only that. “Awesome. So, you gonna buy the guy dinner, or are you meeting him up against the wall in the backroom of HQ again?”

He laughed and shoved my shoulder. “Dinner, for sure. Then up against the wall in the backroom of HQ.”

“I’m really happy for you. That’s good news.”

“What about you? You and bad-boy hottie certainly had eyes for each other.”

“Ah well, not yet.” I couldn’t exactly divulge the work/caseworker situation. “It’s kinda complicated.”

Gallan’s reaction was surprised. “Man, I thought for sure you were hooking up.”

Tony kicked the ball to us and told us to quit chatting and get training. We only had half an hour before the game. So we started with some ball skill exercises and went for a bit of a warm-up jog before we ran out onto the field.

We were getting better as a team and were holding our own but they’d edged us out with an early goal. We were down 1-0 with ten minutes still left in the first half when Gallan called out to me and nodded toward the sideline. “Doesn’t look too complicated to me.”

I followed his line of sight and my heart skidded to a stop. CJ was there, leaning against his motorbike, in his black jeans and boots and his old leather jacket. He put a lit cigarette to his mouth to hide his smile when our eyes met.

Then someone yelled at me to get the ball and I remembered I was actually playing a game of soccer. An opponent was coming toward me and I ran at him, tackling the ball from him. I edged it from around his feet and tapped it out of his hold, breaking away with it. I dribbled it a few metres away, then booted it to Davo, who was free from his opponent in the centre of the field. He raced up toward the goal, and with a sharp kick to the right of the net, the goalie dove left, and we tied the game 1-all just before the half-time buzzer went.

We ran off the field to our side and grabbed our water bottles, happy with our game. I copped a few claps on the back for my efforts and a few ‘good job’ and ‘well done’ comments, and it felt kind of amazing.

But I couldn’t stop looking over to CJ.

“Be back in a sec,” I said to my team before running over to where CJ still sat against his dirt bike. “Hey,” I said in greeting.

“Hey yourself.”

“I thought I was coming to pick you up?”

“I thought I’d save you the trip.” He fought a smile. “You did good out there. Gettin’ the ball off that other guy.”

“Thanks.”

“Though your legs could use some sun.”

I looked down at my legs . . . my very white legs. “Shut up.”

He laughed. “Better get back to your team. Your boyfriend keeps looking over here.”

I shot a look at the guys to find Gallan was watching us. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You went into the backroom of HQ with him.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”

He answered with a laugh.

“Because I can take you into the backroom any time you like,” I added.

His eyes flashed with something like a challenge. “Not for two weeks, you can’t.”

Dammit. Why did I have to go and make such a stupid rule? “Professional ethics really suck.”

“Is that so?”

I think he was going to say something about my choice of words but decided not to. Thank God. The mental image of him sucking anything didn’t bode well for flimsy soccer shorts. The grin he gave me, and the quick glance at my crotch, told me that was his plan all along. I had to readjust my protector. “Fucker.”

He barked out a laugh and I ran back to my team. Gallan gave me a grin. “There ain’t nothing complicated about that.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He laughed and we ran back out onto the field with our team. We played well and the game ended in a 1-all draw. There wouldn’t be overtime until the finals, so while some were pissed that it wasn’t a result either way, I was just happy it wasn’t a loss.

I guess that summed up my optimistic nature.

“Coming to the pub for a few drinks?” Tony asked.

“Nah. Can’t today. Already have plans.” I wiped my face with my towel. “And I can’t after next week’s game either.” CJ was doing the first week of his rider licence course next weekend; I wanted to be there when he finished.

Gallan shoved his gear into his bag and winked at me. “Not complicated at all.”

I rolled my eyes and a few of the others gave us a weird look. I waved them off in a ‘never mind’ kind of way and when everyone was leaving, I told Gallan to have fun tonight. “So did you even get a name of your date?”

“Yep, and a phone number.” He waggled his eyebrows tauntingly. “Who knows? Maybe one day he might come watch me play soccer.” He gave a pointed glance to where CJ was still waiting. “Good luck.”

I nodded them off and made my way over to CJ. He lit up a cigarette just as I got there. I dropped my bag at my feet. “Wasn’t too boring for you?” I asked.

“Nope. It was good to watch. Rather you than me though. Too much running.”

“It feels good actually. I like my lungs to burn in a good way,” I said with a smile and a nod to his cigarette.

He grinned, looked right at me, and took a long drag. “Me too.”

I was smiling right back at him. I liked this playful side of him: banter, easy going, and a spark of mischief in his eyes. Just then, a drop of sweat ran from my hairline down my temple, so I pulled my shirt up and wiped my face, giving him an eyeful of my stomach. I wasn’t ripped but I was in okay shape.

He totally checked me out, and it was like he took another drag of his cigarette for the distraction. “But on the bright side,” he waved his hand from my head to foot, “at least I won’t be the only one who stinks.”

I chuckled. “You smell of cigarettes. I was gonna go home and have a shower before I came to pick you up. Now you’ll have to put up with me being all sweaty.”

He smirked and took another drag of his cigarette. “I won’t mind.”

Jesus. Did everything he say have an innuendo, or was it just my wishful thinking?

“So? You want to load your bike into the boot of my car or you gonna risk riding it to my place?”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Then drive in front of me. I’ll follow, and if you get pulled over by the cops, I’ll tell them I’m chaperoning you to get your bike to the workshop. Or something.”

He blew his smoke skyward then looked at me. “Lying to law enforcement is kinda frowned upon. Especially someone in your job.”

“It isn’t a lie. Kind of.” I picked up my bag. “Just don’t do anything the cops’ll want to pull you over for.”

Now he grinned, like it was a dare or a challenge.

“I’m being serious.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

I walked to my car, opened the door, and sat with my legs out. I pulled off my soccer boots; the cleats weren’t much good for driving. By the time I had my slides out of my bag and on my feet, CJ had put on his helmet⁠—which he only seemed to wear when he came into town, so I was grateful for that at least⁠—and he’d slowly ridden over and waited for me to close the door and start the car. He lifted up the visor of his helmet in an impatient ‘are you ready yet’ kinda way. After I gave him a nod, I watched as he flipped the gears with his foot and took off slowly. It was only a few blocks, but there were a few intersections and he slowed down and had to give way. He lowered one boot to the ground, and from my view behind him, his posture, his thighs, his arse on that seat, and his shoulders in that jacket . . .

Yeah, I was in trouble.

He pulled up out the front of my house, and when I drove into my driveway, CJ wheeled his bike up beside my car. He took his helmet off, and as I got out of my car, he looked down at my feet. “Now, I ain’t one for fashion, but socks and thongs . . .” He squinted at my slides. “What the hell are those?”

“They’re slides. Fifty bucks Adidas slides.”

“They’re like old man toeless slippers.”

My mouth fell open. “I am duly offended.”

He laughed and tucked his helmet under his arm. “No, seriously. I think the green and white knee-high soccer socks just make the whole look complete.”

I probably would have been a little pissed if he wasn’t smiling and being so damn cute. I pulled my gym bag out of the car. “Shut up. And there I was thinking you were sexy AF, but then you go and open your mouth.”

He stopped. “You think I’m sexy as fuck?”

I growled at him and pushed through the back gate. I unlocked the back door, dropped my gym bag at the washing machine and kicked off my slides so I could pull off my socks. Then, because he was being a dick, I pulled off my shirt too. When I turned back around, he was staring at me. “What? Nothing smart to say?”

He licked his bottom lip. “I, uh, I just, um . . .”

Now I laughed. “Have you eaten? How about I go have a shower so only one of us stinks while you make toasted cheese sandwiches. In the frypan like you did the other night.”

“Maybe I would, if you didn’t just tell me I stink.”

“You said I stink before.”

“Because you just played soccer. You’re all sweaty.”

“You said you liked me sweaty.”

“No I didn’t.”

“I’m pretty sure you did. You said you like it when I’m hot and sweaty, particularly shirtless.” I made a show of running my hand over my chest. “And you think my socks and slides are sexy as hell, and you really wanted to make me a toasted cheese sandwich.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up and go have your bloody shower.”

I tapped his flat stomach as I walked past. “Won’t be long. Make yourself at home.” I left him to it, happy at the banter between us. I figured he’d feel more at ease if I treated him like he was part of the furniture; if I let my nerves show at having him here alone, then he’d be nervous too.

I had no issue with leaving him in my house while I showered. I trusted him. I don’t know why. He was a parolee. A convicted criminal. But he was hardly the type to run off with my flat-screen strapped to his bike.

I scrubbed myself quickly, rinsed, dried off, and threw on some jeans and an old shirt. I could smell the toasted sandwiches before I walked into the living room, and I found myself smiling.

He was holding two plates. “Made one for me too, if that’s okay,” he said, and held a plate out to me.

“Yeah, of course.”

And so, for the next three hours, sitting side by side on the couch, we went through questions and answers for his rider licence. I read the booklet with him, letting him sound out each word, and when he got frustrated and cranky and wanted to throw the booklet out the window, I read it to him. Then we went through the mock test online, and when he passed it twice in a row, we were done for the day. My mind was fried; I imagined his was worse.

“Want a drink?” I asked, standing up. “Coffee, Coke, water?”

“A Coke’d be great, thanks.”

I went to the kitchen, wondering how I might ask him to stay for dinner, and came back out with two cans of Coke. And I stopped.

He was standing next to the cabinet with the photo frames on it. He stared at the picture of me with my parents and sister, then he frowned and looked almost apologetic, but it didn’t stop him from asking.

“Is that your family?”