Mullumbimby by Melissa Lucashenko Read Free Book Online Page A

heels too, rocketing up the length of the paddock, bucking wildly and protesting his abandonment all the way.

Three
    â€˜Whaddya waiting for, hotpants, a written invitation?’ came a familiar merry cry from the the side veranda. Jo peered into the dimly lit space where Therese, Amanda, and two other figures were perched on the deck. She wandered over, wrinkling her nose in disdain. Hotpants.
    Drawing nearer, Jo saw in horror that one of the men was the blackfella from the bookstore, looking as good up close as he had from half a street away. The weathered dreadlocks which cascaded down his broad back were tied together with a yellow cord that ended in a tassel of cockatoo feathers. A narrow leather bracelet beaded in red, black and yellow circled one wrist. From close quarters she saw now that his very dark skin wasn’t down to Islander blood. A few strands of loose hair that had escaped his dreads had no kink to them, and his features were too Aboriginal to evoke the islands of the north, or of the Pacific either.
    Ambushed, she leaned on a veranda post, glared at Therese, and felt her internal defences fall into place, unbidden. Slam, slam, slam. They slid sideways and they slid vertical, like the doors on ‘Get Smart’. All of these doors were solid, locked, and smoothly impenetrable. All of them had emblazoned on them the same simple and undeniable message:
    Good-looking men are nothing but trouble.

    â€˜Fellas – this is Jo Breen, our mate, the one with the farm I’ve been telling you about.’
    Therese affectionately threw a crooked arm around Amanda’s neck, crossed her legs and flashed a look at Jo that said Well? Jo gave her one straight back that read: Did I even say I was looking for a man, you cheeky slag with your ‘meet us at the pub’ and your ‘wear that red t-shirt’, ooh, your arse is so grass my friend, your arse is so fucken grass.
    The man grinned, giving Jo the little chin lift that signalled acknowledgement and he didn’t look away. Then he didn’t look away some more. Jo, transitioning at warp speed from wary to transfixed, was sideswiped with lust from behind her slammed-shut doors. Oh for Chrissake, she snarled at herself, you’re not fourteen. Get a fucking grip, girl.
    â€˜Which way?’ said the man, still not breaking their eye lock, his smile broadening.
    â€˜Same way,’ said Jo. Her pulse surged in her throat, and she was frightened to say more in case she jabbered rubbish. She stuck her hands in her jeans pockets and bunched them into fists.
    Good-looking men are nothing but trouble.
    At that moment, Basho lumbered past, his cumbersome pot belly banging the edge of their long wooden table. Apologising, he had to say ‘g’day Jo’ twice before his voice even registered. Rob Starr wandering through to the servery covered in engine grease and red mud didn’t rate any kind of attention at all. Then Amanda finally leaned over, breaking the spell; she pulled Jo onto the pine bench seat beside her.
    â€˜Hey spunky, you scrub up alright, don’t ya? Jo – this is Twoboy and Laz. The Jackson Brothers – straight outta Compton. Compton Road, Woodridge, that is.’
    â€˜The Jackson two,’ Jo said, relieved to have regained the power of speech.
    â€˜That’s it,’ Laz agreed from the opposite side of the table, a slightly heavier, younger Twoboy without the dreads or the juice.The gelded version, Jo thought, then mentally smacked her hand for thinking it.
    â€˜Your shout, moll,’ Jo told Therese.
    â€˜Stevo turn up yet?’ Amanda asked.
    â€˜Two guesses,’ Jo answered, wincing with the strain in her aching legs as she stretched them beneath the table.
    â€˜My little brother,’ she explained to the Jacksons. ‘We’re fencing this weekend. Guess who hasn’t shown.’
    â€˜Fencing’s hard yakka,’ Twoboy answered knowingly. ‘You’ll