Page 5 of Free Wind (Lifeguards of Barking Beach #2)

After trying on five different shirts, Blake cycled through them again. He was set on his black skinny jeans and Doc Martens, but if Damo did actually come to the club…

“He won’t,” Blake repeated to his reflection, eyeing the sleeveless black mesh shirt. It was fairly sheer, and in the bright light of his bathroom, his chest hair and nipples were extremely prominent.

A surge of confidence buoyed him, and as he rubbed a dab of pomade between his hands, he allowed himself to relive paddling over to help Damo.

Blake was grinning as he remembered shoving away the Irish tourist and making sure Damo was okay. Practically like a real lifeguard. He’d truly helped and been useful.

And Jesus, Damo was gorgeous. The swirl of memories played through his head like a movie: Damo’s crooked smile, digging in the sand to make the scared little girl laugh, running into the surf to save lives, strong arms slicing through the water as he paddled out like one of the surfing gods Blake had daydreamed about…

Refocusing, Blake smoothed down a few stray hairs and examined his look again. Yes. Black mesh. Even if Damo didn’t come tonight—which he wouldn’t—there’d be other blokes to pick up if he was in the mood. Why go for subtlety?

With a nod, Blake returned to his bedroom and hung up the other shirts in his closet, making sure the hangers faced the same way. It was still far too early to be getting ready, but he couldn’t just half-watch MasterChef and pace.

In the white-tiled bathroom, he pulled out his little blue makeup bag. He’d learned to put on eyeliner in uni with the help of his friend Ashley, who was now married with kids in country Victoria but still DM’d him makeup tutorials.

Wearing his garbo uniform of high-vis orange during the week left him keen to dress up when he went out for the night. He’d experimented in uni with different styles before settling on this look. It was simple—eyeliner and glossy lipstick paired with tight clothes—but it still felt…indulgent.

Maybe a little forbidden too.

After a swipe of lippy, he blotted and gave himself a smile in the mirror, examining the color choice. Hmm. Too dark? He wiped it off and tried another.

Dressing up was his little treat for himself. He didn’t want to do it every day—if he wasn’t at work, he was surfing or volunteering at Barking, and it was far too hot and wet for makeup at the beach.

Even if it wasn’t, if he did it every day, it wouldn’t be special somehow. It was perfect for going out. Satisfied with his red gloss, he uncapped his eyeliner and started penciling under his right eye. Though…

What would Damo think?

Blake hesitated, examining himself critically, his confidence faltering. He’d picked up plenty of blokes when he was in his glam outfits. Besides, Damo wasn’t even going to show. Blake would see him again on the weekend at the beach, wave awkwardly, and go back to his sexy surfer daydreams.

His phone buzzed in his pocket with the rhythmic chimes of a video call, and he nearly dropped it in the toilet when he saw his mother’s face on the screen.

Shit!

He couldn’t answer wearing makeup, so she’d just have to wait until morning.

But what if something was wrong? What if she needed his help?

Groaning, Blake fumbled for his makeup remover and squeezed too much onto a cotton ball before scrubbing at the half line of charcoal under his eye.

He flipped on the tap and splashed water over his face, his eye burning from the remover. As he grabbed a towel with one hand, he swiped his screen with the other.

“Hey, Mum. You okay?”

“What? Fine, love.” She gave Blake a wonderful view of her chin and up her nose.

“Is Dad—”

“Doing me head in like usual. Doc says he’s not supposed to drink, and of course he won’t listen to me.”

The surge of adrenaline morphed into frustration. Why did he let her get him into a panic? He could have just kept his makeup on and rang her back without video. Everything was fine.

“Mum, lift up the phone,” he snapped. It was clearly sitting on the kitchen benchtop.

“Hold your horses,” she said, even though she’d been the one to ring him. “What’s got your knickers in a twist? I’m finishing up another batch of potatoes.”

He didn’t have to ask what kind—it was Friday, which meant the pub was serving bangers and mash with whatever veg was in season or on sale that week. Dessert would be sticky date pudding with custard.

The rhythmic thudding of the potato masher was reassuringly familiar, and Blake breathed deeply, reminding himself his mother hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting to talk.

With the camera still only showing the top of her worn green apron and right up her nose, Mum went on. “He says when a customer shouts the drink, he has to take it or he’ll offend them. Like they have any place else to go in two hundred Ks.”

“He could just add the cost of a drink to their tab and not drink it.”

“And I told him—” Mum lifted the phone. Her bottle blonde hair was short as always, and the wrinkles around her mouth creased even more as she frowned.

“Nah, can’t do that. If the fellas pay for a drink, it has to be drunk.

I told him Frank and Daryl will be thrilled to save the money if he says he’s not allowed. ”

“Darl, the doc said I can have two drinks!” Dad said from a distance.

Mum stepped back, shouting, “Two a bloody week, and you know it!”

Dad replied something Blake couldn’t make out, and he sighed as Mum shouted back.

The kitchen behind her was the same old metal shelving and banged-up brown cabinets. Blake could almost feel the worn lino under his feet as he washed endless dishes and listened to the twang of country music and loud murmur of conversation from the pub.

Her face filling the frame, Mum raised a hand to rub her eye, mashed potato stuck on her small diamond ring and wedding band that she never took off. “I wish you were here, Blakey. He listens to you.”

That was…debatable, but warmth flowed through him to hear the endearment. When he was little, Mum had sung him a song at night to the tune of “Waltzing Matilda.”

“Bedtime for Blakey, bedtime for Blakey, closing his eyes and going to sleep…”

“Can you have a chat to him soon?” she asked.

“Of course.” He had to help, and he was pleased by Mum’s grateful smile.

“That’s our boy.” Her smile vanished. “And your sister’s being a right you-know-what at the moment. Did I tell you?”

She hadn’t—though it was the same argument as always—and he sat on the side of the bed, mmm-ing and agreeing with her when necessary.

“It was so much easier when you were here, love.”

“I know, but I have to work.” That old tug-of-war of guilt raised its head. There was no way he was living in Blinman again. Never. Yet the thought that Mum and Dad needed his help pulled at him.

“We would’ve been lost without you when I was crook. Such a good son.”

The familiar tangle of love and guilt and undeniable pride battled in him. “Thanks, Mum.”

“And I know that garbo gig seems to be a good one, but if it doesn’t pan out, you know you can come back here in a blink. Always a place here, love.”

He was determined to never live in Blinman again, but he nodded and smiled.

“Did I tell you we had to hire that useless Douglas girl since Camden Martin went off to uni like you did? With your brothers up in Queensland, and Ella in Adelaide, who’ll run this place when we’re gone?”

Not me. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it all out.”

She smiled tenderly. “You really should have become a doctor. I’m sure you could convince your patients to follow your orders.”

“You need to be good at maths and science for that. My English lit degree wouldn’t cut it.”

“You were good at maths and science!”

“I was all right, but I didn’t like it enough to do it in uni.” He leaned over and reached for the glass of water beside his bed. “Look, Mum—”

She gasped, her voice rising. “What on earth are you wearing?”

Too late, he realized his sheer black shirt was visible. Guts twisting, he brought his phone closer. “Nothing.” The way she could make him feel like a naughty child in an instant…

Her smile had vanished, and an awkward silence stretched out as she mashed again, still holding the phone in one hand. Thud, thud, thud.

Eyes downcast, she finally said, “What will they think at work?”

He tried to laugh. “I’m not wearing club gear to empty the bins.”

Eyebrows raised, she said, “What kind of clubs are you—” She broke off, quickly adding, “Never mind!” as if he was about to launch into a description of S&M bondage.

“It’s just a shirt, Mum.”

“Barely.” She mashed like her life depended on it, still not looking at him. She glanced sharply to her left and hissed, “Your father’s coming. Don’t let him see!”

Only Blake’s face was visible now on the screen. “I have to go anyway.”

Mum painted on a smile, still not actually looking at him. “All right, love. Have a good—” Her smile cracked, and she stared with imploring, tearful eyes. “Be careful. Promise me.”

Part of him wanted to remind her it wasn’t the nineties, and he was fine, but he couldn’t bear the worry etched on her face. “I promise. Love you.”

Shoulders slumping, he flopped back on the bed.

He didn’t feel like going out anymore. He’d text Kat to tell them he couldn’t go, take off his silly mesh shirt, and have an early night.

He could surf early before his volunteer shift.

It wasn’t as if Damo would actually show, and Kat had plenty of mates to hang out with.

Pushing to his feet, he returned to the bathroom to put away his makeup. He caught his reflection and stopped.

He really did look good in that shirt.

Taking a long, deep breath, he shook off the ugh and picked up the eyeliner. He’d moved away from home for the last time. Even if Mum and Dad needed help again, he wasn’t living in Blinman. He was in Barking by the ocean like he’d dreamed about for so, so long.

And he might have a date with a hot surfer just like he’d dreamed about.

Even if Damo didn’t show, Blake needed this.

And what would Damo think of the makeup? Maybe he’d think it was weird, but…

No, Damo seemed chill. Not that Blake knew him, but his gut told him it was okay. And if it wasn’t, better to find out now.

Not that Damo would actually come.

A couple of hours later, Blake buzzed from a gin cocktail and the pulsing beat. Damo hadn’t appeared, but the disappointment was tempered by dancing with Kat and a few of their mates. He was slowly getting to know Kat’s circle of friends well enough to chat to and have a few laughs.

Kat took a drink—then made a choking sound, eyes bulging. Before Blake could determine if they were having some kind of seizure, they gulped and yelled too loudly even on the dance floor, “He’s here!”

“Who?” Blake spun around.

“The king of England. Who’d ya think?” Kat grabbed him and ducked behind a pole as if this was suddenly a spy thriller and they were taking cover from foreign operatives. “Ten o’clock.”

“I thought it was eleven by now?”

“Not the bloody time!” Kat smacked his arm and nodded to the left.

Feeling ridiculous and a bit giddy, Blake peeked out from behind the pillar.

It was really him.

Damo stood a few meters inside the club with his hands stuffed into his pockets, gazing around anxiously. He wore skinny jeans and a short-sleeved button-down shirt in blue that matched his eyes and showed off the muscles in his arms.

“I told ya so.” Kat grinned. “Now go get ’im, tiger.”

Acid bubbled in Blake’s stomach. “But…”

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You look fantastic, and he’s here for you. Now go stand by the bar, show off your magnificent arse, and let him find you. You’ve got this.”

“Fake it ’til I make it?”

With a decisive slap on said arse, Kat pushed him toward the bar.