Page 8 of Free Wind (Lifeguards of Barking Beach #2)

During the short drive south to Barking, Damo rolled the window down, the heat of Blake’s body close by on the back seat a massive distraction.

Blake had dropped his hand with a parting squeeze once they were outside the club to pull out his phone and order a ride.

Damo’s fingers still tingled, and since neither of them had sat in the front like Damo normally would if he was alone in a taxi, there was nothing stopping him from sliding his hand across the fabric seat and touching Blake’s fingers…

But then they were in front of a two-story block of apartments in North Barking, and Damo was following Blake up the cement steps to the second level and a white door three down.

Did he really want this? How curious was he?

The effects of the drinks were wearing off, and without the flashing lights and thumping bass, he was crashing down to earth.

Standing in Blake’s living room in his socked feet because Mum had always taught him to take off real shoes in the house, Damo fidgeted. Would it be weird to take off his socks too? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn any.

Blake switched on a lamp with a soft click.

In the yellow light, the navy fabric couch and big armchair looked comfy.

The floor was battered wood that had seen better days, but the green oval rug seemed new and vacuumed.

There was a TV opposite the couch, a gaming system on a shelf underneath with controllers lined up neatly.

Beige curtains were drawn over windows and what Damo assumed was a sliding door to a balcony.

“Sorry for the mess.” Blake grabbed a cola can and napkin from the low wooden coffee table and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Mess?” Puzzled, Damo glanced around. “No worries.” He thought of the dishes piled up in the sink at home with an uncomfortable squirm and peeled off his socks, tucking them into his shoes by the door.

Stepping onto the soft rug, he craned his neck to see the title of the paperback on the coffee table. It was called Woo Woo by Ella Baxter, and there was some half-eaten fruit and birds of paradise on the cover. A bookmark poked out from about halfway.

Blake returned with a damp cloth and wiped the table, placing the book on the arm of the couch.

“Good book?” Damo asked—immediately regretting it in case Blake asked him what he was reading.

The answer would be either the surf report or instructions on how long to microwave a butter chicken ready meal from Woolies. Not that he needed to look—it was seven and a half minutes from frozen.

“Yeah, it’s interesting. It’s a satire on the art world and contemporary performance art in particular. Dark comedy sort of thing.” Blake disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Cool,” Damo said.

What was satire again? He reckoned it was making fun of something but in a smart way? Fucked if he knew.

The soft white walls were decorated with framed blue ocean and red-earth desert prints. The frames were fancy too—like it was real art and not from the Reject Shop. It was all so normal.

So adult.

Damo inhaled through a pang of jealousy, sharp and shocking. Blake had this space all to himself, and the bedroom Damo had grown up in was absolutely pathetic in comparison. The fact that he still slept in the same bed he’d had for more than a decade made him feel stupid and young and…

Scared.

The worn floor creaked under Damo as he shifted back and forth, shoving his hands in his pockets. Was he really going to do this?

It reminded him of the first time he’d jumped off the cliff south of Barking. He’d had to rescue a surfer trapped by the pounding swells, the white water too rough to take in the Jet Ski or rescue board and the coast guard helicopter still on its way.

He’d only had a rescue tube—little more than a floaty—when he’d leapt, flinging himself off the cliff with only a ragged heartbeat of hesitation. The surfer had needed him. There was no option.

Now, his lungs tightened and sweat prickled his neck, and he absolutely had a choice.

Standing in Blake’s clean, grown-up unit, he could creep back from the edge and run home to his bedroom with dirty laundry piled in the corner and tacked-up bikini-babe posters faded by the sun.

He realized he’d never had anything on his walls that was actually framed.

Was that a painting or a photo over the TV? He took a step, peering intently at the gorgeous art. It was a close-up of a curling wave, the water different shades of bluey-green. White droplets sprayed into the blue sky from the wave’s lip, white froth on the edge of the barrel over pale turquoise.

Blake said from behind him, “It’s called ‘Clean Swell.’ Scott Christensen. I’m hoping one day I can afford an original oil of his instead of a canvas edition. It’s signed and numbered, though.”

“It’s amazing.” Damo honestly wasn’t sure what was bad about canvas—it sure looked like a real painting to him. “Thought it was a pic at first.”

“Isn’t the detail incredible? The brushstrokes are so fine.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t know shit about art. Damo motioned to the apartment, not knowing what else to say. “Great place.”

“Thanks. It’s not much, I know.” For the first time, Blake seemed a little unsure as he scratched the back of his neck.

“It’s sweet as. I mean, I still live at home. Want to move out, but I can’t.”

“I get it. So hard these days to afford it.”

“It’s not just the money, it’s—” Damo shoved away thoughts of his dad wailing in agony and Tabby’s helpless, silent tears, locking that box up tight. “I pay rent.”

“Right, of course. I lived at home a few years after uni. Plenty of people do these days.”

“You went back to Blinman?” He was surprised to hear it.

“Yeah, there was some family stuff.” Blake waved a hand.

He was dying to ask but bit his tongue for once. “This place is awesome.” He forced a smile, trying not to think about Tabby and whether Mum was home safely and if he should—

Exhaling, Damo closed that door, at least for tonight. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to pull out his phone. He wanted to be right where he was.

“I’m jealous,” he added. “This is a terrific spot. Trust me, even if it was a dive, I’m not judging.”

“Neither am I.”

Damo blinked, realizing he was staring at Blake’s nipples through the sheer shirt. He forced his gaze upward. “Huh?”

Blake smiled softly in that kind way he had as he stepped closer. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything. We can just talk. Or watch TV or play the new Elden Ring. Whatever you want.”

“You don’t want to do…anything else?” It was mental, but that hurt.

“Oh, I do, but not if you don’t? You look like you might spew.”

Damo tried to laugh, smoothing down his hair. “No worries, I didn’t have that much to drink.”

“You want something now? I’ve got a goon bag. Sauv blanc, I think. Or Toohey’s.”

“Sure. Beer, thanks.”

Blake disappeared into the little kitchen, his bare feet quiet. Damo could glimpse the corner of a white fridge opening and closing, the light briefly shining. Blake returned and handed him a bottle in a neoprene stubbie holder with the Freo Dockers’ logo on the side.

After gulping half, Damo asked, “You don’t support the Crows?”

Blake shrugged and motioned to the couch before sitting.

He put the book back on the table. “Yeah, but when in Rome and all that. Hey, I guess you know Liam Fox? I vaguely remember him playing for Perth before he blew out his knee. Saw his coming-out interview last year. Well, me and probably every queer person in Australia.”

Queer. The word made Damo’s pulse race as he sat on the other end of the couch. The middle cushion was between them, but he immediately second-guessed whether he should have sat closer.

What were they talking about? Right.

Damo said, “Yeah, he’s famous. I mean, he was before for footy, but now he’s famous again.”

“He seems to be doing well? I’ve seen him working at Barking, but I didn’t want to hassle him.”

Damo snorted. “It sure doesn’t stop anyone else. At least most people are supportive.”

“His boyfriend’s on the service too, right? The guy who paddled out to help with those tourists the other day. American?”

“Canadian. And yeah, they’re mad about each other, but they try not to let it show at work. Usually they’re all business.”

“Usually?” Blake sipped his beer. In the glow of the lamp, his eyeliner was smudged in the corners, and his lipstick was faded. His nipples were still visible through the sheer black shirt.

He was gorgeous. Had blokes always been this gorgeous?

Damo shrugged. His cheeks flamed hot, and he laughed awkwardly, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. How did he usually sit on a couch? What did he do with his feet?

“Oh, there’s a story there. Come on. It’s safe with me.”

Safe.

Damo gulped his beer and launched into the story he’d never told anyone before he could talk himself out of it.

“One night, I forgot my phone in the tower. I went back up the stairs, and the door was still unlocked. Liam and Cody were inside finishing up. They were, um, kissing.”

He couldn’t believe he was actually saying it out loud, but once he got going, he’d never been good at shutting up. He quickly added, “They were off duty—the shutters were down, and it was night. It was just a little cuddle after a hard day. They weren’t doing anything wrong.”

Blake lifted his hands. “I won’t report them, I promise.”

“Nah, yeah. I know. Anyway, it was… Not that I spied on them. I wasn’t perving.” His face was boiling hot, and he hoped the low light hid it. “They’re my mates.”

“I get it,” Blake said calmly. “You were curious.” He took a swig of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And seeing them being intimate made you even more curious?”

Damo shrugged and didn’t answer, but his mind filled with remembered images—Cody sitting in Liam’s lap by the shuttered windows, Liam’s big hand spread over his lower back as they kissed with quiet little murmurs and nose rubs.