The Nature of Cruelty Read online

  “Put a T-shirt on, then.”

  “I think we both know you don’t want me to do that,” he says slyly.

  I squint my eyes at him. “What?”

  “I saw you looking.”

  “And?”

  “And if I cover up, you won’t be able to look anymore.”

  I let out a long sigh. “You’re so annoying.”

  “Annoyingly sexy,” he counters.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me the cream,” I say, at the end of my tether.

  He hands the bottle to me smugly before turning around to present his shoulders. I squirt a little into the palm of my hand and begin rubbing it into one shoulder lightly.

  “Ah, that feels good,” says Robert, with an exaggeratedly orgasmic groan.

  I immediately pull my hands away.

  “Hey! Why’d you stop?”

  “Don’t make any more noises like that,” I tell him flatly.

  He turns his head to me a little. “Why? Does it give you a tingle?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “No, just – just stop talking, okay?”

  He gives me a funny look. “Okay, then.”

  Finally I build up the nerve to finish his back. His skin feels amazing, his shoulders so hard and defined.

  I’m almost done when he suddenly grabs my hand, pulls it over his shoulder and holds it to his chest, right over his heart. I’m stunned silent when he whispers, “I like it when you look.”

  The two of us breathe heavily for a handful of seconds, and then he releases my hand and I busy myself by rummaging for a bottle of juice in Sasha’s cooler box.

  “Do you need me to do your back?” Robert offers a few minutes later.

  “No, I put sun cream on this morning before we left,” I answer quietly.

  “Well,” he says, “let me know if you need a top-up.”

  All I can do is nod. Me putting my hands on Robert is one thing, but him putting his hands on me is another entirely. Who knows where his fingers might wander.

  Gulping down my juice, I focus my attention on Sasha and Alistair playing Frisbee in the distance, and try to forget about Robert’s lean body stretched out beside me.

  Seven

  “Don’t you dare splash me again,” I shout as Sasha comes diving towards me in the salty seawater. A tangle of dark seaweed brushes against my leg. It feels soft and feathery, rather than slimy and wet like you’d imagine. We’re the only ones who wanted to go for a swim, but to be honest, the water is so jam-packed with people that there’s no hope of actual swimming anyway. Instead, we paddle around up to our waists, messing and splashing one another, dunking each other’s heads under the water, generally acting like a pair of five-year-olds. It makes me nostalgic for the good old days when we’d go swimming on the beach at home.

  I can tell she’s building up for a big splash because she thrusts her arms under the water and lowers her body. I resign myself to the inevitable, squeezing my eyes shut, when she suddenly springs up, her arms splayed wide, the spray of droplets smacking me in the face.

  “Ah!” I squeal, wading away from her in case she does it again.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” She grins and falls back into the water to float on the foam surfboard she borrowed from Sandra. I join her, enjoying how the sun beats down on us. When I first walked into the sea it felt only lukewarm, but now that I’m used to the temperature, it feels like a heated swimming pool.

  “Why don’t you tell me what Victor and Jacob said? I promise I won’t get mad,” I suggest casually. Yep, I still want to know. Sometimes I think my own brain might be a bitch whose sole purpose is to make me feel shitty. To quote Malcolm from Malcolm in the Middle, “Why won’t my brain let me be happy?”

  Sasha paddles her feet, pushing us through the water. A kid throws a massive blow-up beach ball over our heads. She raises one dark eyebrow, a colour that oddly complements her dyed blonde hair. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “I know it’s bad, but I’d rather know.”

  She blows air out through her mouth. “Fine. Victor joked that you must have borrowed your swimsuit from your granny, and then Jacob said you probably wore it to hide your…ugh, God, don’t make me say it.”

  “Say it,” I demand, while on the inside my heart is burning.

  “To hide your big hairy red bush.”

  “Those fuckers!”

  “Yep. That they are,” Sasha agrees, her face hard, still paddling us through the water.

  “And I did not borrow this from my granny. It’s vintage. God, why don’t people ever get vintage?” I say, half sad, half sarcastic.

  “They’re just being arseholes. Ever hear of the saying ‘high school never ends’?”

  “Yeah. And it’s the truth. Why are you even friends with those two anyway? Alistair is cool, but the others I could take or leave.”

  She shrugs. “Habit. You do realise what every single person who came here with us today has in common, don’t you?”

  I scrunch up my brow. “Um, no. What do they have in common?”

  “Rich parents. More specifically, rich parents who are all friends with one another. People in my dad’s social circle don’t ever stray too far from their own. Therefore, we’ve all been friends since we were kids. Rob and I both got a bit of a break from it when our mum moved us to Ireland. But basically, you can put it down to a mix of snobbery, elitism, and a fear of the commoners trying to steal our money.” She puts on the posh voice of the Royals on the last bit.

  I laugh out loud. “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly. And what’s worse is the insecurity and backbiting that goes on within our circle. Everyone wants to be slightly better than everyone else. Own more second homes and holiday villas. Have a better designer handbag, or more expensive designer shoes. That’s why I just wear jeans and T-shirts so they know I’m not involving myself in the competition.”

  “Yeah, but your jeans and T-shirts are all designer,” I counter in amusement.

  She grins. “Well, I have to make some concessions.”

  I smirk at her.

  “What? I like quality stuff, okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply, glancing up at the group sunbathing on the beach. It looks like Robert and Kara are having another argument, and I’m glad I’m not up there in the thick of it. They’re both sitting with their heads facing one another, while Gary looks like he’s on the verge of jumping from his seat to punch Robert in the gut.

  “Who’s the blonde girl?” I ask Sasha. “The one sitting next to Sandra.”

  “That’s Michelle.” She takes a moment to look up at her in the distance, considering what to tell me. “Don’t be fooled by the shy and quiet act. She’s a total bitch. She’s Kara’s best friend. What Kara doesn’t know is that she came onto Rob at Alistair’s birthday party last year.”

  “Really? What did Rob do?” I ask with interest.

  “He told her it wasn’t happening. I know, big shock for Robert to turn down a good-looking girl who’s offering herself up to him on a plate. I suppose he could see that getting with Michelle would be more trouble than it’s worth. She’d only end up telling Kara and causing a drama. It’s not as obvious as it was when we were younger, but there’s always been a big competition between the girls to see who would snag Robert. I don’t get it myself, but then again, he is my brother.”

  Sasha might not get it, but it makes perfect sense to me. Robert’s one of those guys who will always be the one the girls want most. I guess it’s a mixture of his beauty, his charm, and the way you can just tell he’s going to be a wanker. Nice guys are all well and good, but there is something in the female brain that will always makes us swoon for a wanker. They have that bad-boy swagger about them.

  Yeah, I just used the phrase “bad boy swagger.” Kill me now.

  “I’m going to have to go find somewhere to take my insulin soon,” I say to Sasha. “What are we doing for lunch?”

  “We’ll find
a restaurant somewhere in town, I suppose. I can get the keys for Rob’s car and you can go take it in there, what do you think?”

  “Sounds good,” I reply as we wade our way out of the water.

  When we reach the group, Robert and Kara aren’t arguing any longer, thank God. Robert is lying on the sand, his muscled chest gleaming with sweat under the summer sun. He looks magnificent, and I wish it wasn’t something that affects me, but it does.

  “Rob,” Sasha calls. “Lana left something in the back of your car. Can she have the keys to go get it?”

  He opens his eyes, shading them with his hand. “Sure she can.”

  Reaching for his discarded pants, he digs the keys out of the back pocket. I pick up my towel and wrap it around myself, patting dry the wet ends of my hair, which have gone all curly.

  “Here you go, little red,” he says, holding the keys out to me. I take them, just as Kara’s eyes shoot open and she makes a face of disgust.

  “Little red?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry, did I say something to you?” Robert bites back, his voice clipped.

  “Uh, no. I was just wondering why you called her that,” she answers, snotty.

  Victor and Jacob open their eyes to take in the new spat. They eye each other, amused, before focusing back on Robert and Kara. God, high school doesn’t ever end, does it?

  Since their attention has been grabbed, I take the chance to shove what they said about me earlier back in their faces. What can I say, I don’t like them thinking I’m dumb and oblivious to their male bitchiness.

  I’m looking at them while I answer Kara’s question. “It’s because I have a little hairy red bush that I use my granny’s old swimsuit to cover up. Like I’ve never heard that one before. And the swimsuit’s vintage. Get it right,” I snap.

  This single moment defines my personality as defiantly shy. Every word was like swallowing glass, but it had to be said.

  Kara snickers. Clearly she heard what they said earlier. Robert quickly catches on.

  “You’re a right pair of bastards. Is that what you said about her?” he questions.

  “It was only a joke. We didn’t mean any offence,” Jacob explains.

  “Oh, of course not,” I mutter to myself, disgruntled.

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” Robert warns them, standing up from his sitting position.

  Sasha eyes her brother suspiciously. Pulling him aside, she asks, “Why are you acting like Lana’s knight in shining armour all of a sudden?”

  He looks at her, feigning incomprehension. “What are you on about?”

  “You’re up to something. Not too long ago you’d have been the one saying insulting shit to Lana. Now suddenly you’re defending her. Sorry, bro, but that just doesn’t sit right with me.”

  I dry myself with my towel before holding it up to take off my soaking-wet bathing suit. All the while I’m listening intently to Sasha and Robert’s conversation.

  Robert turns to me. “Tell her, Lana. We made a deal to get along, didn’t we?”

  I nod. “Yep. Robert promised to be respectful if I agreed not to kick up a fuss about him staying at your place for the summer.”

  Robert doesn’t takes his eyes off me as I do some pretty impressive under-the-towel manoeuvres to get clean, dry underwear on without showing any skin. I let the towel drop for a split second, and his eager eyes get a glimpse of the top of my boob.

  He cranes his neck to see better, but I quickly cover myself again. His gaze smoulders.

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense, then,” says Sasha, looking between the two of us.

  “Um, could you both turn around for a sec?” I ask. “I’m trying to get changed here.”

  Sasha gives me a look of annoyance, as if to say it’s nothing I haven’t seen a million times before, but she turns around nonetheless. Robert, on the other hand, stays facing me.

  “Oh, I don’t mind watching,” he leers.

  “Just turn around, Rob,” I say, exasperated.

  He does, and I clip my bra on and pull my dress over my head as quickly as I can manage.

  “Okay, you can turn back now,” I tell them. “I’m going to go get that thing I left in the car.”

  I shove my stuff into my bag and hitch it over my shoulder.

  “You want me to come with you?” Sasha asks.

  “No, I can remember the way. I’ll call you if I get lost.”

  “Okay, see you in a bit.”

  Robert watches me leave silently as I meander my way through the crowds of other people on the beach. A few minutes later I reach the car. I get in the back and zip open my bag to take out my insulin pack. Catching sight of myself in the overhead mirror, I grimace. My hair is wavy and damp from the sea, and the sun has made the sprinkling of freckles over my nose and cheeks stand out. It strikes me that how young and fresh-faced I look contrasts starkly with how tired I feel.

  Keeping up with this routine day in day out can take its toll on a person. Sometimes I wish I could get randomly cured, like those old ladies who go on pilgrimages to Lourdes with massive tumours on their bodies that miraculously disappear. That way I could act young and reckless. Live life freely without worrying about the consequences of missing a meal or misjudging a dosage.

  Making sure that nobody’s hanging around the car, I pull my dress up past my stomach and lean back in the seat, breathing out an exhausted sigh. It’s odd how the absence of one little hormone can mean the difference between living and dying for someone like me.

  A couple of minutes later, I’m packing everything back up in my bag when suddenly there’s a knock on the window. I jump in fright and turn to see Robert standing there, gazing down at me. My heart hammers as he walks around to the other side, opens the door, and slides right in.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him nervously.

  “You were taking a while, so I came to make sure you were okay,” he answers, his voice soft.

  “How long were you standing there?”

  “Long enough.”

  “So you saw.” Trust Robert to stay and watch instead of knocking on the window the moment he reached the car.

  “I did. What were you injecting yourself with?” he asks. All of a sudden he seems upset, concerned even.

  “Heroin,” I deadpan.

  “Be serious, Lana. What was it?”

  “It’s just medicine, Robert,” I answer on a sigh, letting my head fall back against the seat. For a few moments there my body was as rigid as a board.

  “Are you sick?”

  I smile sadly. “I’ve got diabetes.”

  All of a sudden, he relaxes. “Diabetes, that’s no big deal, right? Lots of people have that.”

  “Well, yeah, lots of people have Type 2. Unfortunately for me, I have Type 1, which means my body can’t produce its own insulin, so I need my injections daily.”

  His breathing quickens as he moves his body closer to mine. “Would you die if you didn’t get it?”

  I nod solemnly. “Yes, I take it three times a day.”

  “How long?” he asks urgently.

  “How long what?”

  “How long have you had it?”

  Even though I’m the sick one, I place my hand comfortingly on his wrist. “Seems like forever, really. I was diagnosed when I was seven.”

  “Seven? So ever since I first met you, you’ve been sick, and you never even told me.”

  “Why are you upset? Of course I didn’t tell you. We’ve never been close, never really been friends at all until now.”

  His eyes stay on my hand touching his wrist. “But if I’d have known I never would have…” He trails off.

  “Never would have what? Been an arsehole to me? Well, forgive me if I’d rather be treated cruelly than treated like an invalid. You’re overreacting here. I haven’t got cancer, Robert. If I’m careful I can live as full a life as anybody else.”

  “I’m not overreacting, Lana. You’re sugarcoating it. You just said yourself
that you could die if you didn’t get your medicine. And don’t people with diabetes die really young?”

  My shoulders sag. He’s depressing me now. “I’ll die a couple of years before other people my age. That is, unless I get knocked down by a car, or murdered, or caught up in a tsunami or something else equally lethal. It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s bad,” he grits out, his jaw tight. “I don’t want you to be sick.”

  “Why not? Seems like when we were kids, you wanted me gone from the face of the planet.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “What’s true, then?” I ask, just before I notice a single tear falling down his cheek. I gasp audibly, and after several seconds pass I reach out hesitantly to wipe it away. Our faces are a breath apart when I say in awe, “You’re crying for me?”

  My heart feels like somebody’s lit a match and set it on fire. Hell, it feels like they threw a gallon of petrol on it before setting it alight. Robert’s crying for me? Am I living in an alternate universe? Unless he’s got a talent for faking tears, this has to be real.

  A millisecond after I’ve spoken, he grabs my face in both his hands, stares into my eyes, and breathes, “This is true,” before softly pressing his lips to mine.

  In this moment my eyes drift closed, and I feel whole for the first time in my life. This isn’t just a kiss, it’s a communication, the culmination of years of repression and feigned hatred.

  Sometimes you can be so deeply wrapped up in a person that the only way to deal with it is to use cruelty to push them away.

  His lips explore mine, my lips meld into his. He’s drinking me in, his fingers moving over my face reverently. With one hard sweep of his tongue he infiltrates my mouth, but a second later it’s gone. He’s gone. And with that the feeling of wholeness disappears. It’s like I never knew what I needed in life until this exact moment, and what I need is Robert. My childhood tormentor. My best friend’s brother. Someone I’m supposed to despise.

  I realise why he stopped once I’ve finally gathered my senses from that earth-shattering kiss. His phone is buzzing with a text message. His chest rises and falls erratically as he taps on the screen, and his eyes scan the message.