We ride up the sandy driveway and Tank eases on the breaks. He sets his feet down and toes the kickstand into place with his booted foot. The second my feet are on the ground, I unfasten my helmet, slide off the back of the bike and glare at him.

“Where are we, Tank?”

“My ma’s house.”

My eyes widen as I mentally check over my outfit. I’m wearing skin-tight jeans, a ripped up Harley-Davidson tank, and come-fuck-me boots. And I have helmet hair.

“We’re at your mother’s?” I say, fidgeting with my top and attempting to get it to cover more of my breasts than it’s willing to.

Tank frowns as he watches me adjust my clothing, and says, “It’s Sunday.”

“And?”

“It’s Sunday lunch.” He shrugs, removing his helmet and placing it on the handlebars. “I never miss Sunday lunch.”

“Except for the last two Sundays that you spent trying to dry me out.” I run a hand through my hair in an effort to eradicate any kinks. I know without having to look that it’s a wasted effort. The only thing that gets rid of helmet hair is a GHD. “You didn’t think to tell me?”

“Why?”

“Because I would have chosen to wear something a little less … revealing.” I tug at my top again, and then I decide to just zip my leather jacket all the way up so the girls aren’t on show. Oh God, do I have panties on? It seems really, really wrong to meet the mother of your … well, you should just always wear panties around old people.

“Babe, do you even own anything less revealing?”

“No, but I would have made you take me shopping for something,” I say, and pull the waistband of my jeans aside to check on the panty situation. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the black lace staring back at me.

“And you’d have been miserable the entire time because it wouldn’t have been you.” He pulls me in against him and I push him away.

“What are you doing?”

“Jesus, Ivy. Would you calm the fuck down, please? My mum isn’t going to shun you; she’ll love you.”

“Yeah, what’s not to love about a strung-out junkie who dresses like a whore?” I say impatiently, attempting to work the zip on my jacket higher.

Tank grabs hold of the zipper and yanks it down until my tits are practically falling out. I shove his hands away. He pouts when I zip it up so that my cleavage is covered but it doesn’t look like I’m attempting to be a naughty nun.

He slides off the bike and takes my hand, then leads me up a cute cobble-stoned path. It’s flanked either side with bright yellow daisies. From the front porch steps I can just see the edge of the ocean peeking through the thick underbrush and tall gum trees.

Holy shit. This house must have cost a fortune.

Tank opens the door and shouts, “Ma?”

“In the kitchen.”

I’m assaulted by the delicious smell of roasting meat and baked vegetables as Tank leads us through the house. The rooms we walk past are tastefully decorated, not at all modern, but with antique furniture that looks expensive, yet lived in. We walk into a huge open kitchen with stained-glass windows and pristine granite benches.

I hover close behind Tank and peer out from around his side, as if I’m a little kid hiding behind her mother’s legs. A woman bends over in front of the stove. Her face is turned away from me, but even from here I can see she has perfectly coifed hair, nice clothing and an actual apron strung around her waist. She straightens, rubbing at the small of her back and letting out a cry of protest.

“You okay, Ma?”

“I’m fine, honey. Blasted back is playing …” She trails off when she sees me. She’s gorgeous, with soft blue eyes and very delicate features. She might have looked like an adorable little pixie woman when she was younger. “And who is this?” she asks. Her eyes are brimming with curiosity. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest.”

“Hi,” I say, cringing, because even my voice sounds crass compared to hers. Why would he bring me here? We’re not even together. His mother’s house? Really? I’ve never met anyone’s parents before. Not to mention a parent who … I don’t know, isn’t involved in club-life. He might have been right about me being uncomfortable in clothes that I wouldn’t ordinarily wear, but at least I wouldn’t look like a cheap biker whore.

What the hell was he thinking?

“Ma, this is Ivy,” Tank says, and it’s as if he’s proud of himself, or me, or something. Which just makes this so much worse. I’m not the girl you take home to your parents’ house. I’m the one you take home to fuck over the back of your parents’ couch and throw out before dawn. “Ivy, this is my ma.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Let’s get a good look at you,” Tank’s mother says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ivy. I’m Adeline.”

“Sorry to just show up unannounced,” I say, stepping out around her son. A man I’m going to take great delight in murdering when we leave here. “I promise if I’d known I would have made him call you.”

“Nonsense. There’s plenty to go around,” she says, bracing her hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length in order to see me better. Her eyes rake over me from head to toe and she smiles. “Well, you don’t look like you eat a lot—”

“Ma,” Tank says.

“What? She’s skinny; she’ll need some meat on her bones before she can bear me a couple of fat grandchildren.”

“Ma.” Tank squeezes the bridge of his nose, as though he feels a tension headache coming on.

“Oh relax, Jonah, I’m just messing with you,” she says. “Now, go and set another place at the table please. I need Ivy’s help here.”

Jonah? I mouth and he rolls his eyes.

“If you tell anyone you heard that, I may be forced to suffocate you in your sleep.”

Adeline makes a shooing motion and ushers him into the dining room. “Away with you. Ivy and I need a moment to chat.”

He gives his mother a stern look and the same wry grin I usually see on his lips is eerily echoed on his mother’s. Tank leaves the room and I turn hesitantly back to Adeline.

“You eat meat, Ivy?”

“Er, yeah,” I say, and then my eyes widen a fraction and I attempt to be not so … me. “I mean, yes. Thank you.”

She smiles and pulls two glasses from the cupboard above her head. Taking a bottle of Moscato from the fridge, she pours a glass. I glance nervously between Adeline and the wall separating the dining room. I’ve never been a big drinker; my vices are much more potent than alcohol. Even so, I want that drink bad. Blindly, I take a step forward, but Tank’s voice booms from the other room, “No wine, Ma.”

She frowns and looks at me. “Shouldn’t Ivy be the judge of that, Son?”

He storms back into the kitchen like a hurricane, hell bent on ripping up every last vestige of my ease. “No. Wine,” he says, though he isn’t looking at her when he says it. I glare at him and swallow hard, crossing my arms over my chest and turning to look at the fridge—which I find really appealing all of a sudden.

I want to crawl inside my own skin. The shame of what I am slams into me and I need to get out, to be as far from here, from him as possible. “Do you have a bathroom, Mrs Whitecross?” I say.

“Of course, honey,” she says, giving her son a long, reproachful look before turning back to me. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”

I nod and stalk down the hall, finding the bathroom and shutting myself inside. I lock the door and lean my forehead against it, blinking back tears. I hate this emotional crap. It feels like every five minutes there’s a new reason for my eyes to start leaking all over the place. My head hurts, my body, too, and Tank’s humiliation leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It’s not like one drink is going to make me slip up and turn Adeline’s house upside-down looking for coke. He’s no doubt out there right now telling her all about how pathetic I am, how lost and alone and worthless I am. I’m furious that he brought me here. Why would he bother? He couldn’t just tie me to a chair like before?