I slip my purse into my handbag and pull it tight into my side. Thank God I have that much money left over, because without it there’d be no petrol in my car, and my treasured jelly and noodles would be off the menu.

Once I’ve parked my car on the street in front of the apartment, I finally get up the courage to open the envelope and read Tony’s letter. I remove the letter from the envelope, slinging my bag onto my shoulder.

I dawdle up the path, and take in a deep breath.

To whom it may concern,

Sophie McKenna has worked at Wild and Free Range café for more than four years.

During this time, Sophie has proven herself to be a dedicated, hard worker. She is loyal, has a strong work ethic, and is a valued employee. She is determined, and has put as much effort into this business as if she were the owner herself. Her dedication to customer service and organisational skills, particularly in highly stressful situations, are second to none. My business would not be the success that it is, without her.

Tony Marasini

Owner

Wild and Free Range café

I pull out my phone and open my emails. Tony’s email is waiting for me, as promised. I forward the reference to Julie with a brief, yet polite message. She doesn’t know how much I’m looking forward to hearing from her. I slip my phone in my pocket and look at the reference again.

The roar of a loud bike from behind startles me. As I turn to look behind me, I jump back as the bike zooms beside me on the footpath. The rider’s arms swings out. My shoulder is violently yanked forward. I gasp as the strap on my handbag bites into my upper arm, then burns its way down to my wrist before being ripped from my body. With the momentum I collapse. My knees and palms break my fall on the unforgiving pavement.

Panting heavily, I move my hair from my eyes with the back of my wrist. My hands shake as the sting sets in.

“No!” I scream out, my voice catching in my throat.

I watch in horror as the bike skyrockets up the street and takes a sharp turn between apartment buildings.

Motherfucker.

I can’t believe it. My rent money. My spare cash for the next fortnight. I was gonna be square. Now it’s fucking gone. Gone!

I shakily stand up in my now-scuffed heels and inspect my grazed palms and knees. The skin is pierced and small pebbles and dirt cling to the blood seeping out. I grit my teeth. I will not cry. I’m too pissed to be sad about this. I bend down and pick up my prized reference before the breeze carries it away.

I don’t even have my keys, so I can only hope that Rocco is home. I reach for my jacket pocket and am relieved when my fingers curl around the familiar device. Thank God I have my phone. I can’t afford to go replacing that, but now I have to get a new licence, my cards … Tears bank up in the corner of my eyes, blurring my vision. I grind my teeth. Fuck me dead, I don’t need this shit.

Just when a sliver of hope appears, the darkness weaves its way in and swallows it. It’s so fucking typical of my life.

I hobble up the stairs and once I reach my landing I knock on the door, careful not to clench my fist, because it’s stinging like crazy. I swallow down the acid rising up my stomach. Blood. It’s warm and it’s trickling down my shins. Gah! I reckon I’m only moments away from spewing with the gross excess saliva in my mouth.

“Argh,” I growl. “Toughen up, Sophie.”

The door swings open. “What?” Rocco’s eyebrows are pulled together, one hand wedged against his hip. He’s barefoot, and wearing a stretched black tank top and the black skinny jeans he seems to wear every day. As he looks me up and down, the cockiness fades, and he stammers something as he moves forward and slips his hand around my hip and smooths his palm to rest on the small of my back.

“Suds? What the fuck?”

“Blood … I need it off,” I choke out. “Quick.” I swallow down the rising vomit, and cough as the acid burns the back of my throat.

He aids me to the kitchen, keeping me upright as I madly kick off my heels along the way. He ushers me to the sink and slams on the water. I thrust my hands into the stream. The ice-cold liquid shoots off my hands and in every direction—into my face, down the front of my shirt. I turn to Rocco, and he’s drenched too.

My knees buckle as a white haze casts over my vision like a shadow. Something that sounds like a nervous giggle comes out of my mouth. I focus on the tattoos over Rocco’s shoulders, and the ones peeking from the front of his stretched tank top. He never parades around in less than a T-shirt. He doesn’t show much skin. Except for his giant peen that was out and proud the other morning. Great. Now I’m thinking about his dick. At least it’s temporarily taken my mind off what just happened. I can’t believe I got robbed.

I strangle a sob that tries to climb up my throat.

“Hey,” Rocco says, his voice firm yet comforting. He switches off the water and grabs a tea towel from the dish drainer. Slowly, he shuffles me back against the counter and pins my body in place with his hips. With the towel, he tenderly dabs at the wounds on my hands, making a calm shushing noise, as a parent would when tending to an injured child.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

I take in a stuttered breath, followed by a few deep ones to calm myself. “Bike,” I grunt out.

“A bike? You got hit?” His voice grows agitated.

“Some arsehole … on a shitty street bike … stole my handbag.”

“Fuck!” he roars. “We need to ring the cops.” He looks around, presumably for a phone.

I shake my head. “What’s the fucking point? I barely saw anything. The only thing of real value in there is cash, which included your rent money. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I don’t give a fuck about rent money. But you can’t let pricks get away with shit like this.”

“If they ever find my bag, it’ll be stripped. Not worth the hassle of filling in a bloody incident report.” I close my eyes and concentrate on taking slow breaths as a vision of blood floats in front of my eyes. I will not spew.

“You’re pale. Let’s sit you down.” Rocco wraps his arm around my shoulders and takes me to the nearest couch.

His dark eyes are filled with concern, as he looks me over more carefully. It’s kind of sweet. “You’ve grazed your hands and knees pretty bad. You’re not hurt anywhere else?”

“Nope. Just my pride.” I offer him half a smile. One day I hope I can laugh about this, but right now I feel as if the universe has just given me a personal battering.

“You right to wait here? I’ll get my first-aid kit from the car.”

“I don’t plan on movin’,” I rumble.

Rocco, my tattooed hero, swoops up his keys and runs from the apartment, barefoot and all.

The cool breeze from the landing whisks into the room, sending a sharp chill right through me care of my wet clothes.

I take off my jacket and unbutton my blouse, which typically has become see-through. I’m surprised Rocco wasn’t hard as a hammer as he propped me up in the kitchen. My wet clothes land with a slap on the floor. Thankfully my blanket is within reach, so I wrap it around my shoulders, covering my bra.

Before I know it, Rocco is back. He kneels before me, checking out the wounds on my legs.

“You’ve got a bit of gravel under the skin. Come on, you need to rinse this shit off in the shower.”

I hold a hand to his chest and then wince. Motherfucker, this shit stings. “There’s no way you’re getting in the shower with me.”

“You need to get this shit clean, otherwise it’ll get infected.”