All Saints: Love and Intrigue in the Stunning New Zealand Wilderness (The New Zealand Soccer Referee Series Book 1) Read Free

families in happy
houses and me outside, as always. “My father wanted a son. He could’ve passed
on the Saint legacy to him and I’d be elsewhere by now, doing amazing things
with my freedom.” I sighed, picturing blue oceans and endless beaches. Probably
Spain. Maybe Italy.
    “You
could do that anyway.” His voice cut through my fantasy, dispelling it in the
first drops of rain against the windscreen. A flash of anger clashed with the
overriding sense of injustice.
    “Really?”
I bit, the sarcasm ugly on my tongue. “The only way to leave All Saints is in a
coffin.”
    At the
sound of retching I gave a hiss of annoyance and Foxy abandoned the car by the
curb at a jaunty angle, wrenching open the rear door and jumping backwards as
Mark projectile hurled onto his own grass verge.
    I patted
Mark’s back and forced his face clear of the car’s pristine interior, grinning
at Foxy. “Nice reflexes there,” I joked. “Dad needs a new striker.”
    Foxy
pulled a face and shook his head. “He really wouldn’t want me.”
    I gave Mark’s
back a shove and Foxy pulled as I pushed, sweating in the humidity until the
large man stood with his bum balanced against the wing of the car. My exit was
through my own side, eager to avoid the puke and I waited until Foxy traipsed
Mark right through it and up to his front gate. “You’d give Foxy a job as a
striker, wouldn’t you, Uncle Mark?” I asked with a smile, dodging the stinking
wet hand the drunk held out towards me.
    He shook
his head, his eyes wide like saucers. “Bloody hell, no!” he exclaimed. “I’m
surprised they let him in for the fat chick’s wedding!”
    I bit my
lip and winced, mouthing an apology to Foxy. “Don’t be rude!” I snapped. “He
gave you a lift home, you ungrateful old man. Wait until Jackie’s mother hears
you calling her precious daughter a fat chick.”
    “She
is,” he growled. “And her mother.” With a lurch he made it through the front
gate and negotiated the steps onto his porch. Instead of sobering up, he seemed
to get drunker by the second.
    “I don’t
get this.” I put my hands on my hips and stared as Mark slumped onto the
doormat, his back against the peeling paint of his front door. I waved my arm
at him, confusion on my face. “You weren’t like this when we left the
clubhouse. Was there something in that cigarette?”
    “Where
are they?” Foxy asked, interest burgeoning in his expression.
    “Front
left pocket,” I said, watching as he frisked Mark with capable hands. “No,
inside top. Watch the sick on his shirt though.”
    Foxy
pulled out the packet and inspected it, poking his finger into the cardboard
folds. “Na, this is shop bought. Just tobacco.”
    “So
why’s he getting worse?” I demanded. Staring at the unkempt bushes in Mark’s
garden, I cast my mind back to the scene in the clubhouse as Mark stood to go
outside, inviting me to accompany him. He chucked back a tot of whiskey in one
mouthful, but he’d done that twice before with little effect. “Maybe he just
reached his limit,” I conceded with a shrug. “Hey, lightweight.” I shoved
Mark’s leg with the toe of my sandal. “Where’s your door key?”
    “In-shide,”
he slurred and I rolled my eyes.
    Leaning
over his head I pushed my knee against his cheek to stop him looking up my
dress. Then I rang the doorbell and stood back. Fingers threaded their way
round my hem again and I wasn’t quick enough. “No! Get off, Uncle Mark. You’ve
got puke hands!” I dashed backwards, almost pitching off the porch. Only Foxy’s
quick reactions stopped me meeting a crispy looking rhododendron bush bum
first. His right hand gripped my wrist and his left snaked around my back. Once
I’d righted myself, a quick glare ensured he released me.
    “I’m not
doing that again,” I insisted, jerking my head towards the bell. “You press
it.”
    Foxy
obliged, jamming his finger over the doorbell and holding it down. The noise of
a police car two