Just Say (Hell) No (Escape to New Zealand Book 11) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Just Say (Hell) No - Rosalind James

  Synopsis

  The Escape to New Zealand Series: Past Characters

  Current All Blacks Team

  The Fool

  Facing a Macing

  Beetroot Red

  Death on a White Horse

  The Contest Begins

  Eye on the Ball

  The Trouble With Women

  Pookie Unrestrained

  A Perfect Plan

  Reshuffling the Deck

  A Bloody Enormous…

  In Too Deep

  Maybe Not the King of Swords

  DIY is in Our DNA

  Too Plain and Too Ugly

  The King of Swords Makes His Move

  Leather and Darkness

  Out-Femaled

  Love the Way You Lie

  An Intimidation Standpoint

  Temperance

  More Complicated and More Distracting

  Stunned Mullet

  The Hanged Man

  No Coming Back

  OverEmoters Anonymous

  New Steps

  Heart Chakra

  Waiting For It

  Take Me By Surprise

  Pig Blood All Over the Shop

  A Big Fella

  Marital Bliss

  Gossip Material

  Straight to the Heart

  What Family Means

  Up Where the Air is Thin

  Water Snake Dreaming

  The First Sadness

  Night Train

  Under the Surface

  About Being Home

  Not Backing Down

  Walking Into It

  Nothing But Grunt

  Perfectly Suited

  Text copyright 2018 Rosalind James

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  Even a hard man needs a soft side.

  Marko Sendoa isn't a beach man. He's not an Auckland man. He's a hard man. Born Basque, raised in the heart of New Zealand's Southern Alps, and bred on hard work, discipline, and getting the job done. It's not easy for a rugby flanker to make it to age 32 at the top of his game, but he's done it. Next year is the Rugby World Cup, and he'll do whatever it takes to be on the field in the black jersey when the anthems are sung.

  He doesn't need a kitten.

  He doesn't need a pregnant cousin.

  He definitely doesn't need a too-short, distractingly curvy, totally unimpressed Maori barista and part-time pet portraitist who fills his house and his life with too much color, too much chaos, and too many secrets.

  He's getting them anyway.

  We are only visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through.

  Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love, and then we return home.

  —Australian Aborigine Proverb

  Sir Andrew (Drew) Callahan, Hannah Montgomery Callahan. JUST THIS ONCE. Drew, a former blindside flanker (No. 6) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, and the two-time Rugby World Cup-winning captain of the All Blacks, is coaching rugby in the Bay of Plenty; Hannah is a marketing executive for 2nd Hemisphere knitwear. 3 children.

  Hemi Ranapia, Reka Hawera Ranapia. JUST FOR YOU. Hemi, a former No. 10 for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, coaches with Drew in the Bay of Plenty. 4 children.

  Koti James, Kate Lamonica James. JUST GOOD FRIENDS. Koti is a centre (No. 13) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Kate is an accountant for the Blues. 2 children.

  Finn Douglas, Jenna McKnight Douglas. JUST FOR NOW. Finn, a former No. 8 for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks, is strength & conditioning coach for the Blues; Jenna is a teacher. 4 children.

  Nic (Nico) Wilkinson, Emma Martens Wilkinson. JUST FOR FUN. Nic is a fullback (No. 15) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Emma is a knitwear designer for 2nd Hemisphere. 2 children.

  Liam (Mako) Mahaka, Kristen Montgomery Mahaka. JUST MY LUCK. Liam is a hooker (No. 2) for the Wellington Hurricanes and the All Blacks; Kristen (Hannah’s sister) is a fashion buyer. 1 child.

  Nate (Toro) Torrance, Allison (Ally) Villiers. JUST MY LUCK. Nate is a halfback (No. 9) for the Wellington Hurricanes and the All Blacks, and captain of the All Blacks; Ally is a climbing instructor.

  Hugh Latimer, Jocelyn (Josie) Pae Ata. JUST NOT MINE. Hugh is an openside flanker (No. 7) for the Auckland Blues; Josie is a TV star and model. Raising Hugh’s two half-siblings: Amelia and Charlie.

  Will Tawera, Faith Goodwin. JUST IN TIME. Will is a first-five (No. 10) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Faith is a novelist. Getting together during this story.

  Iain McCormick, Sabrina (Nina) Jones. JUST STOP ME. Iain is a lock (No. 5) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks; Nina is an international model. Getting together during this story.

  Kevin (Kevvie) McNicholl, Chloe Donaldson. JUST SAY YES. Kevin is a wing (No. 11) for the Auckland Blues and the All Blacks. Chloe has a 3-year-old son. Getting together during this story.

  (Selected for every series from the five New Zealand Super Rugby teams, they play other international squads both at home and abroad, in the Southern and Northern Hemispheres, as well as the Rugby World Cup every four years. Past selection is no guarantee of inclusion.)

  Forwards:

  No. 1 (prop) – Chiefs player

  No. 2 (hooker) – Mako (Liam) Mahaka (Hurricanes) – JUST MY LUCK (Kristen)

  No. 3 (prop) – Crusaders player

  No. 4 (lock) – Kane Armstrong (Crusaders) – Nyree’s stepbrother

  No. 5 (lock) – Iain McCormick (Blues) – JUST STOP ME (Nina)

  No. 6 (blindside flanker) – Marko Sendoa (formerly Highlanders, now Blues)

  No. 7 (openside flanker) – Hugh Latimer (formerly Hurricanes, now Blues) – JUST NOT MINE (Josie)

  No. 8 (No. 8) – Chiefs player

  Backs:

  No. 9 (halfback) – Nate (Toro) Torrance (Hurricanes) - JUST MY LUCK (Ally)

  No. 10 (first-five) – Will Tawera (Blues) – JUST IN TIME (Faith)

  No. 11 (wing) - Kevin McNicholl (Blues) – JUST SAY YES (Chloe)

  No. 12 (centre) – Highlanders player

  No. 13 (centre) - Koti James (Blues) – JUST GOOD FRIENDS (Kate)

  No. 14 (wing) – Hurricanes player

  No. 15 (fullback) - Nic Wilkinson (Blues) – JUST FOR FUN (Emma)

  Strength & conditioning coach – Finn Douglas (JUST FOR NOW). Former All Black. (Jenna)

  You had to understand one thing about Marko Sendoa. What you saw on the paddock wasn’t what you saw off it. He didn’t lose his temper, however it looked to the fans. During a rugby match, at home, or anywhere else.

  Right. That was two things. He also didn’t stay out too late, drink too much, or party too hard. Not anymore. Twenty-year-olds could afford that. Thirty-two-year-olds, not so much. Which was why he didn’t do it.

  That was three… four… five things. All of the above.

  So why, instead of lying up with a few Panadol and a cold pack, nursing his aching ribs after a brutal loss to the Highlanders, was he bashing Tom Koru-Mansworth with a knitting bag in a Dunedin bar at two o’clock in the morning? Not to mention seeing the flashes of a dozen camera phones exploding like starbursts around him?

  Some match days were brilliant. Other days, you couldn’t catch a win with both hands and all your teeth. And this day? This day was going to end up in a class all by itself.

  Morning came too early. A bare couple hours of sleep later, and he was following the
dark-blue tracksuit in front of him onto the plane and stowing his backpack in the overhead bin of the commuter jet for the two-hour journey to Auckland, his new team’s home base. He ducked into the seat, ignoring the protest from his ribs, slewed his legs around to create some semblance of “fitting,” pulled out his phone, and considered whether he actually wanted to look at it.

  Did Tom, saved from a public relations nightmare, sit down beside him to say, “Thanks for your help, mate?” He did not. He was sprawled across two front seats with a cold pack on his head and didn’t look like he’d be getting up anytime soon.

  How about a “well done” from Hugh Latimer, Marko’s new skipper and third-row scrum partner? That wasn’t happening, either. Instead, Aleke Fiso, the human fireplug who was the Blues’ head coach, was easing his considerable bulk into the aisle seat next to Marko.

  Brilliant. Trapped.

  A hundred watts of Samoan stare. A pregnant pause. Then Fizzo’s deep baritone. “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  Marko considered saying, “Tell you about what?” But judging by the phone Fizzo was holding in his oversized mitt, a phone that undoubtedly contained some choice shots of a disrupted pub interior, some rugby players in various states of unkempt abandon, and nothing like “conduct becoming a senior player,” resistance was futile.

  Marko carefully didn’t sigh. Instead, he said, “It didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned. I needed to do something to get them out of there, though, and Kors wasn’t going quietly. It was a situation.”

  “So you’re saying,” Fizzo said, “that it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Better than actually going in with my fists,” Marko pointed out. “Or possibly a chair, for less damage but more spectacle. It occurred to me.”

  Fizzo wasn’t smiling. The last thing from it. But he’d had a bit of a reputation himself back in the day. That was how he’d earned his excitable nickname, along with the most spectacular cauliflower ear known to rugby and a nose flattened beyond recognition. A hooker wasn’t always a brawler. Just usually. He said, “Your fists would have been a very bad idea. And yet you bruised the hell out of his jaw all the same.” He held out his phone. Marko didn’t look at it. “Somebody got a good snap of him falling across a table. Maybe you should’ve used the chair. How did that happen?”

  “I was going for the element of surprise with the knitting bag,” Marko said. “Humor, maybe. Shock him out of it when he was batting away knitting wool, with something pink and lacy draped over his ugly head. How was I to know she had two full-sized pairs of sewing scissors in there? The bag looked soft. It was flowered. That was why I chose it. And what the hell was somebody’s mum doing knitting in the pub at two in the morning, anyway? When I was twenty-one and out on the razzle, I don’t remember there being any knitters in the picture. What are women coming to?”

  “Careful,” Fizzo said. “My wife knits.”

  “So does my mum,” Marko said. He preferred this topic to a discussion of his reckless nature. “She knits in the pub, now I think about it. But she isn’t there at two in the morning. And she isn’t armed with enormous steel scissors. I call that unfair. And yes, I apologized for borrowing the lady’s bag. Checked whether I’d broken the scissors and picked up the spilt wool. Gentlemanly, that was me. Bet that won’t make the papers.”

  “I hear that you turned up in your jandals and a possible pair of PJ trousers,” Fizzo said, changing the subject. “After a call from the pub to your hotel, maybe, as you were rooming with Kors, meant to be looking after him. Riding to the rescue, were you?”

  “They knew I’d be sober. And in bed. I was glad they rang me. Still am.”

  “Thought you’d get Kors out of there discreetly, I reckon,” Fizzo said. “Pity it didn’t work out that way. How bad was he?”

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Going after somebody’s girlfriend,” Fizzo said. “Ready to fight the boyfriend. Or so I hear. Backs, eh. Think they’re hard men.”

  “If you know,” Marko said, “I’m surprised you’re asking me.” Too narky for your head coach, but it was barely seven in the morning, he’d spent half an hour last night talking to the police after somebody had got much too excited and rung them, and he’d had his photo taken too many times, for all the wrong reasons, on his former home ground. The Blues had lost the match with his family in the stands, he’d be splashed across the Otago Daily Times, if it hadn’t already happened, bashing his teammate in the face with a knitting bag, and he was tired. And most importantly, if he hadn’t done it, scissors and all—what then?

  Fizzo seemed to agree, because he said, “It’s going to end up in the papers, and you’ll come off worst. All about perception, eh. The ref always goes after the second bloke in a fight, and you know it. Expect to do some rehab on your reputation.”

  “Fine,” Marko said with relief. Not as bad as it could’ve been, then. “Visiting kids in hospital, maybe. I can do that.”

  “We’ll see,” Fizzo said, heaving his bulk out of the seat. “Stop and see Brenda in PR after training tomorrow. She’ll think up something good. Her job, isn’t it.”

  As long as he still got to play, nothing else mattered. The plane was in the air now. No WiFi to check what exactly was out there this morning, but he’d know soon enough.

  Hugh Latimer came forward and took the seat Fizzo had vacated. “Mate,” the skipper said on a sigh.

  “Yeh,” Marko said. “Tell them to ring you next time.” He held out his phone for Hugh to see. “Text from my mum.”

  Hugh frowned over the photo of a brightly colored card. “The Fool,” he read aloud, then raised a dark brow at Marko. “Seems a bit harsh.”

  “It’s my Tarot card of the day,” Marko said. “In case I was wondering.” He scrolled down and read aloud to Hugh.

  Chin up, baby. The Fool isn’t always foolish. Just willing to take a chance and learn from it. Not every unexpected leap is too far, and not everyone who strays from the path is lost. I’d bet on your judgment every time. There are more important decisions coming your way. I’m guessing you’ll choose right again. Love you.

  “Good to know,” Hugh said. “Next time I face the decision of whether to chuck a bag containing sharp objects at a mate’s head, I’ll consult the Tarot first and hopefully discover that it’s a brilliant idea. Nothing like a mum, is there?”

  “You aren’t the one whose changing cubicle will be stuffed with knitting wool tomorrow,” Marko said.

  Hugh stood up and put a hand on Marko’s shoulder. “Well, you know,” he said, “a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  Nyree Morgan came to life slowly.

  It wasn’t really “coming to life.” It just felt like it. Or like swimming her unwilling way up from the depths of the darkest sea, finally breaking the surface and wishing she hadn’t.

  Her cheek was stuck to something. A piece of sketching paper. She peeled it off with a grimace and sighed. From the light coming in through the garage’s windows, it was already mid-morning.

  She didn’t have a drinking problem. She had a painting problem. She was lying on what passed for her couch, and the substance on her cheek, she discovered after some exploratory work, was burnt umber.

  This had to stop. If she were going to achieve her dreams, she needed to stop putting the work off and start dredging up some good old-fashioned Kiwi grit. Get stuck in and get it done. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it, and that somebody was her.

  Painting Pookie.

  She’d prepared the canvas two weeks ago, but had avoided starting on Pookie, Savannah Calloway’s overfed dachshund, until last night. She’d told herself she was turning Pookie over in her mind until she got his personality right. It sounded good. It just wasn’t true.

  The truth was, she hated Pookie. She shoved a hand through her unkempt mass of black hair, yawned, and eyed the notice board next to her easel without enthusiasm. Twelve shots of Pookie in various stages of fat, irritable, thoroughly
spoilt dogdom. And next to it, the canvas on which a slimmed-down, friendlier Pookie, the Ghost of Pookie Past, was taking shape.

  Right. She needed to finish the painting within the next week, because Savannah was planning to unveil it at Pookie’s wedding in exactly four weeks, and that would be barely enough time to apply the varnish and allow it time to dry. If the portrayal favored Pookie enough, she had a feeling she could be asked to paint the bridal couple.

  Pookie and Precious.

  Who was a Chihuahua.

  In her wedding gown.

  And veil.

  She thought about it while scrubbing at her face with rubbing alcohol, wrinkling her nose involuntarily at the smell, then going to work on her hands. She’d finished painting at four this morning—or rather, she’d sat down, paintbrush in hand, to contemplate her work, and had apparently fallen asleep where she sat. Now, it was after ten, and she had a shift at Bevvy at four.

  She thought about it some more while she was pulling her hair back into a messy ponytail and finding her running skirt and bra in the washing basket. They were clean, so there was that. She laced up her trainers, bounced on her toes a bit, rolled her head on her neck, considered a coffee, stuffed her EFTPOS card into the pocket of her skirt instead for after, and went for her car.

  She’d get alert. She’d get inspired. She’d get fit. She’d think of a way to make Pookie beautiful, to draw out his better doggy self. The self he could have been with a little more training and a little less hand-feeding. It wasn’t Pookie’s fault he was a terrible dog. He could be a wonderful dog. She could make him into a wonderful dog. She just had to believe.

  And clap her hands, if she believed in fairies.

  She was out of the garage on the thought, into her Beetle, and through the Sunday-morning glorious-New-Zealand-day traffic, all the way to St. Heliers, home of so many of Auckland’s rich and famous. On her way toward the best sea views available to a person living in a garage in Mt. Wellington, a person who needed to be painting again by noon.