Rocco is dead to the world. He’s lying on his stomach with one arm and one leg limp over the side, each resting against the timber floor. He’s polished off the tequila, and a shot glass has rolled not far from his inked hand. There are corn chip crumbs everywhere.

Boy, he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he needed a drink. I wonder what he’s got to be so stressed about. From what April tells me, he has a dream mechanic job on one of the most sought-out teams in Australia. I suppose we all have our shitty days.

I stride across the lounge room, wary as I approach. There’s barely any movement, apart from the slight shallow rise of his upper back as he seemingly takes breath.

If I poke him, will it be like waking an angry bear? I’m tempted, but I won’t. That’d be a bitchy thing to do. We might be living under the same roof, but we lead separate lives. And that’s how I want it. Completely separate. Removed. His business is his, and mine is mine.

I take a step backward and step on something metal. I crouch down and pick up a spoon. I look around underneath the coffee table, and find an empty glass bowl with remnants of green an inch below the rim.

Snatching up the bowl, the cruel absence of what I was planning to eat when I got home tonight mocks me.

The motherfucker ate my jelly.

“Hey,” I bark out with a hard shove to his shoulder.

Rocco grumbles and swings his head back violently, one eye open as he searches me out. “Who the … what the fuck?” he hisses. Rolling onto his side, he props himself up and falls back into the couch cushions and runs his fingers down his face. His dark brown, almost-black eyes drill me, as he runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. The whites of his eyes are scattered with red, and beads of sweat lace his brow and down the sides of his face. He looks like shit. More accurately, he looks like someone who greedily smashed a bottle of primo tequila last night.

“You ate my jelly,” I say, shoving the bowl towards him.

He shrugs and his lip curls to the side. “I was hungry,” he says with a challenging gaze.

“You were fucking hungry? I haven’t been here even twenty-four hours and you’re helping yourself to my food?”

He scoffs, and I want to punch him in the face.

“It’s jelly,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “It’s like a dollar or some shit. I’ll buy a packet. Bloody hell, I’ll buy two. No need to get your fuckin’ panties in a bunch.”

He sits up and rakes his fingers back through the longer strands of dark hair on the top of his head. He slouches farther into the couch, one hand scratching at the faded black T-shirt adorning his chest, the other hand sliding between his legs and adjusting himself.

Fucking men.

“I’m not pissed about the fact it costs bugger all. I don’t touch your shit and you don’t touch mine. Got it?”

I turn on my heel, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder. I couldn’t be arsed waiting for his response. I can’t imagine I’ll like it anyway.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“And would it kill you to put the bloody toilet seat down?” I throw at him as I walk out the door.

His laughter echoes into the stairwell, right before the door slams shut.

Arsehole.

****

I park my car out the back of the Wild and Free Range café and walk in through the back screen door. The heat from the kitchen instantly warms my cheeks, as I walk past the cookers, and dump my satchel in the small staff room.

Tarsh, a uni student who started with us a few weeks ago, is chowing down on a bowl of fries with aioli and reading a Cosmo magazine.

“Hey,” I throw in her direction. It’s casual, because really, we haven’t worked together that much. I’m not one to gush over the new girl. I find it hard making friends. It’s easier keeping personal shit out of it. Most people think I’m a bitch, but I do it to protect myself. I don’t need to be judged by someone I barely know. The minute you start getting cosy with people, the more they wanna know. Besides, I have April. Best friend in the world.

“Hey,” she says, smiling brightly at me. “The new roster is up,” she says, nodding in the direction of the corkboard on the far wall.

“Cool,” I say, as I wander over to the wall.

I scan over the spreadsheet that details the shifts over the next two weeks. Motherfucker. They’ve dropped my regular Saturday shift next week, and I’m off on the upcoming public holiday. I was fucking relying on that double time for a little breathing room in my wallet.

“Fuck,” I groan under my breath. That’s gonna drop my pay by at least two hundred bucks.

“What’s up?” Tarsh says. I turn to see her light blue eyes regarding me. She tucks her short brown hair behind one ear.

I look back to the roster to find out who is working those particular days.

Tarsh.

No point bitching to the girl that’s taken the shifts from me. Took the money from my pocket.

She smiles sweetly at me. Shit. It’s not her fault. I’ll have to have a word to Tony, though. I’ve been working for the arsehole for nearly four years and he didn’t have the decency to give me a heads up? He knows I’m hard up for money. I’m the one he always rings when he needs staff, and I never say no.

“Nothing,” I mutter, offering no other explanation as I grab a black apron from the folded pile on the shelf and exit the room.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ROCCO

Mid-morning, I finally drag my hungover arse off the couch. When I get to the bathroom, I have another chuckle when I see the toilet seat down—lid and all. Of course, I leave it up when I’m done. After standing under the hot water for the best part of half an hour, I drive my truck down to the mall.

After an expensive trip to the grog shop, I get a few groceries. I need a man’s size steak and a hit of carbs. When I get to the dessert aisle of the supermarket, I pull every box of green jelly off the shelves and shoot them basketball penalty–style into the trolley. About twenty dollars’ worth to be precise. I know I wasn’t in the best form, but I’m pretty sure I was reading the situation right. The way she held that spoon and shot daggers at me with her vivid green eyes, I reckon I was about a millisecond away from being spooned to death. I guess she has a thing for jelly.

Ooh, I wonder if she’s ever wrestled in it. Lesbians do that shit, right? Pillow fights and jelly wrestling. At least that’s how they get started in pornos.

When I get home, I stack the small green boxes in piles on the kitchen bench, so she won’t miss them when she gets in.

I survey my handiwork. On second thoughts, I should’ve bought more jelly, like a pallet of the stuff. I look over to the lounge room, and work out how much space I’d have if I moved the lounges and the coffee table against the walls.

I should’ve gotten a blow-up pool. I’d be making jelly for the next few weeks, but it’d totally be worth it. She could invite all her lesbian friends around and we could make a night of it.

I could sell tickets. I’d make a killing. What a cracking idea.

****

SOPHIE

When I get into the apartment after work, the first things that catch my eye are the small boxes piled high in stacks on the bench. I inspect them further to discover they are all lime jelly. What a fucking smart arse.

I go to the bathroom to find the toilet seat up. Arsehole.

Once I’ve freshened up, I return to the kitchen and fill up the kettle in preparation for some oriental beef noodles in a cup. I’m mixing it up today, because as much as I love them, I can’t have chicken flavour everyday.

As I peel back the paper lid and empty the flavour sachet, I notice three sealed bottles of Patron silver label tequila lined up next to the sink. I guess Rocco has his next bender or two planned out.