As a kid, he’d throw the biggest tantrums, which was probably why his father dumped him into foster care when he was six. As a teen, he’d acted out: fights; alcohol; dabbled in drugs. But he’d hated the blackouts and had steered clear of any kind of stimulant since, despite being offered the high-end stuff all around the world. It had been his love of music and meeting Yanni and his mates at sixteen that had turned his life around and since then he’d dealt with problems by losing himself in composing and singing.
Today, that wasn’t an option. Not that he hadn’t considered it, but every time he so much as glanced at the guitar propped on a stand in the corner of the rumpus room, he broke out in a cold sweat. It scared the shit out of him that he may never get past this. His career could be over.
But for now he had other things to worry about. Namely, being a father when he had no idea how. The father figures he’d known had ignored him, tortured him or belted him. He’d pretended he didn’t care, grew tougher with each beating, learned to hide the pain beneath a veneer of arrogance that only incensed his torturers further. It served him well, hiding his true feelings, because his ‘stage face’ came in mighty handy when he’d been sick or exhausted or not given a fuck but still had to perform.
Ironic that, in all the beatings he’d suffered at the hands of sadistic bastards, he’d never felt this flayed open, like his chest had been split and his heart laid bare.
How could Tash do it to him? How could she lie about aborting the baby then keep his daughter a secret for almost thirteen goddamn years?
An ache like nothing he’d experienced before spread through his chest. He’d adored Tash once, had loved her so much he would’ve done anything. Her deception made him want to down enough bourbon to pass out for a week.
A bad thought, because in the next moment the bike hit something hard, sending a powerful jolt up his spine and propelling him into the air. He flew one way, the bike another, and as he came down he heard the distinctive crack of a bone breaking the second before excruciating pain in his left ankle made him cry out.
He woke to find himself flat on his back, staring at a cloudless sky, terrified to move in case he’d broken more than his ankle. He gingerly pushed up onto his elbows and glanced at his legs, instantly wishing he hadn’t. His ankle protruded from the bottom of his jeans at a right angle to his leg. A wave of nausea made him lie back down.
Gritting his teeth against the agonising throb in his ankle, he fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialled 000. The operator put him through to the ambulance service and after he gave his location he closed his eyes, listening to the soothing voice of the emergency service worker, trying to picture himself anywhere but here.
He should never have come to this godforsaken town. His shitty life had turned shittier since he’d arrived at Wattle Lane.
But a small, stubborn part of him refused to join the pity party, because if he hadn’t come here he never would’ve discovered he had a daughter. Isla.
He may know jackshit about parenting but once he got his ankle sorted, he had to pull his finger out and start acting like a responsible adult and not some whiny, woe-is-me kid.
‘Kody, are you still there?’
‘Yeah, not going anywhere,’ he muttered, his dry response earning a chuckle.
‘You should hear the chopper any minute now.’
Chopper? Of course. He’d come off in a paddock in the middle of nowhere; a car couldn’t traverse this terrain.
The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of helicopter blades broke the silence and he watched the chopper grow closer until it landed about five hundred metres away. He tried propping himself up on his elbows again then wished he hadn’t when breath-stealing pain ripped through his leg, like someone had skewered him from foot to hip.
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur: being strapped onto a portable gurney; loaded onto the chopper; a short flight to the nearest hospital in Echuca; examination in ER. Several nurses recognised him, a doc too, but even in his pain haze, he implored them to keep his identity confidential and they agreed. With X-rays done and a break confirmed, his ankle was plastered,