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This is a work
of fiction, loosely based on the actor Russell Crowe. This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations. ©2002 by WILDBEARIES
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ROSE - Chapter 19 I didn’t know what to think about Rosie and Mum’s experiences in the Elizabeth Bay house. On the other hand, I felt a bit uneasy there myself - could they be feeling the same thing, only more strongly because they were sensitive to it? I’ve always thought women were more open to that sort of thing. Although I had had an experience myself when my grandfather died and a kookaburra came and sat right on the balcony railing of my flat in Sydney. You don’t see them much in populated areas, much less right in the city. The aborigines and the Maori look upon them as messengers - when one shows up on your door step, it’s usually because important or sad news is about to arrive. When I saw the bird, I knew. I called my grandmother and found out he had died just about the time the bird first showed up on my railing. It really shook me. I literally sobbed for hours afterward, overwhelmed by grief. In any case - whether Rosie disliked the house because she thought it was “haunted” or because she didn’t like the actual house - there was no use forcing the issue. There were plenty of houses and condos in Sydney and only one Rosie. No way was a house going to come between us. The day after we left, I put the fucker up for sale. Movers went in and packed up our personal belongings, what furniture was mine went into storage, and I never went back there. I did miss that beach right across the road, though. Still, as Rosie said, there were beaches within an hour’s drive of the farm, and plenty of other beaches near property in Sydney - we would find another one. We had such a good visit at the farm. Rosie loved it there, and we rode or walked out into the pastures every day. We made love in the hay loft of the barn, in the changing room by the pool, on the floor in the bedroom - in short, I think I fucked her everywhere that lent itself to fucking, and a few places that didn’t - which only added to the thrill. My favorite time was when I took her into Coffs Harbour shopping. We drew a little attention from some tourists, but they were very nice - just sort of hung back, staring. Nobody rushed us or made pests of themselves. When people are like that, I generally react like a gentleman (Mum always told me to be a gentleman - but it ain’t that easy). When the oldest one in the group - an American lady about 50 - gave me a tentative wave, I beckoned them over. I was standing outside a dress shop while Rosie tried on clothes inside, so I had nothing to do anyway. They were a real nice group - six of them, all from Texas - and we had a nice chat about Austin, about Texas in general and where to go around Coffs to get a good meal. I signed some autographs for them, even posed for a couple of pictures with the ladies. The guys with them were pretty decent blokes - one of them was even a footy fan, so we talked about the Rabbitohs and the Axemen. Rosie came out carrying some parcels and got this real surprised look on her face to find me in a group of six Yanks, all of us happily chatting and drinking soft drinks like long-time mates. I beckoned her down and introduced her. One of the women wanted our picture together, so we posed and I told her I hoped I didn’t break the camera. We strolled on after that. It was really pleasant to meet nice people - made up for all the assholes I’d met recently. We had lunch in the pub at the Coffs Harbour Hotel. Rosie chattered about what she’d bought - some great stuff, she said - vintage Koala Blue clothes, which, it turned out, were designed by Olivia Newton-John, and some hand-knits that she had once seen on a television special in the States. When she showed the things to me later I had to agree they were beautiful and unique - like her. Like Australia. They both just filled me up - Rosie with this feeling of extreme romantic love and Australia with a feeling of home. As always, I wondered how I would bring myself to leave when the time came. Anyway, she found another shop she just had to go in shortly after we ate. This time I went in with her to look at the men’s clothes - yes, that’s right - I was looking at new clothes. The woman you love can only refer to your fashion sense as non-existent so many times before it gets to you. I found some shirts and pants, bought them and found myself waiting for her while she tried on clothes. Nobody was in the shop but us and the sales person, it being mid-week. The clerk was busy talking on the phone to her boyfriend and not paying attention, so I came up with this idea to sneak back to the dressing room and surprise Rosie with a little quickie. I whisked back there and called out to her in a low voice. Surprised, she stuck her head out the curtains, “What? I’m hurrying - stop fretting.” “I’m not fretting,” I informed her, advancing on the little alcove behind the curtains where she was trying on clothes. Her eyes got real big. I knew she had me figured out pretty quickly, but she didn’t try to stop me. Actually, she grabbed me by the hand and yanked me in the room with her. “Hello, my pretty,” I leered. “Hi, big boy,” she came back with. That’s my girl…always ready for a good root. In fact, as she said it, she was busy pulling my shirt out of my jeans and unzipping my fly. “Where is it?” she asked, groping me, “Oh, there it is…I want it.” “You’re going to get it,” I promised. I bent her over the back of a small chair in front of the mirror. “Look in the mirror, Rosie - see what you’re going to get.” I had her undressed from the waist down, caressing her bum, reaching up between her legs to get at her sex. She moaned and wiggled against me, not taking her eyes off the two of us in the mirror. “Not too loud, girl, the sales clerk is right outside.” I felt a trickle of moisture down there and she practically climbed onto my fingers, trying to get some clit action. “Easy,” I soothed her. “Look at it Rose - it’s coming inside you.” She gasped and shoved back against me. “Okay now, take it all, luv. . .” and I shoved it in. We both groaned. I’m surprised that didn’t bring the salesgirl on the run, but she must have still been chatting with her boyfriend. “God, you’re so tight and hot,” I managed, and began giving her what she needed. Who am I kidding? What I needed as well. We were both so turned on - listening for approaching footsteps or God knows what - it didn’t take long. “Look, Rosie,” I panted in her ear, “look at it.” I pulled all the way out of her so she could see how big I was and how I was ready to shoot. My cock was red and thick - just the touch of the cool air in the room about set me off - so I shoved it back up into her hard and let myself go. Rosie was shoving back against me, all her cunt muscles spasming around me, milking everything I had out of me. She had me so tight, I felt like a dog caught inside a bitch in heat. She didn’t relax until I whispered in her ear, “Luvvy, I can’t move.” The little fiend giggled and relaxed enough for me to pull out. Just then, we both heard the sales girl walking back toward the dressing rooms. Rosie grabbed her slacks and pulled them on. All I had to do was zip up, but the room reeked of sex. I sent up a quick prayer that the little prat clerk was a heavy smoker with sinus trouble, then sat down holding all Rosie’s packages in my lap, putting on my most guiltless expression. Sure enough, the girl stuck her head into the dressing room. She didn’t even blink when she saw me there. “Doin’ okay, luv?” she asked Rosie. “Just fine,” my innocent-appearing spouse answered. She held out a couple of pairs of khaki pants and a jacket, “I want these - would you wrap them up, please?” I flipped out my American Express card, and the girl went happily off to do her thing with the purchases. I stood up and spotted Rosie’s bright turquoise panties in a heap in the middle of the rug. There was no way the salesgirl could have missed seeing them. I pointed, “Erm, Rosie?” She looked up from picking up her purse, “Hmm?” “Aren’t you missing something, luvvy?” She followed my pointing finger down to the little heap of turquoise silk and uttered a strangled little giggle. “Oh, crap.” I nodded, “Crap is right - now how will you face her when you go get your stuff?” She grinned, “I won’t - I was going to pay cash until Mister Big Bucks whipped out his Amex card. Now you have to go sign the charge slip.” “Oh, crap.” I sighed, girded up my loins, so to speak, and trudged out to face the music. The sales girl was on the phone again, but I noticed she had Rosie’s purchases neatly wrapped and bagged, and the charge slip ready for me to sign. As I walked up to the counter, I heard her say excitedly, “I swear to God, Diane, it IS him! I’ve got his bloody Amex card right here in my hand!” She said this last as if she was claiming to have something of mine a lot more personal in her hand. She glanced up, saw me, and gulped. “I gotta hang up now, Di - I’ll call ya back.” She gave me a nervous smile, “Just sign right here, Mr. Crowe.” I signed the slip and grabbed out my copy. She actually picked up the slip and compared the signature to the one on the back of the card before she gave my card back. “Thanks,” I said and picked up the shopping bag. I turned to go. “Is that your wife?” she asked as Rosie emerged from the dressing room looking as sweetly innocent as a newborn lamb. “Yeah - she is, why, luv?” She shrugged, “No reason - she just seems real nice is all. Have a good day.” We exited the shop, managing to get a ways down the street before collapsing onto a bench, laughing like crazy. “Did you at least get your knickers?” I finally was able to ask. Passersby eyed us like we were two lunatics fresh from the booby hatch. Rosie nodded, wiping her eyes, “Yeah - they’re in my purse, see?” And she took out the panties and showed them to me. Also to two blokes just coming out of the tea shop behind us, to a lady about my mum’s age just passing our bench and to two priests from the big catholic church down the road as they drove by in their car. She realized what she had done and stuffed them back into her purse, but she’d already given the free lingerie show. “Guess we’d better go home, huh?”
I nodded, took
her hand, and we walked back to where the car was parked. Nobody
came after us to arrest us for indecent acts in a dressing room or
for waving panties about in a public place, so we got while the
getting was good.
Everything was in slow-mo. I could hear the damned Jaguar still
behind me - was the fool trying to kill me on purpose or just a
drunk with no brains? The Harley hit and bounced on the gravel and I
was too busy fighting to keep it upright to worry about the car. I
lost the battle and the bike flipped onto its right side, scraping
itself and me along the gravel and black top. I didn't feel anything
much - just some pressure and sharp blows like getting slapped - but
I had too much going on and too much adrenaline pumping, I suppose.
Lying on my back on the ground with the rain pouring down on me, I heard the car coming. I knew I should get up and run, but all I could do was turn my head toward the road where, to my amazement, I saw the car stop. The driver, a dark-haired bloke, actually opened his door, stuck his head out to look, laughed, and drove off. I lay with raindrops running like tears down my cracked visor, wondering over and over why somebody would laugh when they'd just fucking almost killed another person. I was kind of hazy at that point, my pain receptors hadn't kicked in yet. It was like watching a film unreel on an old projector - the speed of everything was wrong. Now fast, now slow, now silent, now with sounds - somebody groaning - it was me, I realized it was me making that sound. "Rose," I whispered, "I've really fucked up now."
ROSE Russell was overdue returning from his ride. This normally wouldn’t bother me because I know, gregarious person that he is, he will run into mates out on his rides and spend time talking about bikes, footy, horses and the like. It’s one of the pet peeves of the guys who mind him when he’s working his day job - he has no concept of time when he's having fun. I called up to the main part of the house from the far end where Russell’s wing was. His mother and brother hadn’t seen him since that morning. Terry promised to check around and get back to me or else send my tardy husband home, whichever. Something was wrong. I could feel it. I was jittery and there was a knot in the center of my stomach that grew tighter by the minute. When Terry knocked on the door, I practically jumped out of my skin. I flung the door open, “Did you find him?” He took hold of my arms and backed me in out of the rain, which was driving down in sheets by then. “No, but I’ve alerted the local cops - they’re going to keep an eye out for him. He’s probably holed up in some pub in Grafton or Nana Glen dropping a coldie while he waits out the rain.” I shook my head, “No - Terry - something is wrong.” I was adamant. Nothing he said was going to change what I felt. I finally persuaded him to drive me out along the most likely roads Russell would have taken. He rode his own bike out often enough, alone or with Russell, it seemed logical to me that he would be able to figure out which way his brother went. So we took off in the Rover. My Rover. White with a large rose painted on the driver’s side door. A surprise from my husband upon arrival at the farm the week before. I still wasn’t used to the right hand drive, so Terry drove it. We both had our cellphones. We set out along the one lane, barely paved road that led out the back of the farm. The wipers hissed, the rain pelted the car, and inside it, the two of us were silent. Terry seemed to have picked up some of my anxiety and was looking uncharacteristically worried. I was just going to say that I was probably overreacting when his phone trilled. He pulled to the side of the rode and parked. “Yeah?” “Coppers,” he mouthed to me before listening intently. Something in his face changed and my heart lurched. “Yeah - where is this now? Right. Right.” He disconnected. I don’t think I’d have been scared but when he looked at me, tears glimmered in the eyes that were so like Russell’s. “Rosie - buckle your harness, we’re going somewhere in a hurry.” “What is it!? Terry - what??” I was buckling and questioning at the same time. Terry shook his head while he got the car moving again, “Rosie - he’s crashed the bike. . . about ten minutes from here. . .” “No!” was all I got out, then we were driving at breakneck speeds down to the two lane road into Grafton, and out the other side. A police van passed us, lights blinking, the officer in the passenger seat hanging out his window to wave us on. “Follow them!” “I know,” Terry bit out. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard his fingers looked bloodless. “Hurry,” I said unnecessarily. I saw lights ahead - red and blue and white, flashing. “There!” “I know,” he repeated. “Ah, shit! Lookit the bike.” Russell’s new $50,000 Harley was on its side, the whole thing crumpled. I had the fleeting thought that he would be furious that he’d scratched up the bright candy apple red paint. Terry grabbed my arm and pointed, “There - right there.” There were five or six people - shapes indistinct and blurry in the rain - all working over another shape on the ground. “Oh, my God,” I was out the car door almost before Terry had it stopped. I heard him shout to me to wait, but there was no way. I ran, stumbling over my own feet, unable to even scream his name. I shoved between two of the police and saw his helmet - the visor cracked and bloody on the inside - then I was there, on my knees beside him, “Russell - luvvy, I’m here.” They had a collar around his neck and air splints on his right arm and leg. His heavy leather pants and jacket were scored and ripped along that side - presumably he’d skidded and the bike flipped onto its right side. A paramedic - I guessed - was working with him, talking to him, and when I heard Russell answer him, I almost fainted in relief. They realized who I was and let me move up close so I could talk to him. I touched his cheek, seeing some cuts and bruises on the right, and he’d apparently cut his lip because he had blood on his mouth. He would have a black eye. “You’re going to have a beauty of a shiner,” I said. “Luv,” he said in a breathy voice, “I can’t turn my head - lean so I can see you.” I leaned far enough over him so that he could see me without moving. “I’m here - Rusty - it’s going to be okay.” The nickname I only rarely used slipped out. His closest mates called him that, but I almost never did. I suppose that told him how upset I was. He tried to take my hand and the paramedics stopped him. I glanced down and saw that they were putting a splint on his left ankle and immobilizing his left wrist as well. “Just a precaution, ma’am,” the lead paramedic told me when I gave him a questioning look. “A witness said he took a bit of a flight off the bike into the ground.” “Car,” Russell said, “old Jaguar - dark red.” Terry was there by then. As he listened, a look I’d never seen before came over his normally good natured face. “What car, Russ?” One of the policemen spoke up, “He said somebody driving an older, beat up Jaguar deliberately hit him and knocked the bike flying. We’re checking that out now.” “Deliberately?!” Terry and I echoed together. That got shunted aside, however, because they were putting Russell carefully onto a back board and then onto a stretcher and moving him toward the big ambulance that stood waiting. “Where are they taking him?” “Coffs first - then maybe down to Sydney.” Terry got off his knees, pulled me up and we walked over to the ambulance in the wake of the paramedics. “You ride with him,” he told me, “I’ll follow in the car.” When I demurred, saying he should ride with Russell, he gave me a short, very Russell-like grin, “G’wan, luv, I’m not his wife - he’ll want you and not me.” He gave me a boost up into the big ambulance and took off for the Rover. He had his cellphone out, punching in numbers before he was even in the door. Of course, he’d want to call their parents. Oh, lord - they would be so upset. “Rosie,” Russell called hoarsely, “Rosie - ouch, God dammit, man, that’s my arm not a piece of fuckin’ wood!” I focused on my husband. If he was cussing at the medic, how hurt could he be? From the look of him - wet, bedraggled, cut, scraped, bruised and splinted, an IV running into the back of his right hand, a collar immobilizing his neck - he was fairly hurt. “Don’t cuss at the man, Russell, he’s just doing his job.” I leaned down and kissed his face - managing to find a non-scraped place. “I know that,” he snapped. He was going to say more, but they did something that must have really hurt because he stopped talking with a gasp and turned white as a sheet. After a minute he managed a breathy, “Right - I’m behaving, mate, don’t do that again, eh?” The lead medic glanced up from adjusting the splint on Russell’s right leg. “Then you’d best hold still, Russell, cos it’s broken and it’ll hurt like a bitch if you move around and dislodge this.” “Yeah, what he said,” I told him. I brushed his wet hair off his face and kissed his forehead. His skin was cold and I gave the medic a look. “Blanket? He’s freezing.” “Shocky,” the lead paramedic said succinctly. He was reading his monitors, also talking into a radio clipped to his jacket and I realized he was talking to the hospital in Coffs Harbour. I remembered taking Russell there when his leg infection overwhelmed him. He would not be happy to be back there. On the other hand, there wasn’t much choice. “Right,” the medic said into his little radio. “D-5-W running well in the IV. He appears to be mildly concussed - but the pupils are equal and reactive, oriented times three, not sleepy.” The radio crackled, and he added, “Yeah, mad as a hornet - to be expected. His new bike’s done for.” “God damn it,” Russell complained, “Bastard bashed into me, forced me off the road.” “Shhh, just lay back and let everyone work. We’ll worry about the other guy later.” I pulled the blanket they gave me higher up and crouched over him, trying to transfer my body heat to him. “I love you,” I whispered. “Love you too,” he answered me. “Please, can I have something for the pain?” he asked the medics. I knew he wouldn’t ask unless he was really hurting. I guessed that since he was in out of the rain and the adrenaline was no doubt worn off, everything was making itself known. “Can he?” I asked. They conferred with whomever was on the other end of the radio and confirmed that he didn’t appear to have brain damage, then the lead medic injected something - a tiny amount of something - into the IV and Russell relaxed. “Thanks,” he whispered, and that was the last we got out of him before arriving at Coffs.
I don’t remember much of anything after the Jag drove off. People from other cars stopped and came to help. One of them must have called the police and ambulance. Meantime, a nice lady covered me with a blanket from the boot of her car, and she sat with me until the paramedics shoved her out of the way. I made sure she got her blanket back, but I didn’t find out her name or anything. One day I will. Her holding my hand gave me a lot of comfort. The medics took my helmet off, which was when I realized I’d really cracked my head hard - must’ve done it bouncing along the pavement. The visor was split but hadn’t broken. I’d bitten my tongue and my lip, and both started throbbing as soon as the cool air hit my face. I wanted the helmet back but - understandably - they didn’t want me to have it on. The medics did a lot of feeling around on my neck, and even though I could move my arms and legs and feel what they were doing, they still put one of those fucking collars on me. I hate those. You can’t get a breath right with one on, and, of course, you can’t turn your head. It seemed like there were dozens of blokes around me, cops and medics and the like, but I was in and out, so I could have been imagining that. It rained harder and harder, though, and I was so cold. Instead of covering me, they tried to get my leathers off. That’s when they - and I - discovered that my right arm was apparently broken. Pulling at the sleeve caused me to scream so loud, I think even they were taken aback. They decided to leave my jacket on. Similar action with the thick leather pants resulted in further discoveries, and I found myself wearing these inflatable splints, totally miserable, every bone in my body throbbing. I wanted to throw up, but that’s hard to do lying on your back. I fought off the nausea, promising myself I’d vomit later if the opportunity came up. (Throw up jokes - I know, not funny, but it was at the time. I was hurting, cut me some slack). I was in so much pain, I was begging for something - anything - to make it go away. Then Rosie was there, bending over me with wide eyes. She kissed me - such a soft mouth she has - and I just wanted to turn into her arms and cry. I couldn’t do that because of the collar and the medics, and I couldn’t grip her hand because of the splints. It was so frustrating on top of everything else. And there was a nagging feeling I knew the bloke driving the Jaguar. I kept trying to tell the cops about that - and the medics kept trying to keep me quiet. I’m not sure if I got out the whole story or not. When they put me on the stretcher, I blacked out, which is probably a good thing. The next thing I remember for sure is waking up in the emergency unit at the hospital in Coffs. They were talking about flying me to Sydney - something about trauma centers, orthopedic doctors and the like. I managed to croak out that I wanted to go to Melbourne to the university hospital and the doctor who’d done my shoulder surgery two years earlier. Terry stepped in then and made them understand what I was saying. Funny - I thought I was perfectly understandable, but he told me later I was just whispering and not making much sense at that. I came to lying on one of the beds in my own jet. I could tell we were in the air by the soft hissing outside the cabin walls, but I was so disoriented I had no idea where we were going or why. I tried to sit up and was suddenly surrounded by two blokes in white lab coats and a sheila in a blue air ambulance tunic. “What the fuck is going on?” I wanted to know. Rosie was there instantly - she must have been sitting on the opposite bed. “Shh, sweetheart, we’re taking you down to Melbourne. Dr. Clarke is going to take care of you.” “Hurts,” I told her. What I meant to say what that every fuckin’ part of my body hurt, but I only got out that much. She kissed my forehead, “I know, darling - please relax, these people know what they’re doing. You’re going to be fine.” “Don’t go away,” I begged. She was fading out, and then I realized I was the one who was fading. “Rosie!” “I’m right here,” she reassured me, but I was falling down a long cliff into the dark and couldn’t reach her. I had awful dreams - more like nightmares. Cars chasing me, running to get away but not being able to, flying through the air only really high up, not down near the ground like it really had been. I couldn’t find Rosie - kept calling for her but when she’d answer me, I couldn’t see her. I was positive the bloke driving the Jag had somehow gotten her, hurt her, and it made me frantic to find her. I called her over and over. Sometimes when I woke enough, before the pain drove me wild and they drugged me and sent me back to my nightmares, I thought she was there with me. I caught a whiff of her perfume, or heard her talking to me, but when I tried to answer her, nothing came out. I was drowning in anxiety and discomfort, and I knew she was my lifeline, but I couldn’t reach her. I came back to myself all of a sudden. I opened my eyes and found myself in a dimly lighted room, surrounded by beeping machines, hooked up to all sorts of tubes, and unable to move. “Fucking shit,” I got out - sounding like an ancient man with a 50 year smoking habit. I tried to turn my head and found that my neck was so stiff, I could barely move. I said something unprintable. Apparently, I was alone. The drugged haze was gone and I hurt. Furthermore, I had no idea how to let anybody know that I hurt. This, understandably, pissed me off. I found that I could move my left arm, although there was something - a cast - around the wrist that made any kind of finesse an impossibility. I flailed once and there was a satisfying thump and clang as I apparently knocked over some kind of tall metal stand. No response. I had thought it would bring somebody at the trot. Nothing else was within reach. Except - my eye fell on a small, beeping machine that seemed to be hooked to a tiny clip on one of my fingers. I pulled it close by means of the cord between the clip and the machine itself. On wheels, it obligingly rolled right within reach. Once I had it where I wanted it, I yanked out the cord. Instead of the steady small beep it had been emitting, it began wailing like a steamboat whistle. I closed my eyes and waited. Half a dozen people in scrubs came bounding into the room, followed closely by Rosie, Terry and my dad. “He’s awake!” I heard Rose exclaim, and she came running over to press kisses all over my face. They hurt. I couldn’t shake my head, could barely speak, but she quickly realized she was hurting me and stopped. “I love you,” she whispered. “Me too, just please don’t kiss me any more.” It was getting urgent that somebody do something about my discomfort level. I felt sweat beading my forehead and running down my face. “Please - everything hurts.” “God dammit,” Terry yelled, “where is his pain medication?” “It’s running in his central line,” one of the nurses said. She then looked at the tall stand with all the IV bags hanging on it. “Oh. It’s run out. I’ll just get more.” She fled, no doubt propelled by the look on everyone’s face. My dad came over and gently squeezed my left arm - about the only place, apparently, that I hadn’t bruised, broken or otherwise damaged. “We’ve been worried about you, Russ,” he said in his quiet voice.
I couldn’t get a
word out by then for fear of just screaming the place down. I
blinked, hoping he understood that I couldn't speak, and he did
understand, he patted me and grimaced. Dad is a great guy - way
nicer than I am. Sometimes I wish I took after him a whole lot more. I heard Rosie calling after me that she loved me. I think I answered but it might have just been a dream.
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Buttons, bars, logos © 2002 by WildBearies Photographs of Russell Crowe courtesy of various fan sites. |
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