"And stretch to the left. Now stretch to the right," Rob instructed; his tone overly-cheerful. He had a plastic smile on his face like the trainers on those lame work-out DVDs that promise you 'more ab, less flab'.

Rob had been delighted with the honour of instructing the Senior Swim 'n' Slim work out class. Elderly women –and even a couple of men- were in the indoor exercise pool, mimicking Rob's actions. As soon as I saw the scene, I raced back to the locker rooms, grabbed my phone and instantly started filming some gold footage.

"This is so going on YouTube," I announced.

"Remember to tag the Aquatic Centre," Dean said, seemingly more amused than pissed that I was on my phone on duty. He casually sipped from his Styrofoam cup as he passed, but before he disappeared he added, "And if I catch you with your phone again, a terrible 'accident' may occur to it."

I knew his chill attitude was too good to last.

"Five more seconds," I hollered. This was way too good to pass up.

"Arms out, everyone! And washing machine," Rob instructed, spinning with his arms spread.

"Washing machine!" I mimicked.

Rob instantly stopped his circular motions, gave a sarcastic expression of amusement and flipped me the finger, scoring a few outraged gasps from the women. Realising that he was still in the middle of a class, he smiled sheepishly.

"My apologies, ladies," he said. "Okay, let's move on. Hands out in front -great extensions, Mer! And floppy wrists. Yep. That's great, everyone. Now zombie walk to the other side of the pool."

Rob demonstrated the action and without looking at me, he jerked his wrists in my direction, an indication that I was being a pain in the ass and that he wanted me to leave. I gracefully took the message, put my phone away, headed out of the indoor section of the pool, and stepped out into the comforting burn of the sun.

Just like Rob had promised, work was pretty laid back. Since the incident before Christmas, there hadn't been any more life-threatening situations and the only sight of blood was due to a nosebleed caused by the extreme heat. 

Another unfortunate consequence of extreme heat was how all the bratty and demanding customers came out of hibernation and seemed to enjoy gracing everyone else with their intolerable behaviour and sassy attitudes.

"Excuse me." I looked around to see a man with an incredibly red face and zinc on his nose. "My kids would like some of those pool toys. Where would I be able to get them?"

"You can rent them out at the front desk for five dollars each or two for eight," I explained, pointing towards the direction of the entrance. "Or you can purchase an indoor pool pass for nine dollars per person, or a family pass for thirty. All facilities are available for use."

I was pretty impressed with the way I recited the information. There were no awkward pauses or hesitant moments of uncertainty. I sounded authoritative and confident like I was the man of the pool. Or, as Tess would phrase it, I was the merman of Atlantis.

"You're meaning to tell me that I've got to pay," the man asked in outrage. He was wearing one of those hats with the dangling corks to keep the flies away and the strings swayed as he shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes, sir."

"That's ridiculous! Whose god damned idea was this in the first place?" he snapped, clearly irritated at me. He was holding a packet of red liquorice rope and he started waving it at me as he spoke. "You people are robbing us from our money. It used to be two dollars to get into public pool but now it's risen and you expect us to pay even more just so our kids can play with those cheap water guns and foam floating devices? Do you think that's fair? Huh? Do you?"

I think it's business, I thought.

"I'm sorry, sir. But these concerns should be directed at the manager. I'm just an employee," I answered instead.

"Can't you see, kid? These prices are too damn expensive for a public service," he announced, the packet of liquorice waving as he shook his fist at me.

And can't you hear? I said to direct your concerns to the manager.

"I understand your distress, but I'm not the right person to discuss them with," I said through clenched teeth, restraining myself from grabbing the liquorice rope and strangling him with it.

 As if right on cue, Dean stepped into the conversation. "Problem?"

His tone was both threatening and authoritative, yet held a hint of respect. The man shifted uncomfortably, probably feeling the burn of Dean's intense glare. He faltered for a moment, words clogging in his throat until he coughed and straightened.

"I was just telling this kid that I'll be writing a letter of complaint to the manager of this place," he said, voice loud, but forced.

"Actually, you weren't telling me th-"

"I was getting to it," he snapped at me.

I placed my hands up in surrender and stepped back.

"Anyways, the manager will be hearing about my complaints," he concluded.

"You're in luck. It just so happens that I'm the manager and owner. I'll be happy to discuss any issues you're finding with my services. A face-to-face conversation would be much more effective," Dean answered, his voice hypnotic and extremely convincing, causing even me to cling to every word.

"W-Well." The man scrubbed the back of his neck, his already flushed skin turning a shade darker. "Okay then."

Together, they walked off and I had a feeling that the man was about to get his ass kicked. No one gets in a fight with Dean and wins.

"Hey, a few of the guys are catching up after work and going out for burgers. Want to join?" Rob asked, sliding his sunglasses up to the top of his head.

Rob had finally finished with the Senior Swim 'n' Slim team and was now on his way to one of the lifeguard towers for lookout duty. Although a burger sounded like music to my ears, I declined.

"Nah," I answered, wiping myself down with a towel. "I've got plans."

"You're seriously missing out," he announced, slapping my shoulder in sympathy. "Some other time though, yeah?"

"Definitely," I agreed, grabbing my things and grinning easily.

"So, who are your plans with?" Rob asked, crossing his arms and looking at me suspiciously. "Have you scored a girl for the summer?" A guilty smile must have crossed my face because he instantly broke out into a smirk and shoved me. "You bastard. Who is she? No. Wait, I bet I can guess. Was it that blonde that came here the other week?"

"Tess?" I asked, eyes widening. "Gross, man."

"Are you kidding me?" Rob asked, looking at me like I was crazy. "She's a goddess."

"She's my sister," I answered. "Step-sister, but still. Dude, we're related."

Rob rubbed his chin and the small crop of stubble growing there. "So, is she single?"

"No," I answered, almost instantly.

Despite Quinton's attempt to avoid asking her out, I knew it was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain himself. His theory was that it was too complicated; adding himself into the equation of already awkward and intricate relationships. But if you were to look deeper into the mechanisms of his brain, it was more complex than him disrupting the web of intimate associations. Other factors contributed to his hesitation for making a move.

"Damn. So, who's your girl then?" Rob asked again.

"Holden!" someone hollered in the distance.

I turned and looked in the direction where the voice was coming from and found Quinton standing there with a girl. Her fingers wrapped around the intertwined metal that made up the pool's gates and she smiled once we made eye contact. With her untidy hair, bold fashion sense and bare feet, I knew exactly who it was before her name left my lips.

"Flo," I said faintly.

"Who?" Rob pressed, his tone demanding answers.

"Listen, man, I've got to run. But we'll head out for burgers one time after work, yeah? My shout," I replied distractedly, keeping my focus beyond the gates.

Without another word, I jogged towards the front desk to sign out. Iris was in there, stapling some documents together, her purple painted lips pursed as she hummed an unidentifiable tune. She looked up when I opened the door, probably feeling the heat from outside rush into the air conditioned room.

"Hey, love," she said, tapping the papers onto the desk to straighten their alignment. "Signing off already?"

"Yeah," I answered, "but what are you doing in here?"

She leaned against the table and gave me an exaggeratedly tired look. "Dean is an absolute pig. His office is a bloody mess so I've been organising it."

"Might take a while," I said, nodding towards the other loose paper slips clustered across the table.

Iris sighed and placed a hand on her hip. "I know. But someone's got to do it."

"Why can't that someone be Dean?" I asked, walking towards the clipboard hanging on the far side of the room and writing the time and my signature.

"Because his skills include interrogation, negotiation and disorganisation," she answered, grabbing another stack of papers.

I smiled at her sympathetically. "You should really get paid more."

"Tell me about it." She rolled her eyes and waved me off as I walked out the door.

By the time I reached the turnstile, Quinton and Flo were no longer at the gates. They had gone back into the ute, radio playing softly. Quinton smacked his palms against the steering wheel in time with the music, head jerking to the beat.

"Get in loser, we're going shopping," Quinton said as I approached; Flo sitting in the back, a little container of two dollar bubble mixture in her hands. She grinned at me and blew a swarm of bubbles in my direction.

I grinned, popped a couple, then pulled the door opened and jumped in. "Is it sad that we can quote Mean Girls?"

"I think it's cute," Flo piped up, dipping the stick back into the mixture.

"Cute," Quinton said, looking at her through the rear-view mirror, "in girl talk is translated into lame and embarrassing."

"Maybe," she answered, leaning in and resting her elbows on the front seats. "But in Flo talk, it corresponds to the dictionary definition; endearing."

"And that's why we love you," Quinton grinned at her and switched gears, pulling away from the curb.

I turned and looked at Flo, grinning. She smiled back and suddenly, another cluster of bubbles temporarily blurred my vision and blinded me from the lips that blew them in my direction. When most of them had disappeared, she had already moved towards the window, testing the limits of her seatbelt as he stuck her head out, blowing bubbles into the rushing air, causing us to look like a giant bar of soap gliding across the road.

"Where are we going anyways?" I asked, directing my attention back to the front.

Quinton flicked his indicators and as he was turning he answered, "Tess' work."

Tess had been working at The Typewriter for approximately two days and had been raving about the cotton candy fizzy and ice-cream spiders. Flo and I still hadn't actually seen the place, but Quinton said it was pretty legit. Though, I don't think the excellence of the interior design was the cause of the starry-eyed look he gave me when describing the café.

It wasn't a very long drive from the aquatic centre to The Typewriter and it wasn't very hard to find a parking space either. The car park was a small space with enough room for about ten cars. There were only three when we arrived so Quinton pulled up beside a blue Sedan and cut the engine.

Flo was the first one out of the car. At first, I thought it was her spontaneousness that had sparked her eagerness, but then I saw her crouched beside a Border Collie. The dog rolled over and she rubbed its stomach.

"Cute dog," she said.

With one more scratch under its chin, Flo joined us at the door and we stepped into the refreshing air-conditioned room. The place smelt like coffee and sweet treats. It was comforting. As soon as the door closed, we found Tess, standing behind the counter and wiping split coffee with a rag.

As if sensing that someone was watching her, she looked up. "Hey, stalkers," she teased.

Flo ran up to the counter and wrapped Tess up in a hug. It appeared to be a girl thing. They hugged all the time. For any reason. For all reasons. Even for no reason.

"What are you guys doing here?" she asked, releasing Flo, but keeping her arm around her.

 "Stalking you, remember?" Quinton reminded her with a playful smile. "And we wanted to try those spiders you always go on about. Hit me with three?"

Tess pulled the dirty material from her back pocket, twisted it and whipped Quinton on the shoulder. "Sure."

"Drinks, Tess. I meant the drinks," he said, catching the fabric with his hand and gently pulling it, causing Tess to fall forward and over the counter so their faces were inches apart.

Tess kept her composure though. "I know," she answered calmly. "Let go of the rag."

"No. You let go," he challenged.

She just leaned closer. "No."

Quinton smirked. "I'll let go if you kiss me."

Tess kept eye contact; strong and challenging. Then it broke for a single second as her gaze swept down to his lips. And in that single second, all teasing tones and playful expressions disappeared and were replaced by real, raw emotions, as they stared at each other in silence. I felt like I shouldn't be watching; like I was intruding on a private moment.

Tess was the first to break away and used the opportunity to swiftly swipe the cloth from Quinton's hands, smirk, and walk away to make our drinks.

"Don't fight the urge to kiss me next time, okay?" Quinton called after her.

"I'll try," she answered.

"She's so into me."