Arriving at Gazza and Dazza’s room, I knocked on the door. Melissa opened the door. Her Joan Jett black hair was flawless and smelt amazing, like apple or musk; I couldn’t put my finger on it.
‘Quick, quick, get in,’ she said, eyeing me up and down. Her cheeky smile made me weak at the knees.
Ushered in, I smelled smoke in the back room.
‘This way.’ She gently pushed the small of my back.
Entering the smoke-hazed room, Countdown was on the tele, turned down. On the walls were posters of Bruce Lee, Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, Holden Monaro, and Elle Macpherson from Sports Illustrated in a bikini. I instantly gravitated to the last one.
A roar came from the guys sitting there sharing a smoke and knocking back some drinks. An empty packet of Samboy salt and vinegar chips ruffled on the
