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Afterwards, Tom went downstairs and took some steaks out of the fridge to thaw. The girls were excited, dancing around like the mouse ballerina on their DVD. He poured himself a Glenmorangie, adding some whisky stones from the freezer, and grabbed a cigarette. He rarely smoked, but in his office he still kept a carton of Lucky Strikes, a relic of his army days. His blood had been cooled by s*x and the whisky was hot, making him feel dreamy. He dragged on his cigarette and his body rippled with aftershocks.
Whenever Tom smoked, it always reminded him of his brother, Terry.
They had grown up in Blaxland where the summers were filled with scorched days and heat that persisted deep into the night. To escape the heat one day when their mother had gone to sell raffle tickets for the SES, T
