Paying the price of independence. The bloody fridge was empty, his pockets were empty and Dean was off to New Zealand for a family visit. Russ had given his best mate his last thirty dollars for the plane ticket and was staring at the walls, wondering when hunger would make him hallucinate. Well, more than the weed he was smoking; a gift from a Rocky Horror cast mate. Christmas Day. Ah well.

He slouched deeper into the sofa and took a long drag, searing his lungs and holding it in. Fuck all, it was good shit. He was starting to hear things. It wasn't hallucination. It was the standard ruckus from the neighbors. On the other side of the wall lived one fuckin' volatile couple. What might start in the middle of the night with that easily recognizable rhythmic thumping of headboard against plasterboard would often turn to screams and hollers that were far from the delightful sort. A well placed pillow over his ears would sufficiently drown it all out, unless it went on a bit too long. On those nights, Russ would find himself tugging on clothes and charging for the door. He wasn't sure what he could do about the noise and was usually terrified about what he might see, but his intentions were good.

That's as far as it ever got . . . intentions. No sooner would he reach his door and swing it open, the one to his right would slam closed and he'd be watching the broad, massive back of Mister Nasty Neighbor thumping down the hall, mumbling obscenities along the way. Occasionally he'd hear the relieved sigh of the neighbor lady drift under her door, but usually it was silent in there after such outbursts. Not the case that Christmas evening.

His body slack and his head spinning from the weed, Russ squinted and listened to the muffled argument intensify. Had he ever heard such shit in his life? Not that he recalled. Yeah, his folks argued, but this was on a scale far beyond his experience. How long it had been going on, he couldn't even guess. It seemed like the rumble of a machine, growling and droning on and on. His eyes drooped. Then suddenly a loud slam, its reverberation so hard, it had released a stupid picture Dean had insisted on nailing to the wall above the sofa. The frame swung then dropped, leaving a strategic dent in Russ' head.

"Bloody hell!"

There was another thud, then a crash, and before he could get to his feet, he heard the door slam and the big bloke shouting his way down the hall. Then he heard her sobbing. Time to do the good intentions thing. With an old man groan he stood, rubbed the lump on his head and cleared his throat. No big deal, he'd just tap on her door, make sure she was okay then come back to his sofa. Merry fuckin' Christmas.

As he reached for the doorknob, he realized that he'd never once seen the neighbor lady. Not in the halls, not at the market. He knew her shrill voice during the fights, but nothing more. Was she huge and filthy like her abusive husband? Was she maybe the cause of the big bloke's behavior? He swallowed that one down his dry throat. No woman deserved to be treated that way, no matter what she bloody did. He glanced back to the ashtray; maybe he wanted another hit before he headed over there. A knocking on his door startled him and he swallowed hard. Tugged the knob and blinked.

She wasn't big or fat or even actually ugly. But she was bleeding. Her hair was redder than real, almost orange, and her face was pale. Brilliant, big blue eyes glared at him, one partially covered by the bloody wash cloth she held over her cheekbone. She had a hardness about her. The angles of features, even her womanly curves seemed sharp, dangerous.

"Ah, you okay?" he asked.

"You eaten yet?" It wasn't a kind question or a sweet invitation, it sounded more like a demand and his head shook. "Come on."

And Russ followed her. Why, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was the smell of food wafting through the hall, the call of the munchies begging in his belly. Whatever it was, he was in her command and bewitched by the possibility of nourishment.

The ratty flat looked like a battle had taken place there and he righted a chair as he walked into the kitchen. "Are ya sure you're all right?"

"Sit."

He sat.

She folded paper towels and carefully set mismatched flatware in place. A platter sat in the center of the table, a meager roasted chicken, carrots. Several slices of plain white bread were stacked on a small, chipped saucer. She opened a bottle of beer and set it at his fingers, than proceeded to fill his plate. It was thumped in front of him and his mouth watered. Lifting the fork, he looked up with a grin, ready to thank her profusely.

But she'd sat at an empty plate and set the bloody cloth aside. The white of her eye was bloody and purple bruises were rising, swelling and deforming her cheek. Russ wasn't stoned enough to ignore what he was seeing.

He lowered his loaded fork and groaned. "What the fuck do ya let him to that to ya for?" he asked softly, not wanted to upset the already touchy woman. A woman obviously on the edge. He hadn't for one moment really thought she was interested in sharing a bit of her holiday fare with him. There was something brewing in her orange dyed head. Everybody wanted somethin', right?

"You don't know nothin' do ya little man?"

His brow curled and he slid the chair back, stretching his legs long and watching her carefully. "So, tell me."

"Husbands beat their wives. It's just the way it is."

"Not where I come from."

"So, you had yourself a lovely protected little life, have ya? Well, welcome to the real fuckin' world!" She stood and tossed her empty plate into the sink with a splatter of dirty water and shards of glass.

His appetite was gone and he slowly slid the plate away with his thumb. "Maybe I should get back."

"No, you sit and you eat and you bloody well enjoy it!" She turned and stomped toward the bedroom.

"Just what the fuck do ya want from me?" he called, watching the tightness of her shoulders, the stiffness of her back.

The orange head swung. "Maybe I just want someone to eat the bloody chook! Maybe I just want someone to appreciate what I did. Maybe I'm a fuckin' idiot, drivin' myself mental wantin' this stuff. I . . . don't . . . know!" And she slammed the bedroom door closed behind her.

A few deep breaths and several deep thoughts and Russ decided to eat the food on his plate. It was good but fairly flavorless. He'd never seen fights the likes of that woman and her husband's in his young life, but he did have really good food to eat. Mum cooked well and he used to eat bloody well too. The meal might not have been the best he'd ever had, but he was poor and hungry and it satisfied all the same.

He carefully emptied the sink of broken glass and water, washed the dishes and finished his beer. Then he tapped on the bedroom door.

"What do ya want?" he heard her sniffle.

"Coupl'a things. I . . . ah . . . I wanted to thank ya, it was good. And I wanted to say that I appreciate what ya did."

"Fine, get the fuck outta here."

He shuffled his feet. "Ma'am, are ya sure you're okay?"

"Dilly."

"Huh?"

"It's my name. They call me Dilly."

"All righty then, Dilly. Are ya sure you're okay?"

"Go home, little man."

Russ grinned. "It's Russ. Name's Russ."

"Fine, go home . . . little man."

Before he left, he turned and called over his shoulder: "Merry Christmas, Dilly."

w

One week later, New Year's Day and Dean would be back later that evening. Russ had had a full week, performance after performance and several dates to occupy his mind, body and time. He'd purposely stayed out of his flat as much as possible. Having had personal interaction with the victim of domestic abuse made it a lot harder to just bury his head under the pillow. He was hung over and nursing the aftermath of the big New Year's Eve cast party when it started all over again. First the raised voices, then the shouts, the thudding furniture and loud slams against the wall. He couldn't help but wonder which thumps were chairs and which were Dilly.

Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The beast growled his way down the hall and Russ rubbed his eyes. Should he check on her? Just a quick tic to see that she wasn't too badly broken, then back to his sofa. Happy fuckin' New Year.

But just as it had happened a week earlier, there was the knock on his door and he grinned. Shaking his head he opened it. "Happy New Year, Dilly . . . bloody hell! Jesus!"

She nearly collapsed into his arms. Gently, he led her to his sofa and ran for damp cloths. Dilly was a bloody mess, her lips gashed, ear bleeding. Even her bruises were blazing new damage across her nose and cheekbone. He carefully pressed cloth to wound and hushed her to relax. All this, and not a single tear. She was one tough sheila.

"You should call the coppers, Dilly. This is goin' too far. He's gonna kill you, he keeps this up."

"So what," she struggled to sit and he helped her, holding the cloth to her lip.

"I'll get some ice. And what the fuck do ya mean 'so what'?"

"I mean, so what. This is how it is. It's how it goes, little man."

He wrapped ice cubes in a dish cloth and turned a glare. "Name's Russ, not little man."

"Sorry," she reached for the ice.

"Dilly, darlin', what the fuck makes ya think this is how it is? It's not how it is unless ya let it be. You can change this."

Her laugh was bitter, accented with sobs and finally, tears. "This is my life Russ. I gave it to him and this is what I get. I work my bloody feet off at that market six days a week, stockin' shelves and running the cash register. I bring home my pay and he drinks it. This is marriage. My marriage."

"Then change it!" He shot to his feet, unable to grasp such bitter surrender from so resilient a woman.

"I can't fuckin' change it!" She stood, eye to eye, her legs as long as his and their noses nearly touching. "I'm not you! Bloody hell!" She paced in front of him, her eyes glued to his. "Look at ya! I'm so damn jealous I could spit. You got everything . . . every fuckin' thing ahead of you, little man! You're young and beautiful and all that bloody promise is just oozin' outta ya. It makes me fuckin' sick! I gave all that up for him! All of it."

Russ ran a hand down his chin. "Dilly," he said calmly. "Nothin's over 'til you're dead. You can change this."

She gasped a guffaw and spat in his face. "Trust me! It can be over long before ya die, Russ! Look at me. I got no looks, no youth. No nothin'. Nothin' but him, and he gets to do whatever he pleases with me . . . whatever the fuck he pleases . . ." she lowered to the sofa, a frighteningly blank expression on her face. "Maybe I'm already dead, mate."

Russ swallowed hard and knelt near her knee. "Listen, love. You are not already dead. Christ, ya got lots to live for, lots ahead. You just gotta leave him, that's all."

Her big blue eyes met his and she looked like a scared little girl. "He's all I got."

"No! No. You got you. Fuck, don't you see it? You have everything you want if you get the fuck outta the prison." She didn't answer, didn't even blink, but he did. "Fuck, Dilly. I bet you were a real beauty." His huge hand cupped her swelling cheek.

"I was," she whispered.

"Yeah, well what ya don't know love, is that ya still are. You're strong and smart. You are still beautiful, Dilly." His thumb gathered her tears as his other hand settled on her knee.

"Look at you," she grinned. "Ya look like you'd make fuckin' love to me or somethin'."

"I would. I will," and his lips met hers.

She was tentative, tasting with the tip of her tongue, a finger trailing his arm.

Her lips held far more flavor than her cooking. She was luscious in a mature, knowing sort of way that excited him and worried him at once. Was he man enough for someone like Dilly? No place for those thoughts, it was too late. He was going ahead with it.

"But," he whispered between kisses. "I need ya to promise to leave him, love. Will ya promise?"

Her hand was deep in his hair and a smile pulled at her lips. "Bribery?"

"Whatever the fuck it takes. Will ya leave him?"

"How?" Her lips sucked his and her chest heaved with anticipation. "How? How can I do that?"

He had pulled her tight to his chest and was aching to get her to the bed. "We'll figure that out after. But we will figure it out, Dilly."

w

Sex is always an amazing thing, but being with Dilly was somewhat of an enigma for Russ. She was easily fifteen years or possibly more his senior, and even though every woman is different, Dilly was an experience he'd never forget. Setting aside the insistence of his youthful passion, that raging demand at the edge of his senses, Russ wanted to be tender with the broken woman in his grasp. He wanted to learn her body and understand what made her the way she was. He carefully undressed her and used his eyes for the first caresses, watching her embarrassment, the blush on her damaged face, and he smiled. It was no lie. She was beautiful. Beautiful in ways he'd never seen in a woman before.

The softness of her flesh was subtle, but clearly different from the taut skin of a younger lover. Her nipples, hard and begging, were demanding his adoration, not just awaiting a little tweak, but insisting to be loved. Loving Dilly was more of a six course meal than a quick road to dessert and he savored slowly, delighted at everything there for him to discover. But she seemed to have no understanding of his slow interest, often apologizing for a wrinkle or flaw, even for the fresh bruises on her hip and belly.

"Relax, love. Hush now. Let me love ya the way you should be, Dilly. Shh." With patience and careful attention to detail, Russ managed to watch the blooming of this long closed bud. Her body slowly melted to his touch, trusting, softening, longing for whatever he offered. When his mouth lowered to the feast between her thighs, Russ was again amazed. Her flavor was mellow, delicious and far richer than he expected. If older women dried up, poor Dilly had been holding her fluid abundance safely, trapped inside her imagination for just the right man to bring forth. Russ was honored and he gobbled, using his tongue and fingers to bring more and more, filling his mouth and thrilling to the writhe of her body beneath him.

And he wanted more. Not for himself, but for her. He worked diligently to find the hidden triggers and open Dilly further and further until finally, on the fourth climax, she cried out his name with the delight of a child. This was more satisfying than anything he was expecting and he laughed, nuzzling his face in her neck while she squealed with joy and held him close.

To his surprise, she gasped as he entered her path, her big blue eyes wide with surprise. Was the beast of a husband a disappointment in the cock department? And was that something Russ needed to be concerned with? He slowed his advance, having no intention of hurting her, but was pleased when she begged for more, faster, deeper. With a chuckle and a grunt, Russ was more than happy to accommodate.

Deep inside, again he blinked with amazement. It wasn't a painfully tight grasp; it was a warm, safe and beautiful place to be. A place where his soul joined his straining cock to relish the uniqueness of the sensations. He slid and pressed, mounting a slow climb to the heavens and never giving in to the desire to rush toward the finish line. This was the lesson he needed to learn. This was the ultimate reason he was on a mattress with Dilly.

She cradled him against her chest as he strained to retain the smooth advance, her whispered words of endearment brushing her warm breath across his ear. He felt the excitement building with every controlled thrust, thrill upon thrill, like bricks leading to the top. He was gasping, sweating, holding on to her the way she was holding on to him when finally, he exploded.

His muddled brain slowly regained itself, finding his drained body wrapped tight in Dilly's tearful embrace and he reversed the roles instinctively. Rolling to his side, he kissed away the wetness at her eyes and tucked her tenderly under his arm. Russ realized that she was right, he was young and he did have everything ahead for him. But life was full of situations that could turn it sour; things that could leave him as broken and unhappy as she had become. His advice for her to change it was not as simple as it sounded from her end of life's road. But it was good advice. Good advice for her . . . and important advice for him to remember come tough times over the years ahead. Russ knew he had to help Dilly take the first step. It was the least he could do after all she'd brought to light for him. If she did as he asked and left her marriage, he knew there was nothing too difficult ahead in his own life that he couldn't . . . just . . . change it.

"You gotta leave him, darlin'," he whispered and she nodded, blinking the deluge of tears. "I'm guessin' ya loved him once."

Another nod.

"Ya still love him?"

No response.

"Enough to let him kill ya? 'Cause he will. You're the only one who can stop this thing."

She sighed, deep and painful. "I know."

"Okay, here's how were gonna do this. I got some money, been working and got paid Friday. You'll leave now, Dilly. Ya need anything at your place? Clothes?"

She sat up and reached for her blouse.

"I'll get 'em. You just get dressed and wait here." He tugged on his jeans and headed for the door with a long, purposeful stride.

It was a silent walk over the three blocks to the bus station. Dilly held Russ' hand and he carried her small suitcase. At the window, he handed her eighty-two dollars and she asked the clerk how far that would get her.

"Brisbane," the bloke grunted.

"She'll take it," stated Russ and he watched her shaking hand accept the ticket. At the bus, her hand was still shaking as fingers tenderly trailed the shape of his lips and he smiled.

"How can I thank you enough?" Dilly asked.

"No worries. You just help someone else, that's all." He leaned in for a luscious kiss. "Now off with ya. Have a great life, Dilly."

On the step she turned, her bruised eyes twinkled and she smiled. "I was wrong to call you a little man, mate."

Russ grinned and proudly ran his palm over his straining crotch.

"Well, that too," she chuckled. "But Russ, ya got the biggest heart of any man I ever met. You have a great life too."

w

Dean stood, a silly grin on his face. "You're kiddin', right?"

"No, not kiddin', mate. I'm dead fuckin' serious. We gotta get outta here. Gotta do it right now." Russ was rushing about, stuffing clothes into a pillow case and dropping it out the window. "Hurry!"

"What the bloody hell happened? We paid the fuckin' rent, we don't gotta run. Are ya bonkers?"

"Yeah, yeah," Russ was tying the rope from the blind around the small television and heaving it to the window sill. "Rent's paid, but we gotta get outta here. Trust me." He carefully lowered the TV to the ground and swung to Dean. "Maybe ya oughtta get down there and watch our stuff. Almost done here," he grabbed Dean's suitcase, knowing everything the bloke owned was in it and dropped it to the ground. "Go on down there, I'm takin' the window, mate."

Dean blinked, shrugged and strolled out of the flat. As he passed the next door, he heard what sounded like a wounded animal. The fat fucker was cryin', calling out his wife's name and babbling. Then he was throwing shit, slivers of glass sliding under the door. Dean quickened his step until he was at a full run at the first floor. He scurried around to the back just in time to help Russ after his drop into the dumpster, guitar case tight to his chest.

"Ya did the neighbor lady?" Dean gasped, gathering their belongings and trotting behind his mate. "Christ! Ya did, didn't ya! Ya did the neighbor lady! That bloody monster's wife! Are ya mental?"

Russ turned and ran backwards, a blazing grin on his face. "Was worth it, mate. Was so bloody worth it!"