This is story is inspired by a conversation had with a few other authors where they sought clarification on an Aussie terms video and it quickly spiralled out of control. I'm not sure how many chapters it will be, or how often it will be updated.

Uncle Bazza

Chapter 1: Wendy's Imposter

Steph's POV

I peered from my husband to the man slouched against the side of the SUV and back again. I would have attempted to raise an eyebrow if I thought there was any chance I would be successful, but I'd given up on making it happen about a year ago when Zip presented me with a slide show of every failed attempt they'd ever managed to catch on camera. It was not a pleasant sight. Nowadays, my go-to was to tilt my head to the side and ask the question on my mind.

"Tell me again why I'm stuck with the new guy today?" I asked, hiking my thumb at the six feet of tanned muscle topped with a beat up hat Ranger had assigned to me for the day. I'm not sure I've exchanged more than eight words with him at this point, and of those eight words, I probably understood about three.

"Because you said you could do with some back up when you head to the beach with some of the guys tomorrow, and he's the best qualified for the job."

"Best qualified?" I was actually hoping that Ranger would find a way to get out of the consultation job he'd been called to DC for so there was at least one responsible adult to keep the guys in line. I knew first hand how easily distracted Lester could be when he was off the clock. We volunteered to take Ranger's sister's kids to the mall so they could buy christmas gifts for their parents last December, and it was Lester, not the kids, I contemplated putting a leash on when he spotted an interesting display and wandered off. I could only imagine what he'd be like at the beach with women in bikinis.

And to be honest, I didn't know how effective the foreign recruit could be at wrangling the guys and keeping them in line. He'd only been with Rangeman for six weeks. "You don't think you're throwing him in the deep end?"

The corner of Ranger's lips lifted in the suggestion of a smile. "Being thrown in the deep end is kind of his specialty."

I poked his cheek, narrowing my eyes. "I don't like how amused you are by this. What aren't you telling me?"

Rather than answer, he wrapped a hand around my waist, his palm flat against the small of my back, seeping heat through the thin cotton of my top, and pulled me close. His lips against the skin below my ear sent a thrill of electricity straight to my centre, and I melted against him further. Taking his time, he trailed a few more kisses along my jaw before capturing my lips in a brief, but mind blowing kiss. We'd been together officially for a little over two years now, and he never failed to throw a fox among the chickens of my thoughts whenever he laid his lips on mine.

When he drew back several moments later, swiping the non-existent drool from the corner of my mouth, that knowing smile was still on his face. "We haven't quite found the right fit for Basil among the team," he explained, ghosting his hand down my arm until our fingers were tangled together. I smirked at his refusal to use the man's nickname: Uncle Bazza. He just wasn't comfortable with it, which I could fully understand. It felt weird and wrong in my mouth, but if that's what he wanted to be called, I was at least going to put in the effort. "I'm hoping by spending time with him, you can give us some insights."

I nodded. That made sense. He was a big hit in the breakroom, but I'd noticed on the roster he seemed to be with a new partner every other day. "Two questions," I said.

Ranger inclined his head slightly to indicate I should go on.

"Number one." I held up my index finger. "Does he come with a translator?" A raised eyebrow and the twitch in his jaw that I'd come to recognise as Ranger's equivalent of an eye roll was my only reply. There would be no translator. I did roll my eyes. "Okay, then number two: if I have him for the beach trip on the weekend, why is he waiting by my SUV now?.

Ranger clasped both my hands in his, bringing them up to rest on his shoulders while he dragged me closer to him by the waist. "Like I said, Babe. We still haven't found the right fit for him."

I made a noise to let him know I understood and pressed a kiss to his lips. "When do you leave?" I asked.

"Car service arrives in an hour." Ranger tucked an errant curl behind my ear. "I'll be able to answer calls and texts between meetings, but if there's any problems-"

"Talk to Tank. I know. You've been giving that same instruction basically since we met."

He let a small smile lift the corners of his mouth and I wanted to tuck it into my pocket to keep it safe. "Don't go crazy, Babe."

I replied with my requisite, "Don't get shot," despite the fact that he'd assured me the job he was going to DC to fulfil was completely contained in an office building. I just didn't trust anyone not to pull a gun on my husband when I wasn't looking. He squeezed my hips before releasing me and sending me on my way to what I envisioned was going to be a very frustrating day.

I was conscious of Ranger's eyes on me as I approached the SUV and held out my hand toward the newbie I was saddled with. "Basil, uh, Uncle Bazza, hi, I don't think we've officially met. I'm-"

"Stephanie Plum," Basil cut me off, gripping my hand briefly, the rough calluses scrapping lightly against my skin. "Ya kinda hard to miss. What with being the only Sheila in the company an' all." His accent was thick and unhurried, the words sliding together into something that to my unfamiliar ears, barely resembled the English language.

Did he just call me Sheila? Should I be offended? I had no idea, but I wasn't about to let it go unnoticed. If I had to spend the whole day with him, then I had to learn to understand him. "Did you just call me a Sheila?"

Basil's eyebrows shot up, creating deep wrinkles in his forehead as he looked from me to Ranger and back again, letting his gaze dip briefly before he quickly averted it to the nearby cement wall. He lifted a hand and scratched his head, his beat up hat dislodging and tipping backwards in the process to reveal a shock of sandy blond hair with highlights my sister would kill for. "Stone the crows," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Sorry, 'bout that. I didn't mean to offend. Just assumed, what with the name, and with Ranger's, uh, preferences that you were a Sheila. Course, I shoulda known better in this day an' age, but-"

I held up my hand and he thankfully stopped. His lips snapped shut, another worried glance cut past my shoulder, and he slowly fixed his hat and lowered his hand. I borrowed a trick from Ranger and Tank's handbook and waited an extra couple of seconds before I spoke, just to be sure I had his attention. "What's a Sheila?"

Once again, his eyebrows lifted. Confusion. followed by amusement washed over his expression, and he broke into a grin. "A Sheila's a woman."

I wasn't sure how that worked, but I was far from an expert in Australian slang, so I decided to just accept it, and set the record straight. "I'm a woman."

He nodded, that grin still plastered on his face, showing off even, white teeth. "Figured as much."

I sensed more than heard Ranger disappear back into the stairwell, reassured that somehow Uncle Bazza and I could make it through the day together. Bazza's shoulders relaxed even more as the tingle on the back of my neck faded and he opened the front passenger side door he'd been leaning on. "Now," he said. "I heard from the fellas upstairs to call ya Steph, that work for you?"

I nodded.

He mirrored the gesture. "Beauty. And how's the driver situation gonna go today? Want me to take shotties?" His hand waved toward the open car door, but it in no way illuminated me to what he was asking.

"Shoddies?"

"Shotties," he repeated affirmatively. Then, realising I didn't understand, explained. "Shotgun. Passenger seat. Do you wanna drive, or should I?"

"Right." This was going to be a long day, I could already feel a headache building at the base of my skull just thinking about interpreting his words all day. "Um, how familiar are you with the suburbs?"

"I reckon I could find my way around, but if you wanna take the wheel, I'm not gonna kick up a stink. It's your show."

I was thankful for a series of statements that pretty much made sense. Maybe things wouldn't be too bad afterall. "I'll drive, if you don't mind."

Bazza tipped his hat and started to hoist himself into the passenger seat. "No wukkas."

I spoke too soon. The day was going to be longer than the list of gripes my mother had when I divorced Dickie Orr.

Rather than ask about yet another phrase I didn't understand and delay our departure, I rounded the back of the SUV and slid in behind the wheel. We could be here all day otherwise. Once we were on the road, and he had the files of the FTAs we'd be going after open in his lap, I broached the subject. "I hate to keep asking, but what's no wukkas mean?"

He snorted, adjusting his hat. "No wukkin' forries," he said. And clearly we'd stepped entirely away from the English language. The words had no resemblance to anything I'd heard before. My face must have shown my confusion, because the laughter was gone from his voice when he explained, "It's 'no fuckin' worries' but ya swap the first letters. And then, because we're lazy, we shorten it to no wukkas."

"Right."

Bazza sucked in a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. Most guys I know would use the technique as a way to calm themselves, but when I glanced over at him, he seemed contemplative, not angry or worked up in any way. "Look, I reckon the reason I'm being bounced around is no one understands what I'm sayin' half the time, and that's fair. The words slip out on auto. But I'll translate anything if ya gimme a sec. And I'm startin' to toss in your lingo when I remember."

He was probably right. The guys had a blast in the breakroom listening to all the nonsense words coming out of his mouth, and trying to guess what they meant. Just the other day, Hal had made the mistake of assuming he understood when Uncle Bazza referred to the meal he'd served to his young nephews when he'd looked after them: cheerios and tomato sauce. When Hal had questioned the combination, Bazza had simply said it was an Aussie staple at kids birthday parties. What we all, Hal included, had failed to realise, was that cheerios were something entirely different back in Australia.

Hal had returned to his apartment that evening, and poured ketchup on a bowl of cereal, only to find out the next day that Bazza had actually been referring to what we would call cocktail wieners. Wieners and ketchup made sense. Cereal, not so much.

"Communication is a two way street," I agreed. "I've been learning Spanish so I can converse more easily with Ranger's family. His abuela doesn't speak much English, and it was getting cumbersome to have someone constantly translate for us. I'm still not very good, but I'm starting to catch phrases that I understand, and every now and then, I've even been able to reply to her questions on my own. They're all really patient with me. And the guys are patient when Hector takes a stab at English, too." I wasn't going to spill the beans on the fact that Hector could actually speak English fluently. He preferred Spanish, so he just stuck to his guns and everyone assumed he didn't know English and those who knew Spanish would translate where needed.

Bazza was at a bit of a disadvantage in that no one else in Rangeman seemed to know Australian slang, but that didn't mean they couldn't put in the effort to understand. "We're all expecting you to convert your language to ours, but it doesn't seem like any of the guys are willing to seriously learn to understand the way you speak the way they would if it was an entire foreign language."

"Nah yeah, fair dinkum." He leaned an elbow on the centre console and stared at me until I glanced his way at a stop sign. His expression was one of pure mischief that I'd seen a thousand times before on Lester's face. "I should probs quit deliberately pulling their legs, then, yeah?"

"Like how?"

He chuckled, a rough sort of sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "Cheerios and tomato sauce. We have the cereal in Australia, too. I knew what I was setting up. Didn't think anyone would be dense enough to actually try it, though."

A laugh burst from my chest unexpectedly. This guy could give Lester a run for his money, and I suddenly wanted to learn all his slang words and colloquialisms just so I could be in on his jokes when he did deliberately throw out something to be misinterpreted. "Seriously?"

He nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "Deadset." And after a pause, he added, "That means definitely."

*o*

By lunch time, we'd managed to track down Earl "Grubby" Grubler and drag him back to the police station. And I'd learned about an Aussie radio ad for especially strong security screens when Uncle Bazza had easily put his boot through the flimsy mesh of the storm door on Grubby's house and muttered under his breath, "Kimmy's dad here," followed by "If it's not Crimsafe, it's not crim-safe."

I'd learned a lot of new words, too, like smoko, which is what he suggested we have mid-morning when I expressed the desire for a donut. Smoko, he told me, as I pointed the car towards the Tasty Pastry, is short for 'smoke break' - a break to go and smoke a cigarette - but is generally used for any kind of break while working, like mornos, or 'morning tea'.

He was confused when we walked into Lowe's to talk to Gubby's co-workers, because he'd been expecting a men's clothing store, instead of the hardware store. And I was confused when we walked out and he expressed the strangeness of there being no sausage sizzle, because he could really go for a Bunning's snag. It took a minute to explain that Bunnings was the name of the major hardware store in Australia and that they regularly held fundraisers in the form of grilled sausage on bread out the front for different community groups.

"Now I'm hungry," he uttered as we climbed back into the SUV. "Walkin' away from a hardware store without a snag is un-Australian."

"Time for a smoko?" I asked, looking over to check I'd used the word correctly.

He grinned. "Fuckin' oath, it is."

I cranked the engine and backed out of the parking space. "There's a Wendy's down the street, will that do?"

He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat and I caught his slow nod out of the corner of my eye as I turned onto the street. It wasn't until we'd parked and walked in, though, that we realised we'd come to yet another miscommunication.

"What the fuck is this?" he questioned. I'd grown accustomed, over the course of the morning, to his casual use of the word 'fuck' to the point where I almost didn't notice it. But his words drew the attention of a couple sitting in a booth nearby. "I thought we were going to Wendy's."

I pointed to the prominent sign on the wall. "This is Wendy's."

Uncle Bazza shook his head, a mixture of confusion and disgust on his face as he looked around. "This is a burger joint."

Frowning, I took a look around with him, wondering what I was missing. "What did you think it was?"

"Wendy's Milk Bar," he said, tempering what was obviously an overload of exasperation. "Wendy's sells ice-cream and shakes. I was looking forward to a MegaChocolate."

"A mega chocolate?"

He sighed. Disappointment oozed out of his every pore. "It's a thick shake, topped with a scoop of ice-cream, and chopped up Top Deck."

"And a Top Deck is….?"

"It's a choccy," he said, and I quickly translated that to a chocolate bar in my head. "Half white, half milk. Kinda ratshit on its own, if you ask me, but on a MegaChoc-" he completed his statement with a series of appreciative sounds that drew the nearby couple's attention for a whole other reason.

"Okay, well." I tried to think of a way to satisfy his craving. "They sell chocolate Frosties, you could get one of those? Or we could go to an actual ice-cream parlour."

"Yeah nah," he replied, waving my offer off and slinging an arm over my shoulders, using it to lead us toward the counter to order. "I'm over it. Burgers are probably better anyway. If we got shakes we'd just end up hungry again in an hour."

I peered up at his easy-going expression under his hat. "You're sure?"

Bazza squeezed my upper arm reassuringly, shooting me a smile. "No wukkas."