by Alam, Donna
‘You know the difference between Fin’s tits and M & M’s? You can enjoy a handful of the wee sweeties!’
I might be all grown, but I’m still a member of the itty-bitty-titty-committee.
‘Geddit—the lassie has nae tits!’
Yeah, Ivy might be right sometimes, but what she’s clearly lacking is an insight into the male brain. And so she caught me staring. Big whoop. It’s not like I’m planning on doing anything other than look. Besides, I think my flirt default is busted. Probably from disuse.
Without another word to my arguing friends, me and my little boobies leave. My head overflows with the nonsense they’ve been throwing around. I make my way into the main bar, intent on slipping out, when the sound of laughter pulls my feet to a stop. So rich and warm. The tenor resonates deep in my belly, and if I’m honest, a little further down. I know instinctually to whom the laughter belongs.
Sure enough, Rory stands leaning against the bar, his face wreathed in a smile that would make the moon seem dim. Is it wrong that his laughter is still fizzing in the pit of my stomach? It feels so familiar; like a hug from an old friend. And then it hits me, making sudden sense. The familiarity I feel isn’t for him; it’s for intimacy. Attraction. Sex. Things I haven’t felt in an age. And suddenly, I want to have sex, like real bad, to the extent that it’s almost as though between my legs has developed its own pulse.
How the hell can laughter turn you on?
Who cares? I’m overthinking. It’s not like he remembers me, and it’s not like I’ve the courage to hit on him. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. I’d be using him.
Like he used me.
At something the bartender says, his laughter resounds again, deep and masculine. It’s like the universe is reminding me that men can be fun.
That life doesn’t have to be drama filled.
‘Excuse me.’ A man squeezes by and I realise I’m still standing in the entrance to the restrooms. A moment later—and if you ask me how, I wouldn’t have the answer— I’m standing next to him.
It takes a moment for him to register my presence, his head eventually turning and making a slow inventory as he looks me up and then down. It should piss me off, this lazy perusal, but it doesn’t. Far from it, it just heats my skin. I feel a jolt; a little zing of electricity as his gaze meets mine. He has the most beautiful almond shaped eyes—how did I not remember that? Slate grey, immersed in indigo. Or are his pupils dilated?
Does that mean he likes what he sees?
That he’s a dope fiend? Drunk?
Chill out. Calm down. You’ll come off as crazy or dumb.
And I’ve decided, soaking wet and casual he’d looked superhot, but up close this evening, he’s simply breathtaking. He has a bone structure so defined his face could’ve been carved from marble but for the tones of his sun-kissed skin. I follow the line of sandy stubble against his high cheek bones, noticing as his mouth hitches in one corner. Now that’s something the great masters couldn’t capture; a look of pure confidence. And as if that isn’t bad enough, my skin begins to prickle from his nearness, thoughts and possibilities climbing through my mind like a vine. Images and sensations blooming, then expanding. What would it be like to climb once more into his bed? Would his touch be as good as I recall?
Bed? Hell, in a dark alleyway, up against a wall.
‘How are ya’?’
Desperately horny? Certifiable? Ready to climb you like a pole?
None of these are appropriate to his generic enquiry, but screw me sideways, I can’t think. It’s like the low rumbling burr of his accent has made me forget how to form whole words.
‘Hi.’ I wet my lips, not for effect, but because it’s impolite to lick a stranger this early on.
‘Darlin,’ have we met?’ he asks, tracking the motion of my tongue. ‘Do I know you?’
My heart misses a beat but I realise it’s not that he knows me from years ago, but rather recently at the hair salon. And even then, by his expression, he’s not sure. I knew this hair cut was fabulous; he can’t place where he knows me from. For some reason, this seals the deal for me.
‘You don’t, but you could,’ comes my immediate, if reckless, response. Hells bells. Why couldn’t I have just sidled up to the bar for a drink? Struck up a conversation like a regular girl? He looks a little taken aback though recovers well, but I’m probably also throwing out fuck-me-pheromones like a lap dancer interviewing for a job.
‘Sure.’ His answer is accompanied by a light shrug, though I choose to ignore the preceding brief pause. He was likely deciding on my level of psycho. ‘Pull up a pew.’ He gestures to the stool behind me and I climb onto it with the eagerness of a pre-schooler at story time. ‘Just for clarification,’ he adds, ‘are we talking . . . in the biblical or the figurative sense?’
‘I’m sorry? In the w—what sense?’ I’m definitely making no sense.
‘This friendship offer of yours,’ he clarifies with an intense sort of look. ‘Now, I’m not sayin’ I don’t need more friends, but . . .’
His gaze does that slow sweep of my body again and I swear it feels as though he’s actually caressing my skin. I shiver in response and try very hard not to let my eyes roll closed from all the feels. Good job I’m not endowed more like Nat, I’d probably poke his eye out with a nipple right now.
His expression ends in a lazy sort of grin, the picture of casual innocence until he grazes his bottom lip with his teeth. It’s like some kind of sexy throw down.
Challenge accepted.
Only, Player One . . . now doesn’t know what to say, because her heart is beating a mile a minute and her flirting skills are stuck in the last decade. It’s as if intellectually, I know the steps, but I suddenly lose all co-ordination once the dance mat’s unrolled.
‘So you’re not the friendly kind?’ Wow. Sultry tone for the win. At least I got that right.
‘Exactly the opposite, darlin’. I can be friendly. Real friendly.’ This he almost purrs. Is it me, or does he suddenly seem closer? Definitely closer. As he leans in, I can smell the aftershave on his skin, and get another flash of the colourful ink lurking beneath the neck of his shirt, which makes me all the more curious. ‘But you keep feeding me these lines and you’re gonna end up wanting to smack me in the face.’
God, I wouldn’t. It’s too lovely.
And by the sound of his hearty chuckle, I actually said that. Not thought it. Said the actual words. Possibly a little breathlessly.
‘So that’s an invitation?’ His chuckle settles into a cocky half-grin.
‘Sometimes invitations are unnecessary. You know, like when sometimes you just pop in.’
Can you see that girl at the bar, the one with the hot guy standing close by? Yeah, you’re right. It is a little weird that she has her eyes closed, especially when she could be looking at him. But, this isn’t a good moment for her. Or maybe, as his hand rests on her shoulder and he leans in, it isn’t as bad as she thinks.
‘I hate to break this to you, but if your previous friends have only popped in, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of man.’
My eyes flutter open. ‘What sort of man are you, I wonder?’ Judge me how you will. I know I’ll be judging myself later on.
‘With any luck, he’ll be like a snow storm,’ says a familiar voice.
As I turn my head, he straightens, and there stands Natasha sporting a smile the size of a half gateau.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to, or maybe what had got into you,’ she adds in an undertone. ‘But now I see. Natasha,’ she says, holding out her hand, which is an oddly formal kind of introduction given her teasing.
‘Rory,’ he says, sliding his hand against hers. ‘But, a snow storm . . . ?’
Nat’s brow furrows for a brief second before she shrugs. ‘Truth is, my friend here needs a good lay.’ I just about swallow my tongue and actually begin spluttering. ‘A good, solid eight inches or so. The kind of lay that’ll make it a bit difficult for her to
get around the next day, if you get my drift? Ha! Drift!’
Out of our trio, one of us is laughing, and one of us is mildly amused, and one of us is trying to disappear into the collar of her blouse. Even more so as our trio turns into a quartet.
Ivy.
She harrumphs loudly, folding her arms. ‘Knew it,’ she says, swaying lightly. ‘You’ll never learn.’
‘Aye, something you’d know all about,’ snorts Nat. ‘You shouldn’t have had that last glass. Wine after liquor makes you sicker.’
‘Whacho talkin’ about?’
‘You’ll see. And I’ll be laughing, but for now, we’ll away home, yeah?’ Nat addresses Ivy like she’s an elderly charge in a care home.
‘I know you,’ Ivy spits, pulling her elbow from Natasha’s grip to poke a finger in Rory’s bicep. ‘You’re all the same, with your empty promises an—and your thick lips and soft hair.’
‘Ah, man. I wished I’d recorded that,’ sniggers Nat, clutching Ivy by the waist.
‘Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em clean,’ slurs Ivy. ‘That’s what you lot believe in, isn’t it?’
‘My lot?’ Rory asks, his luscious lips quivering against the strain of a smile.
‘It’s keen, eejit,’ interjects Nat. ‘Treat them mean, keep them keen.’
‘Oh.’ Ivy’s expression is almost comical, her drunk synapses no doubt working at a snail’s pace. ‘I always wondered. Makes mush more sense,’ she says with an exaggerated nod.
‘Let’s get you home before you dish out any more nonsense.’
‘Home.’ This comes out as a sob. ‘I do want to go home!’
‘Aye, we’ll sort that for you,’ Nat placates, turning Ivy bodily, but before the pair have moved, she seems to remember something. She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, one arm still tight around Ivy’s waist.
‘Are you going be all right with her?’ I ask, beginning to slide my butt from the stool, almost face-planting into Rory’s warm, broad chest. Not that I’m complaining.
‘Stay where you are,’ protests Nat, pointing her phone at Rory. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she says as the flash stuns us both.
‘Why?’ asks a bemused Rory, still holding my arm.
As we answer simultaneously and it’s clear mediocre minds do not think alike:
‘You might be a mass murderer.’
‘Wank bank,’ says Nat, her gaze moving between our stunned expressions. ‘What? You’re not going home alone.’
Eleven
Fin
We’re both silent for a moment as we watch Ivy and Natasha leave.
‘I’d like to say they’re not always that . . . abstract,’ I say, cringing as Nat reaches the door, turning to give me a lurid sort of double thumbs up.
Nice, Nat. Subtle. Very discrete.
‘And all that snow talk doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you.’
‘Okay.’ I think that was supposed to be an unconcerned tone, though I think it’s maybe more unconvinced. Whatever, his response makes me feel a little flat. ‘So, do I get a name?’
‘Don’t you have one of your own?’
‘A funny girl.’ His gaze briefly caresses my breasts, so subtle that had I not been paying absolute attention, I might not be convinced. ‘If we’re going to be friends, I’ll need to know what to call you.’
‘So we’re friends now?’
‘We can be whatever you want to be.’ How can he look both playful and serious as he says that? ‘It’s up to you.’
‘What if I want to remain anonymous?’ What I actually want right now is to be his hand as it rasps against the bristles on his jawline.
He seems to consider my request for a moment. ‘I gave you my name. I think it’s only fair you give me yours.’
‘A fair exchange?’ I repeat. ‘I’m not sure that’s reason enough.’
‘It’s the one we should leave it at,’ he says, hiding his smile behind his glass now.
‘Intriguing.’ I half laugh in response to his teasing tone. ‘You can’t stop there, leaving me guessing. You have to explain.’
‘Well, I can tell you.’ His gaze slips to my mouth, lingering there for a beat. It’s the kind of look that makes my heart trip and my skin tingle. ‘But,’ he continues sort of huskily, ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it.’
‘Hmm. I’ll take that risk. I’m all about risks tonight.’
He grins and I match it, even as I recognise my words could be taken in so many ways. Loosening his fingers from the rim of his glass, he leans forward, grasping the back of my stool. His mouth is suddenly so close to my ear that if I turned my head just a fraction, his lips would be against my skin. Pity I don’t have the nerve.
I hear the hitch in his breath before he answers.
‘I’d like to know your name so I know who’s responsible for making me come tonight.’
All the feels. All between my legs.
‘Did you miss the part where I said I’m not having sex with you?’ My tone sounds so sexual and so unlike me.
‘I did not,’ he says, no longer in kissing distance. ‘But you can’t stop me thinking of your gorgeous mouth when I take my cock in my hand.’
‘Wow.’ I suddenly find my hand at my neck clutching a set of invisible pearls. How could anyone resist imagining that visual? ‘That—that’s quite a mouth you have there.’
‘I may have heard that once or twice.’ His smile is part sexy, part sultry smirk.
Oh my God, he was smooth before, but he’s obviously had lots of practice since.
‘I—it’s Rose. My name.’ Well, it’s one of my names. Okay, half of one. But I refuse to feel guilty at this deception. Besides, I’m not really sure who I am anymore, so tonight I choose to be Rose.
‘American Rose with the English rose skin.’ As he says this, he reaches out, his finger skimming my cheek. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met?’
I shrug evasively, resisting the resultant shiver. ‘It’s Scottish Rose,’ I whisper a little hoarsely. ‘From my mom.’ Though I’ve always thought that if I were a flower, I’d probably be Scotland’s national spikey bloom, the thistle.
‘So you’ve a little Scots in you?’
I nod and make to loop my hair behind my ear, remembering belatedly how short it now is.
‘Would you like a good few inches more?’
I laugh a little, against my better instincts. ‘Like I’ve never heard that line before.’ I have, but it never sounded so tempting.
‘Damn,’ he replies, smothering a chuckle. ‘So, half-Scottish Rose, can I get you a drink?’
‘You could, but I think I’ve changed my mind.’
Holy mother of fuck, why would I say that?
Rory’s eyebrows retract, his expression quickly schooling. ‘Whatever, darlin,’ he says in a cool tone. ‘That’s your call to make.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ I reply, nodding furiously like I’m attempting to convince myself.
God, but I want him—want to discover what he’s drinking by tasting it from his tongue. And I so want to believe this is the universe’s way of balancing my life’s deficits, dealing me this meeting as some kind of payback or gift. A sort of here, you’ve been having a rough time, have tonight on me. But that’s not the way my life works.
I slide my purse from the bar keeping my gaze lowered beneath my lashes, determined not to look up at him. More specifically, not to look at his mouth, because all I can think of is how it would feel this time. Would he kiss me softly? Is he still the kind of kisser that takes his time? Or would he be commanding? Demanding? Grip the back of my neck and take charge?
Curling my heel around the lowest rung of the stool, I move my butt to the edge of the seat.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly, tilting my head upwards just as he takes another drink from his glass. If it’s even possible, I think he’d deliver all of those kinds of kisses and more. ‘I—I think I should go.’ Smooth, Fin. As smooth as a Ken doll, and just as effective in the sexing department. How can I find
his bland expression fuckable, too? ‘This was meant to be my birthday night out,’ I babble. ‘And I’m not expecting many gifts this year, but yes, I should definitely go . . . go home with you.’
To your bed.
Immediately.
Happy birthday to me.
Let’s get it on.
For old time’s sake you know nothing about.
I’m not sure which of us is more shocked at this sentence. It’s not so much succinct as it is straight to the point. And entirely slutty. As his bland expression becomes more smoulder, I begin to feel hot—and I pray for a change in weather, because I could so do with a snow storm right now.
My stomach dips as he lifts my hand from my lap, rubbing his fingers lightly over them. It takes me a moment to realise he’s rubbing his thumb over a particular slice of pale skin, a place that, up until this morning, was covered by my wedding band.
‘I—I used to be married.’ I take my hand back and stare down at where, up until a few hours ago, a row of diamonds sat. Observant. Principled? The marriage police? ‘Mostly, I still feel like I am, though I’m trying hard not to be.’ The only risk I’m taking now is looking like a fool.
‘Divorced?’ His gaze feels piercing as he stares up at me from under thick lashes. The best I answer I can manage is an evasive shrug. ‘Recently?’
‘Why is it important?’
‘Just curious,’ he responds.
Li-ar, li-ar, pants on fi-re. In my chest, my heart begins to beat to the rhythm of the chant in my head. I don’t want to get into this—explanations and judgements. I fear seeing sympathy as much as disgust in his eyes. In the place of those things is a fleeting frown.
‘It’s not really any of your business,’ I respond quietly.
‘That’s true.’
What if he already knows? Maybe I should leave? Maybe someone told him about my mom and he’s hoping to make me feel dirty for being a sure thing? I almost begin to slip from the stool when his hand grips my elbow.
