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Haste Ye Back
Copyright © 2012 by Wendy Burke
ISBN: 978-1-61333-227-6
Cover art by LFD Designs
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Also by Wendy Burke
Respite
The One He Chose
A 1Night Stand Story
Haste Ye Back
A 1Night Stand Story
by
Wendy Burke
~DEDICATION~
I started Haste Ye Back, originally a full-length novel, August 6, 2007, three days after I returned from a vacation in Scotland to finally visit a pen pal of 30+ years. I’m sure my pal Shelagh’s parents never thought her mum’s dinner toast would end up as a title for an erotic short story! Here’s to you Jean and Al, and the rest of my dear Scottish family – Shelagh, George, Sir Bob, Fly Boy and Ziggy! Hoping to Haste Ye Back soon!
Chapter One
One thing Bryn Wallace had hoped to accomplish during a relaxing vacation in Scotland—getting her brains screwed out in a field of heather.
Don sabotaged that plan when he decided to kiss up to his new boss instead of spending quality time in a foreign country kissing her. Bolting from the one and only vacation the two of them were able to take together in the past five years marked the end of their relationship. Two weeks before their departure date, he’d changed his plans, insisting he needed more time to ‘prove his loyalty’ to his new employer. She’d started moving stuff out of their shared apartment that night—nothing said ‘it’s over’ more than blowing off a ten thousand dollar vacation. Maybe Mr. Donald Schwartz could afford to lose the equivalent of the gross domestic product of a third world country, but she could not.
She didn’t care if her friends thought her crazy to travel internationally alone. She’d saved, wanted and waited for the holiday her entire life. Since a child on her grandfather’s knee, she’d been enamored with the tales of kilted warriors saving fair maidens, and it tickled her that somewhere deep in her ancestry, one of those Highlanders might have rescued the lass who eventually became her grandfather’s great-grandfather’s great-great-grandmother’s mother. In her teenage fantasies, Mel Gibson carried her wedding cloth to his death in Braveheart.
So maybe that piece of celluloid fiction wasn’t gospel when it came to Scottish history. Still as a multi-centuries removed, shirttail relation to Gibson’s character of William Wallace, she wanted to fulfill the dream of a lass with her surname—return to the homeland and lie in a field of purple heather while someone cuddled her.
Not to be. Not if she was alone.
She’d ventured into Edinburgh proper the day before, during her first full day in the country. She wandered the touristy shops of Princes Street, took the double-decker sightseeing bus around Auld Reekie, listening via headphones to Sean Connery’s sexy, melting tone describe his hometown.
And where was her James Bond?
Bryn wasn’t unhappy, just alone.
In no mood to eat, she toyed with the eggs on her plate. She peered out the window of the Castillo Dalmahoy Resort’s dining room and away from the so many contented couples around her. The sun cast crystals on the dew-laden grass. Made up of so many hues of green, Scotland was simply indescribable.
But green as the world around her was, her heart darkened with an equal amount of blue. Anger gave way to sadness, not in missing Don, but her life again romantically empty. She’d held out for so long, doing her best to continue to love him, even with his emotional detachment, and the taking for granted of her existence in their collective life.
Her attention returned to the dining room where a nearby painting caught her eye. No wonder it did, since the woman in the scene appeared as forlorn as she. Wrapped up tightly in tartan, the bonnie lass stood on a dock, a masted ship in the background. Her hooded head dropped sadly toward the strapping Celt kneeling at her feet. He held gently to her hand, staring into her face, pleading it seemed. He was handsome—hair of auburn tied back with a royal purple ribbon, a ruddy face, well-cropped beard and clad in a traditional kilt.
Smiling at the picture, her attitude changed a bit. She couldn’t help but think back to her days playing with Barbie and Ken; more than once she had dressed the male doll in her grandfather’s plaid hanky, securing it with a black hair scrunchie, close enough to a kilt for an eight-year old. Eventually, she’d properly outfitted the plastic lad in Scottish garb when Grandma sewed a kilt from Grandpa’s handkerchief. “You’ll have your own Scot someday, Brynnie,” her grandmother used to say. Bryn chuckled at the happy remembrance.
“More coffee, ma’am?”
She pulled her gaze from the painting. “Please.”
“Miss Wallace, correct?”
“Yes.”
The waitress poured as she spoke. “Did you find all the activity brochures in your suite?”
“I believe so.”
The woman slid a full color tri-fold along the tablecloth in Bryn’s direction. “Hot off the presses. It may have some new offerings which might interest you.”
“Thank you.”
“You are very welcome. Try to enjoy your stay.” She nodded and left.
Try to enjoy…. What does that mean? Bryn sighed. Is it that obvious I’m alone? She flipped through the flier; horseback riding in the Highlands, archery, an insider tour of Edinburgh Castle, a private Burns Night dinner.
Her phone vibrated inside her blazer pocket. What now?
On the screen Don text appeared.
What the hell does he want? She opened her phone.
Bryan, check this! Great way to spend the raise I got with the new job!
“You dumb ass.” She covered her mouth, barely realizing she’d uttered the words aloud. Really, you still have my number in your phone and you can’t tell the difference between me and your golf buddy, Bryan?
She scrolled the message further.
I’ll let you know how this date shakes out. In the meantime, look at the website—even you probably could get hooked up for one night! The Donald.
She shook her head. The Donald? What a jerk! If with her girlfriends, she would have feigned retching. What had she seen in him, anyway?
Finishing her coffee, she left a tip and headed back to her room. Along the way, Don’s text, obviously not to her, poked at her. Maybe that whole ‘skipping Scotland’ scenario was his way of forcing a break-up, and—dammit!—she’d fallen right into his trap.
Curiosity goaded her. Anger fueled her. That fucking bastard! Don’t get mad, Bryn, get even! After all, newly single, alone on holiday, and in a foreign country where she kn
ew no one and no one knew her, what difference did it make if she sought some intimate companionship for herself?
Fuck ’im.
She shed her blazer as her hotel room door clunked behind her. While her laptop powered up, she snagged a couple of shot-sized bottles from the minibar. When the computer was ready, she opened a browser and made sure she typed the exact address Don had absentmindedly sent her—www.1NightStand….
Three hours and who knows howmany seemingly intrusive questions later, now clad in sweats and a T-shirt, Bryn climbed back into bed. Two tiny bottles of Glenlivet hadn’t been enough, so she’d called for more. Shortly after lunch, she put her head to her pillow for a well-deserved drunken nap.
Lying in bed, she buried her face into a pillow to stifle her satisfied giggling—she’d just charged her illicit adventure with the 1Night Stand agency to her former fiancé’s American Express.
Chapter Two
There were always plenty of familiar faces at neighborhood pubs in Edinburgh’s seaside suburb of Joppa. And this one was no exception. Ian McCallum could easily be drawn into a conversation with any number of imbibers this evening, some conversationalists he knew, others not. It didn’t matter, they readily welcomed him and—thankfully, now sans Sarah—he didn’t need to refrain from certain topics nor be concerned if she enjoyed herself. Pubs had never been her scene, regardless of friends which could be made or business transacted.
Sipping his Stewart Embra, he realized he’d begun to feel more like his old self, a self buried deep within his core, one which had so unknowingly slipped away during his marriage. His nature of being good and caring, doting on his bride, his concern for her happiness always first, meant his own contentment took a backseat or even ended up riding in the boot.
His marriage to the ball-busting barrister, Sarah Wilkie McCallum, had lasted nearly nine years. After the divorce, rediscovering who he really was had taken about six months.
But, one thing was still amiss, despite his good looks and the accessibility of finding comfort with any number of female ‘friends,’ he hadn’t gotten laid in well over a year. The relationship with Sarah had turned sour well before the end—it was difficult to make love to someone who didn’t speak to you and even more difficult when she insisted upon directing the encounter as if wasting billable hours.
He sighed, releasing the past, wondering about his romantic future. He tipped his glass to a painting hung high above the back bar, a print of course, still one of his favorites of Scottish lore; a bonnie lass cloaked in—of all things—McCallum tartan, sitting in a meadow, her hand in that of the ruddy lad next to her. Wooden cups raised, their eyes were locked upon one another, a silent pact forged. Knowing how the legend ended, Ian shook his head. He’d never be as irresponsible as the Celt in the painting. If he found the right woman, he would make sure to express his feelings for her, and then never let her go.
Movement to his side drew him from his musings. He nodded as a stylishly disheveled, handsome young man in glasses sat down near him.
“What’s good in this pub?”
Hearing the flat American accent, Ian squinted in his mind, usually good at this game, but at the moment unable to place the geographical area of the U.S. the man hailed from. “Dark, light or other, mate?”
“What’re you drinking?”
Ian held up his glass, displaying an amber-hued liquid. “Embra. I dare not say you’ll find it in the States.” He put his hand out to the customer. “Ian.”
“Garret,” the visitor mentioned, grasping Ian’s hand. “Is there a sampler?”
“Eh?”
“You know, a sample of, oh say, six beers—so I can choose the one I like the best.”
Ian waved at his friend behind the bar. “Harry, a sample of six or eight of the Stewart bevvies for our American friend.” Harry nodded and began placing glasses on the bar. “Are you familiar with Scottish beer?”
“The general exports, yes, your local microbrews, not so much. I have a tavern in Detroit.”
“In Michigan, yes? Where all the autos are made. Motown, right?”
“That’s the one.” Harry delivered the beer samples. Garret picked up the palest of the six. “I believe you say slainte here, correct?”
“Aye.” Ian raised his glass. “To your health!”
“Well, slainte, then!”
An image appeared in the mirror behind the bar, making its way toward where Ian and the American sat. He squinted, the reflection vaguely familiar. Nay, not a chance. But, as he covertly studied the man’s image more closely, the kilted gent placed his hand on the nearby American’s back, rubbing it with more than just drinking buddy affection. A ghost from the past floated to the front of his grey matter, and he nearly spit his amber back into his glass. “Martin Baird—what the fuck!” Ian spun on his stool.
The man in the black and blue plaid sport kilt stopped in his tracks, a trait Ian inherently knew belonged to Martin. The poor kid had been afraid of his shadow most of his life, so hearing his name with such surprise most likely scared the crap out of him. He calmed in short order, and his face broke out into a huge grin. “McCallum? A sight you are!”
Slipping from his stool, Ian grabbed his old friend, hugging him affectionately. “I thought you were in the States.” Releasing him, he held Martin at arm’s length. The over-starched, uptight boy he had run with as a teen had disappeared. Maybe going to university and being away from home had opened doors for the lad that seemed perpetually sealed shut while under the scrutiny of his family and not-so-understanding friends.
“I am—just showing my partner, Garret, around Auld Reekie.” He gave the bespectacled young man a nudge. “That’s Edinburgh, love.”
Garret stopped sampling and eyed Ian. “This is Ian McCallum?”
“Aye.”
Ian watched Garret study him with one eyebrow arched as he inspected him head to toe.
“No worries, mate, I’ve never been Martin’s type, so that means I’m not yours, either.” Ian smiled, hoping to put him at ease.
“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” Garret assured him with a half light-hearted smirk. “I’ve heard so much about you—all good, of course!”
“Manners!” Martin interjected. “Right, seems mine have disappeared….”
“Along with your accent,” Ian spoke over him.
“…since I’ve been home.” Martin sat down at the bar. “So, you’ve already met my partner, Garret Fisher.”
Ian gave his old school pal a wink, and then raised his glass. “Old friends, already, right Garret?” The American nodded, smiled and went back to his beers. “C’mon. Have a seat, let me get you a pint.”
Martin bumped his old pal with his shoulder. “So, a little bird told me that you and Sarah are done. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. That woman sucked the life and soul outta you, me old friend.”
“I’m beginning to understand that more the longer we’re apart.” Ian gave him a nudge. “She and I did have our moments, though.”
“Operative word—moment.”
“Touché, my friend, touché!” Ian took a sip of ale. “I didn’t think getting back into this ‘dating thing’ would be so difficult.”
“For you!” Martin’s home accent returned minutely. “A handsome lad like yourself, abstinent?”
“It’s not self-imposed, Martin.”
Slipping into work mode, Martin acted the high-class concierge he was. “I can take care of that for you.”
Shocked and amused, Ian put up his hands. “Whoa! Hold on a moment there, Mr. Baird! Just because you and Garret have filled me with Glenmorangie and every sort of Stewarts, I’m not switchin’ teams so readily, sir!” Ian laughed.
He didn’t flinch when Martin draped an arm about his shoulders and smooched him noisily on the cheek. “I know, you old bastard.”
It pleased Ian that he had grown up and out of his needy shyness, ‘grown a set,’ become his own man after so many years hiding behind Ian’s shadow.
; Martin released him. “What I’m sayin’ is I know a ‘service.’”
Rankled, Ian tried to hide the disgust in his tone. “I don’t do prostitutes.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
Garret took a break from his study of six new sampler pints and chimed in, “If it’s any endorsement, Ian, it’s how Marty and I met.”
Ian shook his head with a snicker. “I figured it had to be some internet dating thing. He couldn’t catch a cold let alone a good-lookin’ guy like you on his own.”
“Ian!” Martin reprimanded.
“He’s right, Marty I am one hot catch.” Garret drew Martin close, a protective arm cinched about the Scot’s waist as if making a happy point. “Listen to him, Ian. Madame Eve wouldn’t steer you wrong. She knows what you need, even if you don’t. Clever woman—you can’t trick her, either.” Quiet for a moment, he gazed into his boyfriend’s eyes. “She found me a soul mate, maybe she can do the same for you.”
Ian eyed the two men. It had to be by far one of the oddest conversations he’d ever had—dating tips from gay guys. But, what did he have to lose?
***
Eyes bleary from too many shots or staring at his laptop screen in the dark, Ian stretched out naked on his bed. For over an hour, he’d answered brutally personal questions about himself, his wants, his likes and dislikes. He crossed himself, hit the send button, quickly closed the machine and crawled under the sheets.
Maybe in the morning he’d forget what he’d done.
Chapter Three
Usually, Ian was a very patient man, but something about a clandestine romantic meeting with a total stranger had him anxious. It’d been eight days since the email with his arrangement information had blinked in his inbox. With the amount of cash he’d put out for the service, if his ‘date’ appeared to be a dog, he’d personally go to the States and thump Martin and Garret with a cricket bat. Logic calmed him, however. Their third party arrangement had obviously worked—the two boys seemed terribly content with one another.
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