I hadn’t even stolen anything from him this time.
I walked down the road toward the village we’d driven through on the way here. Maybe I’d get a cab there, head to a train station maybe. Or go to a bar and drink until Marcas caught up—if he caught up. Would sitting there at the bar make me look like I was waiting for him? Would that make me desperate? My longest relationship was when I was eighteen and spent a month on a yacht with a rich old man.
He kept sixteen year old Langavulin stocked. That was a fine whisky there.
The thought of whisky made my decision for me. I made a beeline for the pub once I made it into the village. I ordered a pint and a whisky and settled on a stool to drink. I kept an eye on my watch. I’d been gone…three hours by this point. Maybe not enough time for him to notice I was gone. Maybe.
I picked up the whisky and hand came down over mine. A large hand with a heavy silver ring with an interesting design on it. An eye set inside a star. I felt I ought to know it but pushed that aside to concentrate on the person the ring belonged to. I felt a chill—and then I felt warm all over.
“A pint and a whisky? Ye that eager to forget me?”
“Na,” I tilted my head and met his gaze. “I just thought it’d take you longer to find me.”
“Ye thought I might not come.” He smiled. “Ye wanted me to chase ye. To know if I would.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
He took the whisky out of my hand and downed it. “Well my lad, I chased. I cannae help myself. So, ye going to keep running?”
“You know, I do know one bit of Gaelic.”
“What’s that?”
“Feumaidh me ruith.” I chewed on my lip.
“But will ye?”
“Na.” I looked him up and down. “I still have three or four fantasies to live out.” I turned in the chair to face him properly and took hold of his belt.
“I dinnae. Feumaidh mi ruith.”
“You’re not running anywhere,” I replied. “Not without me.”
He smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear, rabbit.”
I slipped off the stool and Marcas wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You owe me a whisky.”
“I’ve got a much better vintage at home.”
***
I was a bit tipsy, not plastered, just warm and fuzzy. I lounged back against the headboard. Marcas stood over me, a lopsided smile across his face.
“Had enough whisky yet?”
“Oh, aye.” I smiled back and bit down on my lower lip. “I haven’t had enough of you.”
He leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed over his chest. He’d stripped down to shirt and kilt, the plaid slung over a chair. “So, which of your fantasies are we going to focus on tonight then? Kidnapped by a Highlander? Caught in the midst of battle? Time travel?”
“Maybe I just want you to wear the kilt. It’s very fetching on you.”
He smiled, straightening and stripping off his shirt. “I’m verra glad ye think so.”
I leaned forward, shifting my weight and crawling toward him. I sat up and put my arms around his neck. “Does that mean I could convince you to wear one more often?”
He laughed. “It’s more of a special occasion sort of thing these days, Cary.”
“I met you wearing a kilt, what was the occasion?”
“Football match,” he replied.
“Good reason.” I kissed him. “Now, I need you to tear my clothes off, grab that mint scented lube, and fuck me until I forget my name.”
He laughed again. I liked his laugh. It was warm and big, filled the room.
“All right mo balach ruadh, I’ll give it a try.”
I kissed him again. “It makes me so happy to hear you say that.”
Marcas gripped my shirt and tugged it off, chucking it onto the floor. He went for the button of my fly next. I leaned back and he shucked off my trousers. “Yer not wearing underpants.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” He licked his lips. “Definitely not a problem.”
What followed was one of the most debauched nights of my life. I didn’t forget my own name but it was a near thing. When I came up for air, sweaty and tired, wrapped in Marcas’ arms it was very late. One of his hands was clasped over my chest. I saw the ring again and I realized I did know the symbol. An eye inside a seven pointed star—spooks through and through. Clearly Marcas had more dealings with our mutual kinfolk than I did.
“Marcas,” I whispered.
“Yes?” He sounded hoarse.
“You don’t work for Interpol, do you?”
He chuckled. “No.”
A Night Shift officer. That was way worse than Interpol. I really had to stop thinking with my dick.
The End
More by Missouri Dalton:
The Night Shift
The Hellfire Legacy
Sleeping on the Job
Some Like it Scot
by Julia Talbot
Riley only wears his kilt on special occasions, a fact his friend Jeremy bemoans often, at least in private. Jeremy wishes he knew how to move their friendship to the next level. It takes a disastrous rugby game and some creative kilt use to make things happen.
“If it’s not Scottish, it’s crap!”
Riley Stewart winced and pushed through a throng of kilted wonders, trying not to snarl as one bad fake Scottish accent after another assaulted his ears. April sixth was always a dangerous day for a real Scot to go in to work in downtown Austin, Texas because it was National Tartan Day, and God help him, Riley always ran afoul of a bunch of Scotland’s proud descendants, complete with kilts and knee socks and sporrans. No doubt someone would pull out a set of pipes soon and begin marching…
This year’s group seemed particularly large and rowdy, as if they were on their way to a Highland Games rather than a Scottish Historical Society meeting. He blamed that TV show, the one with the bonnie Scottish man in his kilt and poet shirt, roving about the countryside and saving Sassenach women.
Listen to him. His mum would be so proud of his grasp of bad romance terminology. She wrote kilt romances, after all.
Thankfully, Riley made it inside his building without opening his mouth. He didn’t need to be accused of a false accent, or of mocking anyone.
“Mob scene out there, huh? I wonder where they’re heading.” His favorite co-worker, Jeremy, ducked in behind him, carrying a giant travel mug of coffee and a bag from someplace greasy. Jack in the Box, maybe. The contents did smell good, which was just no fair. Riley had given up fast food for Lent.
“Someplace on South Congress, I bet. They all parked at the museum.” He gave Jeremy a smile, hoping for one in return. There was something about the twinkle in those bright blue eyes that warmed him deep inside.
“How come you’re not out there flaunting a kilt?” Jeremy asked, walking with him to the elevator.
“Oh, Lord. I have a job, for one thing. For another, I grew up with my mum trotting me out in my kilt for every major occasion. I tend to leave it in the closet now.”
“A closeted kilt. I like it.”
Riley laughed. “I’ll have to text that to my mom. She can write a romance with that as the title.”
“Oh, does she write gay stuff, too?” Jeremy asked. “I thought she just did the historical Scottish thing.”
“Mom writes anything that makes her a buck. She even contributes to a Scottish travel blog.”
“That’s awesome.” Jeremy let him step into the elevator first. “I’d like to see you in a kilt.”
He gave Jeremy a sideways look. Riley had often wondered if Jeremy was gay like him, but had never got the nerve up to ask. “Why?”
“Because you might have adorable knees.”
“If you want to see my knees all you have to do is come to a rugby match. I’ve invited you what, fifty times?”
“Mmm. I played football in high school, but rugby scares me.”
“Puss.” They stepped off the elevator, and
he waved at Jeremy when they parted ways. “Saturday at nine. That park in Round Rock there by the baseball stadium.”
“Old Settlers. Got it.” Jeremy waved back, smiling, but Riley knew he’d never come to a game.
The guy was hot and a decent human being, but he just wasn’t that into Riley. Kilt fantasy or no.
***
Jeremy had never been so into someone as he was Riley Stewart. The guy had dark red hair, green eyes, and was sort of rocking the Ewan McGregor look, all dimples and compact muscles. Hot as hell. Then there was the accent. None of that fake och this and aye that. The thick Scottish burr was all genuine, and it sent shivers down Jeremy’s spine.
Why else would be he up and at ‘em at nine am on his Saturday, wearing shorts and a t-shirt and fully anticipating getting his ass kicked during a pick-up rugby game?
National Tartan Day had finally decided him. From what Riley had said, Jeremy could extrapolate that he was indeed gay. Therefore the constant invitation to play rugby had to be an opening move. The only one Riley seemed willing to make. Ergo, if Jeremy wanted more, he had to take a chance and go play.
He took a deep breath before he hopped out of his truck and approached the group of frankly intimidating men gathering on the big field across from the jogging trail and playground.
“Hey!” Riley caught sight of him and detached from the pack, jogging over to meet him halfway. “You made it! Brilliant.”
“Yeah. I decided to be brave.” He chuckled, trying hard not to stare, or hell, drool. Those tiny shorts and the colorful jersey really showed off Riley’s body.
“Well, good on you. Come and meet the boys.”
“Thanks.” The “boys” all sported bulging muscles and military style haircuts. Compared to them Jeremy was a scruffy hipster wearing his old gym clothes from high school.
“Oi! You must be Jeremy from work.” One big bruiser held out a large, square hand, his accent pure East Enders or whatever. British, for sure.
“I am.”
“Ri has told us all about you. Come on, then, we’ll fill you in on the rules.”
“Cool.” He followed all those wide shoulders back onto the field, hoping he wasn’t about to get his ass handed to him.
Riley grinned at him from across the huddle, the expression so dimply and perfect that Jeremy gave up worrying. If he got nothing else out of it there would be grappling with over a dozen of the hottest guys Jeremy had ever seen.
What could possibly go wrong?
***
The drive from the hospital to Jeremy’s apartment took an hour longer than it should have thanks to an accident. They crawled through downtown, the traffic resembling a bizarre conga line that inched along like a snail.
“I’m so sorry,” Riley said for what had to be the millionth time.
“Hey, no one knew that hole was there. You said Giles would get my truck back to me, right?” Jeremy was taking things pretty well, considering he’d torn a tendon in his ankle. For now he was all wrapped up with orders to stay off it, but he’d start in an immobilizing boot next week.
“He will. He’s solid.” He’d said that at least as often as the apology, but Jeremy seemed to be swimming in the painkiller sea, unable to really make sense of things.. “This is your exit?”
“Yep. Then a right at the light.”
“Right,” Riley said, easing off 35 and pulling into the right lane. They sat through the light twice, and Riley thought about his next move, since the first had ended in bodily injury. The sight of Jeremy’s body going one way and his foot going the other would stay about in his brain for a bit.
“Thanks for staying with me at the hospital. I didn’t mean to ruin your Saturday.”
“What rubbish. You ruined nothing.” Except the poor ankle.
“Did I tell you I never was that sporty?”
“Might have done.” Riley turned right, vaguely remembering Jeremy’s address from some work-related thing. Now, was it right or left?
“Left.” Apparently, Jeremy had seen him hesitating.
“Thanks.” The click-click of the turn signal reminded him that he’d turned the radio off on the way to the hospital. He flipped it back on, just to cover his awkwardness. Then he turned it down, because he’d forgotten he had Silly Wizard plugged on his iPod.
“I like them,” Jeremy said. “You don’t have to turn it down.”
“Yeah? Cool. It’s stereotypical, right? For me to like Gaelic music.”
“As long as you’re not out tossing cabers I won’t say anything.”
“Right,” Riley deadpanned. “I prefer the sheaf toss. I’m surprised you’re familiar with Highland games.”
“My mom was obsessed. God knows I’ve been all over to games and Celtic festivals. Arlington. Houston. Colorado. The big one in North Carolina.”
“I’ve been to Dunkirk, but that’s it.”
Jeremy laughed. “My mom would just die. Scotland for the games? Holy shit. Left at the light.”
“Got it.” He turned, recognizing the neat 1940s building where Jeremy lived. “Which one are you again?”
“Bottom right. At least I don’t have stairs.”
“Right. Good point.” He parked, then sat there for a moment staring at the steering wheel.
Jeremy reached over and touched his arm. A little shock traveled up from his elbow to his shoulder. “You okay?” Jeremy asked. “I know you probably need to go, but I’m not sure I can get in without you. Once I get my crutches out of the closet…”
“No, I’m fine. Sorry. I’m just really gutted that you got hurt because of me.”
“I got hurt stepping in a hole like a really dumb goat on the ranch. Now, help me out of the truck.”
Riley laughed. “Sure. I’m just worried you won’t want to see me socially again.”
When he helped Jeremy out of the SUV, Jeremy put an arm around his shoulders and hopped along at his pace. “So, does this mean we were on a date?”
He almost dropped Jeremy on his ass. “Erm. I wouldn’t be opposed to a date. I think this was more a precursor to a date.”
“Hmm. I can live with that.” Jeremy struggled once they reached the door, pulling out the house key he’d taken off his carabineer when he’d given his keys to Giles. After he dropped it twice, Riley propped Jeremy against the wall and picked up the key, grit sanding his fingers when he turned the key in the lock.
“Good.” Inside, the air smelled like bacon and spice, and a big green sectional squatted in the center of the front room, looming over a rather spindly coffee table and a laptop stand. “Didn’t you have a dog?”
“I did.” Jeremy dug in when Riley would have eased him down on the couch. “He went to live with my dad on the ranch when I started pulling more overtime than God.”
“Oh, that’s rotten.” A man needed his dog. How sad.
“I see him once a month or so. He loves chasing the rabbits and stuff.”
“Why are you not sitting down, then?” Riley finally asked.
“Closet in the guest room. I need my crutches.”
“Well, I can get those. You sit, I’ll do, unless you have a body stuffed in there.”
“Nope.” Jeremy let him deposit him on the couch, groaning when his butt hit the cushion. “That’s good.”
“I’ll get those crutches. Do you want anything else? A water?”
“That would be amazing. Thank you.”
“The least I can do.” Riley moved around the two-bedroom four-plex, admiring the mid-century lines of the building. The guest room exploded with girly roses and pink and green curtains. The quarter-sawn oak furniture could have pranced out of a 1910 Sears and Roebuck catalog; the delicate arch of the mirror on the dresser looked like a musical instrument. He opened the closet to find one side populated by women’s clothes, the type an older lady would wear.
The crutches leaned on the other side next to a yoga mat and some baseball equipment. He grabbed them before heading back to drop them off. “Your mum vis
it you a lot, then?” he asked.
Jeremy nodded. “God, yes. That’s why I have a guest room instead of an office or a yoga studio and meditation chair. She loves Austin. Dad not so much.”
“You’re a good man. My mum would drive me round the bend if I saw her that often.”
“She doesn’t live here?” Jeremy asked.
“Down in Wimberley with all the artists,” Riley said.
“Nice.”
“I’ll get that water.” How fucking awkward. Riley hit the kitchen next, grabbing two bottles of water. When he came back, Jeremy had sprawled back on the couch, sound asleep.
Well, then. He left one water on the table with a coaster under it, taking the other one with him when he left. He’d call Jeremy later and see if an actual date was still possible.
***
The walking boot made things easier, but Jeremy still felt as awkward as Frankenstein’s newly born monster on his crutches. He staggered around his apartment for a few days before he went back to work, trying to find his balance and to wait out the need for pain pills, which gave him furry-coat mouth and fried-egg brain. He’d gotten his computer hooked up to his office cloud so he could do some assignments, but damn, he felt like hammered shit.
The knock on his door on day three surprised him. A glance at the clock told him it was noon, which meant he’d lost an hour or so to sitting and dozing.
“Coming!” Heaving himself up took a long moment and if it was important he didn’t want whoever it was to go away. If he opened the door to a Mormon or something, someone would die. When he opened the door, Riley stood on the other side.
“Jeremy. Hope you don’t mind, but I brought lunch and cupcakes.” Riley held a bakery box in one hand and a Whataburger bag in the other.
Score.
“I don’t mind a bit.” He backed away enough to let Riley in. The man had called to make sure his truck made it home, but honestly, Jeremy had thought that was it. Surprise lunch was really sweet. “You didn’t have to.”
“I have a huge lot of vacation days and Rod wants me to use some. Missed you at work, so I came by. I hope you like a patty melt and red velvet cupcakes.”
Plaid Nights Anthology Page 8
