One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Din’nae worry. You have to give Kit at least a month’s notice to make dinner plans with him. What was so important, anyway?’ he demands, ensuring all eyes turn my way. ‘Where do you usually slink off to on Friday night?’

  Nowhere I’ve any intention of sharing.

  ‘I don’t slink anywhere. And what do you care? I’m here now for this lovely bonding experience.’ I find myself adjusting my cuffs to avoid his gaze.

  ‘You should bring someone to dinner next time,’ says Fin. ‘A friend? They don’t have to be a significant other or anything.’ From Rory, this would’ve sounded like a taunt, but from Fin, it’s a not so subtle hint.

  ‘ ‘Cause he prefers them insignificant,’ Rory deadpans.

  This happens to be the truth. I also like them plural, but I add neither comment.

  ‘How about you?’ I ask, turning the questioning to Bea. ‘Will you be bringing someone to dinner next time? Significant or otherwise?’

  ‘Good idea,’ interjects Fin. ‘We should definitely make dinner plans when Jonathon gets here.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ I don’t miss her briefest of frowns.

  ‘Yes,’ pipes in Fin. ‘A long-term, long-distance, on-and-off relationship. Hell, I didn’t say that, did I?’ she says, looking horrified. ‘I’m sorry, Bea. You know I shouldn’t drink red wine.’

  ‘And what is it now?’ I ask, oh-so reasonably. ‘On or off?’

  ‘On,’ she replies emphatically. ‘Definitely on.’

  Chapter Four

  BEA

  ‘On.’ Like Donkey Kong.

  Okay, so I lie. But I’m unlikely to announce I heard my ex-boyfriend screwing someone else by phone.

  More tongue . . . .

  The whispers echoed through my head all day long—his sighs and his moans—the accompanying images playing on a continual loop.

  Yes, like that . . .

  Like what? Like I don’t do it for him? Like I’m not enough?

  ‘Bea?’

  Fin’s voice breaks through my thoughts, her tentative tone almost as if she can read what’s running through my mind. The scenarios and narratives. The images I’ve created, cruel and taunting, to match the words I wished I’d never heard.

  ‘Sorry. M-my mind wandered for a moment.’

  More specifically, it wandered to the point when Jon told me last week—via a text—that he’d like for us to go on a break.

  A break. What is that even? Press pause on our relationship? Is it an interruption? A complete discontinuance?

  I now realise it was a warning. A warning I didn’t heed.

  Right now, I’d like to break his fucking head.

  No one knows me as well as Jon does. I’d thought the same the other way—and I hadn’t believed for a second he was serious. I’d just decided this was his way of trying to manipulate me into flying to visit him. How very wrong. I was tired and just coming off a twelve-hour shift and . . . Who am I kidding? I’ve been ignoring the signs. The fact he’d stopped making an effort to see me. The fact our sex life has been disastrous recently.

  In hindsight, I can see he’d been dropping hints for months, but I wasn’t paying enough attention. I wanted to believe he was joining my family in their suggestion that I come home. Darling, you’re already a qualified doctor. Why put yourself through more study at all? Not that my parents would dream of saying this to my brothers. I’ve never heard them suggest Aiden come home from Australia or Luke from Brazil. My parents want grandchildren. Apparently, I’m the brood mare.

  You and I want different things, was how Jon ended the text.

  I’d assumed he was talking about children, too.

  We’ve been together forever—I thought it would count for something. And I suppose it does. It counts as my idiocy. Becomes a great red flag for it. The fact that he couldn’t get it up the last time we were together now makes perfect sense.

  Betrayal is such an ugly word.

  I inhale a painful breath, pasting on a smile because this shit hurts. But not in the way heartbreak should. I’m not curled in a ball, sobbing over him. After my catatonic run, I didn’t want to climb into bed and block out the world. Quite the opposite. It’s been a wake-up call. Like someone has removed a film from my eyes. Or maybe tape—because it is painful. The sad thing is, my pride is mainly what’s hurts.

  ‘Yes, on,’ I repeat a little too loudly and a little too forcefully, using my I’m a doctor, you can trust me face. ‘Yes, Jon is my boyfriend.’

  My lying, cheating, uninspiring dick of an ex-boyfriend, but tonight—here at the dinner to celebrate Fin’s promotion—I’ll just say the ex bit in my head.

  Meanwhile, I’d asked one of the male nurses to draw my blood while I sent Jon the following text and routed his future calls to an interesting voicemail.

  Jon, you should take care not to roll on your phone when fucking someone. Especially if that someone isn’t me.

  We’re over. Done. And if you’ve ever felt anything for me, you will now do as I say. Don’t contact me. I won’t answer. I don’t want to hear your excuses, especially as we’ve been here before.

  I can see that now. I’d ignored the evidence; the tiny inconsistencies, the things he’d said or didn’t say. None of it pointed firmly to him cheating, but in hindsight, it screamed lying bastard!

  It’s funny—or not—how things fall into place.

  What’s not so funny is submitting yourself to a barrage of blood and STI tests.

  Especially at the hospital where you work.

  You want to think the best of the person you love, don’t you? I must’ve loved him, though, but at some point, that love had changed. I wasn’t in love with him—I couldn’t have been or else I’d be feeling more . . . more something right now.

  More pain. More hurt. More heartbreak.

  Not that any of this is a valid excuse for his behaviour. He obviously isn’t in love with me either, but this isn’t how you end a relationship.

  You asked for a break; well, this is me giving you one. Permanently.

  Then I’d switched off my phone. I’m not interested in his excuses, though a tiny, vindictive part of me would love to know what he thought of my voicemail . . .

  ‘You okay?’ Fin asks, a worried furrow of her brow marring her lovely face.

  ‘Yes, totally. It’s just been a busy day.’

  I lower my hands to my knees, suddenly conscious of Kit watching them smooth the slight wrinkles from the tablecloth. My gaze flicks to his again, but he’s still watching my hands. Or at least, he would be if he could see through solid matter.

  Maybe it’s not your hands he’s thinking about. Maybe it’s more your lap. Maybe he’s thinking of you touching yourself. Maybe watching you touch yourself would work better on him than it did with Jon.

  God, such ridiculousness. I think I need to start having more sex, even if it’s just with myself.

  Kit’s head rises, and his gaze meets mine head on, almost as though he can hear what’s running through my head. My neck starts to heat and prickle, and I know the red flush will be visible, but I find I don’t care. All I can think about is how aesthetically beautiful his mouth is—the dip above his cupid’s bow and a full, ripe bottom lip. I wonder how soft they’d be to kiss. Would he be a little less . . . moist—read slobbery—than Jon?

  Oh, stop it. The man’s not going to kiss you just because you’ve been dumped. Settle down; you’re bouncing around like a speed fiend on a pogo stick.

  There’s a perfectly rational reason for my reaction to him. I’ve just been jilted. Dumped. Spurned! Plus, I haven’t had sex in months.

  Also, my table companion smells so divine—sort of woodsy with underlying notes of something citrus, perhaps.

  He smells way better than he ought to, anyway. It’s like I’ve been on the cabbage soup diet for a couple of years and have just been sat next to a cream cake.

  And what I wouldn’t give for a bite right now.

  My heart is beating a little too fa
st but it’s only because I’m hungry and I’ve just dashed from one side of London to the other to get here. Not to mention, it’s hot in this room. My current physical state is a reaction to my emotional one and has absolutely nothing to do with the hunk of a man sitting next to me . . . even if his cool grey gaze seems to be making a mockery of my words.

  This is about rejection. This is about hurt. And none of it matters if I think these thoughts. It doesn’t make them true because . . .

  Gay. Gay. He’s gay, Bea, gay!

  I must be reading those signals wrong, which makes me a fool twice in one day. Besides, Fin told me so ages ago. These gorgeous men are twins with sexual orientations at opposite poles.

  The fact I’m suddenly aware of my damp panties has more to do with how I currently feel rather than any interest he has in me. Even if he is still watching me with the confidence of a big cat.

  Which would make me game.

  God, yes, I’m game. Or I would be if he was straight.

  As Fin and I chat, he continues his scrutiny. Do I have a bit of booger hanging from my nose?

  With a surreptitious wipe, I find it can’t be that.

  Brusque. That’s how Fin had described Rory’s twin. A little demanding. Though I think she downplayed that last bit. Who insists on feeding someone like a small child?

  I curl my hand around my neck, and I prop my elbow on the table in front of me as though I’m terribly interested in what Fin has to say. It’s not that I’m uninterested, which, if you’re interested, is something about Savannah, her bitch of a boss.

  Savannah. Bitch of a boss. Concentrate on that and don’t turn your head. Don’t look at him.

  The him in question is just as gorgeous as Rory is. I was aware the pair were twins—identical even, or monozygotic, if you want to get technical. So I knew Kit would be just as good looking as my friend’s beau. But man, oh man, was I unprepared for him.

  Rory’s good looks + a taste in Saville Row suiting + a sort of intensity that makes my reproductive system both hot and sort of fluttery.

  It’s like God just decided I was having a really bad day, so he thought he’d send me something to raise a smile.

  And then went looking on my Rumblr account for inspiration.

  Apart from the fact he doesn’t have a lengthy dick, or even two, in his hand, he could have just stepped from the screen on my phone.

  So, no, I can’t look at him. Because he’s making me want to do bad things.

  Yes, I really am having a bad day because how else could I be projecting my fantasies onto a man who has no interest in what’s between my legs?

  Usually, I’m more than happy to hear of Fin’s daily running of Savannah’s gauntlet, the catering disasters, and the parties where celebs get drunk like the ordinary people but cause much juicer scenes. But right now, I can’t concentrate. But again, it can’t be anything to do with the man sitting next to me, all manliness and intense gaze.

  I press my fingers harder on my neck as blood whooshes through my ears.

  God, I can’t afford to get ill. Not this week. Not this decade.

  ‘What kind of medicine do you practise?’ Kit’s voice is all authority and an absolute complement to how he looks.

  It’s a waste. An absolute travesty. I bet he’d be a monster in bed.

  And just like that, I imagine him looming over me, my legs wrapped around his thighs, my back arched in ecstasy as he pounds the life out of me. My insides begin to pulse in time to my fantasy and . . . then I realise, I’d be the monster in his bed.

  Or a vagina nightmare.

  But I can adapt. I don’t have to be in this image. I can swap out an anonymous male in my place. Both tall, dark, and handsome, their bodies entwined, their skin glistening with sex-sweat as their hands wrap around the other’s hard—

  Yes, I also like my second favourite Rumlr page.

  ‘Are we keeping you from something?’ My body jerks upright at the sound of his voice. ‘Or maybe you’re just ignoring me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Any more ice in my tone and I’d be freezing my ass to this chair.

  ‘I asked you a question.’ He cocks an eyebrow, mildly amused. Mildly Scots, but all man.

  ‘Have I told you how disconcerting that is?’ Fin’s voice interrupts from across the table. ‘Just when I think you can’t possibly look more alike.’ Kit’s gaze morphs from amused to warm, sliding to hers for the briefest of moments as his brother begins to protest.

  ‘I asked what kind of medicine you practise.’ His response is a good deal warmer than I deserve, and just like that, I want to bait him. Make him hard on me again.

  A girl can wish.

  ‘I’m into plastic surgery.’

  His eyes stay focused on mine, which is odd because this is the point I usually find a man’s gaze falling to my chest. Most people consider plastic and cosmetic surgeries as one and the same. Not that I do it for the attention—when they’re out, the girls get plenty on their own.

  It stands to reason he’s not interested. He’s not likely to have a thing for boobs.

  ‘But tell him why,’ Fin says, breaking away from the light-hearted bickering, her drink sloshing over the rim of her glass as she leans across the table to swat my arm.

  ‘Because plastic surgeons make a lot of money?’

  ‘Not in the NHS,’ she scoffs, shaking her head. ‘You’d like people to think that’s the reason, wouldn’t you? It’s not,’ she adds, pointing a finger at me. ‘This one has hidden depths. Altruistic hidden depths.’

  ‘Really?’ Kit’s voice rumbles through my bones, but why does that one word sound like a response to a challenge? I don’t retort—can’t—but manage to shrug as though unaffected. ‘How so?’

  I shrug, uninterested in explaining the difference between cosmetic and plastic surgery.

  ‘And what does Bea stand for?’ His words are almost languid as he swirls the remaining bit of amber liquid in the bottom of his glass.

  ‘It stands for my name.’

  ‘Your parents named you after an insect?’ Sexy, cocky brow much?

  ‘Nope, but Bea is all you need to know.’

  ‘That’s absolutely not true.’

  How does he make a simple sentence sound so sensual? Like innuendo dipped in sexy and rolled in a little rumbling belly flip?

  Or maybe it’s just his way, and I’m a complete idiot.

  ‘Beatrice,’ Kit purrs, though it sounds more like Bea-a-triez, the final consonant rolled so luxuriously in his rumbly accent it feels like a breath across my neck.

  ‘Sorry?’ My fingers touch my collarbone. ‘Were you talking to me? Because—’

  ‘That’s not her name,’ choruses Fin in her rendition of The Ting Tings’s hit. ‘That’s not her name!’ She finishes by pointing both index fingers at Kit and sings, ‘You’ll never guess. You’ll never guess!’

  ‘And I’ll never tell,’ I add so coolly that no one sitting at this table would suspect my ridiculous attraction to him

  Kit’s gaze narrows infinitesimally, his tailored grey jacket stretching tight across his broad chest as he moves. Not that I noticed. Much. Or even at all, really.

  Okay, maybe just a little bit.

  ‘Belinda?’ Kit says, bringing a finger to his full bottom lip. Fin snorts.

  ‘Just Bea,’ I return serenely.

  ‘It’s got an interesting life, the bee.’ At the random interjection, three pairs of eyes swing to Rory. ‘What?’ he asks, looking up from the glass in his hand. ‘I read it somewhere.’ Kit politely coughs. ‘I read sometimes,’ he adds, rather defensively. ‘Just not always the Financial Times.’

  ‘More likely you’ve been watching kids TV,’ rumbles his brother’s response.

  Rory doesn’t answer but begins to scratch his nose. It takes me a beat to realise he’s flipping him the bird furtively. ‘This little snippet did not come from kids TV.’ As Rory cocks a brow, I see firsthand what Fin meant. The pair is so similar. Spookily so. ‘The male be
e’s only function is to service the queen.’

  ‘Totally the way it should be,’ Fin says, holding out her hand for me to high five. ‘I should hope Mr Bee takes out the trash and does his fair share with the baby bees while his queen . . . queens.’

  ‘He’s not around long enough, titch.’

  Fin’s brow furrows in confusion, but as she opens her mouth, Rory speaks again.

  ‘I’ll rephrase. It has an interesting sex life, the bee.’

  ‘How so?’ Fin asks, looking unconvinced.

  ‘Because his sole purpose is to service the queen. Sexually.’

  ‘That can’t be true. Bees collect pollen for honey production, silly!’ This time she elbows Rory’s arm rather than slap mine, but she doesn’t spill her drink. Mainly because her glass is now empty.

  ‘Titch, the queen bee has a harem.’ Rory’s gaze is lustrous, but it’s hard to tell whether from desire or humour. ‘Multiple partners all with one objective.’ Leaning in, he lowers his voice, the moment a touch too intimate for our small table. I look away, my own gaze drawn to Kit, and now more than ever, I know I imagine things as his dark lashed eyes slip to my lips.

  ‘A harem?’ Fin’s voice is slightly breathless, though neither Kit nor I look her way.

  ‘Multiple partners. Her consorts die satisfying her insatiable needs.’ In my periphery, Rory leans back in his chair. ‘They basically fuck themselves to death.’

  ‘Rory!’ chastises Fin.

  ‘But what a way to go, hey?’

  ‘Bernice?’

  ‘Give it up, Kit,’ scorns Fin. ‘That’d be Bernie,’ scorns Fin. ‘And she does not look like a Bernie, does she?’

  ‘Beatrix?’ My insides take a tumble as he rolls the r, drawing out the x over several sexy syllables.

  ‘Bellatrix!’ says a still amused Fin. ‘I could get with that!’

  ‘Why? Because I’m a bit of a witch?’

  ‘Because you’re a lil’ bit kickass.’ She holds her forefinger and thumb together, but I have no idea whether she’s signifying the amount of my witchy-ness or my kickass.

  ‘Do you know?’ Kit questions his brother, though his eyes don’t leave my face. I sense rather than see Rory’s replying shrug.