One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Contemplating the Lord and all his infinity. What does it look like?’

  He folds one hand across his chest and his fist to his face, continuing his examination.

  ‘Well, you’re sitting in the dark with your hand between your legs. And you look knackered. You haven’t been playing wi’ the trouser snake?’

  ‘In a church?’ I answer witheringly.

  ‘Now that you mention it, how come you haven’t already burst into flames?’

  ‘Right now, I wouldn’t mind being the devil. I know some bloke who needs a good smote.’ Along with someone else who needs to do some explaining.

  ‘I told you not to buy the beast,’ Rory says, assuming my reference was to the truck. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’

  ‘I saw Bea just now.’ God, this hurts. ‘Was that her boyfriend she was with?’

  ‘Aye, I think so. He must’ve gotten here early this morning.’

  I blink and swallow then turn away my gaze. I can’t believe it—and I won’t.

  She can’t have changed her mind.

  It’s better the devil you know than the one who’s threatening to share you.

  I push the insane whisper away—she raised the possibility, not me—hoping this hasn’t been a case of a fantasy becoming too real.

  ‘Come on. I’ve no idea what’s gotten up you, but we’re missing out on the good champagne.’

  The sun has disappeared behind a bank of clouds as we cross a courtyard into the main house. Doors, steps, and worn hallways lead into what Rory calls the Great Room. Grabbing a glass of Cristal from a waiter, I neck it back in one throw.

  ‘This is a christening, not a club,’ Rory grumbles. ‘Steady on.’

  Without a quip or a retort, I follow him like an automaton, walking right by him as he stops and envelops Fin in his arms. I keep moving, on a mission to get to the group of friends. And the one friend I’m looking for is standing in the middle of the crowd with him.

  I don’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed that she shrugs her shoulder out from under his raised hand. The only thing I do know is the most inappropriate choice of behaviour is the one beating under the confines of my shirt.

  I want to rip off the fucker’s hands. Then his head.

  Actually, I’m not fussed which comes first.

  But come on, let’s not turn this christening into a wake.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  BEA

  ‘What’s wrong, deary?’ June’s voice pops up from her purple wheelchair. ‘You having boyfriend trouble?’

  How about boyfriend troubles, plural? How about ex-boyfriends trouble multiplied by two!

  ‘Aye, lads are like buses. They never arrive but in twos.’

  FML for saying that out loud. Thankfully, no one but June seems to be listening; all caught up in other conversations—discussions that sound like a who’s who.

  ‘How are you, June?’ I ask, crouching down to her level. She’s only recently begun using a wheelchair following a stroke. A big adjustment for anyone, but as I understand it, June was more active than most her age. Besides, I often think staring up people’s noses must get old. But more than this, being on this level provides me an excuse not to cause a scene because I swear to all that is holy, if Jon puts tries to hold my hand once more, I’m going to amputate the fucker and shove it up his ass.

  He’d arrived a little while ago, right as we were heading to the chapel. Dylan had baby Alisdair wrapped in one arm as the bastard strode towards our group, full of his usual confidence and urbane charm.

  Speechless didn’t even cover it—it took me a minute to find words.

  People. So many people. Many of them famous.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I’d demanded through gritted teeth as he’d leaned close enough to kiss me on the cheek. I’d turned my head, of course. He’s lucky we had an audience, or I might’ve given him one of Natasha’s Glasgow kisses. As in, nutted him.

  His smile had faltered before it was pushed back in place. ‘Why, I’ve had the invitation on my fridge for months!’ Then, hand outstretched, he turned to Dylan to tell him how big a fan of his he was.

  Liar. All the lies! Dissembler extraordinaire!

  He’d greeted everyone in turn—introducing himself as my bloody boyfriend! Only Fin looked confused. What was I to do? Cause a scene by yelling he wasn’t? I had to make a decision right there and then, and I’d decided I’d deal with him after the service when I could get him on his own. And beat him to death with the soggy end of his dismembered arm.

  Only, it hadn’t happened like that. Jon inserted himself in the middle of the crowd, like the coward he is, and I wasn’t going to drag him out.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Fin had whispered as we’d left the chapel following the service.

  My answer? ‘I think he has a death wish.’

  June’s warm, papery hand pats mine again, bringing me back to our conversation.

  ‘Speaking of boys, I see you brought your toy boy.’ I send her a cheeky wink, hoping it’s more convincing than my smile.

  ‘That’s Sam, my nurse,’ she says, patting my hand again. ‘He’s nice to look at, but I can’t think why he’d want a job wiping my bum.’

  ‘Because you’re the coolest older person this side of Keith Richards, June,’ Sam says with a kindly smile.

  ‘And you’re better looking,’ adds her granddaughter, Nat. ‘Where’s the food being served? I’m Hank Marvin.’ Rhyming slang. She means starving; why people can’t just stick to English is perplexing.

  ‘Is Hank Marvin here?’ asks a perked-up June. ‘I used to love his records. You know the ones, hen! He was in that group.’ She makes a motion with her hand as though she can grab the words in the air as they pass. ‘The . . . the dementors!’

  ‘That’s Harry Potter, June. Your man Hank was in The Shadows.’

  ‘Was he?’ she asks, turning her head to look both left and right. ‘What’s he doing hiding, then?’

  ‘Let’s take you for another spin around the gardens, hey?’ This from Sam again. Poor June. She looks a little perplexed.

  ‘Aye,’ she agrees. ‘That sounds lovely.’

  As Sam pushes her away, they pass Ivy, Dylan, and the star of the show, baby Alastair.

  ‘I seen his boaby,’ June tells her nurse, making a mildly obscene gesture with her arm as they pass. ‘It’s like a baby elephant’s trunk—holding an apple at the end!’

  As I straighten, Jon reaches for my hand. Again.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I hiss loud enough for him to hear, though quiet enough not to cause a scene.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he says. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me. You haven’t even told your parents yet. That has to count for something.’

  ‘Never get on the wrong side of parents,’ Ivy says breezily as she passes. ‘A mother always knows.’

  My mother doesn’t know because we haven’t had that conversation. Yet. In fact, we haven’t spoken for a couple of weeks. It’s an easy pattern to fall into when we live in different time zones. The news of Jon’s cheating needed more words committed to explanation than can be carried in a text.

  ‘If you’ll excuse us.’ My words are more demand. I match the tone with a swift gesture of me head that says, Move, now! Then, turning on my heel, I walk smack into Kit.

  ‘We really should stop meeting like this,’ he says, a sad half smile curled on his handsome face.

  ‘No, agreed. Where we really should meet is on the steps of the Den surrounded by secret paparatizzi.’

  His expression falters, and he looks confused. Or is good at feigning so.

  ‘Well, I was’nae gonna say anything,’ says Nat, folding her arms across her ample chest. ‘But I saw the headlines, too.’

  Bemused, Kit’s gaze slides to Natasha as I realise my hands are still on his pecs. I try to move them when he curls his fingers around them lightning quick.

  ‘What am I missing?’ he asks Natasha. ‘Apart from
the bawheid, that is.’

  ‘Just my mad granny pullin’ everyone’s leg, pretending she’s pure mental. She’s not, by the way. As for the fud’—she hooks her thumb in the direction of Jon—‘he’s just nut juice.’

  Ivy starts to laugh, and I see Fin and Rory making their way over to our small crowd.

  ‘My car broke down, and my phone wouldn’t work over on the island.’ His expression is as dark as his delivery. ‘Just tell me, did you change your mind while I’ve been gone? Is it him?’

  ‘What, him? God, no!’ I try to pull away once more as Nat begins to regale Fin with the highlights of yesterday’s headlines. A tabloid sting. A politician. Your future brother-in-law is kinky, type of thing.

  ‘You were there, weren’t you?’ My words are quiet as Kit tries to pull me off to the side.

  ‘I haven’t been to the club this week. Woman, what’s wrong with you? Yes, so I’m a member of a sex club,’ he addresses our nosy bunch. ‘And I don’t particularly care anymore who knows.’

  ‘Unicorn for the win!’ calls Natasha, fist-pumping the air.

  His dark eyes trained on me once again, Kit takes my breath away.

  ‘I’ve told you the truth from the beginning. I haven’t hidden who I am. And why the fuck would I go to the Den when I’m in love with you?’

  Cue a collective sharp intake of breath. Cue murmurs and whispers and Rory’s what-the-fuck exclamations. Cue Fin’s placating tones and Nat’s excitedly repeated assertions that Kit is the mythical sexual unicorn.

  But none of this is important to us.

  ‘Y-you love me? How can you know?’

  He inhales, looks worried, tightens his hands over mine, and if I’m not mistaken, breaks out in a cold sweat.

  ‘It’s like . . . like ice cream. Or . . . anal. You try it once, and you just know.’

  ‘What did I tell you!’ calls Nat, though I don’t turn around.

  ‘After all you’ve put me through, Bea?’ Jon’s words sound plaintive. ‘Bringing me here, making me think I had a chance?’

  ‘Jon.’ I sound surprised. ‘I’d forgotten you were here. And I didn’t want you here. I’d be happy never to set eyes on you again.’

  ‘You know what?’ His face contorts, embarrassed now. Good. I hope he feels completely emasculated. ‘I might have strayed,’ he continues, ‘but you? Fucking the likes of him makes you a whore.’

  ‘I’d rather be a known as a whore than your girlfriend.’

  With a growl, Kit pulls away, but not before Natasha gets between the pair at the same moment the private security guards appear.

  ‘Nut juice. Pure nut juice,’ she says as Jon’s escorted through the hall.

  ‘You’re so abstract,’ says Ivy. ‘What’s nut juice got to do with anything?’

  Not that Kit or I pay attention, each of us trying to convey answers without words.

  ‘It’s one thing that looks like another,’ Nat begins. ‘Take that scrotey wank-piece that’s just been dragged out. He looks like almond milk. You know, wholesome and good and stuff?’ Eyes turn bemusedly to Nat who stares back as though we’re all idiots for missing her obscure point. ‘It’s nut juice!’ she adds, exasperated. ‘You can’nae milk a nut! If almond milk was called what it really is, no one would buy the stuff! Looks like one thing, is actually something else!’

  Our friends chuckle but not Kit. His expression is dark, his body seeming to continue to vibrate with violence and anger. He’s conflicted, I can tell. Torn between keeping me close—his hands now wrapped around my waist—and following Jon and the security guards.

  ‘He’s not worth it,’ I murmur as he lowers his lashes, seeking to conceal his confliction.

  ‘It’d make me feel better,’ he growls. ‘I couldn’t stand to see you next to him.’

  ‘Aye, but it wouldn’t do for you to be in the newspapers twice in one week.’ Rory sounds amused, but Kit doesn’t bite or even recognise his brother’s words, his stormy grey gaze unmoving from my face.

  ‘You—you weren’t in the club, were you?’ My words are hesitant, but I need to be sure. ‘Not after telling me you wanted to keep me.’

  ‘No.’ One word. Growled. ‘I haven’t even seen the stupid paper, but it whatever the photograph shows, I wasn’t at the Den that day.’

  ‘The article said the photographs were taken over a twenty-four-hour period.’ God, I want to believe him, but I don’t want to be that girl again. The stupid one.

  ‘I wasn’t there,’ he answers, his words fervent. ‘Ask any one of Dylan’s famous mates, and they’ll tell you the same—the press fucking twist things. I’ll take you to the club—I’ll prove it to you. But I need to know about him?’ He jerks his chin in the direction Jon was marched away.

  ‘He just . . . turned up. Delusional. Arrogant. Stupid? Take your pick.’

  ‘So hang on a minute,’ Rory challenges. As though preparing to fight, Kit’s chest tenses against my own. ‘Let me get this straight. You’re in love with Elizabeth?’ What began as a reaction of confusion, or maybe cynicism, ends with genuine, dare I say not unhappy, surprise.

  At Rory’s knowledge of my name, Kit’s head shoots up, and I begin to giggle. ‘I told you you wouldn’t be very impressed.’

  ‘How the hell do you get Bea from Elizabeth?’ he asks, confused.

  ‘Well, you take a child with a lisp who can’t pronounce things properly, and let her refer to herself as B-lizabef until she’s five.’

  Our friends start to chatter, giggle, and exclaim, all drifting away until only the two of us are left.

  ‘So you love me?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Like a cold you can’t get rid of?’ He snorts, his long fingers drifting up to hold my face.

  ‘I don’t need a cure. All I need from now on is regular doses of my honey.’

  Epilogue

  Twelve Months Later

  BEA

  Summer in London can be hard to cope with. That is, an actual summer. Not the usual fare of wet and cool weather, but those days when the sun shines and all seems right in the world. All seems right unless you’re in the city. Something about a hot summer’s day in the city makes a person understand what it might be like to be suffocated. But for me? I’m not doing so badly. The hospital is mostly cool, and Kit has air conditioning in his home. I think it might be the only domestic building in England to have air con, but hey! That’s my boyfriend.

  He’s actually more than my boyfriend because we live together these days. Once Rory had his nightmare of a kitchen refitted, Fin moved in. This left me looking for a roommate, a situation I wasn’t so keen on. But then Kit suggested I move in with him. Did I hesitate? Not a chance. Because he loves me . . . and I love him.

  To distraction.

  We have a good life. Lots of lazy weekend brunches and dinners with Rory and Fin. Rory reacted . . . surprisingly well to the fact that his brother wasn’t actually gay. I suppose it all comes back to the don’t ask/don’t tell dynamic the pair have. It goes without saying that no mention of Kit’s bisexual nature has been made since then. Fin, on the other land, likes to discuss it in detail. She likes to discuss it a lot. And I think Rory benefits from those days.

  We get to see Ivy, Dylan and baby Al in Scotland often. Natasha usually visits then, too. Once, she even brought June and Sam.

  On the days in between, we work hard, and we play harder. Play being the operative word, now that I’m a member of the Lion’s Den.

  We’re not that couple—the ones who hang out there every weekend. Hanging out being the operative words. The Den isn’t a massive part in our lives; more like it’s the cherry on the top of the cake we’ve baked for ourselves.

  We don’t need it but like the variety it offers us, and I’m often the one who suggests an evening there. A bit like I have tonight. Another masquerade party. Mine is an outrageously silver feathered number that Kit says belongs on a topless dancer at the carnival in Brazil, while his is much smaller, black, and with
a hint of Zorro.

  I do love a little mystery. And a little pomp and circumstance . . .

  ‘You’re like some wicked little mare, Isobel. You must learn to be obedient. Learn to be ridden and how to receive the crop, or how else how will I sell you at the fair?’

  ‘You enjoying the show, honey bee?’ Kit’s words rumble in my ear as his hands begin stroking my thighs under my flirty bandeau dress. It’s not as though anyone can see. Not yet, anyway. And I don’t need to ask him the same question. His hard cock pressing into my ass tells me all I need to know

  I sigh my answer as his fingers tease my inner thighs as the girl, “Isobel”, begins to mewl her distress as her “owner” begins to strip her from the voluminous confines of her white nightdress. There’s something virginal about the garment, gossamer and virginal, and I find myself getting wet. It seems regency raunchiness might be my thing.

  ‘Can we go to our room?’ I turn my head, whispering my question into Kit’s hot neck. He smells delicious, as always, a mixture of man and spice and the whisky he’s sipping. God, I so want to be that drink as I watch him swallow it down.

  Our relationship is good. Very good. And we’re happy. But there are times like this when I’d be content only to be devoured by him—consumed in my entirety.

  These moments of obsession when I long to crawl under his skin.

  ‘It’s not time yet,’ he whispers, rubbing his stubbled jaw against the bared skin of my neck. He knows what the sensation does to me, reminding me of other things. I shiver as much from his knowledge as from the action itself. ‘That’s the point of anticipation, darlin’. It makes it so worth it in the end.’ And then, as though I don’t know what he’s doing, he slides his legs farther apart, forcing me to adjust the way I’m sitting.

  He does so like it when I straddle his leg. When I’m helpless and desperate.

  My heart begins to beat faster as I relax against his chest, his fingers transferring their caresses from the tops of my thighs to the soft insides.

  ‘Do you like her nightdress?’ Kit asks, edging his teeth against the shell of my ear. The sensations are so delicious they cause me to shiver.