Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

‘A herd of hipsters?’ Ivy screws up her button nose, deep in thought for a second. ‘Do you think that’s the collective noun? A hashtag of hipsters? A pose, maybe?’

  ‘A trend of hipsters?’ I add.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ivy returns. ‘Or maybe they’d be a smug!’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ yells Nat, holding out her hands in demand for our silence. ‘A knob of hipsters.’

  The be-bearded member of the knob-ite tribe steps barely falter. He definitely has more balls than bulk as he continues on to our table.

  ‘I think I’m gon’nae have to call the landscape people.’ His voice booms, almost as though the volume will make up for his lack of height, the contents of his pint glass spilling a little as he points a finger at us, collectively. ‘Because there’s a site of outstanding natural beauty right here! Ladies . . .’ he says, using his hand now as though painting a headline in the air. ‘You need to be put on the map!’

  It’s such a horrendous pick-up line, I snigger into my glass.

  My mother, bless her deluded heart, maintains that Scottish men have what she likes to call the patter. “Smooth tongued devils, they are.”

  Strange, but I don’t feel like whipping off my panties right now.

  ‘Is it ‘cos we’re all hills and valleys?’ asks a coquettish Nat. I think she might’ve heard this line before.

  ‘Oh, aye. And some,’ he answers, his eyes roaming over each of us before landing inevitably on Natasha’s chest.

  ‘Then consider me the custodian of this lovely landscape,’ she continues. ‘And the cover charge for looking is a round of drinks.’

  Hairy hipster looks like he’s about to choke on the pint he’s brought along for the ride, opting to laugh. Eventually. It’s a sort of shite, she’s done this before kind of noise. And I think he’d be right.

  ‘What’s your poison, ladies?’

  ‘A round of old fashioneds, please.’ Nat’s reply is sugar sweet. ‘What?’ she asks, looking both left and right at our matching stunned expressions. ‘That’ll knock the smooth right out of him. He’ll not get much change out of thirty quid. Make hay while the sun shines, my girlies!’

  A few minutes later Nat’s admirer is back, his pint now sitting on a tray. As he hands Nat her drink, she holds it like a game show model might.

  ‘See this drink?’ she asks sweetly. ‘It hasn’t got a nip of Rohypnol in, has it?’

  ‘Why, no!’ he exclaims.

  She responds by reaching up and running her hand down his bearded chin. ‘You can’nae be too careful these days, aye?’ She then sends him a cheeky wink

  Chairs are dragged nearer and our two groups eventually merge into one. Nat and Ivy are on form, dishing out one liners like professionals and it isn’t too long before Ivy the lightweight is on the way to inebriation critical mass.

  ‘Come on then, hipster Harry,’ she says, with more than a slight slur to her words. ‘Tell us the meaning of your tatts.’ The guy sitting next to her has a beard like one of the Hawkmen from Flash Gordon. And an expression just as dour.

  ‘My name’s Stephen,’ he replies.

  ‘With a p-h?’ asks Nat, trying not to snigger. Difficult when we both know what’s coming next.

  ‘Pheven! Pheven!’ comes Ivy’s giggling chant.

  Hawk-boy merely picks up his pint without even cracking a smile, though to be fair it would be hard to tell what’s going on underneath all that fuzz.

  I’m trying. I really am, but I feel like a cuckoo sat in a nest full of birds all chirping a tune I don’t know. Maybe the single persons mating call? I try to keep up, fit in, but it’s hard. The girls are on their way to drunk and while stone cold sober I’m not, I find my buzz just isn’t anaesthetizing enough. I’m also less than interested in getting to know any of these men.

  And I feel like my sense of fun has been switched off.

  Fucking Marcus.

  I run my tongue over my teeth while wondering if I just don’t speak the language anymore. Single and ready to mingle? More like sad and ready to skulk off home. I feel lost. This life, sitting in a pub with friends, chatting with inconsequence and the opposite sex. It feels alien and I’m beginning to think coming out tonight was a mistake. I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel powerful or full of womanly roars, which was sort of the point of venturing out. Instead, I just feel exposed.

  Just as I’m debating the merits of slipping out, I catch a glimpse of a certain chestnut head. It’s a kind of pleasurable kick in the pants, especially as the cause of our earlier tiff seems to be walking his sexy self our way. I’m conscious of that spark again, only this time the effects are less internal—my posture straightening like I’ve be lashed by a live electrical line.

  I’m not sure if I prefer him wet or dry.

  My eyes devour him. The man is a total jock, not that you can use that term here. It has much different connotations. You just can’t call a Scotsman a jock under any circumstance, though the title fits him well. He’s tall and broad and looks like he takes serious care of himself. As he draws closer with that sexy half smirk and those sultry eyes, I get a glimpse of colourful ink peeking from beneath his shirt sleeves. Those are definitely new. I’ve never been a fan of tattoos but find I can’t hang onto my ambivalence right now.

  I swallow thickly, unable to stop my stare-fest or tear my gaze from his confident stride, my body almost vibrating as I struggle to remain calm on the outside. This place has to be cursed. It’s like I’ve turned into my raging hormones teenage self. I can literally feel the spike of perspiration break out against my spine as I pretend to be interested in something over his right shoulder, not wanting to appear as though I’m expecting him to speak.

  Not that I need to, it turns out, as a beat later he passes by our table without a word.

  He was on his way to the bar, you idiot.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asks Natasha.

  ‘What do you mean?’ My answer is almost rote as I watch that fine ass walk away, nursing the sting of rejection.

  ‘Your Rain Man impersonation and the whole twisty face deal.’

  So, not as cool as I’d hoped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Maybe you’re having a stroke.’

  Maybe I need to stroke. Home, later. While thinking of him.

  I don’t even realise I’m still watching Rory, the rear view being almost as good, until I find I’m turning my head towards Ivy’s voice.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says softly, the mirth and lightness in her eyes gone. My brow furrows, my understanding delayed. ‘Leave well alone,’ she adds, unwinding her fingers from hawk-boy’s heavily tattooed arm.

  I glance at Rory and back again. ‘So, what? You’re allowed to get drunk and all flirty with the furry here, but I’m not even allowed to look?’

  ‘I’m no’ a furry.’

  ‘Shut it, Prince Vultan,’ Ivy grates out. ‘But you’re not just looking,’ she continues, sounding much more sober than two minutes ago. Leaning closer, she punctuates her next words with a finger to my arm. ‘I know you.’

  ‘So you’re a mind reader now?’ Anger rises in my throat like bile; this isn’t us. We never fight. Bicker, yes. Use angry voices? Never. ‘Aren’t you the one saying I need to move on? To start living again?’

  ‘You need to work on your impulse control first.’

  ‘What? Just what are you talking about?’

  ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ I hiss. ‘Nothing about how I feel.’

  ‘I know you can’t find happiness in someone else.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Even I can hear how those words drip with antagonism, just as I can hear those sitting round us shifting uncomfortably in their seats. My cheeks begin to burn with shame and embarrassment, but more than that, I’m just hurt. ‘But maybe I can find a little happiness with someone else in me!’

  ‘Tinkle time!’ interjects Nat loudly, attempting to yank us both up from our chairs by our hands
.

  Ten

  Fin

  ‘What is your problem?’ I glare at Ivy through the mirror, so angry that I’m sure I must have horns, or at least veins, protruding from my head.

  ‘What’s my problem? Well, funny you should ask that, Finola Rosalie .’ She slurs very slightly over the abomination of my middle name. ‘Because it’s you—you are my problem!’

  ‘Oh no, you didn’t,’ I say, scowling, because nobody full names me.

  ‘Cut that shit out right now, the both of yous.’ Natasha shakes her head, her whole body a machine of perpetual pissed off-ness. ‘Jesus wept , it’s like being out wi’ a couple of mad bitches. She’s a big girl,’ she says turning on Ivy, though pointing a finger in my direction. ‘She can make her own decisions, and if one of those decisions is to bang that bloke so hard her freckles fall off, then that’s her decision to make.’

  ‘Bang him? Who said I’m banging anyone?’ I interject.

  ‘She’s in a fragile state,’ Ivy says, paying me no mind whatsoever. ‘She’s not cut out for casual relationships an—and her husband just died!’ Flailing arms suddenly point to me as though we’re not the only three people in the restroom right now.

  ‘Aye, so you said, but did you no’ see her light up like a Christmas tree as that hot piece of man-meat walked by? Maybe a hot shag is just what she needs; someone to rattle her bones, make her feel something. Something’s got to be better than numb.’

  I’m surprised mute by Nat’s understanding.

  ‘You don’t know her like I do,’ Ivy returns. ‘She married the man she gave her V card to—let him walk all over her—and she comes from a broken home!’

  ‘It’s not broken,’ I say, though by this point it’s clear I’m not part of the discussion. Just the topic. I pull my lip gloss from my clutch and run it over my mouth as I stare at my reflection. The pair continuing to bicker, debating whether or not I know my own mind. If I wasn’t numb, I am now as I bare my teeth to the mirror. Satisfied, at least that the remains of my dinner aren’t stuck there, I use my fingers to fluff my new snazzy bangs. All pretty ordinary reactions as I try to block their words out.

  Numb? Probably.

  A pushover? Not anymore.

  Unstable? Who the hell knows.

  I know I need to make inroads to some level of functioning adult, but I just haven’t been in the right place. I need to move on, find a job, and get my life back on track. It’s like a line from an old Tom Cruise movie, I can’t remember which one, but it’s something about burying the dead because they make the place smell. While I’ll never be able to bury Marcus physically, I need to do so mentally before the reek of his presence ruins me.

  I push my boobs together and pull a duck face. From the attention Ivy and Nat pay me, I might as well be alone. I’m not bad looking, trout pout aside, and I’ve been told I’m cute a time or two. It’s probably the freckles, I think, scrunching my nose. What I lack in height, I make up in length of leg, which leaves my torso kinda short. I suppose I’m what you’d call compact. It’s not as bad as it sounds, though I didn’t exactly love being labelled M & M for most of my senior year. And it wasn’t because of my rapping or freestyling skills.

  ‘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 se
nse?’

  ‘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.