by Alam, Donna
‘I hate to break this to you, but if your previous friends have only popped in, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of man.’
My eyes flutter open. ‘What sort of man are you, I wonder?’ Judge me how you will. I know I’ll be judging myself later on.
‘With any luck, he’ll be like a snow storm,’ says a familiar voice.
As I turn my head, he straightens, and there stands Natasha sporting a smile the size of a half gateau.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to, or maybe what had got into you,’ she adds in an undertone. ‘But now I see. Natasha,’ she says, holding out her hand, which is an oddly formal kind of introduction given her teasing.
‘Rory,’ he says, sliding his hand against hers. ‘But, a snow storm . . . ?’
Nat’s brow furrows for a brief second before she shrugs. ‘Truth is, my friend here needs a good lay.’ I just about swallow my tongue and actually begin spluttering. ‘A good, solid eight inches or so. The kind of lay that’ll make it a bit difficult for her to get around the next day, if you get my drift? Ha! Drift!’
Out of our trio, one of us is laughing, and one of us is mildly amused, and one of us is trying to disappear into the collar of her blouse. Even more so as our trio turns into a quartet.
Ivy .
She harrumphs loudly, folding her arms. ‘Knew it,’ she says, swaying lightly. ‘You’ll never learn.’
‘Aye, something you’d know all about,’ snorts Nat. ‘You shouldn’t have had that last glass. Wine after liquor makes you sicker.’
‘Whacho talkin’ about?’
‘You’ll see. And I’ll be laughing, but for now, we’ll away home, yeah?’ Nat addresses Ivy like she’s an elderly charge in a care home.
‘I know you,’ Ivy spits, pulling her elbow from Natasha’s grip to poke a finger in Rory’s bicep. ‘You’re all the same, with your empty promises an—and your thick lips and soft hair.’
‘Ah, man. I wished I’d recorded that,’ sniggers Nat, clutching Ivy by the waist.
‘Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em clean,’ slurs Ivy. ‘That’s what you lot believe in, isn’t it?’
‘My lot?’ Rory asks, his luscious lips quivering against the strain of a smile.
‘It’s keen , eejit,’ interjects Nat. ‘Treat them mean, keep them keen.’
‘Oh.’ Ivy’s expression is almost comical, her drunk synapses no doubt working at a snail’s pace. ‘I always wondered. Makes mush more sense,’ she says with an exaggerated nod.
‘Let’s get you home before you dish out any more nonsense.’
‘Home.’ This comes out as a sob. ‘I do want to go home!’
‘Aye, we’ll sort that for you,’ Nat placates, turning Ivy bodily, but before the pair have moved, she seems to remember something. She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, one arm still tight around Ivy’s waist.
‘Are you going be all right with her?’ I ask, beginning to slide my butt from the stool, almost face-planting into Rory’s warm, broad chest. Not that I’m complaining.
‘Stay where you are,’ protests Nat, pointing her phone at Rory. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she says as the flash stuns us both.
‘Why?’ asks a bemused Rory, still holding my arm.
As we answer simultaneously and it’s clear mediocre minds do not think alike:
‘You might be a mass murderer.’
‘Wank bank,’ says Nat, her gaze moving between our stunned expressions. ‘What? You’re not going home alone.’
Eleven
Fin
We’re both silent for a moment as we watch Ivy and Natasha leave.
‘I’d like to say they’re not always that . . . abstract,’ I say, cringing as Nat reaches the door, turning to give me a lurid sort of double thumbs up.
Nice, Nat. Subtle. Very discrete.
‘And all that snow talk doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you.’
‘Okay.’ I think that was supposed to be an unconcerned tone, though I think it’s maybe more unconvinced. Whatever, his response makes me feel a little flat. ‘So, do I get a name?’
‘Don’t you have one of your own?’
‘A funny girl.’ His gaze briefly caresses my breasts, so subtle that had I not been paying absolute attention, I might not be convinced. ‘If we’re going to be friends, I’ll need to know what to call you.’
‘So we’re friends now?’
‘We can be whatever you want to be.’ How can he look both playful and serious as he says that? ‘It’s up to you.’
‘What if I want to remain anonymous?’ What I actually want right now is to be his hand as it rasps against the bristles on his jawline.
He seems to consider my request for a moment. ‘I gave you my name. I think it’s only fair you give me yours.’
‘A fair exchange?’ I repeat. ‘I’m not sure that’s reason enough.’
‘It’s the one we should leave it at,’ he says, hiding his smile behind his glass now.
‘Intriguing.’ I half laugh in response to his teasing tone. ‘You can’t stop there, leaving me guessing. You have to explain.’
‘Well, I can tell you.’ His gaze slips to my mouth, lingering there for a beat. It’s the kind of look that makes my heart trip and my skin tingle. ‘But,’ he continues sort of huskily, ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it.’
‘Hmm. I’ll take that risk. I’m all about risks tonight.’
He grins and I match it, even as I recognise my words could be taken in so many ways. Loosening his fingers from the rim of his glass, he leans forward, grasping the back of my stool. His mouth is suddenly so close to my ear that if I turned my head just a fraction, his lips would be against my skin. Pity I don’t have the nerve.
I hear the hitch in his breath before he answers.
‘I’d like to know your name so I know who’s responsible for making me come tonight.’
All the feels. All between my legs.
‘Did you miss the part where I said I’m not having sex with you?’ My tone sounds so sexual and so unlike me.
‘I did not,’ he says, no longer in kissing distance. ‘But you can’t stop me thinking of your gorgeous mouth when I take my cock in my hand.’
‘Wow.’ I suddenly find my hand at my neck clutching a set of invisible pearls. How could anyone resist imagining that visual? ‘That—that’s quite a mouth you have there.’
‘I may have heard that once or twice.’ His smile is part sexy, part sultry smirk.
Oh my God, he was smooth before, but he’s obviously had lots of practice since.
‘I—it’s Rose. My name.’ Well, it’s one of my names. Okay, half of one. But I refuse to feel guilty at this deception. Besides, I’m not really sure who I am anymore, so tonight I choose to be Rose.
‘American Rose with the English rose skin.’ As he says this, he reaches out, his finger skimming my cheek. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met?’
I shrug evasively, resisting the resultant shiver. ‘It’s Scottish Rose,’ I whisper a little hoarsely. ‘From my mom.’ Though I’ve always thought that if I were a flower, I’d probably be Scotland’s national spikey bloom, the thistle.
‘So you’ve a little Scots in you?’
I nod and make to loop my hair behind my ear, remembering belatedly how short it now is.
‘Would you like a good few inches more?’
I laugh a little, against my better instincts. ‘Like I’ve never heard that line before.’ I have, but it never sounded so tempting.
‘Damn,’ he replies, smothering a chuckle. ‘So, half-Scottish Rose, can I get you a drink?’
‘You could, but I think I’ve changed my mind.’
Holy mother of fuck, why would I say that?
Rory’s eyebrows retract, his expression quickly schooling. ‘Whatever, darlin,’ he says in a cool tone. ‘That’s your call to make.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ I reply, nodding furiously like I’m attempting to convince myself.
God, but I want hi
m—want to discover what he’s drinking by tasting it from his tongue. And I so want to believe this is the universe’s way of balancing my life’s deficits, dealing me this meeting as some kind of payback or gift. A sort of here, you’ve been having a rough time, have tonight on me. But that’s not the way my life works.
I slide my purse from the bar keeping my gaze lowered beneath my lashes, determined not to look up at him. More specifically, not to look at his mouth, because all I can think of is how it would feel this time. Would he kiss me softly? Is he still the kind of kisser that takes his time? Or would he be commanding? Demanding? Grip the back of my neck and take charge?
Curling my heel around the lowest rung of the stool, I move my butt to the edge of the seat.
‘Yes,’ I say quietly, tilting my head upwards just as he takes another drink from his glass. If it’s even possible, I think he’d deliver all of those kinds of kisses and more. ‘I—I think I should go.’ Smooth, Fin. As smooth as a Ken doll, and just as effective in the sexing department. How can I find his bland expression fuckable, too? ‘This was meant to be my birthday night out,’ I babble. ‘And I’m not expecting many gifts this year, but yes, I should definitely go . . . go home with you.’
To your bed.
Immediately.
Happy birthday to me.
Let’s get it on.
For old time’s sake you know nothing about.
I’m not sure which of us is more shocked at this sentence. It’s not so much succinct as it is straight to the point. And entirely slutty. As his bland expression becomes more smoulder, I begin to feel hot—and I pray for a change in weather, because I could so do with a snow storm right now.
My stomach dips as he lifts my hand from my lap, rubbing his fingers lightly over them. It takes me a moment to realise he’s rubbing his thumb over a particular slice of pale skin, a place that, up until this morning, was covered by my wedding band.
‘I—I used to be married.’ I take my hand back and stare down at where, up until a few hours ago, a row of diamonds sat. Observant. Principled? The marriage police? ‘Mostly, I still feel like I am, though I’m trying hard not to be.’ The only risk I’m taking now is looking like a fool.
‘Divorced?’ His gaze feels piercing as he stares up at me from under thick lashes. The best I answer I can manage is an evasive shrug. ‘Recently?’
‘Why is it important?’
‘Just curious,’ he responds.
Li-ar, li-ar, pants on fi-re. In my chest, my heart begins to beat to the rhythm of the chant in my head. I don’t want to get into this—explanations and judgements. I fear seeing sympathy as much as disgust in his eyes. In the place of those things is a fleeting frown.
‘It’s not really any of your business,’ I respond quietly.
‘That’s true.’
What if he already knows? Maybe I should leave? Maybe someone told him about my mom and he’s hoping to make me feel dirty for being a sure thing? I almost begin to slip from the stool when his hand grips my elbow.
‘And it’s not something that concerns me.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘Truthfully, I’m not sure. Maybe I just like to know where I stand. Maybe I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Probably not.’ His hand glides from my elbow, past my wrist, until it’s resting against my own in my lap. My eyes track the motion, my insides doing an unnecessary victory roll. I feel suddenly wired. His hand is so close to, well, there. I’m still staring when he speaks again.
‘Or maybe it’s just that divorced chicks are fun to bang.’
I laugh, unexpectedly, and probably against any kind of female code. If it’s true, it definitely makes him an ass, but then, didn’t I already know that? If I’m doing this, then all the more reason for it to be him. I know what I’m getting and that’s a one night fling.
‘Truthfully . . . I’m just starting to let my marriage go. So yeah,’ I add, tipping my chin. ‘Recently. Go ahead and dislike me for it if you want.’ Despite the undercurrent of hurt, the end of my little speech comes off as ballsy and hard.
When he laughs, large and warm, his appreciation feels like a sudden burst of warmth from the sun.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, bolstered, though trying to curtail my own smile. ‘I won’t cry, you know, afterwards or ask you to hold me.’
‘Shame. I’m kind of a snuggler myself.’ Despite the cutesy sentiment, his smile sort of hovers, like he’s daring me into more reckless words.
‘Because spooning leads to forking?’ I ask, faux sweet.
‘Spooning has a habit of leading to all sorts of things.’
His delivery is anything but flippant and I can feel the promise in those words. Feel it enough to make my panties damp. He doesn’t say anything else and I assume his inaction or pause is like he’s giving me a get-out. When I don’t make any overtures of that sort, his fingers curl under my palm.
‘Shall we?’
He tugs gently and I begin my slide from the chair definitively this time, but halt at a sudden risen thought.
‘Wait.’ I place my hand on his chest, half up and half down. ‘Do you have money?’ By his appearance, it’s hard to tell. He looks like he could spend a lot of cash on his clothes and hair, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. By the look on his face, I need to quantify that statement. ‘I’m not soliciting for gods’ sake. I just need to know if you’re wealthy. You know, rich?’
Cue a second weird expression before he answers with a taut-jawed, ‘Not particularly.’
‘Great,’ I say with a deep exhale and an even wider smile. ‘I have a rule.’ It’s a new one. I should write it down. Put it on a plaque above my bed. ‘I don’t sleep with rich men.’ They aren’t worth the heartache.
‘Wouldn’t make any difference if I was.’ His accent is a touch heavier, almost as though it’s laid on for effect. ‘You won’t be getting much sleep tonight.’
Twelve
Rory
If I said I went into the bar for only a couple drinks, I’d be lying, and that’s not really my style. Bloody Kit. I can’t believe he’d gone all big brother on me. The bastard banished me to the wilds of Scotland until he can sort my shit tip out. His words, not mine. Apparently, if I come within fifty miles of Beth, she’s going to file a sexual harassment suit. Surely she’s got that arseways—I’m the wronged party! So there I was, sitting in a bar by myself on a Saturday night, looking for a distraction, when a distraction came looking for me.
Slim, blonde, cute, and from what I can see, totally fuckable. I didn’t immediately turn, taking a mouthful of drink instead. Even with limited vision, I could see there was something familiar about her, and for a split second, I wondered if she was maybe the more do-able sister of some girl I’ve already done. But as I’d given her my full attention, I saw I was wrong.
The hair salon.
Appearances can be deceptive. Who knew beneath those long locks and staid clothes there was a woman who looked like this? From daytime sophisticate to an outfit that looks sexy and sort of French. Heels. Red painted blow-job lips. Short, dark blonde hair. Truth is, I’m usually a fan of girls with long hair. I like to wrap my hands in it as I drag her mouth to mine. Love the brush of it against the skin of my thighs during head. But it would be a crime to have any sort of distraction from a mouth like hers. And those freckles. The only thing missing from tonight’s outfit is the diamond band she wore across her left hand. Maybe I should’ve felt shame hitting on a married woman. The truth is, the situation sort of created itself. And while I doubt she’s gotten a divorce between now and last Tuesday, there’s also her sudden hair change. Isn’t there supposed to be some correlation between break-ups and drastic haircuts?
Fuck, I sound like an article in Cosmo . I’m not gonna complain that she’s here.
And it’s not like I was stalking her, but earlier I’d spotted her when I came into the bar sitting with her friends
. Then later, when I’d sought her out, she and her pals were surrounded by blokes—a table full of nerds—so I’d just moved back to the bar again.
But then she came to me . Which totally made her fair game. So, along with the generic greeting, I’d laid on just a hint of what Kit calls the KDS. The knicker dropping smirk . I’m not new to this play, but was on the back foot immediately, our interaction unlike anything I’d expect. She wasn’t after a few moments of mild flirtation before heading back to her friends. Most likely she was a fish out of water and daring herself. Kit would have a shit fit, tell me that I have some kind of compulsion for trouble, that I actively attract it, but I like to think of myself as more of a community service. For the pretty and troubled ones, at least.
Maybe I am just a glutton for punishment, because sure, I’d driven past her place of work once or twice this week. Despite resembling a drowned rat that day, the spark between us was obvious. Something else that’s obvious? She doesn’t want to admit we’ve already met, and I’m happy enough to play along.
This is definitely on. It’s not like I’ve never been propositioned in a bar before, though there was something cute about the way she’d hit on me. It’s not a massive large leap of faith to believe this is a one off. And we’re back to the ring situation again.
Not gonna think about it.
Not my responsibility.
Helping her down from the chair—she’s only a wee totey thing—I slip on my jacket and guide her through the throng. As I hold the door open for her, she looks a little flustered. My first instinct is that she’s having second thoughts. I could—should—offer to take her home, thinking fleetingly back to her ambiguous marital status. Maybe they’ve just had a fight and I’m making this worse.
I suppose it’s a shame I’m not really a gentleman. It’s not as though I can’t be gentle, because I can. I just happen to prefer a little rough.
‘My jacket,’ she mumbles, pulling her phone from one of those flat purses that surely can’t hold more than a lip gloss and a few quid. ‘False alarm,’ she says, staring down at the screen. ‘Natasha has taken it home.’ Then she mumbles something about cutting a bitch if she finds a mark on the suede.
