by Donna Alam
Twenty-one, blue haired, and restless, I was without my sidekick in a village I disdained. And as a consequence, I’d agreed to go to out for a drink with a friend. Melody had been Ivy and my sometime third wheel; not really a friend, more like someone who’d hung out with us when it suited her. Melody—or Malady as we called her on account of her many and varied ailments, mostly imagined—was also at a loose end that evening after her boyfriend cancelled on her. We were already three ciders in when she’d spotted the reason for her free evening at the other end of the room. Her boyfriend. And his date. Honestly? You’ve got to worry about the gene pool in such small places, because the guy looked floored to be caught. And then he was just actually floored as Malady stormed to the other end of the room, kneeing him in the crotch. They were asked to take their domestic elsewhere, and when I followed them outside, they appeared to be already making up. Faces glued together, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass.
Faced with the prospect of more packing back at home, I’d decided to return to the pub and order another drink. It was an act of independence and perfect practise for travelling, I’d reasoned. As it turned out, it was also a perfect opportunity for the bitches from school to resume their bullying campaign.
I can be snarky. Bitchy. But confrontational? No way.
‘Finola, did y’ken all that studying has turned your hair blue?’ The girl’s hair was heavy with the scent of hairspray and cheap perfume, proving that some things never change. And though I could place her face to my senior English Lit class, I couldn’t recall her name.
‘I heard you’d gone to uni.’ This from Tweedle-Dumber, sounding more like a jibe than a genuine enquiry, not that I recognised her. Not from any of my classes, therefore one of the stupid masses. ‘Should’ve saved the money and had yer tits done. Isn’t that how your ma bought that house? On her back?’
I’m not sure how I’d allowed this to happen. Maybe their provocation had whipped the wind out of my sails, because I couldn’t find a comeback. I’d been gone three years, had gained an education, and what later turned out to be a first class degree. I’d cultivated a life of my own and crawled out from under my mother’s reputation. I was a new person; my hair was blue, for goodness sake! But in that grotty pub, my bohemian exterior didn’t protect me. It just made me fair game.
‘Nah, tits will’nae make any difference. I reckon she’s a lezza, anyway.’
And then, something extraordinary happened—as extraordinary as aliens landing in the village, or the Queen popping in for a pint of ale—masculine hands landed on my shoulders, turning me bodily. I felt his mouth before I saw it, as I was pulled to him and kissed thoroughly. I don’t know where he’d come from, or exactly what he’d heard, all I’d known was he was there, turning my face to his, his lips meeting mine as his large hands threaded into my hair. His body was as hard as his lips were soft, and though I’d been kissed before, I’d never been kissed quite so thoroughly. Never so I’d stood on the tips of my toes as his lips had pulled away.
‘Hey, baby blue.’ Though clearly Scottish, his accent was nothing like those around me. He’d brushed his nose against mine, his eyes sparkling with a combination of mischief and mirth. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, sliding his hands down the sides of my face to thread blue locks behind my ears. ‘Do you want to introduce me to your friends?’
His voice was like sandpaper, his gaze sliding to those gobsmacked bitches then back to me again. Sparks of residual pleasure coursed through my arms and legs. I was stunned—literally—and hadn’t realised I’d spoken until I heard my own throaty response in the air.
‘Not particularly.’
And, oh Lord, his husky chuckle brushed down my spine like trailing fingertips.
If you want to know a man, look at him when he laughs.
I’d read Dostoyevsky in Russian Lit the year before, and boy, was I looking right now. And feeling. There were lots of feelings, especially as he wrapped his hand around my hip.
‘Then let’s get out of here.’
Chapter Four
Rory
‘What do you mean they’ve walked out?’
‘Downed tools. Pissed off site. All of them. Which part of this are you having trouble with?’ Kit’s huff is audible down the line. ‘I hope you’re happy.’
‘Me? It’s not my fault she’s become a fucking nightmare to deal with since she took over the company.’ I look around the room that’s supposed to be well on its way to resembling a high-end cocktail bar. It looks more like a demolition site. ‘The way she runs the business, I’m surprised her da hasn’t risen from the dead.’
‘Me, too. To kick your arse.’
‘Nah, he was a sensible man. He’d be angrier about his business right now.’
‘You think?’
‘You’re not looking at what I am.’ I touch the scratched surface of the rounded top of an antique newel post. It’s bastarding sacrilege. It looks like the thing has been rolled around the floor like a football. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d employed a bunch of cowboys.’
‘As punishment, maybe. Couldn’t you have dumped her some other time? Some time we weren’t on a bloody deadline?’
‘Am I a gigolo now?’
‘Surely you must’ve, I don’t know, had some clue that she’d go off her nut?’
‘Go off her nut? Kit, the woman is a nut.’
‘All the more reason to consider how she’d react. You weren’t expecting a kiss on the cheek and a hearty handshake when you decided to, oh, I don’t know, break her fucking heart!’
I pull the phone away from my ear—my brother’s angry words all but rattling my eardrum—but I don’t have an answer beyond the grimace he can’t see. How could I foresee she’d pull her construction company’s services? I wouldn’t have poked her with Kit’s dick, let alone my own, if I’d known what a psycho she was.
‘Firstly,’ I say, trying to keep my tone even, ‘dumped implies some level of prior commitment. There was none—we were clear about that at the start.’ Too busy for romance, she’d said. ‘As for breaking her heart, I’m not all that sure Beth has one.’ Not that I spared much time to investigate. She had all I was interested in stashed in a neat little package between her legs.
‘Come on, you’re not that green. You know there’s always a secret part of them that hopes they’ll land something beyond fuck-buddy terms.’
‘Are you speaking from experience, now?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Bunny boiling’s a breed, no’ a gender, you fuckin’ muppet.’ As usual, my accent gets stronger the more agitated I get.
‘The bottom line is, she’s pulled the plug on both sites.’
For a minute, I can see him in his office, one hand irately ploughing through his hair. My temper dies almost immediately; I’m the older brother—by quarter of an hour—yet, he’s the one always dragging me out of the shit. He has a lot on his shoulders without managing the fallout from my sex life. Again.
‘Both?’
‘Crews have set down tools and walked off site with no word of when they’ll return.’
‘Can she do that? Surely we’ve something in the contract—penalties? What about legal?’
‘Rory, you fucked the wrong girl. You want me to take that knowledge beyond the three of us? I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’
‘Meaning?’ A cold stone forms in the pit of my gut as he inhales slowly.
‘Call the girl. Talk to her.’
‘I’m not whoring myself out for this,’ I say, half laughing, even though the implication stings.
‘Come on, man. She doesn’t seem to care about the repercussions. Meanwhile we’re counting the costs by the day.’
‘That’s some fucking business mentality,’ I grumble. ‘It’s hardly like we were a couple. It was just a few weeks of fun.’
‘Do me a favour, when you call her to smooth things over, leave that little insight out?’
‘I’m not gonna call the psychopath,’
I reply, my tone rising to levels of incredulousness.
‘That’s what this tantrum is all about—she says you won’t speak to her.’
‘You don’t want me to talk to her, believe me. Our last conversation didn’t go over that well. I’m pretty sure people heard her insults in the next borough.’
‘You make me want to yell plenty.’
‘Aye, but I’m not banging you.’
‘I’m pleased to hear, because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ll bang anyone.’
‘Not true. I’m no’ so keen on the brush of stubble against my balls.’
‘And you know that how?’ comes his sardonic retort.
‘That’d be telling.’ I taunt, talking pure bull.
‘Stop messing about. The bottom line is you’re not banging Beth and therein lays our problem. Why couldn’t you have hung out a bit longer?’
‘Sure, I’ll just let her whip me down the aisle while she’s on.’
‘Just give the lassie a call—’
‘No way. I don’t care if she is the head of our construction partner, or the best interior designer in London.’ My gaze falls to the room in front of me. It’s a fucking tip. Beth had taken an interest in this property personally, especially when I touched on my history with the place, and truthfully, her plans were amazing. ‘She had designs on more than my body,’ I grumble. Designs that randomly found their way to bespoke jewellers, cooing at engagement rings, dropping hints the size of Kanye’s ego. ‘Anyway, I thought this place was working to schedule. It’s a veritable shit tip from where I’m stood.’
‘And I thought you were’nae gonna eat where you shit anymore?’
‘Ah, Kit.’
‘It’s your fault. If you had’nae shagged the lassie.’
‘Listen, don’t look now, but your accent’s showing.’
Kit swears colourfully down the line; you can take the boy out of Scotland . . . not that he’d appreciate the sentiment. He hates being pegged as anything but genteel Scots, his accent usually ironed pretty well flat after years of living in London. Both of us love Scotland, but in small doses, you understand.
‘Just get this mess sorted,’ comes his final irate demand.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘You know, your hearing is impeccable. You’re right, I said no. Not on your life.’ As he inhales, I plough on. ‘She’s a couple biscuits short of a full pack, and you don’t even want to know what fucked up things she’s done in the last month. You can’t make somebody love you, no matter how many naked selfies they send.’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ he says deadpan. ‘It’s pumping pure purple piss right now.’
‘Selfies aren’t the half of it. How about the tracking device she had on my phone?’
‘Now you’re talkin’ pure pish.’
‘What a coinky-dink,’ I pitch my voice higher, attempting to simper down the line. It’s a pretty fair impersonation of the woman herself the third time I’d bumped into her after drawing a line under things. ‘We’re so similar, Rory, can’t you see? Even our down times are in tune. Three times,’ I say, in my own tone now. ‘Three different pubs across the country, Kit. Not just London—at a sports store while I was buying new Nikes. Then, at the new fucking gym I’d joined to avoid bumping into her. I nearly fell off the treadmill that time.’
Kit tries not to laugh. And fails.
‘Yeah, real funny,’ I agree. ‘I almost thought so, too, when I found the tracking app on my phone.’ Kit’s laughter buzzes down the line still. ‘It was almost as funny as when I found that she’d not only installed, but also set up a profile for me on pounder. You know, the gay hook up app?’
‘I know what it is,’ he says, serious now.
‘I’m sure you do, but it gets worse, bromeo. She loaded a, let’s say, very intimate photo as my profile picture.’
‘No way,’ he says, sounding as scandalised as our Granny when she caught me flashing my arse out of my bedroom window. I was twelve. She’s still bringing it up to this day.
‘Aye. The D. You must see I can’t call her. The only way to satisfy the woman is to hand over a bouquet containing my balls, as well.’
‘All right.’ Kit concedes with a quiet sigh. ‘Leave it with me. You’re away to the Highlands aren’t you? How many properties have you to see?’
‘Two more, way up past Aberdeen.’
‘And where are you staying now?’
‘At the cottage.’
Kit is quiet for a beat, no doubt processing. ‘You’re staying at the house our no good father left us—’
‘I prefer sperm donor.’
‘—the one you said you’d never set foot in again.’
I sniff. ‘I happen to be standing in the house I said I’d never step foot in, actually. The one he left to charity. And to be fair, it was stay in the cottage or the local B & B.’ It’s not like I can sleep here; the place is a tip.
I can almost hear his shudder at the mention of his least favourite acronym. I’m not exactly a fan myself.
We talk about business then, each of us more than eager to step away from the past. Holidays for others is business for us; we come from a long line of hoteliers, right back to our great grandfather’s day, though Kit and I are currently working on something of our own. Exclusive boutique hotels; country homes turned into hotels with a difference with decors and facilities to rival anywhere. Getaways for an elite clientele.
By now I’ve made my way up the once grand staircase of our current project and into one of the rooms supposedly earmarked for an executive suite. A copper bath, covered in blue protective wrap, stands in the large bay window. There’s a hole cut into the floorboards, presumably where the tap will stand. Luxury getaways? Right now, I doubt we could get vagrants to stay in this place with much success.
‘We should’ve left that place well alone.’ Kit’s ominous words bring my feet to a sudden halt. This isn’t something we discuss ever, having tactically decided to leave the past where it belongs. ‘If he’d wanted us to own the place he’d have left it to us in his will. The auld bastard’s probably had it cursed.’
‘You might’ve mentioned your thoughts before the auction.’ Not that it matters. I might’ve said I didn’t care that our DNA donor didn’t love us enough to leave us the house I’m standing in. But as his oldest son, I was hurt. I wanted it, as my auld granny would say, by hook or by crook. That’s my granny of the good grand-parenting side, unlike the old twat who died, leaving this house to an aged greyhound’s charity. ‘Anyway,’ I force my tone to lighten above my thoughts. ‘The only bastards around are us.’
‘Like that’s ever bothered either of us. Just do me a favour and stay out of town for a while. Let me see what I can do about Beth.’
‘Sure,’ I say laughing, because he really has no idea. I can stay out of London for a while, but the woman is certifiable. He’ll get no sense out of her.
‘I’m not interested in your sloppy seconds,’ he says, mistaking my tone.
‘On account of her not havin’ a beard, I imagine. Either way, it’s your funeral.’
‘And it’ll be yours if I can’t get her to play nice.’
I hate leaving him to sort out my shit. ‘We’re not at school now.’ God knows he spent enough time dragging me out of trouble back then. And it was usually over girls.
‘It’s not just your problem though, is it? Not when it’s threatening our timeline.’
I let out a defeated breath. ‘I was upfront with her, man. She agreed—we weren’t even a thing.’
‘Don’t be daft. With women, there’s always a thing.’
Chapter Five
Fin
Saturday morning and I’m up and dressed to face the hair demanding hoard super early, though not quite prepared, thanks to the bottle of red I finished off after Ivy had turned in last night. Still feeling the effects of my cheese and wine party for one, minus the cheese, I’m returning from topping up my second cup of co
ffee with its pint of water chaser, when I pause by the bookshelf, picking up a black framed photograph. Ivy has a number of them displayed, mostly images of her family over the years, though strangely none of her travels. This photograph is of just the two of us; we must be about sixteen or seventeen at a barbeque, all badly applied make-up and questionable hair, with glasses of cider in hand. Underage drinking, but with parental consent.
It’s strange how tastes change, and I don’t just mean hair. It’s been years since cider was my tipple of choice. I’m definitely more a wine or an occasional cocktail girl these days. Probably because back when I was at college, it was the cheapest way to a buzz. In fact, I think the last time I ever ordered a pint of cider was the night I lost my virginity.
And in a blink, my mind wanders back there . . .
‘Leave your drink, baby blue. I can’t wait to get you alone.’
In the pub, the school bitches stared open-mouthed as he’d tugged on my hand. Surprised, or maybe kiss-drunk, my mind was purely vacant, staring up into the face of my knight in dark jeans and converse. I was having a hard time believing this hot yet random guy had glued his face to mine—had kissed the hell out of me, heating and melting me in places he had no business to be.
My hand hesitated from grabbing the pint I’d just paid for. ‘Y-yeah. Okay.’
‘Say goodbye to your friends, ‘cos we’ve got plans.’
Yeah, because that hadn’t sounded sexual. And a pulse hadn’t begun hammering between my legs. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have strung together a sentence at that point; I’d just waved weakly to those bitches’ dumbstruck and drooling faces as he’d led me out the door.
In the cool evening air, Rory had laughed. Leaning one shoulder against the pub wall, he’d folded his arms. Even with my limited experience, I could tell this was a kind of deliberate stance; one that made him look all kinds of hot. I tried not to glance at the way his t-shirt stretched over his shoulders and arms. Tried and failed.
‘I hope you didn’t mind, back there.’ He tipped his head towards the pub door.
