Michael offered a few country dance steps and a hearty laugh, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size.
They threw a few more times until the muscles all along Julian’s shoulders burned from the effort. As they walked off the field, he waved good-bye to the kids, stretching as he did.
“We’re going to be late,” Michael said. Behind them, the sun was dipping to the horizon, splaying streaks of orange and pink in all directions.
Julian sat and pulled off his shoes, a pair of cleats that helped him grip the turf and keep his balance, before checking his watch. Michael was right. He still needed to stop at his apartment to grab a shower and change, and Michael did have to be fed, or he’d start snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. It would be rude to show up late, but maybe that would put Kate on her guard and save him from having to decide whether or not she was worth pursuing. His body screamed yes, but his reason said no.
“Well, we’ll just have to be late, then, won’t we? Besides, we don’t want to look too eager.”
“’Course not, bro, but a couple of girls like that? In a fancy bar? They’re gonna be covered in men like a shithouse in flies.”
Julian reached over and punched his friend’s arm. He might not be sure what he was going to do about that woman yet, but he definitely wasn’t leaving her to his friend’s crudity. “Nice, Michael. Classy.”
“Thanks, bro. It’s all part of my charm.”
“Oh, shit. Are those dueling pianos?” Michael stopped on the sidewalk outside Vixen’s Gin and Juke Joint, a downtown two-story building with a sleek black exterior broken only by the flashing neon sign of a martini glass.
Julian cocked his head. He could hear the thunderous pounding of a chord, followed by a lighter, musical tinkling. “I’m going to go with yes.”
“We’re really going in there?” Michael stilled him with one hand and surveyed the building doubtfully.
Julian couldn’t blame him. They were used to bars that served beer by the pint, ones that had union stickers plastered all over the walls and urinals caked with years of other men’s piss. A man’s bar, where the only pianists were the ones that existed in stale, dirty jokes.
“Dude, I know those chicks were pretty hot, but I think we should call it a night and get up early for practice tomorrow.” Michael gave Julian a pointed look. “This is where men go when they’re too wrapped up in their girlfriend’s tampon strings to remember where their balls are.”
Julian refused to rise to the bait, even though his friend was right. An early bedtime and an extra practice would have been a better plan under any other circumstances. But as he’d been getting dressed, he’d realized that, more than anything, he had to go meet Kate and see. Harold, his stepfather, always said that when it came to the right woman, opportunity didn’t knock or ring the doorbell—it battle-rammed in with a good, old-fashioned chunk of wood. Julian had been fourteen at the time, and the double entendre hadn’t been lost on him. Everything at that age had somehow been related to his cock.
Harold, though dead these six years, hadn’t been wrong about anything in Julian’s life. Not the Games. Not women. None of it. Opportunity was tightening in his groin, and Scottish Games or not, he needed to see this thing through. He was willing to discover what Kate might offer him, if that shy smile and heavy breathing meant what he thought they did. Hopefully, she’d understand that for the next month, the Games came first. No matter what.
And he’d be damned if he’d go into a piano bar alone. Julian offered a wide grin and slapped Michael on the back. “What? You? Fearing for your manhood? Whose balls are in question now?”
Julian strode inside without looking back. His friend would follow. Julian might be able to resist the bait, but Michael wouldn’t. Not on an issue as important as the size or placement of his testicles.
The bar itself was on the second floor, and the entryway contained only sleek marble pillars and a winding staircase leading upstairs. It was all very neat, simple and classy—a lot like Kate, actually. It was crowded, with a line heading almost all the way down the stairs, most of them women in short, glittery dresses and shoes that looked like they could be used as murder weapons.
He avoided the curious stares and got in line. Hopefully, it would move quickly. They were already pushing the limits of making a fashionably late entrance.
“Julian Wallace and Michael O’Leary? Hell must have gone and froze over.”
The bouncer at the top of the stairs waved at them, his arm a meaty appendage that Julian would recognize anywhere. It was Eric Peterson, another Scottish athlete. He was a burly six-and-a-half-foot bear of a man who sported a Mohawk and several faded tattoos along his neck, arms and legs. He didn’t do much in the professional circuit, mostly local Games a few times a year, but Julian had known him for years. They’d done their first weight toss together back when they were thirteen.
“You’re the last two I’d expect to see here. Come on up!”
Julian and Michael moved clumsily up the side of the stairs, muttering apologies along the way. He felt like a third-grader taking cuts in the lunch line, but no one said anything. Oversized friends had a way of compelling people to silence.
It was funny, though—as much as Peterson glinted with steel and menace on the outside, Julian knew for a fact the man wouldn’t hurt anyone. He had two little girls at home and had been known to don a tutu and crown for a tea party on more than one occasion.
“I didn’t know you were working in security,” Julian said, taking Peterson’s proffered hand and shaking it with considerable force. Michael went straight for a huge bear hug.
“Oh, you know. I gotta pay the bills somehow. Both Sammy and Pris are in ballet this year—you know how much that shit costs?”
“Er…a lot?”
“Let’s just say if this keeps up, they may not get to go to college. But what can you do? They cried.”
Michael and Julian nodded knowingly. Feminine tears were so much more powerful when they came from tiny eyes.
“So, I hear you’ve got the coordinator spot this year,” Peterson said, changing the subject. “Can I put in a request right now for a bigger closing ceilidh? Last year, they ran out of single malt before most of us even finished the ceremonies. That was one dull party.”
“I’m already on it.” Julian laughed. Although running the administrative side of the Games had never been a goal of his, he’d been elected to the position of local SHS president last year after the other candidate injured his back. It was mostly a nominal title, since the Spokane members were pretty laid back and didn’t adhere to the monthly meetings, but it did mean he was in charge of coordinating the Highland Games this year—a much bigger task than he’d anticipated, and one that was already cutting into his schedule. But hard work and obligation had never stopped him before.
“I’ve managed to convince the Rockland Bluff Whisky executives to come up for the events,” Julian added, not even trying to hide the pride in his voice. It had taken months of phone calls and negotiations, but he’d done it. “They should be bringing plenty of samples with them.”
Peterson nodded. “Good. Good. They coming up to look at anyone?”
“Hell, yes, they are,” Michael interjected. “They’re coming to see Jules.”
Peterson gave a low whistle.
For most people, the SHS was a hobby, a passion. Making a living from it was almost impossible, since the Games ran only a few weekends out of the summer, and the prize money wasn’t always enough to even cover travel expenses. During the season, Julian spent most of his time on the road, driving between different cities hosting SHS Games, mailing whatever money he managed to win home to his mom. To make up for it, he had to spend the winter somewhere in the southwestern states, where construction jobs were easy to come by and the pay was high.
Julian always tried to come home to Spokane for a few extra weeks during the Games to spend time with his mother and sisters and to refocus his energies on
what mattered.
This year, he’d taken a whole month off. He needed it. In addition to doing all the planning for the local Games, he was on the cusp of getting a life-changing sponsorship. A few smaller whisky companies and local businesses offered product placement commissions for the top athletes, but Rockland Bluff Whisky was recognized around the world as the leader of single malt Scotch.
Nike and golf. Home Depot and Nascar. Rockland Bluff Whisky and the Scottish Highland Games. It was a simple equation. Even one tiny logo on Julian’s Highland formal would set his mom and sisters up for years. No more construction jobs. No more long winters away from home. It was the culmination of everything he’d ever worked toward.
But Rockland Bluff didn’t offer their sponsorships lightly, and Julian knew for a fact that Kilroy had had his eye on it for years. When it came to media attention and putting on a good show, Kilroy had him beat. Julian was man enough to be able to admit that.
“Good luck,” Peterson said, shaking his head in awe. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“So, you guys want in?” Peterson thumbed over his shoulder to the dimly lit interior of the bar. From where they stood, they could see a dozen or so tables, men and women conversing over candlelit lanterns.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Julian gestured to the line. “But I hate to step in front of all these people who’ve been waiting longer than us.”
“Aw, Jules. Always the gentleman.” Michael laughed.
Peterson leaned in. “Between you and me, there’s plenty of room in there. I’m making ’em wait a little to up the ante. Adds prestige, you know, gives me a little street cred.” He lifted the velvet rope with a laugh and gave them a wink. “Have a good time, boys. Drink a cosmopolitan for me.”
It took a few moments to get acclimated to the sounds and lighting in the bar. Julian’s only experience with dueling pianos was an old cartoon featuring Daffy and Donald Duck, and it turned out the real thing was much more refined—and loud. The pianists sat opposite one another, two shining baby grands back-to-back, one glossy black, the other a pearly white that sparkled under the lights directed at the stage. Half the time, the players tried to pick up on the tune the other musician was playing. The rest of the time, they simply tried to out-speed and out-volume one another, so the result was a crashing and chasing cacophony of sounds.
The pianists sure looked like they were having fun, sweat dripping over their flying fingertips. Julian could appreciate the sentiment behind it. It was, after all, just another kind of competition.
Despite the background distractions, it was easy to spot Kate and her friend. They weren’t, as Michael had ominously foretold, surrounded by men. Instead, they were seated at a round table near the back, where the music wasn’t quite as deafening, both of them sipping delicately at something with a piece of fruit floating in it.
“You came!” Kate smiled up at him as they approached, and Julian had to remind himself to smile back. Flash teeth and relax. Laugh and flirt. The serious, competitive warrior he was on the field had a tendency to take over even when the situation didn’t call for it. And this situation, with a woman like that looking up at him with genuine pleasure in her hazel eyes, most definitely didn’t call for it. She was everything he didn’t know he found attractive in a woman, with a small and delicate build, a nose that turned up just a little at the tip and the kind of softness that normally put him on his guard. Cute but not obvious. Quiet but not shy. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say she brought out his territorial instincts, but there was a definite urge to protect and serve.
So he smiled, pleased to find it didn’t feel quite as forced as he expected it to. “Sorry we’re late. Michael wanted to do his hair.”
Michael, whose longish, wavy hair almost always looked like it had been lifted straight off the pillow, grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m a vain man.”
The women scooted their chairs to make room for them. Julian sat next to Kate—so close he could smell her slightly floral perfume. She was still wearing the tiny slip of a dress from before, but she’d allowed her brownish-blonde hair to fall down in soft waves almost to the middle of her back and changed to a pair of gold sandals with bands going halfway up her calf, winding and hugging her flesh in ways that seemed almost indecent.
He had a hard time looking away. If it was possible to slap sex on a pair of legs, she’d done it.
“Do you guys want something to drink?” Kate asked, dangling one of those perfect legs close to his own without even seeming to realize what she was doing.
Her friend, Jada, on the other hand, leaned over the table, angling to give both him and Michael a clear view down the top of her bright red dress.
“I’m going to bet you two are Scotch men. Neat?”
He let Michael argue the finer points of ice in a drink with her. Jada was the type of woman Michael lived for—flashy, obvious. Julian had dated those types of women before, usually when he was on the job down in Arizona or on the road for the Games. For all their superficial trappings, women like that made great companions for the short term. But right now, a one-night stand was the last thing on his mind. His body was definitely warming for something a bit softer. A bit more real.
He turned to Kate. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
She shrugged, and the thin strap of her dress fell along the gentle curve of her shoulder. He watched it, mesmerized.
“A few minutes. It’s not a big deal. There was a blues singer on before the pianos started.”
“Oh, it’s too bad we missed it.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry about this place. It’s probably not your thing, pianos, is it?”
Julian laughed. People always took one look at him and assumed the worst. “I’m a large man, Kate, but that doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian. A little jazz isn’t going to kill me.”
“You never know. Jada is her own force of nature, and I thought maybe you guys got caught up in it against your will. Lord knows she’s made me do one or two things I regretted later.”
Julian’s pulse picked up, and he leaned forward. That was a topic he could warm to. “’Like what?”
Kate shook her head firmly. “No way. I’m going to need a few more drinks before those secrets start spilling.”
“She’s being modest,” Jada interrupted, watching them both with a smile. “Kate here once drove an entire rugby team off the road. Their van tipped over into a ditch.”
“They deserved it!” Kate declared, her eyes dancing. “Don’t believe a word she says. They were trying to cut in line after the rest of us had been waiting for hours to get through a single lane of traffic. I just blocked them from doing it, and they drove themselves off the road. What’s the point of driving a nice big Cadillac if you can’t use it for good?”
“Did you stop to see if they were okay?” Julian asked, amused.
“They didn’t really tip over. It was more of a gentle lean. You should have heard all the cars in line, honking their approval. I felt like a superhero.”
“A vigilante in a Cadillac.” Julian laughed.
“Like the Green Hornet,” Kate agreed.
Julian settled back in his chair, taking in the scene with a deep breath. There was a gentle ferocity to Kate he hadn’t been expecting. He liked it. “So, you run cars off the road when you’re mad, you grew up in Seattle and you wear pretty shoes. What else should I know about you?”
She blushed and lifted one of her feet, examining the appendage as if seeing it for the first time. “You think my shoes are pretty?”
“Well, they’re not very functional, that’s for sure.” He fought the urge to rub his hand over her leg to double check how well that footwear was working out. “But nice. Definitely nice.”
She toyed with the stem of her glass, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you. But I’m not sure what else you want to know. Birthmarks? Employment history?”
“How about what it is you want Cornwall Park for?” Julian offered. He doubted he was going to get anything about birthmarks out of her. Yet.
She blushed and played with the edges of her cocktail napkin. “It’s this group I’m part of. A historical preservation society—kind of like your Scottish Games, I guess? We do a big annual event, and we need a place to hold it.”
“Historical? Like what?”
“Umm…Regency. Jane Austen type stuff—the nineteenth century. We wear pretty elaborate gowns, and we do lectures.” Her leg tapped a nervous beat, inching closer to his own.
Julian nodded. An academic he was not, but he knew enough of history and women to know what she was talking about. Waist-cinching underthings. Thigh-high stockings held in place with ribbons and silk.
A group of women doing Regency playacting—he could get on top of that idea.
“That sounds interesting,” he managed to say without giving away the sudden loss of blood in his brain, which was coursing hot and thick toward his groin. “But isn’t that all indoor stuff?”
“Well, we hold balls and tea parties, and those are all inside.” She chose her words carefully and watched after each one for his reaction. “But I’m hoping to recreate this big, elaborate outdoor garden thing. And Cornwall Park is the perfect place for it.”
“You’re doing this all by yourself?”
“Sort of. It’s for the whole group, but I’m in charge of this particular event. It’s a long story, but I’m basically being punished for some…er…misbehavior on Jada’s part. I’m excited to do it, though. You probably think it’s silly, but—”
Her leg brushed against his. He reached over and rested a hand on her knee, stilling her nervous movements. “Don’t do that. It’s not silly at all. Recreating history and honoring the past is important.” He grinned down at her. “I should know. I do it in a skirt.”
Love is a Battlefield: Games of Love, Book 1 Page 4
