One Dirty Scot Page 10

  Yes, I’m going to have sex.

  I don’t know with who, or how it’ll come about, I just know I will. Hot and steamy sex, preferably with some random man I’ll never see again.

  Contrary to what Jon said, this won’t even us up. There should be no scorebook in love, and contrary to what the song states, love shouldn’t be a battlefield. I have no aspirations of taking his advice to use this break to sleep with someone else.

  So I can be content after the marriage that I’m not missing out.

  Not happening. No nuptials here to see. Move along, space cadet.

  So our future won’t be plagued with what-ifs.

  What if . . . he pulls his head out of his ass?

  Maybe he’ll realise he really is single right now?

  I will have sex—I’d even entertained the notion of reporting it back to him. Though I doubt he’d want a blow-by-blow account, especially if I spell out exactly what it means. I’d tell him I’m breaking the seal. That it may be the first time I’d fucked someone other than him, but that it was unlikely to be the last. I think this would make it perfectly clear I have no intentions of ever being with him again.

  What I wouldn’t tell Jon is that sleeping with a stranger might help me stop obsessing about Kit Tremaine. That I need help to banish every hot inch of him from my mind. Assistance to stop thinking about him screwing me . . . and another man. The images, taunting and just out of reach. The dreams I wake from with my hands between my legs.

  But maybe I won’t get lucky tonight. Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow after my colleagues have all cleared out. Maybe it’ll take longer to find a suitable candidate. Someone worthy of breaking Kit’s hot bisexual spell.

  Who’d have ever thought I’d be into bi guys? It’s just my luck that the one man I’m hot for is a step too close to home.

  I clear my throat, catching the bartender’s expression, and take the opportunity to get him to refill my empty glass. I slide it over to him as I cross my legs, struggling with my wrap dress and modesty, before deciding that showing a little leg might aid my cause.

  The bar is pretty full. It looks like happy hour pulled in a lot of office types who’ve yet to make it home. I don’t think I’ve ever sat alone at a bar before. At a table, yes. Lunch and a book while waiting for a friend. Dinner at a restaurant by myself, too. But never at a bar. On a high stool. People watching. Or man hunting. Errgh. Or as Rory might say, on the pull.

  The bartender sets my glass down, and I murmur my thanks with a polite smile. He’s been a little cute and flirty, but I’m not sitting here all night waiting for him to finish work. That’s assuming, in this scenario, he’d even be interested. No, I’d rather leave my mission until another night. I’d probably be drunk by the time the bar closes, and that won’t do at all. I want to be fully functioning when I take someone to my hotel bed. I feel like there should be some gravity to the evening, my plans almost ritualistic because, before tonight, there has only been Jon. Well, apart from some stellar fingering from—no, I’m not even going to think his name. It’ll just jinx things.

  I take a sip of my drink—I know it should probably be wine, you know, like I’m some delicate flower of a female, but I’m in a beer mood—and set it down. I become aware of the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to prickle and stand. I know someone’s watching me. Hopefully someone male and cute. I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll find someone as gorgeous—arrogant? Infuriating—as Kit, but I think I could manage doable. Do doable. The thought makes me giggle, though not so much that I’ll look like a psych patient on day release.

  I turn my head, you know, just looking. Not scoping out the place, but wondering . . . God, if you’re listening, make him good looking. And Scottish—I want those luxuriant, rolling r’s pressed into my sensitive bits.

  I can’t help it—blame the dreams I’ve been having.

  And there, sitting by the window with the roofs and chimneys of Victorian buildings barely visible just beyond, is a man. There are a lot of men here tonight—it is a bar, after all—but none looking at me so pointedly. Our eyes meet, and he smiles. Friendly. Nice. Amiable.

  Lacking in wolf.

  I return his smile with a slight cock of my head and turn back to the bar at the same moment he seems to rise.

  Oh, God. He’s coming over to talk to me. Am I so desperate I imagine his good looks—does he look like Shrek, really? What about me? I subtly smooth my hair, using the mirror behind the bar. Do I have beer breath?

  It’s too late to do anything about it as I watch the room’s reflection and the stranger making his way over to me.

  A little bit of a swagger. Sandy hair. Tall.

  It’s all very promising.

  ‘Ooooh! What have you got there?’ My drink disappears from the bar in front of me, moved by a hand with pointy fluorescent pink nails. ‘Bleurgh! That tastes vile. Get some lime or blackcurrant in it, girl.’

  ‘N-Natasha?’ My beer drinking thief sitting on the empty stool next to me is Fin’s friend. Not Ivy—the one who’s married to a movie star—but the other one. The one who manages Ivy’s hair salon. The Scottish madwoman. Not that she’s mad but how can I put this . . . She’s interesting. Eccentric. And off the wall.

  ‘Ocht, you remembered!’

  I’m hardly likely to forget.

  I glance in the mirror, finding my would-be shag taking some halting steps, unsure now of his plans. Not that I blame him. On any given day, Natasha is pretty full-on, but this evening? Bizarre doesn’t even cover it.

  Her platinum blonde hair is pulled into pigtails and wrapped in bright pink ribbon. And she’s wearing little more than a cropped top, which is itching to reveal some ample side and under boob, and a pair of striped leggings the colour of cotton candy. Topping off her ensemble is a sparkling silver tutu and a cape. A cape adorned with pink cartoon dicks and the words, Hens on the hunt.

  ‘Remember? You’re pretty hard to forget.’ I sort of laugh. Stunned, really.

  ‘Aye, I do stick out. Especially here.’ She sniffs, looking around the room’s interior—the subtle lighting, the dark wood and chrome. ‘It’s a bit stuffy, hen.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I find I’m genuinely happy to see her and also a little relieved that my possible admirer is back in his seat.

  God, I’m such a chicken shit.

  ‘Fin called. She said you were staying over tonight. Told me the name of the hotel. She knew I was in town on a hen do—you know, a bachelorette party? She said it might be nice if we caught up.’ She says this so breezily I wonder if Fin realises something’s up.

  ‘You mean she asked you to check on me?’

  Nat’s shoulders move along with her husky laugh. ‘She’s a worrit. Can’nae help herself!’

  ‘I think she prefers the term caring, but yes, a worrit sounds about right. But I’m still here. And fine, as you can see. I’m just going to finish my drink then go to my room and order a burger from room service. And maybe take a long soak in the tub.’

  These plans suddenly sound more appealing. There’s always tomorrow, I suppose. Saturday evening this place might be teeming with men wanting sex?

  ‘You got dressed like that for a bath?’ She eyes me sceptically.

  ‘Dressed like—’ My eyes flick down to my figure fitting dress, and the thigh it’s currently flashing, farther down to my red heels. ‘It’s just a dress.’

  ‘Some might say it’s only half of one.’

  ‘Okay, so it’s a little short. A little male attention is good for the ego.’

  ‘Agreed. But you’re sitting there like a bonny birdie just to go away to your bed?’ she asks, sounding unconvinced. ‘That can’t be right! Come away wi’ me for a drink and a dance!’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude on your party.’ Whatever—whoever—her party is, it doesn’t look like it’s my kind of thing.

  ‘Pssht! The lasses would love for you to come along. And a doctor might come in handy with this lot.
There’s bound to be some punches thrown by the end of tonight.’ She shrugs in resignation. ‘Punches. Hair pullin’. Some rollin’ around on the floor fightin’. There’s always a stramash about ruined hair extensions the next day. And it’s usually over a lad.’

  ‘They fight—your friends?’ I sound a little stunned. I think that’s what she said. Stramash is commotion or trouble, I seem to recall.

  ‘It’s not a good night for some of them unless there’s a fight.’

  ‘Then I think I might stay here if you don’t mind. I hear my bathtub calling.’

  ‘Ah, well, I offered.’

  ‘And I shall report to Fin, the worrier, that I politely declined. Do you want a drink before you go?’ I gesture for the barman anyway.

  ‘A quick drink would be fab. They’ll no’ miss me for a while yet.’ She places her order, turning on her stool to face me again. ‘Can’t say I blame you for not coming along tonight. I’m only dressed like this ‘cos the bride’s my cousin.’

  ‘What’s the theme?’

  She looks down at her outfit. ‘Fluorescent floozies? I can’t really tell. Family, eh? Can’t live wi’ them; can’t kill them wi’out going to jail.’ Her mouth turns up in one corner before she says, ‘But I’ll be glad of a wee catch-up with you.’

  ‘Lovely!’ And I mean it. The company is good, especially company that isn’t going to ask questions or make assumptions about my “relationship”.

  ‘What you got drinkin’ there, anyway?’ She gestures to my glass.

  ‘IPA.’

  ‘You can taste the pee in it, for sure.’

  ‘I like it,’ I reply, smiling. ‘It’s what I’m in the mood for.’

  ‘You look like you’re in the mood for something a wee bit more horizontal.’ Her eyes travel over me in a way that makes it hard to miss what she’s saying. Even without the resounding bawdy laugh.

  ‘I have a boyfriend,’ I say quietly, not wanting to get drawn into this.

  ‘There’s not harm in making them look, though. Like you say. Good for the ego.’

  I don’t answer but bring my drink to my mouth again.

  ‘You don’t look like a beer drinker.’

  ‘What does a beer drinker look like?’ I reply, amused.

  ‘Like him.’ She nods to a large man sitting farther down the long bar. Hunched over his phone, he’s holding a pint glass in his other hand, causing the buttons of his white business shirt to strain across his paunch.

  ‘But look, the man just at the end of the bar is drinking the same brand as I am, and he’s pretty fit.’ A little metro for my tastes but ripped and definitely good looking. ‘Not all beer drinkers are created equal.’

  ‘Nice,’ she says, her gaze following mine to the hot guy. ‘D’you think your man there has a thing for sausage?’

  ‘It can’t just be beer that’s got him looking that way,’ I say, looking up back to the man in the white shirt again.

  ‘No, the pretty boy, y’ken!’ Then she frowns. ‘Yep, he’s a member of the sausage lovin’ tribe. Along with his boyfriend,’ she adds with a cynical twist of her mouth. Sure enough, the hot guy has his arm slung around another metro-man in a way that might not be entirely platonic. ‘He’s a proper BILF.’

  ‘And that’s a what?’ I shake my head as though shaking off flies. Rory and Kit are never hard to decipher; not like this.

  ‘What’s a what?’ Nat looks behind her.

  ‘No, a BILF. What’s a BILF?’

  ‘A beard I’d like to fondle. I love a man wi’ a beard,’ she adds hungrily. ‘Why are the good ones always married or gay?’

  ‘You forgot bi.’ Hell, where did that come from?

  ‘I don’t mind bi. A bi is like a walk on the interesting side.’ Nat’s eyes gleam wickedly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Like I don’t already know, thanks to Rumlr.

  Bisexual men getting it on are yum. But I’m not about to admit that out loud.

  ‘When you’re with the right person, there are so many ways to go—do you go for a man or woman as your third? Who’s gonnae do who, and how.’ She makes a weighing motion with her hands. ‘You need ground rules and stuff,’ she adds as though discussing the weather. ‘I mean, it doesn’t have to be like any old three way where your boyfriend just expects you to get up close and personal wi’ another girl’s muff before he screws her himself.’

  Wow. So much information to process in that little vignette. I know I’ve led a pretty staid life in comparison, but wowser, it sounds like Nat’s a bit of a wild ride.

  ‘I’m going to have to be honest and say I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t know about any of it. I’ve never been with a bisexual . . . anyone, much less had my boyfriend suggest a threesome.’

  ‘No? When it’s done right, it’s like fucking a unicorn!’

  The barman sets her drink down in front of her. It has colourful layers—yellow, orange, and blue—and a little cocktail umbrella. The kind I haven’t seen in a decade.

  Taking a mouthful, Nat puts the glass down. ‘Now, that’s what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Nice, is it?’

  ‘It’s like sex,’ she says with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Better than sex?’ I ask cheekily.

  ‘Depends on the measure,’ she answers in an instant. I think she’s referring to the alcohol content until she adds, ‘Depends on the dick.’

  ‘Does size make a difference?’ How much do I need to drink to be comfortable taking part in surreal conversations? This must be what it’s like to try conversation after dropping acid, rather than just drinking beer.

  ‘It’s no good having a man wi’ a big dick if he hasn’t scoobie, you know?’ I shake my head because I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. ‘If he hasn’t a scoobie do?’ she says, slightly exasperated, adding, ‘if he hasn’t a clue!’

  ‘Oh. Got it. Thanks for the translation.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she says with a sigh. ‘But one thing’s for sure; it’s easier to get yourself off with a big dick than a little one, especially if you’re in the driver’s seat. You know, on top? Unless he’s a preemie,’ she says, pulling an inelegant face. ‘ ‘Cause then, my friend, your orgasm is doomed.’

  I feel my cheeks heat, wondering how impolite it would be to ask her to keep her voice down.

  ‘Why the questions, though? I thought you had a long-term boyfriend?’

  ‘I do.’ Not. I do not have a boyfriend and will eventually get around to telling people what a bastard he is. Hopefully, after I get laid this weekend. ‘I was having a discussion with a colleague on sexuality recently. Something you said triggered a recollection on a female perception of, erm, penis size.’

  She doesn’t look too convinced.

  ‘I can head up that panel.’ She snorts. ‘Ha—head up that panel! How about Female Orgasm by Phallic Size—Fact or Fallacy?’ She begins laughing bawdily while my responding smile is a touch blander.

  ‘If you ask me, sounds more like your colleague was tryin’ to find out how big your man’s dick is. I’d watch her if I were you. Some women like a man better if he’s got a girlfriend.’

  ‘You mean bisexual women?’

  ‘No, I mean whores.’

  Something buzzes on Nat’s person, and she pulls out a phone from inside her bra, flipping it open.

  ‘And so it begins,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Looks like they’ve started scrapping already. I’d best get back to bash some heids. Heads,’ she adds, translating again. Then, from the back of her phone cover, she pulls out a Scottish ten-pound note.

  ‘No, my treat,’ I say, covering her hand with mine.

  ‘No,’ she insists. ‘I like to pay my way.’

  And just like that, she leans in, smacking my cheek with her sticky pink lips, and then she’s gone. Without even finishing her colourful drink.

  Chapter Fifteen

  BEA

  I spend the next hour caught between the desire to pluck up the courage to hit on someone or scurry out of
the bar with my tail between my legs. As someone who spent her late teens and most of her twenties dating the same man, I’m a little out of my element when it comes to the dating scene. God, I sound like my mother. Call it what it is; a hunt for someone who’d sleep with me. Well, preferably not sleep, but have sex with me then leave immediately.

  A temporary fuck buddy.

  One whose looks don’t turn my stomach, preferably.

  Oh, and I want to be held, which might be too needy for a one-night stand, but I can hope.

  By the end of my next drink, I’m mentally kicking myself for turning down Kit in the café last week. The man is sexy and obviously knows what he’s doing if he can get both sexes to sleep with him. But something is dangerous about him. Not in the it-puts-the-lotion-on-or-I’ll-skin-you-alive way, but more a I’ll-fuck-you-so-hard-you’ll-forget-your-own-name type.

  And I want to hang onto my sanity.

  That’s not to say I haven’t thought about it. A lot. Screwing Kit, that is. In all its glorious technicolour detail. But like that old adage you don’t poop where you eat; you also don’t screw the brother of your friend’s fiancé. And you definitely don’t screw his identical twin. For one, our paths will cross plenty in the future. There’s a christening coming up that I’m sure he’ll be at and an eventual wedding. Sooner, rather than later, if Rory has any say over that.

  The strange thing is, though they’re identical, they’re so not alike beyond first glance. Kit has that delicious hint of darkness his brother lacks.

  On the bar next to my glass, my clutch purse suddenly begins to buzz. Or rather, my phone tucked inside does. The number is unfamiliar, and I wonder if Fin gave Natasha my number. Maybe the punches really did start, and she thinks I carry a suture kit in my purse.

  ‘Hello.’ My answer is perfunctory and assertive because I’m not sewing up any crying Scottish girls tonight.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ It takes less than a split second to realise who this is—who this sexual purr belongs to.

  ‘Pyjamas,’ I answer a beat later. ‘Fluffy ones with little booties and a hood. What about you, Mr Tremaine?’