Seeing Colour

by Amber Faucher

  Evie glanced up at the man, surprised and thankful for his kind words. She brought a hand up and nudged the black plastic frame back up her nose.

  The older man leaned forward on the live edge bar top, palms wide with long fingers, the first two on each hand sporting gnarled and crooked joints, topped with several knobby gemstone rings. He gave her a generous smile, warm and knowing, that made his dimples deepen into long lines down the inside of his cheeks. His fashion sense was flamboyant, to say the least. Atop a mop of white hair sat a grey fedora, holding back a wavy swath of it from his forehead, revealing pitch-black eyes rimmed with strikingly dark lashes that were topped with dark caterpillar-thick brows. His mulberry satin bomber, thrown over a denim blue Captain America tee, suited his thin, wiry form. His weight shifted back as he reached under his counter to take out a glass. With his lips pursed, he began to methodically polish the clear glass with a length of emerald scarf that was draped about his neck, looking down his nose at her through clubmaster spectacles.

  Evie studied the glasses with interest. She had not come across a design quite like this. The clubmaster-styled frame was a metal and plastic combo, where the plastic tops framed the eye, channelling a 1950’s horn-rimmed vibe. The mint-lime colour to the plastic top of the frame was an unusually vibrant tone that suited the older bar tender’s extravagance.

  Her concentration broke when he set the glass down and began to prepare a fancy cocktail, with all the flourish of a liquor-magician. “You look like you need a tipple.”

  It was said with such finality that Evie didn’t disagree with him, even though she had no clue if he was talking about alcohol or some kind of indecent sexual favour.

  The drink he pushed across the table to her was just as embellished as the man behind the bar. The top was green with a muddled sprig of mint and accented by a round blackberry floating atop square ice cubes, the liquid inside fading from a dark purple to light lavender.

  The bartender gave her a two-fingered salute that made Evie smile. She wasn’t sure alcohol was going to help her predicament any. It certainly wasn’t her go-to problem solver. Yet, it was just so stunning, and he had made it without even asking her what she wanted, just knowing what she needed. A mind-reading liquor-magician.

  The rum hit her palate stronger than Evie had anticipated, burning and sweet as she swallowed it. After downing the first sip, she felt the itch to reach for her phone—the needing to plan and organize and figure her shit out—begin to melt away.

  Not now. She didn’t want to now. Evie just wanted to forget about everything for the moment and enjoy the stunning purple mojito. She sat there, leaned down over her drink, sipping away until the rum taste was drowned out by the black berry-flavoured soda, and the muddled mint and fruit had sunk to the bottom of the glass.

  With the drink finished, Evie could feel a heat growing in her cheeks and belly, washing away the darkness of the damp and the mounting stress of her day. The pub was bustling for an early evening. People of all ages and descriptions sat at low tables and in corners. It was not packed, but the low ceilings compounded with the rough stone walls and dark wooden beam-work made the number of people inside seem to double.

  The bartender returned to check on her, a self-satisfied quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Thatta girl,” he purred, taking the glass away, “old Roy knew whatcha needed.”

  His smoky voice had almost no accent to her ear. Compared to Fiona earlier, it was soft and refined, allowing for the melodic quality she heard in it. This made the man even more endearing, as he began to clean another glass with the emerald scarf and asked her, “Now, what’s eat’n ya? I know you gotta story.”

  Evie could feel her cheeks pink as she nudged the frame up again. “Everyone’s got a story.”

  “But I don’t have everyone at my bar, pussycat, I only got you. All these other Jimmy’s are just in for their daily jack.” He countered, insouciantly, “Now, let’s have it. What had ya looking so dour?”

  Evie struggled to string together an answer, the result coming up short and lame. “Well, I…things just didn’t go my way, I guess.”

  The bartender gave a wan smile as he prepped another mojito for her. “That much was obvious.”

  “Today’s been a total flop?” She tried again, feeling her frown begin to turn around.

  The barman chuckled at that and shook a finger at her as the bell above the door sounded. There was a loud clamour from the crowd that made Evie turn to investigate. A tall man came through the door, his broad shoulders thrown back as he raised his hands in response to the other patron’s hoots and whistles, their hollered salutations and questions. He swaggered in, waving to all of them and throwing out his own greetings like he was some local hero.

  The man certainly fit the description. His generous height had his head nearly skimming the low beams of the ceiling, his pitch-black waves framing a square jawline, down the length of his neck to the collar of his navy cable knit jumper. This man had presence. He took up real estate in the pub with his charismatic smile alone. Still, as impressive as his muscled form was in the sweater and jeans, his smile was ten times more brilliant as he directed it towards her.

  Evie spun away, feeling her face flush. That wowzer smile had not been for her, but for the ostentatious bartender.

  A second drink, just as beautiful as the first, was pushed into her hands. When Evie looked up, the bartender gave her a wink, and then reached out to shake the hand of the hulking stranger who settled on the stool next to her.

  “Connie, you poor bastard, finally free are ya?”

  “Not as free as I wish I could be,” the dark-haired man laughed as he flipped his length of hair back over one shoulder.

  Evie drew the mojito closer so she could lean down. The rum was chased by a smoky sweetness that left her wanting more. She was so thankful that the barman had given her the drink, as the two shared their pleasantries next to her.

  “I still hav’ ta go back again tomorrow for the ole nine to five.” The man joked, “Besides, if I dinna go in, I wouldna’ have the spondoolies to keep you afloat.”

  “You don’t pay me anyway,” the barman volleyed back, not good-humoured enough to mask the accusation in his voice.

  “Well, I’d certainly like to…one day.”

  Evie watched the old bartender at work, preparing a drink made with a splash of scotch whiskey and something called Drambuie over ice. It was slid across the slick bar top, caught in one large paw, and downed in a single slug. The large man gave a hissed sigh of appreciation and slid the empty glass back to the bartender, the ice cubes tinkling as they swirled in the glass.

  “Another, Rockstar Roy,”

  “If you’re going ta suck ‘em back that fast, I might need ya to pay first.”

  “Just put it on the lass’s tab,” the man replied, gesturing at Evie with a charming smirk.

  Surprised and obviously not wanting to pay for the hulking Scot’s bar tab, Evie tried to marshal the words to disagree. Roy beat her to it.

  “Her tab? You should be the one buying the girl a drink! Where’s your chivalry, lad?”

  “Och, haven’t ya heard? Chivalry is dead.” The man joked, “It’s a woman’s world now. I’m better off doin’ what I’m told and watchin’ my pocketbook.”

  Roy shook his head, and the redhead finally found her words. “Go ahead. Give him another one. On me.”

  Both men looked surprised. Roy finished the drink and slid it to Connie, who paused. Evie glanced up to see that his smirk was gobsmacked and embarrassed. The huge man looked vulnerable for a moment, a chink in his muscled manly armour. It pleased her to see his swaggering whiskey-tossing persona melt, as he slowly admitted in a low voice, “I didnae expect that to work.”

  The humbled tone made Evie smile. “But just one.”

  “I’ll take that!” the man boomed with laughter.

  The sound of his tremendous voice made Evie laugh. It felt good to laugh.

  “What do I have
to do to earn myself another?”

  “I’m sure that I can think of something,” Evie replied, getting carried away with the fun of it.

  Evie’s common sense finally caught up with her, begging to know what on earth she thought she was doing. Here she was, her first day in a new country, with nothing to show for her all her tedious planning and arranging and organizing, poking fun at a beast of a man. The rum must surely have gone to her head, helped along by an empty stomach and her crumbling hopes.

  Yet, it felt good—damn good. This was the best Evie had felt in a long time. What did she really have left to lose? Hadn’t she promised herself that she would stray from being her usual bland and boring self?

  Yeah…good job there, Evie, she mentally griped, couldn’t even make it twenty-four hours as the new ‘you,’ could ya?

  And how long had it been since she had bantered with a man like this?

  Never, the redhead internally admonished, I have never done this! Her mind scrambled, wondering if she was making a huge mistake, if she had crossed a line she had not intended to, and if all this would lead to more trouble than she was already dealing with.

  These racing thoughts were electrical, emotionally charged and heavy with negative energy she no longer wanted to be associated with. Evie shrugged it all off, and she felt lighter because of it. Tonight, she would be different. She had sworn to come to Scotland and brave a change. To adult. To better herself. To grow. And so, she had better well just get on with it.

  With her drink finished, the redhead pushed the glass back across the bar top and looked askance at this intriguing man at her side. Her eyes flicked from his drink back up at his eyes. They were clear and bright, shifting in colour like a gemstone from green to blue.

  Evie loved to study the pigmentation of the iris. It was one of the many secret indulgences of her profession. People rarely understand just how intricate the lacework of the iris is, and Evie appreciated the ability to gaze casually at the different colourations of her patients, cataloguing all the unique variances. The large Scot’s eyes were especially intriguing. They were as bright and clear as liquid variscite.

  And she was staring again!

  Damn, you’re crap at this flirting thing, Evie, she waspishly snapped, as she chose to study the wood grain of the bar top instead of his gorgeous eyes…with those dark fanning lashes, so strikingly black against the crisp colours of his eyes.

  If she wasn’t careful, she was going to start drooling.

  “Are you going to drink that?” Evie asked him.

  “I intend to,” he replied casually, lifting the glass up as he added, “I’d feel better if I was drinking in company with the Lady who had purchased it.”

  “That can be arranged,”

  The redhead glanced across the bar top at Roy, who had run to take ale to a man at the other end of the bar, “Make me another, Rockstar. But what he’s having.”

  Roy’s dark bushy brows shot skyward above the plastic top of his frames, his forehead wrinkling comically. “You do not want a Rusty Nail, pussycat,”

  “Why not? I might as well know what I paid for.”

  The bartender looked skeptical but made the drink, exchanging it with the empty mojito glass. Warmed by her previous two doses of liquid courage, she lifted this one. The stranger beside her smiled, as they clinked their glasses and threw their heads back to down their drinks.

  Well, the Scot downed his.

  The raven headed Gaelic god tossed it back with the expertise of familiarity, defying the redhead’s longstanding belief that there was nothing sexy about drinking. Evie tried…and failed. The rich scotch was beyond strong. It bit. She had never had much luck when it came to shooters—the two previous mojitos’ apparently having been enough to somehow blind her into thinking that she could all of a sudden handle it.

  So, while his provocative ease enhanced his roguish allure, Evie managed half a mouthful, which was subsequently followed by two more noisy gulps. To top off that armature embarrassment, the swallow of the drink went down with a harsh after bite that made her hiss in a tight breath and left her male counterpart chuckling.

  “You did just fine for your first scotch, lass.”

  “A lot of failed firsts today,” Evie replied.

  Why had she said that? Who was in control of her mouth?

  “Well, ya ain’t the only one with failure riding their arse,” the Scot admitted, with a low chuckle that rumbled out of him like the strum of a bass riff, “but that’s not for worrying yer’self about now. Not here. Old Rockstar Roy knows just what to give ya to take yer mind off things.”

  “Yes,” she said, pushing the empty glass back across the bar, “he seems to be particularly good at it.”

  “Well, yeah…the arthritic chimp does seem to be predisposed to know what ya are fancyin’ even before you do.” The dark-haired man answered as he pushed his glass across the bar next to hers.

  The comment did not go unheard. It earned a skewering look from over the mint-lime specs of Roy’s, which made Evie burst into giggles. The older man turned to her, the scorn in his gaze gone, as he told her she did not want another Rusty Nail, as he started to prepare something else. He poured dark rum into a tumbler with a splash of lime and Chambord and turned back to her counterpart with a darker look, chiding, “This is for the Lady, but I’m not sure you have earned another for yourself.”

  “He’s working on it,”

  The Scot gave her a warm smile that made her insides give a pleasant little twist. Evie was flirting shamelessly and, surprisingly, enjoying it immensely. She liked the way that he looked at her. The feeling it gave her was like a drug that left her craving. Those too-bright fractal-coloured eyes roamed her face, darting chaste little peaks lower to make appreciative sweeps of the rest of her.

  At least, she assumed by the repetition of the motion that it was appreciative. The Scot didn’t look away, at any rate.

  Rockstar Roy pushed a drink across to her and Evie took in the rich purple colour, complete with a blackberry on a skewer balanced across the rim. She gave the liquor-magician a dubious look, inquiring with a raised brow, I love, but what is it?

  “Blackberry Coulis, pussycat.” He said with a wink.

  The Scot at her side watched as she sampled her first sip. It was lively, the undercurrent of the dark rum riding behind the initial sweetness, and she praised Roy for his craftsmanship. The older man actually blushed!

  Evie instructed him to make another Rusty Nail for…

  “I’m sorry, it’s Connie…right?”

  “Connie, yeah,” he replied, reaching out and taking one of her small hands in his large one, shaking it. His hands were not warm. They were hot.

  “Evie,” she said in return.

  “Evie, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He plied her with his charm, keeping her hand in his longer than necessary.

  “I am not sure that a Coulis is up my alley,” he admitted as a glass of the purple concoction was slid towards him.

  “It’s a nice change from your regular jack,” Roy snapped, with chagrin, “Give ya back some of yer old class.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been trying to ply me with such sweet stuff for a long time, haven’t ya?” Connie laughed as his hands fidgeted around the glass.

  “But, you’re not buying,” Evie reminded the Scot.

  “This is true. Bottoms up then, aye.”

  “No, don’t…”

  Connie threw his head back and downed the entire glass in one impressive gulp. His eyes were full of mischief as he made a loud satisfied sigh. “Dee-lightful.”