One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Phoebe?’ His grey eyes are so mesmerising and his gruff tone divine. ‘Ruby?’

  ‘Didn’t you once date a Ruby and a Phoebe, Rory? Probably both at the same time.’

  ‘Now, you ‘ken there’s only one girl for me.’

  The pair begins to gently bicker and coo, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes from the man sitting next to me. I prop my elbow on the table and my chin against my fist, almost slipping as he rumbles in a low tone, ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat.’ Actually, it sounds more like a warning—the definite note of caution heats and knots my insides.

  ‘I love it when you’re tipsy, titch.’ Rory’s whisper is audible from across the table.

  ‘Try saying that three times fast,’ Fin titters, rubbing her cheek against his. ‘Tipsy titch, tipsy tich, titsy tush.’

  ‘It’d be much easier if you told me.’ My eyes follow the sound of Kit’s sexy rumble almost instinctively.

  ‘Easier on who?’ I answer a touch haughtily.

  ‘Probably us both.’ He seems almost surprised by his words. ‘But until then, I’m going to call you honey bee.’

  I open my mouth to respond, a touch indignant and a touch turned on because no one has ever presumed to give me a nickname, other than the one I gave myself. When I was five. You see, my name isn’t Bea. It’s not even close.

  ‘Come on, tittsie tush, let’s get you home,’ whispers Rory.

  ‘No way! It’s Friday night, and this tush wants to dance! You’ll come, won’t you, Bea?’ she says, grabbing my hand. ‘Busy Bea, you’re always so busy. Busy-bizzy-bizzy! But you’re here!’ she says, opening her arms wide.

  ‘I am here, you’re right, but I’m also not dressed for dancing.’ I’m still surprised I was let in the restaurant tonight.

  ‘Pssht! You wore that sweater a week ago with thick tights instead of skinny jeans. You could whip off your jeans and look totally sexy!’ Her head comically disappears down the side of the table. ‘Yep,’ she says, suddenly appearing again. ‘Cute boots, sexy sweater dress, miles of leg, and totes gorg, as Savannah would say.’

  ‘Never use that accent again,’ Rory says with a shudder. He mustn’t be a fan of posh girls. I can’t think why . . .

  ‘Please,’ she says again, bringing my hand to her chest. And me almost across the table. ‘Pleeeeease!’

  ‘How could you say no to that face?’ Kit’s tone is hard to pinpoint. Is he trying to goad or encourage me?

  ‘And you always have your legs shaved, so don’t say you can’t because of that!’

  I close my eyes as Kit begins to laugh.

  ‘Okay. I’ll come dancing until the early hours with you, you bossy thing. And when I’m hungover in the morning, I expect coffee and something sugary delivered from the French bakery.’ It’s not like I need to go home . . . It’s not like I’m waiting to hear from anyone.

  ‘Girls Scouts honour,’ she says, solemnly, releasing my hand. ‘Now get to the bathroom and strip!’

  Chapter Five

  BEA

  I still feel a little raw. Stripped bare—and more than just to my legs. But I’m not going home. Because what’s waiting there? Hours of sleeplessness. Hours of self-reproach because I was too pigheaded to realise I was in a relationship going nowhere.

  So I won’t go home—I’ll force myself to stay and drink and be merry even if I don't feel like it. I’ll do what any self-respecting rejected girlfriend would do and get a little drunk. Though not too drunk; just to that optimal stage where I can block it all out. The stage at the point just before I black out. It’s a tricky business, and a fine line, I know. But I’m nothing if not an overachiever, and after the day I’ve had, I’m more than up for the job.

  I’m usually the responsible one—happy to be the designated driver—and not really a big drinker. I like sharing a bottle of wine with Fin, drinking a cocktail after dinner, or enjoying a beer or two on a hot day, but it usually stops there.

  Fuck that noise today.

  I’ll drink, and I’ll dance and leave the thinking and dissection to another day. I’m going to lose myself in the music and dance myself into some kind of trance like a Moroccan dervish. A trance sounds preferable because I’m so done thinking today.

  I smile, catching Fin’s gaze. Fake happiness. Fake okay. Don’t let your gaze slide left to Kit. Because, yes, he came dancing with us, though he’s yet to do much more than sit at this table looking broodily delicious while Fin, Rory, and I have danced. At one point, I even fooled myself into thinking he was watching me.

  Because I’m that ridiculous.

  Before we left the restaurant, I’d excused myself to strip off my jeans and slick on a little of Fin’s lipstick. It wasn’t a bad call about the jeans. I’d fit into a club better like this. And Fin was right; I do like to keep my legs shaved. Waxed, actually. I run a lot. And wear a lot of shorts or running tights. Stubble isn’t a good look or feel in either of those.

  So I’d shoved my jeans in my bag—a bag which is large enough to carry a small child in—thinking I’d probably have to show the contents before being allowed inside the club. With a last glance in the mirror, I decided I looked okay. I’ve looked better, but at least I wasn’t all swollen eyes from crying over Jon. Quite the opposite. Turning from the mirror, I’d swung open the bathroom door and almost walked straight into a wall Kit.

  ‘Oh, excuse me.’ My response was almost automatic as I’d almost bounced from his solid chest, inhaling a deep lungful of his scent. Wow.

  ‘Dr Honey Bea.’ His hands caught my elbows to steady me, his voice, as always, rich and seductive with that ever-present teasing hint. What was it about him that liked goading me? Confident I would no longer fall, he slid the black AmEx card balanced between his fingers into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Looks like I’m not the only one not quite dressed for a club.’ I don’t know what made me say it because he wears a suit like a whore wears underwear. For the business of temptation. And just like that, my gaze followed his as he looked down at his body.

  ‘You don’t like how I’m dressed?’

  As my head came up, I realised I’d been busted staring. While imagining—Rumlr imagining—what he looked like beneath the suit.

  ‘I—no, you look very nice.’ Nice? He looked hot—hot as fuck—and he knew it.

  ‘Was that a compliment?’ I could feel my cheeks heat again at his tone.

  ‘You’re just a little overdressed.’

  He cocked a brow, a look so suggestive it made me mentally backtrack. Had I suggested he undress—a Freudian slip? Oh, hell, I had! But I instantly forgot any rebuttal or apology as his eyes began a slow perusal of my body, lingering over my glossed lips and my one bared shoulder. My tanned legs. Here’s a man who takes his time, the look said, and I suddenly ached between my legs.

  I wondered if he could tell as he leaned closer, his hand drifting up towards my hair.

  ‘About this boyfriend . . .’ His breath brushed across my face, and I found myself stuttering.

  ‘We-we’ve broken up. Please don’t tell Fin. Not tonight.’

  He nodded almost imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t register any emotion until my hair fell around my shoulder and he smiled. It took me a beat to realise he was holding a pen in his hand. I’d been sitting all night with my hair tied up with a pen. And he’d loosened it—as if he had the right to do as he pleased, the right to do as he pleased to me.

  God, that’s so hot.

  ‘That’s better,’ he murmured. Did he mean my hair or my relationship status? Then he’d slid the pen in the same pocket as his credit card and turned to walk away.

  ‘That’s my pen,’ I called after him.

  He stopped and turned slowly. He fed his hand into his pocket, pulling out my pen.

  ‘Yes, that’s mine.’ I held out my hand for the stupid ballpoint pen, wondering what had come over me. It was hardly a Mont Blanc but probably something I’d picked up fr
om one of the nurses’ stations. It was probably even chewed at one end. ‘I’d like you to give it to me.’

  ‘You’d like me to give it to you?’ His expression was benign, but his tone was not. Like an idiot, I could only respond with a breathy, ‘Yes.’

  Because, yes, right at that moment—hell, right now!—I wanted him to throw me up against the wall and really give it to me. Hard and multiple times, preferably.

  ‘I will,’ he answered oh-so reasonably. ‘I’ll give it to you. Later . . . if you’re a good girl.’

  Then he walked away—walked away!—leaving me confused and needy and wondering if I’d stashed a spare pair of panties in my massive bag.

  We didn’t speak in the cab, other than when he asked me if I carried gardening tools in my purse. Just rude. I know it’s large, but it carries everything I need on a day-to-day basis. And if he’s not careful, he might find said bag wrapped around his head. Even if he does look sexy now that he’s unbuttoned.

  Well, he’s taken off his jacket so now he’s in a vest and shirt sleeves, the cuffs of which he’s rolled to reveal a leather strapped watch. One of those complicated types with a million dials. There’s also a little forearm tease going on.

  Arm porn: if you’re not in shirt sleeves, you’re not doing it right.

  It should be a crime to look that hot.

  ‘You’re very pensive tonight.’ Over the loud music, Fin’s voice brings me back to the moment. Now that we’re in the club, she seems to have sobered up. I, in contrast, seem to have gone the opposite way.

  I’m not spoiling her celebration night with tales of woe-is-Bea. And I’m certainly not going to spill my guts with Rory and Kit sitting close by.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  I raise my finger to indicate she wait as I bring my glass to my mouth. My cocktail—not my first—is sweet and tart, and I decide after a couple of more of these, maybe tomorrow’s overthinking will be taken care of, too.

  Hangover, here I come.

  ‘I am sort of miserable, aren’t I?’ I take another mouthful and place my glass down before pasting on a smile. ‘I think I need one or three more of these.’ I tap the glass and shudder; the heaviness of the alcohol hits me quite suddenly, warming me from the inside out. Meanwhile, her blue eyes watch, maybe expecting me to elaborate. Not tonight. ‘I’m fine, really. Shall we dance again?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her expression lightens immediately. She even breaks out a fist pump. ‘Let’s bust a few shapes on the dance floor and show them how it’s done.’

  ‘Steady on, slugger.’ Rory laughs from behind. ‘Dunno about shapes, but you nearly busted my nose.’

  Her response is to lean in and kiss him. ‘I kissed the boo-boo better, see?’

  ‘Did I say my nose? I meant a bit farther down.’ He playfully cups his hand between his legs.

  ‘Good try, but no,’ Fin says, shaking her head with a smile.

  ‘God loves a trier,’ he says cheekily.

  ‘How about you try to get our glasses filled while Bea and I dance?’

  How many drinks have I had? One glass of wine or two? Plus a cocktail? The beer in the restaurant? Not enough to be drunk, by any stretch.

  ‘What was that saying?’ I tug on Fin’s hand. ‘Wine before beer makes you queer?’ I giggle childishly.

  ‘And wine after liquor makes you sicker,’ calls Fin over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, I’m screwed,’ I say to her smiling face.

  It’s hard to recount what I’ve drunk and in what order, but what I do know is that I feel sort of liquid and light as we reach the dance floor, my last mouthful hitting the spot as I stand. My thoughts aren’t so heavy, and my movements seem loose. It’s a good feeling, I decide. Like my corset of worry has been unlaced.

  We step down onto the dance floor, and we dance. Lord, how we dance.

  The past few years should have been spent like this, drinking cocktails and dancing with my friends. Uninhibited and free, rather than chest deep in study and moving from one side of the world to another to follow a man.

  A man who’s barely touched me this past year.

  But I’m not going to think about him.

  The beat of the music pulses through the soles of my feet, rising through the rest of my body like it’s alive. It’s been so long since I’ve danced; I lose myself almost immediately, getting a bit of a shock as a giggling Fin grabs my hand.

  ‘I’m so pleased you made it tonight,’ she yells, throwing her arms around me. ‘So happy!’

  I’m about to return the sentiment—because drinking and dancing and friends—when her body lurches away. The delight in her eyes is so evident as she realises Rory has his hands on her hips.

  ‘I’m so happy!’ she yells over her shoulder as he spins her to face him and the pair begin to dance.

  The dense crowd keeps me from feeling like I’m dancing alone. Not that I care right now. Because I’m dancing and not thinking. I’m dancing and having fun. And then I spot him at the edge of the dance floor. For a split second, I’m confused—Rory just danced Fin away, so how can he . . . ?

  The unformed thought dissolves immediately.

  The darker expression.

  The rolled sleeves and vest.

  The man who is Kit.

  He’s sexy. So hot—hotter than a man has any right to be. Okay, yes, on the surface he looks like my friend’s fiancé, but beyond first glance, he’s so not. Rory’s good looking, but this man? There’s something about him that I just can’t put into words.

  Ya. I don’t have the words. I will tomorrow, but for now, I’m going to blame the alcohol for breaking my neurological processing. Or maybe Kit’s hot looks have burned my wiring. I’d be game for being burnt by this man right now.

  The song changes seamlessly to something slower, though I don’t leave the dance floor. Instead, I begin to imagine Kit’s hands running over me. Feeding into my hair. Pulling the strands at the nape of my neck to keep me still while his mouth teases me. The images—my desires—are slightly shocking, though no less fun.

  Our gazes connect again, the realisation blooming inside me that he seems to be watching me. These don’t appear to be indiscriminate glances across the dance floor, either, because when I face him, he doesn’t look away. I decide to put aside his sexual orientation. I’ll take his looks right now, whatever they mean. Because there is no doubt his eyes are just for me.

  His gaze burns where it touches, and my fingers follow that trail. The realisation is so potent it fans out, heating my skin, my pussy seeming to pound almost to the beat of the bass.

  My movements change with the pace of the song, becoming more sensuous because I suddenly want to dance—not to forget, but for him. I want his eyes on me like I can remember wanting nothing before this. Sure, I want success—I’ve always wanted to be at the height of my profession. Not to be held in high regard, but to be a great surgeon. The best. This kind of desire is different. It’s the kind of carnality I’ve never experienced. The kind of craving I’ve read about but never understood. I imagine us together, his hands holding mine above my head, his hips pinioning me to the bed. What would it feel like to be held like that? To be possessed body and soul? To be tortured by tease?

  I find my hands mirroring my thoughts, my fingers trailing my sides until they’re in the air above my head. The wool of my dress slides against my thighs, moving higher and higher, and no doubt flashing a whole lot of thigh. But I don’t care. I feel sort of untethered. I crave his attention, and for that very reason, I don’t look back at him.

  It would be one rejection too many to realise he’s no longer looking at me.

  So I lose myself in the music and the flash of strobes, and I dance for him, imagining my own hands are his as I run them across my body and sway my hips. My body commanded by the beat of Kit.

  My eyes suddenly spring open when I find hands other than mine on my waist.

  ‘Hey, beautiful.’ Not the right voice. Not the right face.

&nb
sp; The pang of disappointment must reflect in my expression. I mean, this stranger is cute in a blond floppy-haired kind of way, but he’s not who I’m thinking about. He’s all light, and I want the shade. I lift his hands away with a smile and a small shake of my head and move away to the murmuring complaints of cocktease.

  And he might be right, but my mind is on another’s cock, so to speak.

  I turn and make my way from the dance floor with a quick wave to Fin to indicate I’m heading to the ladies. I do just that, though head away from the direction of Kit. My face is slightly hot not only from the communal body heat on the dance floor but also because of the ridiculousness that brought unwanted attention to my waist. Now that I’m not dancing, it’s easier to remind myself that, while Kit might enjoy verbally sparring with me, he’s not interested. Maybe he just appreciated my mad moves, or maybe the cute floppy blond was more his thing?

  Then it suddenly occurs to me that this could be what the attraction is—why I feel drawn to him beyond his good looks, which anyone can appreciate. Maybe I want what I can’t have because it’s safe. Because it’s never going to happen with him, is it?

  I push my way from the bodies at the edge of the dance floor and worm my way through the place packed with people my age. My tribe. The thought makes me snigger. It’s a tribe I’ve never wanted to be a part of until tonight. I walk halfway down the long hallway and push open one door then another, narrowing my eyes against the fluorescent lights in the bathroom.

  The ladies’ room is pretty basic—black and white tiles and unframed mirrors—and the lighting is harsh. Against the backdrop of the beat from beyond the doors, toilets flush and water runs. Girls chat, one cries, and another compliments my boots. I pee, wash my hands, and contemplate my lack of makeup against my heated cheeks. I do all this while trying to keep my thoughts from expanding in my head. I can’t help but worry about what will happen when I go back out there. Will Fin and Rory still be dancing? Will I need to make small talk with Kit? God, this is so embarrassing. I inhale deeply and do what I do when faced with stress. I decide to get it over with. To jump right in. So with a quick fluff of my hair, I pull open the outer door and walk . . . into a wall of dark suit.