by Donna Alam
‘What’s my problem? Well, funny you should ask that, Finola Rosalie.’ She slurs very slightly over the abomination of my middle name. ‘Because it’s you—you are my problem!’
‘Oh no, you didn’t,’ I say, scowling, because nobody full names me.
‘Cut that shit out right now, the both of yous.’ Natasha shakes her head, her whole body a machine of perpetual pissed off-ness. ‘Jesus wept, it’s like being out wi’ a couple of mad bitches. She’s a big girl,’ she says turning on Ivy, though pointing a finger in my direction. ‘She can make her own decisions, and if one of those decisions is to bang that bloke so hard her freckles fall off, then that’s her decision to make.’
‘Bang him? Who said I’m banging anyone?’ I interject.
‘She’s in a fragile state,’ Ivy says, paying me no mind whatsoever. ‘She’s not cut out for casual relationships an—and her husband just died!’ Flailing arms suddenly point to me as though we’re not the only three people in the restroom right now.
‘Aye, so you said, but did you no’ see her light up like a Christmas tree as that hot piece of man-meat walked by? Maybe a hot shag is just what she needs; someone to rattle her bones, make her feel something. Something’s got to be better than numb.’
I’m surprised mute by Nat’s understanding.
‘You don’t know her like I do,’ Ivy returns. ‘She married the man she gave her V card to—let him walk all over her—and she comes from a broken home!’
‘It’s not broken,’ I say, though by this point it’s clear I’m not part of the discussion. Just the topic. I pull my lip gloss from my clutch and run it over my mouth as I stare at my reflection. The pair continuing to bicker, debating whether or not I know my own mind. If I wasn’t numb, I am now as I bare my teeth to the mirror. Satisfied, at least that the remains of my dinner aren’t stuck there, I use my fingers to fluff my new snazzy bangs. All pretty ordinary reactions as I try to block their words out.
Numb? Probably.
A pushover? Not anymore.
Unstable? Who the hell knows.
I know I need to make inroads to some level of functioning adult, but I just haven’t been in the right place. I need to move on, find a job, and get my life back on track. It’s like a line from an old Tom Cruise movie, I can’t remember which one, but it’s something about burying the dead because they make the place smell. While I’ll never be able to bury Marcus physically, I need to do so mentally before the reek of his presence ruins me.
I push my boobs together and pull a duck face. From the attention Ivy and Nat pay me, I might as well be alone. I’m not bad looking, trout pout aside, and I’ve been told I’m cute a time or two. It’s probably the freckles, I think, scrunching my nose. What I lack in height, I make up in length of leg, which leaves my torso kinda short. I suppose I’m what you’d call compact. It’s not as bad as it sounds, though I didn’t exactly love being labelled M & M for most of my senior year. And it wasn’t because of my rapping or freestyling skills.
‘You know the difference between Fin’s tits and M & M’s? You can enjoy a handful of the wee sweeties!’
I might be all grown, but I’m still a member of the itty-bitty-titty-committee.
‘Geddit—the lassie has nae tits!’
Yeah, Ivy might be right sometimes, but what she’s clearly lacking is an insight into the male brain. And so she caught me staring. Big whoop. It’s not like I’m planning on doing anything other than look. Besides, I think my flirt default is busted. Probably from disuse.
Without another word to my arguing friends, me and my little boobies leave. My head overflows with the nonsense they’ve been throwing around. I make my way into the main bar, intent on slipping out, when the sound of laughter pulls my feet to a stop. So rich and warm. The tenor resonates deep in my belly, and if I’m honest, a little further down. I know instinctually to whom the laughter belongs.
Sure enough, Rory stands leaning against the bar, his face wreathed in a smile that would make the moon seem dim. Is it wrong that his laughter is still fizzing in the pit of my stomach? It feels so familiar; like a hug from an old friend. And then it hits me, making sudden sense. The familiarity I feel isn’t for him; it’s for intimacy. Attraction. Sex. Things I haven’t felt in an age. And suddenly, I want to have sex, like real bad, to the extent that it’s almost as though between my legs has developed its own pulse.
How the hell can laughter turn you on?
Who cares? I’m overthinking. It’s not like he remembers me, and it’s not like I’ve the courage to hit on him. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. I’d be using him.
Like he used me.
At something the bartender says, his laughter resounds again, deep and masculine. It’s like the universe is reminding me that men can be fun.
That life doesn’t have to be drama filled.
‘Excuse me.’ A man squeezes by and I realise I’m still standing in the entrance to the restrooms. A moment later—and if you ask me how, I wouldn’t have the answer— I’m standing next to him.
It takes a moment for him to register my presence, his head eventually turning and making a slow inventory as he looks me up and then down. It should piss me off, this lazy perusal, but it doesn’t. Far from it, it just heats my skin. I feel a jolt; a little zing of electricity as his gaze meets mine. He has the most beautiful almond shaped eyes—how did I not remember that? Slate grey, immersed in indigo. Or are his pupils dilated?
Does that mean he likes what he sees?
That he’s a dope fiend? Drunk?
Chill out. Calm down. You’ll come off as crazy or dumb.
And I’ve decided, soaking wet and casual he’d looked superhot, but up close this evening, he’s simply breathtaking. He has a bone structure so defined his face could’ve been carved from marble but for the tones of his sun-kissed skin. I follow the line of sandy stubble against his high cheek bones, noticing as his mouth hitches in one corner. Now that’s something the great masters couldn’t capture; a look of pure confidence. And as if that isn’t bad enough, my skin begins to prickle from his nearness, thoughts and possibilities climbing through my mind like a vine. Images and sensations blooming, then expanding. What would it be like to climb once more into his bed? Would his touch be as good as I recall?
Bed? Hell, in a dark alleyway, up against a wall.
‘How are ya’?’
Desperately horny? Certifiable? Ready to climb you like a pole?
None of these are appropriate to his generic enquiry, but screw me sideways, I can’t think. It’s like the low rumbling burr of his accent has made me forget how to form whole words.
‘Hi.’ I wet my lips, not for effect, but because it’s impolite to lick a stranger this early on.
‘Darlin,’ have we met?’ he asks, tracking the motion of my tongue. ‘Do I know you?’
My heart misses a beat but I realise it’s not that he knows me from years ago, but rather recently at the hair salon. And even then, by his expression, he’s not sure. I knew this hair cut was fabulous; he can’t place where he knows me from. For some reason, this seals the deal for me.
‘You don’t, but you could,’ comes my immediate, if reckless, response. Hells bells. Why couldn’t I have just sidled up to the bar for a drink? Struck up a conversation like a regular girl? He looks a little taken aback though recovers well, but I’m probably also throwing out fuck-me-pheromones like a lap dancer interviewing for a job.
‘Sure.’ His answer is accompanied by a light shrug, though I choose to ignore the preceding brief pause. He was likely deciding on my level of psycho. ‘Pull up a pew.’ He gestures to the stool behind me and I climb onto it with the eagerness of a pre-schooler at story time. ‘Just for clarification,’ he adds, ‘are we talking . . . in the biblical or the figurative sense?’
‘I’m sorry? In the w—what sense?’ I’m definitely making no sense.
‘This friendship offer of yours,’ he clarifies with an intense sort of look. ‘Now, I’m not s
ayin’ I don’t need more friends, but . . .’
His gaze does that slow sweep of my body again and I swear it feels as though he’s actually caressing my skin. I shiver in response and try very hard not to let my eyes roll closed from all the feels. Good job I’m not endowed more like Nat, I’d probably poke his eye out with a nipple right now.
His expression ends in a lazy sort of grin, the picture of casual innocence until he grazes his bottom lip with his teeth. It’s like some kind of sexy throw down.
Challenge accepted.
Only, Player One . . . now doesn’t know what to say, because her heart is beating a mile a minute and her flirting skills are stuck in the last decade. It’s as if intellectually, I know the steps, but I suddenly lose all co-ordination once the dance mat’s unrolled.
‘So you’re not the friendly kind?’ Wow. Sultry tone for the win. At least I got that right.
‘Exactly the opposite, darlin’. I can be friendly. Real friendly.’ This he almost purrs. Is it me, or does he suddenly seem closer? Definitely closer. As he leans in, I can smell the aftershave on his skin, and get another flash of the colourful ink lurking beneath the neck of his shirt, which makes me all the more curious. ‘But you keep feeding me these lines and you’re gonna end up wanting to smack me in the face.’
God, I wouldn’t. It’s too lovely.
And by the sound of his hearty chuckle, I actually said that. Not thought it. Said the actual words. Possibly a little breathlessly.
‘So that’s an invitation?’ His chuckle settles into a cocky half-grin.
‘Sometimes invitations are unnecessary. You know, like when sometimes you just pop in.’
Can you see that girl at the bar, the one with the hot guy standing close by? Yeah, you’re right. It is a little weird that she has her eyes closed, especially when she could be looking at him. But, this isn’t a good moment for her. Or maybe, as his hand rests on her shoulder and he leans in, it isn’t as bad as she thinks.
‘I hate to break this to you, but if your previous friends have only popped in, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of man.’
My eyes flutter open. ‘What sort of man are you, I wonder?’ Judge me how you will. I know I’ll be judging myself later on.
‘With any luck, he’ll be like a snow storm,’ says a familiar voice.
As I turn my head, he straightens, and there stands Natasha sporting a smile the size of a half gateau.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to, or maybe what had got into you,’ she adds in an undertone. ‘But now I see. Natasha,’ she says, holding out her hand, which is an oddly formal kind of introduction given her teasing.
‘Rory,’ he says, sliding his hand against hers. ‘But, a snow storm . . . ?’
Nat’s brow furrows for a brief second before she shrugs. ‘Truth is, my friend here needs a good lay.’ I just about swallow my tongue and actually begin spluttering. ‘A good, solid eight inches or so. The kind of lay that’ll make it a bit difficult for her to get around the next day, if you get my drift? Ha! Drift!’
Out of our trio, one of us is laughing, and one of us is mildly amused, and one of us is trying to disappear into the collar of her blouse. Even more so as our trio turns into a quartet.
Ivy.
She harrumphs loudly, folding her arms. ‘Knew it,’ she says, swaying lightly. ‘You’ll never learn.’
‘Aye, something you’d know all about,’ snorts Nat. ‘You shouldn’t have had that last glass. Wine after liquor makes you sicker.’
‘Whacho talkin’ about?’
‘You’ll see. And I’ll be laughing, but for now, we’ll away home, yeah?’ Nat addresses Ivy like she’s an elderly charge in a care home.
‘I know you,’ Ivy spits, pulling her elbow from Natasha’s grip to poke a finger in Rory’s bicep. ‘You’re all the same, with your empty promises an—and your thick lips and soft hair.’
‘Ah, man. I wished I’d recorded that,’ sniggers Nat, clutching Ivy by the waist.
‘Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em clean,’ slurs Ivy. ‘That’s what you lot believe in, isn’t it?’
‘My lot?’ Rory asks, his luscious lips quivering against the strain of a smile.
‘It’s keen, eejit,’ interjects Nat. ‘Treat them mean, keep them keen.’
‘Oh.’ Ivy’s expression is almost comical, her drunk synapses no doubt working at a snail’s pace. ‘I always wondered. Makes mush more sense,’ she says with an exaggerated nod.
‘Let’s get you home before you dish out any more nonsense.’
‘Home.’ This comes out as a sob. ‘I do want to go home!’
‘Aye, we’ll sort that for you,’ Nat placates, turning Ivy bodily, but before the pair have moved, she seems to remember something. She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, one arm still tight around Ivy’s waist.
‘Are you going be all right with her?’ I ask, beginning to slide my butt from the stool, almost face-planting into Rory’s warm, broad chest. Not that I’m complaining.
‘Stay where you are,’ protests Nat, pointing her phone at Rory. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she says as the flash stuns us both.
‘Why?’ asks a bemused Rory, still holding my arm.
As we answer simultaneously and it’s clear mediocre minds do not think alike:
‘You might be a mass murderer.’
‘Wank bank,’ says Nat, her gaze moving between our stunned expressions. ‘What? You’re not going home alone.’
Chapter Eleven
Fin
We’re both silent for a moment as we watch Ivy and Natasha leave.
‘I’d like to say they’re not always that . . . abstract,’ I say, cringing as Nat reaches the door, turning to give me a lurid sort of double thumbs up.
Nice, Nat. Subtle. Very discrete.
‘And all that snow talk doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you.’
‘Okay.’ I think that was supposed to be an unconcerned tone, though I think it’s maybe more unconvinced. Whatever, his response makes me feel a little flat. ‘So, do I get a name?’
‘Don’t you have one of your own?’
‘A funny girl.’ His gaze briefly caresses my breasts, so subtle that had I not been paying absolute attention, I might not be convinced. ‘If we’re going to be friends, I’ll need to know what to call you.’
‘So we’re friends now?’
‘We can be whatever you want to be.’ How can he look both playful and serious as he says that? ‘It’s up to you.’
‘What if I want to remain anonymous?’ What I actually want right now is to be his hand as it rasps against the bristles on his jawline.
He seems to consider my request for a moment. ‘I gave you my name. I think it’s only fair you give me yours.’
‘A fair exchange?’ I repeat. ‘I’m not sure that’s reason enough.’
‘It’s the one we should leave it at,’ he says, hiding his smile behind his glass now.
‘Intriguing.’ I half laugh in response to his teasing tone. ‘You can’t stop there, leaving me guessing. You have to explain.’
‘Well, I can tell you.’ His gaze slips to my mouth, lingering there for a beat. It’s the kind of look that makes my heart trip and my skin tingle. ‘But,’ he continues sort of huskily, ‘I’m not sure you’ll like it.’
‘Hmm. I’ll take that risk. I’m all about risks tonight.’
He grins and I match it, even as I recognise my words could be taken in so many ways. Loosening his fingers from the rim of his glass, he leans forward, grasping the back of my stool. His mouth is suddenly so close to my ear that if I turned my head just a fraction, his lips would be against my skin. Pity I don’t have the nerve.
I hear the hitch in his breath before he answers.
‘I’d like to know your name so I know who’s responsible for making me come tonight.’
All the feels. All between my legs.
‘Did you miss the part where I said I'm not having sex with you?’ My tone sou
nds so sexual and so unlike me.
‘I did not,’ he says, no longer in kissing distance. ‘But you can’t stop me thinking of your gorgeous mouth when I take my cock in my hand.’
‘Wow.’ I suddenly find my hand at my neck clutching a set of invisible pearls. How could anyone resist imagining that visual? ‘That—that’s quite a mouth you have there.’
‘I may have heard that once or twice.’ His smile is part sexy, part sultry smirk.
Oh my God, he was smooth before, but he’s obviously had lots of practice since.
‘I—it’s Rose. My name.’ Well, it’s one of my names. Okay, half of one. But I refuse to feel guilty at this deception. Besides, I’m not really sure who I am anymore, so tonight I choose to be Rose.
‘American Rose with the English rose skin.’ As he says this, he reaches out, his finger skimming my cheek. ‘Are you sure we haven’t met?’
I shrug evasively, resisting the resultant shiver. ‘It’s Scottish Rose,’ I whisper a little hoarsely. ‘From my mom.’ Though I’ve always thought that if I were a flower, I’d probably be Scotland’s national spikey bloom, the thistle.
‘So you’ve a little Scots in you?’
I nod and make to loop my hair behind my ear, remembering belatedly how short it now is.
‘Would you like a good few inches more?’
I laugh a little, against my better instincts. ‘Like I’ve never heard that line before.’ I have, but it never sounded so tempting.
‘Damn,’ he replies, smothering a chuckle. ‘So, half-Scottish Rose, can I get you a drink?’
‘You could, but I think I’ve changed my mind.’
Holy mother of fuck, why would I say that?
Rory’s eyebrows retract, his expression quickly schooling. ‘Whatever, darlin,’ he says in a cool tone. ‘That’s your call to make.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ I reply, nodding furiously like I’m attempting to convince myself.
God, but I want him—want to discover what he’s drinking by tasting it from his tongue. And I so want to believe this is the universe’s way of balancing my life’s deficits, dealing me this meeting as some kind of payback or gift. A sort of here, you’ve been having a rough time, have tonight on me. But that’s not the way my life works.