Skobie - Scottish slang for an utter bastard
Chapter Twelve
In which there is Turkish takeout, social justice issues with oriental rugs, and Girl’s Night.
Luna…
Earlier…
From the instant I step into Kai’s elegant three-story townhouse, I‘m terrified to touch anything, as if my poverty might stain the cream-colored carpet in the entryway or the antique sideboard. A glance in the mirror as I pass by proves that my ragged, unkempt self is so wildly out of place here that I’m a little surprised the extravagant house doesn’t produce a poltergeist to scream “Get ouuuuut!” at me.
“Make yourself at home,” Catriona says, strolling past me and plopping herself on one of the black Lemieux Et Cie couches.
While Iampoor, I have an excessive amount of Pinterest boards dedicated to beautiful and expensive furniture and home design. Just one of these couches costs around fifteen thousand dollars. Add in the Rove Concepts coffee tables (eleven thousand each) and the giant oriental rug likely still stained on the back with the blood of small children who hand-wove it in India, and my heart’s pounding harder than it did during that run through the forest.
“You must be starved, aye?” Catriona looks at me, concerned. She pulls out her phone and rapidly taps out a text. “I’ll order some takeaway while we’re waiting for the others. You’ll feel better after some food and a shower.”
“Did- did you know that the most expensive oriental rugs still bear the bloodstains of the children who wove them in sweatshops? They’re always pricking their fingers with the needles.” I blurt out. “Some dealers even turn the carpets over to show prospective rich asshole buyers the little marks to show the rugs are hand-woven.”
Catriona’s a confident, strong woman who likely faces innumerable death-defying moments, but it’s clear she’s out of her depth here. “That’s horrible. I dinna know that.” Her gaze falls to the beautiful, jewel-toned rug on the wood floor. “I believe his designer decorated the entire place for him. He’s in and out of town a lot. Um… did ya want to check? I’m thinking Kai would set it aflame if he knew that.”
“It would be better to do that to the adults that run the sweatshop,” I say without thinking. “Oh! I wasn’t recommending murder. To a member of the Scottish Mafia. Oh, Christ… Maybe I’ll just shut up now. Could I get a glass of water?”
Her lips twitch, and she nods. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
My belly full of Iskender kebabs, fish and chips, and mutton stew, I lay boneless on one of the fifteen-thousand-dollar couches, hoping I don’t fall asleep and drool on the pristine wool fabric and deface it.
Catriona insisted on turning over the oriental rug to check for proof of child labor, and to our deep relief, there was none, just a tag indicating it was made in Canada.
“Canada wouldneverallow child labor,” she says decisively.
“Absolutely not,” I agree. “Too polite. Genuinely decent people.”
“I know we ordered a lot,” Sloan says, gesturing at the twenty takeaway boxes on the coffee table. “We weren’t sure what ya liked.”
It didn’t seem like the right time to tell her that for the last half of my senior year, I subsisted on food the school cafeteria was about to throw out because it was past its expiration date.
“This is all incredible, thank you,” I say gratefully. “I’ve never had Turkish food before.”
“Now…” Sloan refilled my champagne glass, “Tell us how you got from Iowa to London to that revolting mess on Morren Island?”
“Because I’m a trusting idiot,” I say wryly. “I’d read up on all the warnings for women traveling alone, you know? We - Marla, the other girl from the hostel - met Brittany and Canary at a street fair, and they were fun girls. They didn’t seem to have an agenda, just partying, they said, until they had to return to school.”
“You realize your first warning was hanging out with a girl namedCanary,” Maisie says.
“Big red flag,” Sloan agrees, straight-faced.
I nearly aspirate expensive champagne up my nose as we all start howling with laughter.
“I see you ladies are showing our guest a grand time.”
Kai’s leaning against the doorway, eyeing the rubble from our takeaway and champagne binge with some amusement. He doesn’t seem too upset. Maybe his cousins do this to him on a routine basis. If so, it makes me like him a bit more.
So, I make myself remember him scaring me on the island, forcing me to call him Sir and telling me to shut up, threatening to throw me to the wolves, the two-legged kind. He did that a lot. Now that I understand he was undercover, it doesn’t feel as cruel. Unfortunately, it means that him being hot as hell is harder to ignore. He’s wearing jeans that fit his ass perfectly and a simple blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his muscular forearms, covered in tattoos.
Run! Run for your life, you fool!The sensible portion of my brain screams.Red flags! So many red flags!
I’m mixed up enough in this nightmare as it is, waist-deep in fact in a swamp of murder and psychotic rich people and something about modified rifles that Kai threw out casually at dinner last night.
