Chapter Five
Fin
Saturday morningand I’m up and dressed to face the hair demanding hoard super early, though not quite prepared, thanks to the bottle of red I finished off after Ivy had turned in last night. Still feeling the effects of my cheese and wine party for one, minus the cheese, I’m returning from topping up my second cup of coffee with its pint of water chaser, when I pause by the bookshelf, picking up a black framed photograph. Ivy has a number of them displayed, mostly images of her family over the years, though strangely none of her travels. This photograph is of just the two of us; we must be about sixteen or seventeen at a barbeque, all badly applied make-up and questionable hair, with glasses of cider in hand.Underage drinking, but with parental consent.
It’s strange how tastes change, and I don’t just mean hair. It’s been years since cider was my tipple of choice. I’m definitely more a wine or an occasional cocktail girl these days. Probably because back when I was at college, it was the cheapest way to a buzz. In fact, I think the last time I ever ordered a pint of cider was the night I lost my virginity.
And in a blink, my mind wanders back there...
‘Leave your drink, baby blue. I can’t wait to get you alone.’
In the pub, the school bitches stared open-mouthed as he’d tugged on my hand. Surprised, or maybe kiss-drunk, my mind was purely vacant, staring up into the face of my knight in dark jeans and converse. I was having a hard time believing this hot yet random guy had glued his face to mine—had kissed the hell out of me, heating and melting me in places he had no business to be.
My hand hesitated from grabbing the pint I’d just paid for. ‘Y-yeah. Okay.’
‘Say goodbye to your friends, ‘cos we’ve got plans.’
Yeah, because that hadn’t sounded sexual. And a pulse hadn’t begun hammering between my legs.I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have strung together a sentence at that point; I’d just waved weakly to those bitches’ dumbstruck and drooling faces as he’d led me out the door.
In the cool evening air, Rory had laughed. Leaning one shoulder against the pub wall, he’d folded his arms. Even with my limited experience, I could tell this was a kind of deliberate stance; one that made him look all kinds of hot. I tried not to glance at the way his t-shirt stretched over his shoulders and arms. Tried and failed.
‘I hope you didn’t mind, back there.’ He tipped his head towards the pub door.
‘Kiss—kissing, you mean?’ My words were soft; almost as soft as my lips I discovered, suddenly finding my fingers there. His gaze followed the motion and my heart literally stopped as I thought of him kissing me again. When he didn’t move, it became apparent he was waiting for me to answer. In the absence of words, I’d shaken my head.
‘I fucking hate bullies.’ His hand stretched out, cupping the side of my face, and either his hand was scorching or I’d turned beet red. In truth, I was burning all over, and right at that moment I’d wanted him to continue touching me. For his hand to touch me everywhere.
As experiences go, this one was both wonderful and terrifying.
‘Do you want to go somewhere? With me, I mean?’
‘Where?’
My response was barely a whisper. Hot for the guy or not—my would-be rescuer—this still gave me pause. I’d always been a good girl. A sensible one. Cautious to the point of bordering on tediousness. Wasn’t I looking to ditch that version of me? I was going travelling and it looked, right then, as though my adventure had already begun.
As though sensing my internal dialogue, he answered, ‘Din’nae fash. You’ll be fine.’
‘Wow,’ I’d replied, laughing at his reassurance. The prospect of being alone with him didn’t seem so frightening. ‘You’re laying that on real thick.’
‘What, the accent?’ he’d asked with faux surprise. ‘It usually does it for all the foreign lassies.’
‘Away an’ boil y’ heed!’ I might not have been raised purely in Scotland, but he wasn’t the only one familiar with the tongue.
Tongue.It was like he could read my thoughts, because as he laughed, his was suddenly visible, pink and wet. And sporting a silver piercing. I’d be lying if I said that thought didn’t still cause me a little tickle between my thighs.
It wasn’t much longer before we’d found ourselves running through the gate of a nearby cottage, the sudden inclement weather catching us by surprise. Summer evenings the sun is late to set in Scotland, and as we’d strolled through the darkening village exchanging names and small talk, the heavens had opened, rain suddenly lashing down. Wet and laughing, Rory had pulled me to his chest under the old tiled porch. The garden was fragrant with the smell of summer flowers, and though shivering, I was content to stay there, pondering that tongue piercing and wondering if he’d kiss me again. Content, that is, until he pulled out a key.
‘You can trust me.’ His eyes were solemn under wet, spiked lashes.
‘But trust you to do what?’ I’d whispered, unable to look away.
‘Whatever you want.’
Andwhatever I wantturned out to be more than I’d bargained for.
‘There’s no one home.’ Grabbing my hand, he’d led me inside and down a dim hallway that smelled of beeswax polish and into a country-style kitchen. Looking back, I’ve often wondered if the cottage had been his intended destination all along.
‘Here, dry off.’ He’d handed me a towel pulled from the dryer. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
