Fucking Marcus.
I run my tongue over my teeth while wondering if I just don’t speak the language anymore. Single and ready to mingle? More like sad and ready to skulk off home. I feel lost. This life, sitting in a pub with friends, chatting with inconsequence and the opposite sex. It feels alien and I’m beginning to think coming out tonight was a mistake. I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel powerful or full of womanly roars, which was sort of the point of venturing out. Instead, I just feel exposed.
Just as I’m debating the merits of slipping out, I catch a glimpse of a certain chestnut head. It’s a kind of pleasurable kick in the pants, especially as the cause of our earlier tiff seems to be walking his sexy self our way. I’m conscious of that spark again, only this time the effects are less internal—my posture straightening like I’ve be lashed by a live electrical line.
I’m not sure if I prefer him wet or dry.
My eyes devour him. The man is a total jock, not that you can use that term here. It has much different connotations. You just can’t call a Scotsmana jockunder any circumstance, though the title fits him well. He’s tall and broad and looks like he takes serious care of himself. As he draws closer with that sexy half smirk and those sultry eyes, I get a glimpse of colourful ink peeking from beneath his shirt sleeves.Those are definitely new.I’ve never been a fan of tattoos but find I can’t hang onto my ambivalence right now.
I swallow thickly, unable to stop my stare-fest or tear my gaze from his confident stride, my body almost vibrating as I struggle to remain calm on the outside.This place has to be cursed. It’s like I’ve turned into my raging hormones teenage self.I can literally feel the spike of perspiration break out against my spine as I pretend to be interested in something over his right shoulder, not wanting to appear as though I’m expecting him to speak.
Not that I need to, it turns out, as a beat later he passes by our table without a word.
He was on his way to the bar, you idiot.
‘What was that all about?’ asks Natasha.
‘What do you mean?’ My answer is almost rote as I watch that fine ass walk away, nursing the sting of rejection.
‘Your Rain Man impersonation and the whole twisty face deal.’
So, not as cool as I’d hoped.‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Maybe you’re having a stroke.’
Maybe I need to stroke. Home, later. While thinking of him.
I don’t even realise I’m still watching Rory, the rear view being almost as good, until I find I’m turning my head towards Ivy’s voice.
‘Don’t,’ she says softly, the mirth and lightness in her eyes gone. My brow furrows, my understanding delayed. ‘Leave well alone,’ she adds, unwinding her fingers from hawk-boy’s heavily tattooed arm.
I glance at Rory and back again. ‘So, what? You’re allowed to get drunk and all flirty with the furry here, but I’m not even allowed to look?’
‘I’m no’ a furry.’
‘Shut it, Prince Vultan,’ Ivy grates out. ‘But you’re not just looking,’ she continues, sounding much more sober than two minutes ago. Leaning closer, she punctuates her next words with a finger to my arm. ‘I know you.’
‘So you’re a mind reader now?’ Anger rises in my throat like bile; this isn’t us. We never fight. Bicker, yes. Use angry voices? Never. ‘Aren’t you the one saying I need to move on? To start living again?’
‘You need to work on your impulse control first.’
‘What? Just whatareyou talking about?’
‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’
‘You know nothing,’ I hiss. ‘Nothing about how I feel.’
‘I know you can’t find happiness in someone else.’
‘Is that so?’ Even I can hear how those words drip with antagonism, just as I can hear those sitting round us shifting uncomfortably in their seats. My cheeks begin to burn with shame and embarrassment, but more than that, I’m just hurt. ‘But maybe I can find a little happiness with someone else in me!’
‘Tinkle time!’ interjects Nat loudly, attempting to yank us both up from our chairs by our hands.
