Chapter 19
Present day
Everyone always assumed he was Scottish.
It was a reasonable assumption. His last name was familiar to any Scotch enthusiast. But he wasn’t.
Certainly not in any meaningful way. There was a single bloodline that was old and some details of it had been lost over time.
An old man from Scotland set off for America to make a fresh start, probably alone and lonely.
He’d married a young woman, and then their sons married and had children, and so on, until finally Gavin Aberlour had come into the world.
Both of his maternal grandparents had been French.
One of them came directly from France, the other came from Canada.
Both of their parents had been French as well.
His father’s mother had been German and Polish.
He could never remember her last name. Only the last name Aberlour remained.
Only Aberlour that mattered now. He wasn’t Scottish.
Not really, yet he rightfully claimed the family name to uphold tradition.
The funny thing was, he hated drinking scotch.
Hated it for being so lovely and compelling.
He hated how much he craved it. The softness, the amber colour, the way it danced around the bottom of his glass.
So little, but so mighty. His father had taught him to drink it.
Exhale, then take a sip, and suddenly the taste, which was otherwise far too strong to suit his—at the time—young palate, had mellowed perfectly.
He wasn’t Scottish, but everyone just always assumed he was.
He wasn’t straight, but everyone just always assumed he was.
He hated scotch, but he ordered it every time he entered this shitty bar.
There were a couple of young bucks at a table near the back.
They were loud, and rowdy, a few of them had girlfriends next to them, and they all wore bleary, boozy smiles as they stared at them.
Some looked almost like strangers to each other, though they sat in each other’s laps, so he supposed it was the alcohol talking.
There was only one couple that held an edge of—familiarity.
It was the only couple that caught Aberlour’s gaze.
The woman had dark auburn hair, and her smile was easy and playful as she leaned into the hold of a much larger African American man.
He was listening intently to one of his friends, but every now and again, he’d look down at her, and his smile—
Aberlour shook his head against the thought and looked away quickly.
His phone rang again.
He tipped the scotch back and signalled for Scella to pour another.
She tilted her head to the side, looking at him as if she wanted to ask about the demon keeping him company, but something in his expression must have told her not to.
She silently poured the amber liquid into a small tumbler and slid it across the bar towards him.
His phone rang insistently, repeatedly.
He looked at the scotch that he so very much hated.
He lifted the glass to his mouth and continued to ignore the phone.