6. Dirty Dancing in Scotland
DECEMBER 2038
DURING CHAPTERS 19 AND 20 IN SINFUL LIKE US
We listened to "Baba O'Riley" by The Who, plus all the music mentioned in the bonus while writing this scene.
Character List:
Jack Highland - 27
Jane Cobalt - 23
Maximoff Hale - 23
Charlie Cobalt - 21
Beckett Cobalt - 21
Sullivan Meadows - 20
Joana Oliveira - 19
Luna Hale - 19
Bodyguards:
Oscar Oliveira - 31 Omega (Current Client: Charlie Cobalt)
Farrow Keene - 28 Omega (Current Client: Maximoff Hale)
Thatcher Moretti - 28 Omega (Current Client: Jane Cobalt)
O’Malley - 27 Epsilon (Current Client: Beckett Cobalt)
Paul Donnelly - 27 Omega (Current Client: Xander Hale)
Akara Kitsuwon - 27 Omega Lead (Current Client: Sullivan Meadows)
Quinn Oliveira - 21 Omega (Current Client: Luna Hale)
**
PAUL DONNELLY
THIS TRIP COULDN’T have come at a better time. It’s hard to even think it—but I didn’t want to be in Philly. Not this week.
Christmas lights twinkle in the dark Scottish pub. Fireplace is crackling, and a TV is turned on, volume low. Woulda cut some people off the guest list if I could’ve, but at least I’m here as some type of pseudo-bodyguard and as Farrow’s friend.
Since Xander stayed back home to attend his therapy sessions, I’m not getting paid to be here as security, but I’m helping out because I want to. Comms are working alright, and I have the earpiece in my ear, sitting with SFO on the sofas and surveying the pub while some of the famous ones drink.
“Cobalt princess is getting wasted,” Oscar narrates.
Jane has a silly grin on her face and sways near the fireplace further away from us. Her cheeks are rosy while she’s cupping another glass of whiskey. It’s just as fun for me being on the sober side of things.
I’ve never needed liquor to have a good night.
And I see that Luna and Sulli are hanging out with their cousin near the fireplace. Luna is wearing a black knitted sweater with green stars. I wonder if she made it herself.
I smile, then look to my friend. “Nah,” I tell Oscar. “Cobalts are immune to alcohol. They’ve got extra ordinary tolerances.” I purposefully chop up that one word into two.
Farrow raises his brows at me. “They’ve been drunk before.”
“Define drunk,” I smirk.
“Plastered on the floor.”
“Never seen it.” I have. But I’m not tearing down the immortalized strength of the Cobalt Empire. Only building that baby up.
Farrow looks to Thatcher. The most stoic bodyguard remains completely quiet and swigs a water. He’s dating a Cobalt now, so his loyalties could be tied more strongly to them to where he’s not going to mention a drunken incident.
But partly, I’m thinking he’s just quiet because he’s trying not to focus too hardcore on Jane tonight.
Oscar pipes in, “Eliot. I’ve seen it.”
I motion to him with my water. “Stop firing shots at my lion cubs.”
“Our cubs. And it was like a squirt gun shot, bro.”
I blow him a middle-finger kiss.
Oscar’s grin fades. He returns to hawk-eyeing his sister who’s chatting with the bartender across the pub.
Now that Oscar is looking in that direction, I can feel the heat of a pair of eyes on me, and an underlying tension inside this pub pulls taut again. I’m doing my best to avoid the guy who’s trying to bait me at the bar.
Unfortunately, I slip a teeny-tiny glare at him. He’s grinning. One of those shit eating grins.
“Ignore him,” Farrow says quietly beside me.
“I’m trying.” It’s not as easy as it should be. O’Malley is a prick, and God, he gets on my last fucking nerve, which is usually hard for anyone to reach. And I hate that he’s reaching that place. I don’t want him thinking he’s special or anything.
“Oslie rumors have to die down, right?” Quinn asks all of us. He’s on his phone, probably checking the internet.
Oscar tenses at the ship name for him and Charlie. Celebrity Crush just recently ran an article stating SFO is fake, and we’re all dating our clients.
Except they listed Beckett and me as a couple.
I’m also avoiding my ex-client. Beckett is at a high-top table near a window and chatting with Charlie, and the only time I ever look over there is out of the corner of my eye. Not for long either. It clenches my stomach, and I’d rather not feel that feeling.
Like I lost something.
Like I lost someone.
“It’ll be forgotten in a few weeks,” Akara assures. He’s been quiet tonight too. “Don’t worry about it, guys. Most of the ship names haven’t even been trending.”
Some have.
Oslie.
Kitsulli.
“LunaQuinn?” Quinn asks since he must not have looked.
“Defunct,” Oscar says.
“It’s not even a creative ship name,” I state. I wouldn’t ship it.
Oscar turns to me. “What would you have gone with?”
I can’t come up with any combination of Quinn and Luna’s name that I like. I look to my friend. “Make-Believe.”
He laughs.
Quinn even smiles. And it eases the tightness in my muscles.
Jane, Luna, and Sulli all laugh at something, the girls smiling together, and I drink some water and find myself staring. But it’s the happiest place to look at—besides at Farrow, who keeps grinning over at Maximoff.
This is only our second full day in Scotland, and an easy-going vacation has seemed less and less likely. Too many people have dragged baggage on this trip.
Like how Thatcher is pretending to be Banks, so he can’t outright embrace his girlfriend right now.
Tony the Toolbox is on Jane’s detail. (Hate that for her.)
Oscar is more concerned about his little sister this trip than his actual client Charlie.
The Rooster (aka Will Rochester) is here as Sulli’s boyfriend, and Akara’s brows keep wrinkling like he’s been possessed by a jealousy demon.
Akara is also not on good terms with Thatcher, his best friend.
And my status has been Ignore Beckett/Ignore O’Malley since I boarded the plane and we landed in a foreign country.
Despite all that shit, I’m still glad I’ve been invited. Scotland is about location scouting for my best friend’s wedding. And I’ve imagined that day long before Farrow got with Maximoff Hale.
‘Cause I knew Farrow would get married one day. That it mattered to him. It’s what he’s always wanted: a husband to love and who loves him back. A lifelong soul mate in this world. His wedding is one of the brightest spots in the horizon for me, and I’m looking forward to it. Just wish it’d come sooner.
Not years down the line like he keeps saying.
Not sure if I’m gonna be the best man or not, though. It’ll probably go to Oscar.
I return my gaze to the fireplace. Luna’s back is angled towards us, but Jane is looking directly at her boyfriend, and he’s still pretending to be her boyfriend’s identical twin.
My grin spreads. “Cobalt princess is making googly eyes at Banks.”
Thatcher frowns and braves a single peek at Jane.
She beams in response.
Oscar tries not to laugh. “You’ve really done a number on her, Moretti.”
Thatcher grinds his teeth to stop from smiling.
Farrow pops a bubblegum bubble and sees Jane ogling her boyfriend. “Shit.”
“She’s not that obvious,” Quinn tries to defend, but he winces when Jane smooths her lips and clearly eye-fucks Thatcher, her gaze lustful.
“Legitimate googly eyes,” Oscar agrees with me.
Akara assesses. “Yeah, that’s not good.” He pushes his hair back. “Someone needs to go warn her.”
“Not me,” Oscar retracts himself fast. He’s too busy trying to keep an eye on his sister.
“I’m out,” I pull myself out of contention, mostly because I’d rather not be the one to tell Jane she shouldn’t eye-fuck her boyfriend. Seems sad.
“I’ll go, you fuckers.” Farrow stands.
She is gonna be his future cousin-in-law. Oscar and I cheers him with our waters.
Once he’s gone, I break away from the sofas and go to the single-stall bathroom. After a quick leak, I wash my hands, old music thumping through speakers.
“Thank your lucky stars you’re here,” I tell myself in the mirror, drying my hands on a paper towel. “Could be back home and dealing with that shit.”
I don’t want to be there. It’s the main thing that’s running through my head tonight.
I just want to be here.
Gratitude is a funny thing to feel. It’s like being inside a bouncy castle, and with every footfall, I still feel airborne.
I breathe in a big breath.
My hair looks alright. I don’t bother fixing any pieces. I think I’m the hottest motherfucker in the pub, regardless if anyone tells me otherwise.
“‘I’m in the prime of my youth.’” I chuck the balled paper towel in the trash. “‘And I’m only going to be young once.’” The movie quote from Stand by Me always makes me grin, and I kick open the door and mutter the next part, “‘Yeah, but you’re gonna be stupid for the rest of your life.’”
The bathroom is in the back of the pub, and as soon as I exit into this darkened area, I spot a girl twirling in a circle to the melody of “Heroes” by David Bowie. She swings her arms left and right, not paying much attention to anyone else.
My lips begin to lift, and I take a quick glimpse of the rest of the pub. Most of SFO has broken up from the sofas, and really, I don’t feel called to go back there right away.
I slip into Luna’s world. “All alone?”
She keeps dancing. “Not all alone.”
I nod my head to the easy beat. “Who’s with you?” I find myself moving in sync with her, left and right.
She smiles. “You.”
I grin. “Just in time.”
Luna faces me while we shuffle. Left, right. Left, right. “Or we’re both early. Centuries from now other life forms could beam up humans, and we missed our chance.”
“Better early than late,” I tell her. “Being early means you don’t really know what you’re missing.”
She nods. “Being late is full of longing.” She speaks softly, and I smile over at her, wanting to take her hand and twirl her in a circle.
I definitely ate her out in October. I can still feel the warmth of her against my lips.
I definitely got chewed out from her dad before that happened.
I definitely could see myself in boiling water again with him. Hopefully not for sleeping with his daughter. Hopefully I won’t ever put her in a bad position with her father—but it’s hard not to look at Luna and be mesmerized.
I like hearing what she has to say. I like seeing her be herself without second-guessing. I like too much of this interaction, and I don’t see why I have to stop.
Her dad.
But he’s not here.
Luna flings her hands up into the air and waggles them as “Call Me” by Blondie starts playing. I join her and we stalk one another with a foot-jive dance pattern that takes hold, and I’m grinning over at Luna who smiles back like we’re in some sort of race together.
Comms crackle in my ear, but I’m not paying much attention at first. She catches my wrist, and she tries to slip between my legs. But I spin her in a circle. “Call me!” she shouts.
“Call me anytime,” I sing off-key, our eyes latching.
She naturally whirls around, her back sliding against my chest and ass up against my pelvis. Blood runs hot through my veins, and I hold her hips while we shift together to the beat. Sweat is building against my skin. She bumps against my dick, more forceful than sensual, and I thrust against her ass all the same. We’re laughing between singing.
Even though heat ramps inside me the longer our bodies slip and grope, there’s something emotional about touching Luna that supersedes the sexual—I don’t understand it. But I’m not trying to.
I hear Oscar in my ear. “I’m trying to save all the adult diapers for Donnelly.”
No idea what that’s about, but with one hand, I click my mic and laugh over comms. “Appreciation and all that.”
Songs keep changing.
We keep dancing, getting sloppier with our movements and tripping over one another even though she’s sober—I’m sober. Sweat glistens on her cheeks, and adrenaline is igniting my soul. As “Baba O’Riley” by the Who plays, we both sing the lyrics at the top of our lungs.
“‘I get my back into my living,’” I sing and lift her up in a front piggyback. Cupping her ass with my hands, Luna holds onto my shoulders, and the music explodes in the pub—so we sing louder, our eyes locked in the moment. She’s bouncing on my dick.
My pulse thrums against the beat, against the feeling of my hands lifting her whole body, against the way her amber eyes attach to mine, and our grins burst within the lyrics and within her movements, up and down.
I shift to the beat and help her bounce on me.
Life.
It should be about moments like this. Not the things I’ve left behind but the things that open up my lungs and make me breathe. I’ve always thought it. Always think it.
I can’t count the minutes this lasts. It could veer into an hour, and I wouldn’t know. Time seems irrelevant when you’re inside something beautiful.
But I try not to hate when it ends. It’s no good hating things when it feels a thousand times better loving. When I lower her feet to the ground and her smile softens with mine, she balls the sleeves of her knitted sweater into her fists.
Her eyes are still on me. “You might be Earth’s greatest dance partner.”
“Just Earth’s?” I smirk, but our attention veers as the music deadens and the television begins playing. Everyone hushes to watch a trailer for the newest season of We Are Calloway. Honestly, I tune out a lot of it since it’s mostly footage of the car crash, and I’m not looking to revisit one of the worst nights I’ve had since being a bodyguard.
Luna is checking her cellphone instead of staring at the TV.
Once it ends, Farrow cuts the tension. “You could’ve made that a little happier, Jack.” He teases the exec producer.
“Yeah.” Akara smiles. “Way to go, Jack.”
“What were you thinkin’, Jack,” I pipe in from across the pub.
“Dammit, Jack,” Quinn sighs.
“Yeah, fuck you, Highland,” Oscar says playfully.
Jack is smiling brightly, and after a brief conversation about security and paperwork with the docuseries, we’re all moseying our way outside. Luna heads out with Sulli, and I’m hoping to get outside before O’Malley decides to attach himself to me
Cold nips my skin as I hustle out the doors. For the briefest second, I bypass Beckett—my shoulder almost brushes against his chest—and I feel his eyes grazing against me. But I don’t stop and check.
He doesn’t call my name.
Doesn’t call me back.
My insides feel like cement. In time, maybe the uncomfortable feelings of what happened will just pass like a faded memory. And it won’t hurt anymore.
I turn on the ignition to a blue van for Sulli and Luna. “It’s fucking freezing,” Sulli says loudly as she slips inside behind Luna.
Then, I start cracking the ice off the windshield. When I go to the rear windshield and break up more ice, I hear a couple voices.
“Quinn!” Joana shouts.
I swing my head in the direction of the pub. She’s dragging a fuming Quinn back from Oscar.
“You forced me here,” Beckett sneers at someone, but I’m not in view of whoever he’s angry at. Maybe Charlie or Moffy. Jane is too drunk for him to pick a fight with.
And before I can consider coming in as back-up, O’Malley steps right in front of me. Exhaust gurgles out of the pipes, and my hot breath already smokes the air.
His lips curve upward. He looks around. Probably for Farrow. Confidence puffs out his chest when he realizes I’m alone.
It’s just me behind this vehicle.
I’m glaring and maybe I should be glad that he just cuts to the chase when he says, “Hey, I heard your dad is being let out of prison this week.”
Why do you care?
I swallow something sharp. It’s hard taking shit from O’Malley. I hate when he brings up my family like he can say whatever he wants without consequence. He’s just trying to get under my skin.
I know that.
I hate that it’s working.
So I try to stay calm, but I’m vibrating inside with frustrations and raw anger.
“Yeah, he’s getting let out,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” O’Malley cocks his head, and I sense what’s coming. “Looks like you’re missing your meth-head family reunion?—”
I tackle him to the ground, and O’Malley lets out a heavy grunt. Red-hot fury bleeds through me, and I lift a fist just as a pair of hands wrenches me off O’Malley.
“Donnelly,” Akara whispers forcefully in part concern, part warning.
I shrug him off me and immediately spin on my heels. Turning away from O’Malley, from Akara, and just walking away, back towards the closed pub.
Just to cool off.
I stare up at the night sky with burning eyes.
He’s getting let out of prison. When I go home to Philly, my dad will be there, and I don’t know if I want to go back. I pinch my eyes, then sniff hard and stuff my hands in my jacket, fumbling around for my phone.
I fit earbuds in my ears, and without thinking much, I scroll through a playlist and my finger hovers over a song I heard in the pub tonight.
The Who. I press play and picture Luna singing with me. My lips quirk, and my lungs relax for a second. Instinctively, I glance back at the blue van where Luna and Sulli are waiting. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see her.
She’s just in my head. A recent memory—one that I don’t want to fade.
“Make-Believe,” I mutter in the cold. And I wonder if that’s her and me.