Chapter 2
Chapter Two
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER, ON ALL HALLOWS EVE…
F reya
My frenemy Patrick Paterson runs a hand over his square jaw as he eyes my client. “So, you’re telling me that on the night in question, the one where you claim your boyfriend attempted to accost you, you had on…a red dress? One that the jury can clearly see resembles a nightgown more than an outfit. Wouldn’t a woman wear a dress like that in order to seduce her man, to make him?—”
“My Lord, surely my learned colleague is not implying something derogatory about my client!” I’m seething. It’s the old boys’ club’s defense, placing a female victim at fault for her own murder or assault because her skirt was too short. I know Patrick isn’t this backward of a thinker; he’s a staunch feminist, but he’ll do anything to win.
Raised an islander, I’m not willing to compromise my morals. My values enter those imposing courtroom doors with me and stick. I will win.
I pop up from my chair and flip my icy blonde hair over my shoulder to prove my point. “My client’s outfit has nothing to do with this case. Surely, we have evolved from the days when we judge someone’s character by their looks. Or their clothing.” I shift my weight, bringing attention to the stilettos I wear. “I love fashion. It doesn’t make me a dummy. I had to work my ass?—”
“Language, Ms. Burnes.”
“I apologize, my Lord. I meant that I’ve worked hard to become successful enough to purchase this black Gucci suit I wear.” There are six women on the twelve-member jury in this civil case. I eye them all. “And it looks good, right?”
I get a few nods and smiles from the more progressive women. And poison darts from two others, clutching their pearls as they shake their heads at my red-soled shoes and the fact that I wear nothing underneath the buttoned suit jacket.
“My Lord, may I say, I don’t dress like this for any man.” I stress my point while trying to invalidate Patrick’s. “I do it for myself. Because I like how I look. I feel good. I feel like myself, my Lord. But in doing so, I am not inviting assault. Grown adults should be able to exercise self-control.”
The white-haired judge gives a heavy sigh. “Yes, I believe you are most likely correct, Ms. Burnes. Let us move on, Mr. Paterson.”
“Thank you, my Lord.” I hide the victorious smile that lights up my insides .
Patrick moves on. I sink back down in my seat. The judges are all starting to get used to me. The male lawyers know me by now; dare I say, they’ve stopped admiring my calves openly.
On the floor of the courtroom, they’re starting to fear me.
Later, when we’re done for the day, I sail past Patrick, pulling my coat tighter around me in the fall breeze, eager to get home and change into my costume. Pretty autumn leaves swirl around us.
He reaches out, snapping a leaf up between a finger and thumb. He hands it to me. “For you, my dear.”
“Thanks.” I take the pretty leaf, twirling it between my fingers. Red with gold tips. Once we step into the fresh air and onto the concrete steps at the front of the courthouse, we’re no longer enemies. The solicitor crowd in Glasgow is close—brutal warriors by day, partners in partying by night. “You’re still coming tonight? Even though I kicked your ass in there?”
He raises his brows jokingly. “Isn’t All Hallows Eve a night for prayer and fasting?”
“Nope,” I say. “Drinking and debauchery.”
“Freya, Freya, Freya. You’re going to be the death of me.” He gives a deep groan and rolls his eyes. “Of course, I’ll be there. I would never miss the Annual Burnes Bash. I’ll be the cowboy in the black leather chaps for your Samhain party.”
I wince at his words. Samhain is what we Scots call Halloween, but I find All Hallows Eve so much more spectacular for the name of the most important night of the year .
I let it slide.
“Yeehaw, hawt cowboy!” I stretch upward, pecking a platonic farewell kiss on his cheek. “See you tonight!”
Home again, I dive into costume preparations, my sister-in-law Fiona and I talking animatedly as I do our collective makeup. She hurries off to change, and I quickly dress. Time is ticking by, and guests will be here soon.
Fully ready in ten minutes, I strut down the hall like it’s a London catwalk. “I am feeling myself in this costume!”
At the top of our double spiral staircase, I lean down to check my reflection in the spiderweb-covered mirror. This year, I’m wearing a black, long-sleeved dress with the word PURPLE written down the center of my body. Three white lines stretch across both my collarbone and kneecaps, and calf leather, soft-as-velvet knee-high boots streamline the black casing of my marker costume.
My bright purple wig tilts on my head, and I reach up to straighten it.
“Perfect in purple.” I give myself a nod.
My brother’s deep voice fills the landing. “What are you supposed to be? A crayon?”
Embarrassed to be caught checking my costume—again—I stiffen. “I’m a marker. See?” I point at the letters running down my front. “All black plastic with the name of the color in white, with purple at the top.” I point to purple Sasha. “Where the felt-tip marker thingy is.”
He’s got something in the hollow of one palm. On closer look, I see the candied pecans I made for the party. Correction, requested Cheffie to make. I'm not allowed near the stove after an incident involving me, a fire, and a frozen pizza.
He pops one in his mouth. He shrugs. “Same as a crayon.”
“Callum Burnes, you are infuriating.” I start ticking off on my fingers. “A—I told you not to touch the food till the guests arrive.” Callum and his massive men casually grazing a table of snacks can hoover the entire spread in a matter of minutes. “And B—crayons are all one color, AND they don’t write the name of the color on the crayon, just the brand.”
“Yes, they do,” he says.
Hands to my hips, I say, “No, they don’t.”
“They do.” Intent on raising my blood pressure to stroke levels, he crunches on another pecan before saying, “I remember asking Miss Jane what the hell ‘burnt sienna’ was and getting a demerit for language.”
“Let’s agree to disagree—we’re likely both wrong. And you only remember Miss Jane’s class because you had a crush on her. When she was like forty, and you were nine. Gross.”
He gives me that cocksure smile of his. “What can I say? I’m an early bloomer?”
“Ha!” I challenge. “Not in monogamy. That’s fairly new to you.”
“Fiona is the only woman who could tame my Viking blood.” He finishes his illegal snacking and brushes his hands off. His grin drops, his bottle-green gaze going severe. “Speaking of, when will we be getting you married off?”
“Let me see.” I bring my wrist up to glance down at my nonexistent watch. “How about half past NEVER? ”
Tired of the subject, I step from the landing to the top of the stairs, but Callum grabs my arm. “Freya.” He’s pulling me back.
“Yes?”
The look on his face makes the tiny, baby-fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “I’m serious,” he says.
“Callum. We’ve discussed this.” Like, a thousand times. “I don’t need a man to keep me safe.”
“Freya, we’re not your average family. I keep you as safe as I can, but with Fiona to look after now, I’m terrified I’ll miss something and let something slip.” Is that a sheen of tears in my brother’s gaze? I’ve only seen him tear up once, on his wedding day. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
I soften my tone. “I love you, Callum. And I don’t need you to protect me. We have an entire security team to protect our Glasgow Kings. It’s not only up to you.”
“I know, and they do protect this house, this family. It’s your work that scares me. No matter how hard I try—I can’t always get our men inside those courtrooms. You know that.”
“My work,” I say. “I don’t deny it’s a weak spot in our security.”
We’ve had this conversation many times, talking ourselves in circles trying to devise a solution. But I can’t give up law. Without Solicitor Freya, I wouldn’t know who I am or who I’d be.”
“I want you married. I want a man to protect you, care for you?— ”
“No more. Not tonight. Please,” I plead. “It’s our party.” Every year, I throw this bash to bring the two halves of our lives together: our steadfast island family and boisterous Glasgow friends.
He heaves a sigh. “Aye. I know how much you love Samhain?—”
“All Hallows Eve,” I correct. “Aye. My love for the holiday runs deeper than the waters of Loch Morar.”
“I’ll shut my mouth.”
“Thank you, Callum. And don’t think I don’t know your worry comes from a place of love.”
He clears his throat. We Burnes don’t do emotions—conversation over. “Drink?” I ask, knowing we can agree on whisky.
“Yeah. I’m going to see if Fiona is ready. I’ll meet you at the bar in ten.”
“Fiona looks adorable. I just finished her whiskers.” I head down the stairs, knowing full well that his checking on his wife will lead to the newlyweds being unable to keep their paws off one another, and it will be much more than ten minutes before he makes it to the bar.
No problem, I don’t mind drinking alone. And my girls should be arriving early.
Speak of the devil, and she shall appear! As I pass the front door, it flies open, and women from the firm pile in. They’ve come early to share a “quiet” drink with me before the party really kicks into gear.
The women are a flurry of sexy witches, frisky kittens, naughty nurses, and vamped-up vampires. I hug them individually, admiring their gorgeous costumes, then lead them to the Great Hall for a drink. I have everything their skanky little hearts could desire.
We enter the renovated Great Hall through the heavy wooden doors that, after multiple tries, I’ve finally gotten stained with the perfect shade of warm honey. Our iron sconces hang from the white walls, and the room is aglow with flickering candlelight, casting eerie shadows across the walls adorned with webs and black lace, ghosts and ghouls floating overhead. A fire roars in the massive stone fireplace.
Jack-o'-lanterns grin from every corner, their twisted faces adding a slight eeriness to the decor. The air is thick with the scent of pumpkin spice, warming apple cider, and the burning of vanilla-scented candles, creating the heady atmosphere I was striving for. Nailed it!
Tables are laden with the party's signature drink, whisky bottles, candy corn bowls, and caramel apple platters. Cute bartenders serve us, and after sharing a drink with my girls, I excuse myself to greet the steady stream of guests beginning to arrive.
“Everybody on the island is gonna get tipsy!” I sing what I remember of the American pop song, replacing the word club with island, shaking my hips, whisky dribbling on the front of my black dress as I sip at the cup. “I’m getting more on my clothing than in my mouth.” I laugh, bringing the cup to my lips as I attempt another sip. “I think I might be a wee bit wrecked!”
“Go easy, Freya,” Fiona warns. “You don’t want to get sick.”
“Oh, Fiona! Where did you come from!” I eye my wee redheaded sister-in-law .
The petite bundle of rules wears a black, skin-tight, full cheetah-print bodysuit and a pair of cat ears on a hairband. “I’ve been standing here the whole time, silly. Keeping an eye on you. And your wig.” Rising on the balls of her feet, she gives me and my wig—a persona named Sasha—a proper straightening.
“You are adorable, aren’t you Fi-bee?” I tap a finger against her cutely painted black nose, a job I did way earlier in the evening before I’d started drinking. “Your whiskers held up beautifully!”
“Thanks to my makeup artist.” She holds a delicate flute of champagne in one hand, Champers in the other. The wee ginger kitten hates me and goes everywhere with her, never leaping from her arms.
“Cheers, sister!” I rattle the “filled it myself,” overly full glass of whisky against her champagne flute, sloshing liquor everywhere.
“How about switching to water.” She puts her glass on a table, her face wrinkling with displeasure as she one-handedly wipes her hand on a napkin. “Or a nice cup of tea. Or cheese and bread to soak up all that alcohol?”
“Drink up. Everybody on this island needs to be tipsy tonight.”
Fiona’s brow wrinkles. “We’re not on the island. We’re in Glasgow.”
“Shite! You’re right. Everybody in the city was getting tipsy. Hey! That sounds even better. Thanks, friend.” I give her a few bars of the new lyrics.
She seems less than impressed .
Planting a motherly hand on her hip, she shoots me an “I mean business” look. Her brows go sky high as she looks me over from the toes of my knee-high black high-heeled Saint Laurent boots to purple Sasha resting on the top of my head.
She shakes her head and says, “I think I need to go get Callum.”
“Gah! No way. Callum is noooooo fun.” I reach out a fingertip, bopping her lightly on the tip of her nose again. “I, on the upper hand, am fun. Very”— bop— “fun.”
“And on the other hand…ye might be having just a wee bit too much fun.” Fiona murmurs something else about getting my brother to lay eyes on me.
“No thanks, babe.” I lean down, planting a smooch on her soft cheek, getting a waft of Chanel. “Oh, you smell good. New perfume?”
Already knowing the answer. My brother bought it for her; even though she married into a bottomless bank account, she’d never spend that kind of money on herself.
“Callum got it for me. I adore it. Wear it every day.” She leans in and whispers, “But I could never splurge like that on a tiny bottle of liquid.”
“You’ll learn. I’ll teach you,” I promise.
I twirl off with a curtsy and a bow to address my other guests. “Everybody in the city gettin’ tipsy.” I sashay away, calling, “Everybody in the city—is getting tipsy!”
“Heck, yes, we are!” a familiar voice calls out.
Finally! Someone ready to party on my level. I look over my shoulder as Kitt strolls up, the American girl who found herself on the wee island where I grew up. She’s practically family, married into our messy little Scottish mafia world.
“Yeeeeehaw!” Kitt calls, looking adorably American in her cowgirl boots, leather hat, and cut-off shorts. I’ll have to find Patrick later and get a pic of the two Wild West costumes together. She laughs, clinking her glass against mine. She holds one of my most prized creations, the Spooksicle—a fruity, frozen vodka drink served in a glass that smokes with dry ice as you consume it.
White puffs of air swirl from the open top of her skull-shaped cup.
“Yeehaw to you too, you crazy American bird!” I hold up my glass now with only a splash of alcohol in it with a cheer.
“Cheers,” she says. Lowering her voice, she pulls me in closer. “Hey—I just saw Fiona striding off to find your brother. I think your party is about to be shut down?—”
“Hell no. That is so not happening,” I say, borrowing Kitt’s LA tone, then quickly trade it out for my best cowgirl twang. “Ya’ll have fun now, you hear!”
Leaving Kitt, I make my way through the tight crowd.
Exiting the hall, I breeze through the kitchen, thanking the caterers yet again for their yummy party food, and slip out the back door.
The temperature has dropped since I made my way home from work this afternoon, and a blast of air cools my face, which is flushed from the drink.
The garden is alive with fall colors. Golden leaves cascade from the trees; carpeting the grass, we’ve just mowed with swaths of reds, oranges, and yellows. Pumpkin lanterns flicker with an ethereal light, casting eerie shadows that dance across the expanse of the garden. The crisp air carries the faint scent of woodsmoke from the bonfire that crackles merrily by the overturned boat bar.
Callum tried to axe my fire under “safety terms,” but I would not let him. Samhain fires strengthen the bond of the community; communal fire on the final day of October says it’s the start of winter, so let's make sure we all stay warm together!
Fire and food will keep our bonds strong.
Tables groan under the weight of decadent, savory food and colorful gourds while my costumed guests mingle around the parquet dance floor we’ve installed for the party. I cross over the parquet, pausing in the center to strike a pose.
I move further into the enchanted garden, holding my empty glass in the air. “Drink up all! All of youse!”
A cheer rises from the crowd.
On my way to the bar, I find a group of my law firm girls dancing with some islanders from home. Happy to see my two worlds mixing, I greet, kiss, and shimmy around the crowd.
Carol Ann, a girl from the island I think of like a younger cousin, stomps her boots to the music, shaking her dark curls; the ends are dyed a bright orange in honor of the holiday. She wears a cape and pulls it around her, swooshing it through the air.
A huge fan of vampire romance novels, Carol Ann smiles at me, revealing pointy teeth. “I vant to suck yer blood! ”
“Later!” I shout over my shoulder as I pass her, making a beeline for the bar. “Need more whisky first!”
“Good! I like blood with high alcohol content best,” Carol Ann shouts back.
I turn back over my shoulder, shooting her a grin. “Got you covered!” I say. She laughs as I sprint away for more booze.
“Oooph!” In haste, I’ve run smack-dab into a solid wall of heat and muscle—the scent of cedarwood, bonfire, and masculine energy. I look up to find deep brown, serious eyes staring down at me, rays of heat and intrigue in those dark pupils. Focused on me like I’m the only one standing out here.
The gorgeous man standing before me is Fredrick Frisque, one of my brother’s mates, the French entrepreneur who opened Frisky Whisky , the new distillery and hotspot of Glasgow nightlife. I can’t say he hadn’t caught my attention when he breezed in my front door earlier tonight.
Any straight woman with a pair of eyes and a working vagina notices the man.
Six feet plus. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Angled cheekbones glide down in flat planes to meet a chiseled jaw. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And he makes a damn fine whisky, the very drink I’m searching for now.
Smoky and oaky, with a hint of clove. Warms you from the inside. It’s so yummy going down.
“‘Scuse me, Frisky Freddie.” Hearing my terrible nickname for him, Sir Fredrick holds in a groan. “Got to get to that bottle right there.” I slip past him, grabbing the whisky from behind the bar .
His hand shoots out, grabbing the neck of the bottle I hold. Rude. He eyes my costume. “What are you? A crayon?” Rude AGAIN. His simple statement makes me rethink my entire costume.
Unwilling to give him an ounce of power, I sniff, indignant. “I happen to be a purple marker. It was my favorite of the marker choices when I was little. Everyone in my class knew that, of the collective supplies stored in the center of our group’s table, the purple marker belonged to me. Purple-handled scissors as well.”
“But as you said, those were communal items.”
“And also, as I said, purple was mine.” I glance over at Mr. Too-stoic-to-don-a-costume’s classic look: a dark gray suit with a crisp white button-down. Gold cuff links match the gold of the buttons on his suit jacket. “And what are you supposed to be? Where’s your costume?”
He glances down at the suit in question. “I’m a…blueberry?”
I eye his sleek physique. He’s classically hawt, an adjective I borrow from LA Kitt. There’s no denying it.
“Not a blueberry, hon.” He’s anything but round and juicy. He’s ice-cold, older than me, and slightly bitter. “An elderberry popsicle!”
His brow crinkles like he wants to laugh.
“You’re killing my buzz, Freddie. I need to remedy that fact.” I tilt my head at the whisky. “Can I get that bottle back, now?”
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” He not only holds the delicious liquor further away but reaches out, smoothly taking my glass from my hand.
“Says who?” I punctuate the question with a hiccup. “Oops!”
A large hand wraps around my empty one. “The owner of the whisky you drink.”
I snatch my hand back from his. It was generous to supply my party, but if he thinks he can take my drink…he’s got another thing coming!
I’ve met his type before, thinking he can control a woman in the name of helping her. My brother—whom I adore—is the exact same way. Once he married Fiona, he gave up on trying to overprotect me, smartly re-directing all his father-like protection toward his little wife’s way.
I’m not a sweet Strawberry Grass flower like our native Fiona. She was waiting for a strong man to pluck her from the green grass of our rolling hills. Me?
I’m single as a Pringle, and that’s how I’ll remain.
Black nails glint against my pale skin in the moonlight, starkly contrasting with his gorgeous olive complexion as I reach for the cup. “I’ll have that back now, thank you very much.”
“Not a chance.” Holding his arm out straight, he slowly tips the cup over, letting the last tiny drop of his delicious whisky roll down the side of the glass. His eyes never once leave mine during the slow, painful process.
“Pff! I’m off. I haven’t even tried the Spooksicle yet.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand as if it’s my idea to switch from whisky to vodka. My bare feet sink into the lawn, cold, damp, and lovely against my skin as I leave him.
Wait.
Am I being rude?
I am the host, after all.
I turn to face his disapproval. “Shall I get you one as well?”
He’s gone.
I hover as I glance around to find him.
He’s gone, gone. Gone Girl gone. I shrug.
He smells like a Persian god, but good riddance.