Rucked Up Ruse (Scottish Rugby Rebels #2)

Prologue

Finn

Am I dead?

The floor’s cold. Which wouldn’t be a problem if I weren’t face down on it, naked and confused. My cheek’s stuck to the stone tiles, something sticky matted in my hair. Could be champagne, could be lube. My bet’s on both.

I should be laughing. But there’s this quiet dread under my ribs, like I’ve opened my eyes underwater and can’t remember how to swim.

I lift my hungover head and immediately regret it.

Someone groans behind me. Female, definitely.

There’s a leg draped over mine. Smooth, tanned, and freshly waxed.

Painted toes with French tips. But nothing clicks.

I stare, waiting for memory to kick in and say, Aye, mate, you’re grand.

That’s Chloe or Frankie you met at the bar…

Nothing.

This is what I get for thinking I could outrun the shitshow that is my life. For thinking Finn Lennox could forget who he is for a week and go on the epic mother of all benders.

Another groan, a different voice this time.

Two women? Christ, what happened last night?

I push myself upright, slow and careful, because the wrong move might trigger a nuclear event inside my throbbing head.

Dull, thick waves that are synced to my heartbeat.

There’s a fur throw…or something like it…

dangled over the end of the bed. I stagger over, wrap it around me as if I were some cursed Viking chief, and survey the battlefield.

Crumpled silk sheets and crystal glasses with bits of ash floating in the bottom. A teddy on the windowsill, half-soaked and strangled in a lace bra. Knickers on the curtain rod and a single ski boot in the fireplace. Next thing I notice are olives smashed into the sheepskin rug.

Minging.

Even through the hangover haze, I clock the torn foils glinting on the couch. Evidence I didn’t gamble with safety. I bagged up. Thank fuck.

There’s got to be a phone somewhere. Not mine, that’s still in Scotland. But someone’s. I need to know what time it is. What damned day.

I stumble toward a coffee table with half-eaten chocolate strawberries, a tequila bottle, a clutch bag the size of a dinner roll, and a few pills scattered between them.

I don’t do pills, don’t touch that stuff.

Never needed more than rugby, a drink, and a bit of sex to take the edge off.

Gave up booze a year ago. Not one drop, at least until…

Aye, I got steamin’ from Christmas all the way to Hogmanay to numb the pain and the grief of losing a father I never even knew.

I look inside the clutch: tampons, gum, lipstick, and an iPhone. I hit the screen.

1st January. 10:42 am.

New year, new rock bottom.

The lock screen is a golden retriever in a Santa hat. Cute dog that looks like he’s got more emotional stability than me. But, to be honest, that’s not hard.

The upper corner of the screen says St. Moritz, CH. Switzerland. That checks out, sort of. I look back at the fireplace. Must be a ski chalet. A bolt hits my stomach with memory fragments. Kit. That posh git brought me to the Alps for the holidays, right after…

You’d think I’d feel something by now. Shame, maybe. Relief. But it’s just static. I blink hard, hoping this scene will rearrange itself into something familiar. I get only flashes. A hot tub. Fireworks. Me screaming ‘I will never die!’ off the balcony like the hopeless eejit I am.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The throw glides off my shoulders. Slowly, I lower my head.

There’s glitter on my boaby.

Goddammit, Finn.

And inside me there’s a muted scream. I won’t let it out. If I let it out, I won’t stop.

The brunette on the floor giggles in her sleep. I watch her for a second, then the blonde one on the bed. They both look fine, pleased, and blissed out. Like they had a good night and no regrets.

Good. That’s what matters.

I don’t remember everything, but I do remember laughing. Mutual fun for all parties involved, that’s my motto. Even when I’m off my rocker, I’m respectful.

I’d love to say, ‘My maw raised me right.’ But she didn’t raise me. She barely put up with me before she threw me out.

The one on the bed has kicked her duvet off. I get up, shuffle closer, and bend down to tuck it back over her legs. The brunette on the floor’s got nothing. I drape the fur throw over her, hoping that’s enough. I want them warm and safe.

Briefly, I think about lifting her onto the bed, but I don’t want to wake her, and I’m probably too wobbly anyway. Then I pace toward the enormous windows, part the curtain with one shaking hand, and pull it aside.

The view’s too sharp and bright. My eyes blur, then refocus.

Whitewashed Alps, chalets – no, lodges? cabins?

– stacked like biscuits. Swiss flags flap everywhere, red with that prim white cross.

It’s pretty, in a way that almost pisses me off.

The Highlands are rougher and wetter. Gloomier and grittier, but also more honest.

I should miss home.

But ‘home’ is a weird word. Doesn’t sit right in my mouth. Not sure what it means, or exactly what I’m meant to miss. Certainly not the former mining sinkhole that’s Duncraig where I had to move when I signed the contract as a flanker last March. Maybe my team. The Stirling Rebels aren’t half bad.

Below, on the snowy street, someone’s got a camera pointed at the hotel entrance. A long lens. Paparazzi. Or I’m paranoid. I flinch away from the window. I need to leave. Find Kit and deck him. Or perhaps thank him. Depends on what happened here.

A knock at the door. The blonde woman lets out a little sigh.

Another knock.

Jesus. Pull it together.

I shuffle to the door, and inch it open. Kit Lascelles-Finch, right on cue, wearing sunglasses indoors like a wanker. God knows what he’s hiding beneath them. He’s always been up to something.

We met at the academy in our late teens. A privately educated toff and a lad from the schemes, two players who hated authority more than each other. We mostly lost touch after he flamed out of the sport. I went to two of his birthday parties. After that, just the odd social media sighting.

So why the hell did I call him on Christmas Eve?

Because I didn’t know who else to phone, and I was fucking wrecked and needed out.

‘Finlay Lennox! You’re alive,’ he declares. ‘But barely, by the looks of it.’

My full name in his Etonian lilt makes me want to puke, but that’s probably the tequila. ‘Where the fuck were you, man?’

‘Left shortly before three.’ A sleazy grin spreads over his face. ‘You said you wanted both sisters to yourself.’

A surge of nausea creeps up my throat. ‘Sisters?’

‘Technically stepsisters, so relax. No blood, just old money.’ He lifts a shoulder, still grinning.

‘And who am I to stand in the way of you shagging nobility? Something about “bridging the class divide” and proving “rugby players aren’t just brawn”.

’ His grin kicks up another notch. ‘Well done, you.’

‘Jesus, Kit. What the hell?’ But I don’t ask for details. I don’t want them.

‘You were in quite a state.’ Another lazy shoulder roll. ‘We all self-destruct in our own way. Yours happens to be scandalous shagging. Could be worse. Breakfast or a round of skiing?’

I let out a pained groan. ‘You wish.’

‘I see. Come to Badrutt’s when you’re ready to face the world again.’

‘Don’t think so, mate.’ I shut the door and lean against it, heart tripping over itself.

Finn Lennox. Professional rugby player. Casual power shagger. Regular fuckup.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Just a glimpse.

Bile rises when the glass throws my da’s eyes straight back at me.

The same light shade of blue, the same look and the face…

All of it. I don’t want his fucking eyes.

I don’t want anything from him. I wish I could delete him from my consciousness, the way he did with me. Until it was too late to fix things.

The panic claws up so fast I have to turn away. It starts in my spine. My throat clamps shut. Vision tunnels. I brace myself on the doorframe. Try to breathe, but the air won’t go in. My chest seizes, heartbeat’s gone rabid.

C’mon. Breathe. In. Out. In and out.

I picture the pitch. The sound of studs on turf. A line-out call. Anything but this.

Gradually, the iron band around my torso loosens.

There’s a hollow in my chest where something else should be. And perhaps I went on this bender to fill it. Or maybe I did it hoping someone would notice. No fucking clue.

I know only one thing for sure. Whatever happened here the past few days, it’s gonna cost me.