Chapter 8
Finn
Back at the party, the vibe’s gone staler than day-old crisps.
I fish an Irn Bru out of the fridge and crack it open, letting the fizz hit my tongue.
Bodies slump on sofas, and someone’s out cold in a party hat.
Polly’s shouting about going to a club, her makeup smudged beneath one eye.
Next to her, a man who has anaesthetist vibes is doing bumps of ket off his phone.
I’ve never understood why people think athletes are the unhinged ones. If they want to see people getting off their absolute fucking tits, go spend a night with doctors. They’re the worst. Probably because they shake hands with death every day.
‘Lennox! You coming?’ Scottie appears, keys jangling.
‘You’ve been drinking. Who’s driving?’
‘Mikey’s girl. Or I can drive back to Duncraig with you later? Polly said we’re off to The Drum Vault.’
‘Naw, mate.’ I take another swig. I’d rather pry off my toe nails one by one than dance to house remixes with a fake smile on my face tonight. ‘Head’s wrecked.’
‘We don’t have a game tomorrow, ya boring wee shite.’ His gaze tightens with suspicion. ‘Where’s the pool menace?’
‘She went home.’
‘Did you scare her off already?’
I run my tongue along my front teeth. ‘Shut up, Kerr.’
‘Awright. I like her.’ Scottie’s swaying slightly. ‘But that pool game? Damn, the state of that.’
I let out a low sound through my nose. That memory’s already got me fucked.
How Theo decimated Scottie without breaking a sweat.
Those blue eyes focussed, that little smile when she sank the black.
Confident, deadly, and magnetic. That wasn’t the polite, buttoned-up planner who triple-checks the calendar and dodges compliments like they’re knives.
No, that was the version who fucks you up and walks away whistling.
And Jesus Christ, I wanted to follow.
Couldn’t stop staring at that arse – high and round, bent over.
All I could think about was stepping in behind her.
Hand on her hip, mouth at her neck. Tugging those tights down nice and slow while she lined up the shot like nothing was happening.
Letting her sink the black with me balls-deep and biting back a groan. And—
‘Weird though.’ Scottie interrupts me, and I’m glad.
I’m too old to run around parties with a hard-on.
‘What?’ I shoot back, a bit too harshly.
‘You, Lennox. Actually caring.’
‘I care about loads of things.’
‘Rugby. Gym. Video games. Your silly hair.’ He counts on his fingers. ‘Never women as far as I can tell. I mean, not in that way.’
I drain half the can. The sugar coats my teeth, but the drink does nothing to budge the weight behind my sternum. As if I’ve swallowed a bag of cement.
Theo.
Fucking hell.
I almost kissed her.
Those fucking lips.
They were right there. Her breath brushed my chin, body pressed to mine, tits crushed to my chest, soft and real and fucking lethal. She wanted it, and I knew she’d let me.
But then she jerked back as if I’d burned her and left me standing in the middle of that room with my heart pounding, my cock hard, and every last nerve tuned to her like she was still touching me.
‘Earth to Lennox!’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘I said we’re going to the club now. Last chance.’
‘Hard pass. But have fun, ya prick.’ I give Scottie a whack on his back.
After they leave, I slump onto the couch, phone in hand. My thumb hovers over Theo’s name. I want to text her, but what would I even say?
Sorry I nearly kissed you for real when we’re supposed to be faking it?
The screen goes dark, and I toss it aside.
This is getting far too complicated, and she’s not interested.
She’s polite, professional, and probably plotting my murder in her sleep for messing with her.
I keep telling myself the ache in my gut is the sugar from the Irn Bru, and that I didn’t want to follow her home and ask what the hell just happened.
Instead, I do what any emotionally stunted man does when things get too real: fuck all.
Time to get all that liquid out of my system. I squeeze past strangers in the narrow hallway, mumbling ‘sorry’ and ‘shift yer arse please’ until I reach the toilet door. It’s locked.
‘Finn Lennox. Thought you’d bolted.’
The blonde girl in the sequins. What’s her name? Tara? Tina? A T-name that isn’t Theo. She staggers toward me, glass empty but smile full. Sequins catch the dim light, winking as if she’s in on some joke I haven’t heard.
‘Just waiting for the loo,’ I say, nodding towards the door.
‘I saw your girlfriend leave.’ She inches closer.
Her perfume hits me first, some decadent stuff. I don’t care. I want to smell Theo.
‘You two beefing?’ she asks.
‘Nope.’
Her hand lands on my chest. ‘Don’t tell me you’re actually dating her.’
The wall bumps against my shoulders as I step back. ‘We are, aye.’
She laughs. ‘Doesn’t look like the type who’d let you blow off steam the way you need to.’
Her body leans into mine like she’s already made the decision for both of us. Not a single mixed signal. Only sex on a plate, ready to snack.
‘You’re way too hot to be pretending not to want this.’ Her fingers trail down my stomach, hovering at my belt.
Six months ago, I’d have her jeans around her ankles in the cupboard by now. Even last month, I might’ve flirted back.
But tonight?
All I can think about is Theo’s face when she left. The panic in her eyes. How fast she pulled away.
I can’t fuck this up.
To my surprise, my dick agrees. Couldn’t be less interested as Sequin Girl leans in.
‘Don’t,’ I say, my hand firm on her shoulder. ‘Already taken.’
‘Are you serious?’ Her eyes widen. ‘I’ve seen you handle two at once, so…’
‘Stop it.’
She takes a step back, her face is twisted between offence and confusion. ‘Your loss.’
The bathroom door opens and some bloke stumbles out.
I slip past him and lock the door behind me.
Silence floods the room and presses in. I turn on the tap, full blast. Let it roar, just so I don’t have to hear the thoughts racing around in my skull.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Same face.
Same front. Same broken bits stitched behind the eyes.
Theo walked away. And that blonde? Didn’t care, just wanted a show. Neither of them meant to gut me. But it lands like they did.
It starts in my chest. A slow, sick compression.
The water keeps running, but there’s not enough sound to cover what’s clawing its way up.
I grip the sink. Palms clammy, neck damp, pulse kicking like it’s trying to escape my throat.
This used to happen when I was a boy. After the shouting, not during.
Afterwards, when my mum didn’t speak to me, didn’t look at me.
When it was over. When it was supposed to be fine.
Don’t fucking fall apart. Not here. Not now.
I blink hard. But the heat stays. Pressed behind my eyes, thick and burning. Bit by bit, the world pulls back as if someone hit mute. The room narrows. I swear I smell mildew and second-hand smoke. Back to sixteen. Bin bag in one hand, the other braced against the door my maw had just slammed.
That time, she meant it. ‘You’re a waste of space, Finn. Piss off. And don’t come back.’
My body tenses for impact, even when nothing touches me. Everything feels temporary. If I move wrong, the world will teeter, crumble, and I’ll be locked out again. My body registers the old gut-deep, stomach-sick panic. That cold rush down my back, my chest clamping shut.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste metal and grip the sink harder, trying to focus on the cold porcelain. On the sound of the water. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait. Let the wave pass. Let it claw at my ribs, but not pull me under.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
By five, the background noise starts to return. By two, my heart’s still hammering, but at least it’s not trying to punch through my ribcage anymore. I open my eyes. The lad in the mirror looks like me but drained and shaken. I splash water on my face, but it doesn’t help.
Fuck.
This is why I don’t do feelings. Why I don’t date.
Why I keep it light and filthy and forgettable.
Because when it starts meaning something, it stops being safe.
I felt it tonight. Her hand in mine, her eyes locked on my mouth.
But nobody fucking stays. Not when you’re too loud and too much and too fucked up.
Not when they catch a glimpse of the real you and realise there’s no fixing it.
Theo doesn’t know what I am. Doesn’t know about the kid who learned to perform to get fed and not beaten up, who got good at jokes so he didn’t get a thrashing. Who clawed his way out of a piss-stained stairwell and decided that if he wasn’t wanted, he could at least be watched.
She doesn’t see what’s under the charm yet. And I hope she never does.
I know what it costs to carry someone else’s damage.
And Theo’s already carrying enough. She’s bending over backwards to make this work.
To keep her job and save Charlie’s agency.
To protect me from every whisper and fake headline and sleazy bawbag at a party who thinks he can say whatever he wants.
There’s no way I’m dragging her down with me.
Even if part of me wants to close the space between us anyway, counting down to the next time I get to touch her.