Chapter 9
Scottie
Three weeks without her, and I’ve turned into a stalker.
She wasn’t at The Wallace the last Tuesday in December.
She wasn’t at the team’s Christmas party, either.
And I still don’t know why. Of course, I didn’t text her, I’m not going to cause her grief with Nevin simply because I can’t stand not knowing.
Now I’m pressing my back against the whitewashed walls of Nevin’s sister’s mews. Everyone here is eager to forget it’s mid-January and dark by four o’clock.
Aye, this party’s shite.
Christmas was shite, too.
Three days in Oban. Most of my siblings couldn’t be arsed.
Katie didn’t come at all. Neither did Evan.
Work, uni, whatever. Erin was mostly out with her pals.
David, Mum, and I played a bit of Scrabble.
That was it. Ferry horns in the background.
Salt and peat smoke seeping through the rotten door seal. Same view, same sounds.
Then I drove back to Duncraig and sat in an empty flat thinking about a woman who isn’t mine to think about.
Finn was gone, too. Off to Switzerland, as it turned out, on the mother of all benders that landed him on national news.
Tosshead. And his new girlfriend just eviscerated me at the pool table.
How could it possibly get worse?
Polly climbs onto her coffee table. ‘Listen up! This party is dead. We’re going to The Drum Vault. Everyone. It’s my birthday, so nobody is allowed to say no.’
I should bolt. I’ve no reason trailing this lot to a club where the bass will batter my hearing, and the bar staff are going to fleece me for a bevvy I’m only holding to look occupied.
But Ava’s heading for the door. Nevin’s hand on her elbow. And I can’t leave her. It’s physically impossible. So I follow the herd and tell myself it’s for the lads. Team spirit and all that.
Ava’s beautiful, could light up the whole room.
But she doesn’t because he won’t let her.
That’s my problem right there. Her shoulders curve inward under his touch.
She moves beside him in a contained performance so flawless it makes my teeth ache.
This isn’t the woman who threw popcorn at silly Christmas films. This is a shell.
It’s like the light inside her has gone out.
Outside, the cobblestones gleam wet under the streetlights. My breath fogs. I hang back, watching her move ahead through the throng of people.
My phone buzzes. It’s Finn:
You looked like you were on the verge of glassing someone back there.
I stare at the screen and type back:
Mind yer ain.
Saw you watching her. Nevin’s girl. The dancer.
My thumb hovers. I could ignore it. But I don’t. Finn notices everything. Except when he’s the one making the mess.
She needs a pal is all.
A pal. Right. That’s what that was. I’m not even gonnae ask how you know what she needs.
Get tae.
Love you too, sweet cheeks. But be careful, aye? Nevin’s a wanker but he’s a teammate.
I pocket the phone. He’s not wrong.
And that’s the fucking problem.
Teammate. The word used to mean something. It’s been weeks of sharing the pitch, the gym, nodding at a man whose bleached teeth I want to scatter across the changing room tiles. Rugby used to save me. Now it’s driving me insane. I’m beginning to hate it.
Because of her.
I’ve never noticed anyone the way I notice Ava. I used to think we were simply on the same page, but it’s more than that. She’s the only person I don’t want to get away from. Having her in my corner isn’t a bit of luck anymore.
It’s the only thing that lets me breathe.
The Drum Vault greets me with a blunt wall of sound and scent.
Bass, sweat, perfume, spilled lager. I wedge myself against a pillar, half in shadow, and let the bass pummel my torso.
The crowd flows in unpredictable lines, nothing like defensive drift, but my shoulders still angle to absorb contact that isn’t coming.
Connor finds me within minutes. ‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Doing what?’
‘The lurking.’ He gestures at my pillar. ‘It’s unsettling. You’re six foot four and built like a shipping container. You can’t lurk.’
‘Watch me.’
‘What is it with you tonight? You’re wound tighter than Brodie at a press conference.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If you say so. But you’ve got a tell, pal. Your jaw does this thing when you’re pissed off. Looks like you’re chewing rocks.’
‘I said I’m fine. Drop it, ya walloper.’
‘You’re a shite liar.’ He clinks his glass against my drink. ‘But I’ll pretend I believe you. Cheers.’
Nevin’s at the bar and fucking steamin’. He’s laughing too loud and too long. Everything about him is performance. The music shifts to something a little slower. Strings threaded through the bass. The sort of music that crawls into your bones.
Ava rises from her stool, finds a gap on the floor, and starts to dance.
All the oxygen vacates my lungs.
She’s not putting on a show – she’s unravelling.
There’s a low-slung roll of her hips that sets my blood on fire.
She reaches into the dark, her limbs tracing the beat as if she’s trying to drag it inside her.
Her lids drop, her mouth goes soft, and for thirty seconds, she’s completely undone. She’s someone else. Someone free.
There she is. Not the ghost that piece of shite parades around.
Her.
Then she opens her eyes and looks directly at me.
The room contracts. The bass, the bodies, the noise, all of it falls away. It’s only her and me – and the pull between us that shouldn’t exist.
She keeps moving. A shoulder drops. Fingers brush her collarbone. Her hips grind loose and fluid, nothing remotely classical about it. Everything south of my navel turns to iron. The denim is biting in, and I’m choking the life out of my lager.
She knows I’m watching. But she doesn’t stop.
This is dangerous, Marzipan.
I’m straining against my jeans in a way that is not right. This isn’t what she needs, and it’s definitely not what I should be feeling. She’s a friend.
But the current arcing across that dance floor doesn’t care about logic or loyalty. It doesn’t ask permission. Right now, we exist in a bubble. Her eyes on mine. The distance between us charged with a hunger that’s about to level every boundary we’ve got left.
I can’t look away.
She arches her spine and lets her hand slide down her belly.
I track every shift of her body with a precision I usually reserve for reading defensive lines.
Fuck me. I want to feel her move like that.
On me. Around me. Under me. And I’m keeping my eyes wide open.
I’m not missing a single fucking second of this.
She’s taking up space, hip roll by hip roll. And God help me, I want to be each inch of the ground she claims.
I want her. Not hypothetically. I want her.
All of her. Want her laugh in my ear and her weight against my chest and her mouth on mine and a hundred other things I’ve no right to crave.
I’m thick and raging behind my fly, the denim biting into me, and I shift my stance, grateful for the shadows, grateful she can’t see what she’s doing to me from across the dance floor.
But she must know. She must know what she’s doing to me.
I’d burn the world down to keep her dancing, if it meant she could move through space this free. Not possession – protection of her freedom. She deserves to exist like this, untouched and unbroken.
Out of fucking nowhere, that cunt Nevin materialises next to her. His fingers close around her elbow. Her body stiffens, then she goes boneless and lets him lead her away.
My weight shifts, heels ready to leave the floor, but Connor’s hand catches my shoulder. He doesn’t budge, just puts his frame into the hold.
‘Steady,’ he mutters, his voice hard enough to cut through the noise. ‘Don’t be daft. Not here.’
I stay put, but the air in my throat feels like shredded glass.
Connor’s right. I can’t follow. She’s not mine. I’d only be making it worse for her.
Nevin drags her away from the dance floor, away from the music, away from whatever happened between us. His thumb presses into the soft flesh of her arm as he marches her through the crowd towards a corner booth.
The last thing I see is his hold on her, pulling her past the swaying bodies with all the care of a man moving cargo.
Ava doesn’t fight it. She’s learned not to.
And that fucking breaks me.