Chapter 17
Scottie
I wake up hard. Painfully so.
My bedroom is Baltic. The radiator under the window conked out years ago, so the early morning air bites. Last night’s kitchen fallout rips through my mind on a relentless loop.
That kiss.
Ava’s mouth, open and wet against mine. The greedy slide of her little tongue. I forced myself to pull away, but my blood was begging me to lift her onto the table, slot myself between her thighs, and see what she’d let me do.
I’ve no idea what the hell triggered it, but I do know that’s not how friends act. Certainly not when they’re sober.
I’m supposed to be her safe harbour. Instead, here I am replaying the way her hips tilted up into mine, the ragged little sound she made when I pulled her in.
You selfish prick. She came to you for safety.
Then why the fuck did she kiss me like that? She kissed me, not the other way around.
I kick the duvet off. The cold air smacks my skin, but it doesn’t help. I’m still rock-hard, straining against my boxers like a teenager. Every heartbeat rushes south.
I make my way into the bathroom and lock the door. Without waiting for it to heat up, I turn the shower on and brave the punishing torrent.
When I shut my eyes, she’s there. Her nails digging into my scalp, tits pressing against my torso – firm enough to feel her peaks through the bulk of her hoodie… My hand drops, wrapping firmly around my dick, and I let out a frustrated groan.
It’s been over a year since I’ve been with a woman. The life of a pro athlete: too knackered for swiping, too cynical for romance. My right hand and I have a long-standing arrangement, but it’s never been this desperate. It’s never been…her.
And now I have to use my left.
I slap my palm against the tiles and start working myself, taking it slow.
I know I should stop, will my brain to picture literally anyone else, but all I see is her pretty face, how she’d look taking my cock.
I think about reaching between her thighs, finding her dripping for me.
I’d make her beg while I push my middle and index fingers inside her, curling upward until her knees give out.
I’m a bastard for this.
My hips snap forward, fucking my own fist, and a guttural sound tears out of me. I imagine dropping to my knees for her, eating her out until she’s sobbing and yanking my hair so hard it hurts. I think about her lush, wet mouth wrapped around my cock, and I’m done. I’m so fucking done.
Fuck. Ava. Fuck.
I come with a pained grunt, my whole body bowing under the heave of it. My hips jerk – once, twice, a third time, and the sound that tears out of me is barely human. When it passes, I’m propped against the tiles, water drumming into my nape.
It’s not relief. Not nearly enough. But I needed to do something, or I was going to lose my fucking mind.
Right. Sorted. Pack it away. Be the friend she needs.
I turn the shower off, snatch a towel, and scrub my skin until it’s pink, as if I can rub the want out of the pores.
As I head downstairs fifteen minutes later, the kitchen is a battlefield of toast crumbs and sibling warfare. It’s loud, chaotic, and precisely what I don’t need.
Ava’s sitting at the table. When I walk in, her gaze snags on mine. There’s a flicker of uncertainty, but she covers it quickly.
How the fuck are we supposed to do this? Last night, we were all over each other. Ten minutes ago, I was tossing off to the memory. Now I’m meant to ask how she slept?
‘Morning.’ Ideally, my voice would be a calm baritone. In reality, it’s a gravelly grind of pebbles in a blender.
I move to the sink without so much as a look at her. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see the mouth I was thinking about in the shower, and the guilt will fucking gut me.
I pour myself a tea and burn my tongue on the first sip. Ava is talking to Mum about the coffee machine, and the sound of her laugh winds me square in the solar plexus.
You can’t stand here all day pretending to read the nutritional info on a cereal box, you gutless wee shite. Do something useful.
‘Eat up, Ava.’ I swipe an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘We’re heading out.’
Her mug halts an inch from her mouth. ‘Heading out? Where? Why?’
‘To get you out of this madhouse. Get your coat. We’re leaving in five.’ I don’t tell her what I’ve organised. Not yet.
‘Is this voluntary, or should I blink twice for help?’
‘Distraction strategy.’ I lean against the fridge, arms crossed. ‘Don’t overthink it. Fresh air. Shoes. Let’s go.’
And keeping us in public where I can’t touch you.
I don’t say that part. I need wind, crowds, and exhaustion. I need a goddamn containment strategy.
Oban in February is an endurance sport. The gale coming off the Atlantic slices straight through your layers and goes for the joints. The grey sky is hanging low over the water.
We’re walking along the pier. The ferry to Mull is chugging out, trailing diesel fumes and gulls.
For about one and a half hours, we browse for books at Waterstones.
Then we stroll the stretch of the esplanade, Ava’s arm hooked in mine, until we reach the far end close to the distillery.
Her hip bumps my leg every third step, and I wait for each one.
‘Ice cream.’ I point to The Pokey Hat. It’s eleven, they’re about to open.
Ava stops. Her gaze darts between the shop and my face. ‘It’s three degrees. My fingers are numb.’
‘Sorry, but you can’t come to Oban and not have a Pokey Hat. It’s frowned upon.’
‘Watch me.’
Five minutes later, we sit on a bench, huddled together against the chill. She got salted caramel, and I went for mint choc chip. Simple man, simple needs. But nothing about this is simple. I wish it were.
Ava pulls her scarf tighter around her neck. ‘You’ve lost the plot, Scott.’ But then she drags her tongue up the side of the cone with a happy moan, and my dick hits my jeans so hard it stings.
You’re her friend, you depraved fuck.
‘Oh. Wow. Okay, you win.’ She catches a drip of caramel with her thumb, sucking it clean.
I need to concentrate on the sea. But it lasts about five seconds before I turn my head to take her in again. She’s smiling. Her nose is red, strands of her hair have escaped that bun and are whipping across her face. The brittle tension is gone.
We sit in silence as the wind bites at our cheeks. I love sitting next to her. All is well in the world with Ava beside me.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she says eventually. ‘About Nevin.’
Please don’t.
I plant my elbows on my thighs, leaning forward like I’m waiting for the whistle. ‘Shoot.’
‘How is…was he with the lads? Is he…like that with all of you, too?’
‘Like what?’ I shift on the bench and nearly crush the wafer cone between my fingers.
‘A volatile, controlling arsehole.’
I let out a joyless laugh. ‘Not really. But I mean, any of us could deck him.’
‘Clearly.’
We’re both quiet as Thursday night’s events flash back.
‘I knew he was an arrogant bastard,’ I say. ‘But now I see he’s a coward, too. And a bully. To be honest, I couldn’t understand why someone like you would be with someone like Nevin.’
She takes a breath. ‘I don’t… Anyway, it’s done. Properly over. It should’ve… I should feel sad, shouldn’t I? Or angry. But mostly I feel…lighter. As if I’ve put down a rucksack full of kettlebells.’
‘That’s good, Ava. That’s healthy.’
‘I should have ended it months ago,’ she continues quietly. ‘I knew. Deep down, I knew when he made me change my dress for that event. But I stayed. I don’t know why. And I’m ashamed that I did.’
‘No. Don’t be.’ I shift, angling my body to shield her from the wind.
Her knee presses into my thigh, and I let it.
‘He’s a manipulator. That’s what they do.
They chip away at the mortar until the bricks are loose because watching others crumble makes them feel stable.
None of it is your fault. Do you hear me? ’
‘Yeah, maybe. In hindsight, I know that I wasn’t “in love” in love with him.
’ She says it the way you’d read a weather forecast. ‘I thought I was. He was funny and charming, and I was dazzled. But love? Don’t think so.
’ Her mouth tugs down at the corners. ‘I’m beginning to realise I’ve probably never truly been in love. Not the way people write songs about.’
I have, I think. No. I am.
I take in her profile. The sweep of her dark lashes. A bit of ice cream on her upper lip. I want to lick it off. I want to tell her.
‘You’re young,’ I say, instead. ‘Plenty of time for the dramatic, all-consuming romance.’
A dark little scoff cuts through the wind. ‘Can we skip the drama part? I’d settle for someone who doesn’t shout.’
‘Low bar.’
‘You’d be surprised how low I can limbo.’
‘You shouldn’t settle, Ava. Never.’
A huge gull swoops, diving for my mint choc chip. I duck, shielding the cone, and the bird screeches past my ear. ‘Fucking beady-eyed bastards!’
Ava’s laughing. Head thrown back, genuine laughter that shakes her shoulders. She’s not broken. She’s bent, maybe. Bruised for sure – literally and metaphorically. But the steel is there.
It’s that stubborn, unbreakable spirit that makes me fucking lucky to have her in my life.
‘Come on.’ I stand up. ‘Time for the main event.’
I unlock the door to the studio. It’s a small space above a charity shop, usually used for yoga and kids’ tap classes. Mum’s pal Pamela gave me the keys. Mirrors line one wall. The floor is sprung wood, scuffed but decent.
Ava steps inside and stops dead. Her eyes dart to the mirrors, the door, then me. ‘Scottie, what is this…?’
‘I ken a few folk. You can book in here by the hour to train, for as long as you’re in Oban. It’s free.’
She turns to me. Her eyes are huge. ‘You organised a studio? For me?’
‘You said you don’t have to go back to Glasgow right away, but you have to work on the dancing. So I thought…’
Ava looks at the space, then returns to me. ‘Wow. I’m actually speechless.’
‘Wanna try it?’