12. Chapter 12 #2
“Aye,” she says. “The movie came out before we were born, of course, but my parents have talked about it. Apparently it stirred up a fair bit of political propaganda at the time, but there have always been groups seeking independence and autonomy for Scotland. The film was an opportunity to create a rallying cry. However it happened, it’s been good for us to have some amount of control over our own country. ”
As we make our way up the street, Torin points out the centuries-old tenements, some of them reaching ten stories. He points down little alleys through stone archways. “Those are wynds and closes,” he explains. “See the little courtyards, shops, and pubs tucked away in there?”
I slow slightly and peer down one of them. The passage drops sharply between the buildings, vanishing toward some hidden corner of the city.
As we weave our way higher through the modest crowd, the streets and alleyways on either side of the Mile fall away on ever-increasing slopes, giving quick glimpses of rooftops and church spires below.
Behind us, Maeve and Isla are whispering again. A moment later they both burst into giggles. I call over my shoulder, “Care to share with the class?”
“I was just saying I hope Torin doesn’t think Isla and I are dating just because we’re walking arm-in-arm,” Maeve says.
Torin’s head swivels to me. “You told her about me thinking you two were dating?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was hilarious. She needed to know.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
I grin and glance back toward Maeve. “Anything else?”
“We were also saying you both have nice asses on ya,” she shouts loud enough for everyone to hear. “They look good walking up the road together.”
“Well, aren’t you just made of sugar,” I say, taking the compliment in stride.
I look over and see Torin blushing again. He keeps his eyes forward, pretending not to have heard, but there’s a small smile playing at his lips. I nudge him with my elbow. “It’s all the workouts and protein.”
“Don’t be daft,” Torin says, nudging me back. “I’ve always had a nice ass.”
I’m surprised and pleased at his confidence. He wouldn’t have been so bold a couple weeks ago. Not with me at least.
“No arguments from me, Torin,” I say, and now that it’s been brought up, I can’t help but glance down at his bubble butt.
Flirting with him is becoming dangerously easy, especially when the compliment is objectively true. Now that he’s not being a jerk all the time, I’m finding it harder and harder not to notice things. Like the fact that he really does have a nice ass.
As the main stretch of road crosses with South Bridge, there’s an obvious increase in foot traffic.
It’s not quite a sea of humanity, but it’s definitely busier than lower down the Mile.
I reach back for Maeve’s hand to keep her with me.
Then, without thinking about it, I place my other hand on the small of Torin’s back.
He tenses for only the briefest moment before continuing to walk on.
I keep my hand pressed there as we weave through the crowd, and the muscle beneath my palm is just as firm and lean and toned as I’d imagined.
When we finally clear the human traffic jam, I release Maeve’s hand and, more reluctantly, remove my fingers from Torin’s back. He has that look again, the one I couldn’t read before. Between the physical contact and his expression, a fire is growing in my belly.
Isla instigates a stop at a tourist shop overflowing with T-shirts and mugs and keychains that say things like Never run with bagpipes or you might get kilt.
I buy a flask with a Highland cow embossed into the leather and bottles of water for each of us. Torin gets a bottle of Irn-Bru and hands it to me. “You have to try it,” he says.
The first sip is nothing like I expected, but it’s damn good.
We make it back out onto the street, and we’re passing a few tall shrubs when Torin asks, “You really do love those cows, then, eh?” I love the way he says cows, like cooz.
I’m about to respond when one of the bushes lurches toward me.
Adrenaline slams through my system. I yelp—for the second time that day—my arm shooting across Torin’s chest, keeping him behind me as I jump back from the killer plant.
With the other three now a safe distance away from the attacking foliage, I raise my fists, ready to take on the danger.
Then I hear laughter through the blood pumping in my ears.
I look closer, my heart beating hard in my chest. The shrub has hands. Green ones. They’re raised in surrender while their owner chuckles. Off to the side, someone is filming with their phone. It’s a street performer. And I just got punked.
Still high on adrenaline, I laugh and go to shake the bush-man’s hand.
“Damn, you got me good,” I tell him.
“And I almost got punched for it, didn’t I, pal? Should’ve known better than to scare a big bloke like you!”
My heart finally starting to slow, I ask for a picture with him so we’ll always remember the time I almost punched a plant.
The woman who filmed the encounter takes my phone, and we crowd together.
I put one arm around the performer’s shoulder and the other around Torin’s.
His hand comes around my lower back, and the closeness of him sparks a quiet thrill.
I drop a few quid in the shrub’s bucket and send the picture to the group as we head up the street.
Maeve studies the picture on her phone and grins. “God, we’re adorable.”
“We really are,” Isla says.
“Especially you two,” Maeve says, pointing to me and Torin with our arms around each other. “Such handsome lads.”
“Nah,” Torin says, “women are called ‘the fairer sex’ for a reason. We’re just a couple of tall brutes with good smiles is all.”
“Maybe so,” says Maeve, “and while I don’t like gender stereotypes, it was pretty hot to see Beau go all Neanderthal on that plant. He looked ready to beat it down with a wooden club. So protective!”
My face warms, half embarrassed, half proud. “I didn’t know until this afternoon whether I was fight, flight, or freeze in emergency situations. Turns out I’m all fight.”
“We really are learning so much today, aren’t we?” Isla posits.
“So much,” Maeve says, her eyes flashing with mischief.
“Speaking of learning,” Torin says, steering our tour back on track. He points down one of the narrow closes branching off the Mile. “That’s Mary’s King Close, where you can still see medieval roads underneath the modern city.”
“It’s rumored to be haunted,” Isla says.
“Don’t worry,” Maeve says. “Beau will protect us.”
“I ain’t afraid of no ghost,” I tell her with a wink. They all groan.
We stop at the Heart of Midlothian Mosaic, a granite memorial set into the pavement, which Torin tells us marks the entrance to Old Tolbooth, the city’s former prison and site of public executions until it was demolished.
Based on the gruesome history he provides, this seems much more likely to be haunted than an old alleyway.
Apparently, some people spit on it for luck, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Ghostbuster or not, I’m not taking the chance of a vengeful spirit being offended by my saliva.