My amusement died a sudden death, however, when the sky abruptly opened up—fast, hard, fat raindrops drenching people in seconds and causing them to yelp and duck for cover. They left me, dripping cold and wet, with a guitar case full of small change that wasn’t even enough to buy a coffee. There was only enough there to buy fries from McDonalds.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself to go to bed hungry, trying not to let the panic set in that my life here was taking a turn for the worse because of the weather. Deep down, I knew it was only going to get more difficult, but I’d have to find a way to survive it.
Part of me wanted to go over to the kid who was hurriedly packing up his PA system with the help of some friends and kick him in the nuts for ruining most of my day. He was dressed in good clothes, wearing expensive sneakers, and he looked well fed and taken care of. He didn’t need the money. He just wanted the attention. I felt like screaming over to him, “We’ve already got one Shawn Mendes. We don’t need another, sweetheart!” But that was petty-- and I didn’t have the energy.
Forlorn and truly worried for the first time since I’d gotten to Scotland, my fingers trembled as I packed my guitar away. Not only would I go to sleep hungry tonight, I would go to sleep soaked to the skin. The rain had stopped almost as abruptly as it had started, but the damage was done to my clothes and cash flow.
I sucked in a shaky breath, my stomach twisting with nervous butterflies.
Standing up from my haunches, about to turn for my backpack, I almost bumped into a guy no more than an inch taller than me. He stepped into me, holding an umbrella over both our heads, and I shuddered in revulsion as his gaze dragged down my body in a way that couldn’t be misconstrued. Close to his mid-fifties, I’d seen the man before. He was dressed in a nice shirt that was dragged down over his jeans by his large, drooping gut. His broad shoulders were stuffed into a leather jacket that strained with his movements. But it was his face that was hard to forget. He had a distinct bulbous nose and pockmarked cheeks.
I remembered him because he had bothered Mandy one day when I’d stopped to talk to her. Ham had shown up and scared him off.
Obviously, word had gotten around that I was homeless.
I straightened, taking a step out from under his umbrella, my already jangled nerves blasted to hell by my sudden fury.
His leering eyes moved up to my face and at the sight of my glare, he gave me a placating smile. “Let me buy ye a hot meal, love.”
“No thanks.”
“I think we both know ye need it.” He gestured to the now-closed guitar case in my hand.
“Not that badly. Piss off.”
Eyes hardening, he took a step toward me. “Now that’s not nice, when I’m trying to be friendly. Ye need a friend if ye’re going to survive on the streets of Glasgow, love.”
“Sweetheart, even if you weren’t some slimy little prick with a beer gut, I still wouldn’t let you touch me, so if I were you, I’d do as I say and piss off. Oh, and a heads-up,” I sneered at him as I lied, “if I ever see you around, bothering me or any of the girls, I know some very scary guys that will be happy to ‘deal’ with you. Got me?”
Anger mottled his cratered face and he made to take another step toward me when a large, masculine hand wrapped around his bicep and shoved him none-too-gently back.
My gaze flew up to the taller man, my fury now mixed with suspicion and confusion. It was my original song stalker from last week. Except this time, he was close enough for me to see the genuine anger blazing from his dark eyes as he stared down the shorter, older man.
“I think she told you to piss off.”
To my increasing annoyance the older man, who had not been intimidated by me in the least, seemed to shrink under my rescuer’s gaze. “My mistake,” he muttered and hurried away with his bloody umbrella up like a shield.
Little cowardly shit.
“What do you want?” I snapped at my unwanted rescuer.
He was staring after the sexual predator and slowly turned to look at me. Although his jaw was still hard, those dark eyes softened and for a moment, I was held suspended under them. Everything about him seemed carved in stone. Implacable. Cold. But his eyes were a warm, dark brown rimmed with thick, long black lashes. They were smoldering, bedroom eyes, and completely at odds with the rest of him.
Then he spoke, breaking whatever spell his eyes momentarily had me under. “You’re an idiot.”
The words were harsh with irritation.
“Gee, thanks,” I said, the words suspiciously American. I turned away from him to collect my large backpack.
“You keep this up, you’re going to get hurt.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“Look, I’ve got to go.” I turned and tried to brush by him.
This time it was my arm he took hold of.
Renewed anger and fear lashed through me and I glowered up at him, ignoring the heat of his closeness, the smell of cologne and shower gel. He smelled clean, he felt warm. All the things I wasn’t. I envied him and hated him in equal measure, forgetting for a moment that I’d put myself in this position.
Without me having to say a word, he let go, holding his hands up, palms out. “I’ve already said I don’t want sex from you. I just want to talk. Let me buy you dinner.”
As if on cue, my stomach grumbled and I could feel my defenses crumbling. It was go to bed drenched through and hungry or merely drenched through. Tempting . . .
“They have hand dryers in the bathrooms of restaurants. You could dry off some of your things.” He gestured to my drowned rat–like state.
Dammit.
I knew this guy wanted something from me, I just didn’t know what.
However, the priority right now was getting fed and dry.
It was five o’ clock in the evening, it was Saturday, and the busy streets of the city center would not only soon fill up with club-goers but also the accompanying police. There was nothing this guy could do to me here.
“Fine. TGI Fridays.” They served salads and actual meat, not the processed shit I’d been eating lately.
Thankfully, he didn’t offer me a smug, triumphant smile. He gestured toward the restaurant up the street as if to say, “After you.”
I walked, far too aware of him as he fell into step beside me. I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. He must not have gotten caught in the rain because his clothes were dry, so where had he been? I hadn’t seen him in the crowd as I sang.
This was weird.
“Can I carry anything for you?” he offered.
“No thanks.” Nobody touched my stuff but me.
He didn’t reply but rather strode ahead to open the restaurant door for me. The gesture almost caused me to stumble up the steps. It had been a while since anyone had held a door for me.
I refused to acknowledge the little tingle of warmth it gave me, just as I refused to acknowledge that I missed anything about the time in my life when I wasn’t one of the invisible.
The hostess at the podium raised an eyebrow but was immediately distracted from whatever she was going to say as the stranger pulled up beside me.
I realized I didn’t even know his name.
“Table for two,” he said.
She smiled. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No.”
I snorted at his abrupt manner. What a charmer.
The hostesses smile dimmed a little. “Well, you’re in luck. We have a table. Right this way.” She grabbed a couple of menus and led us through the busy restaurant. I was assaulted by smells: burgers, barbecue sauce, ketchup, beer, all of it clenching my stomach with need. And noise: loud chatter, laughter, clinking of cutlery, and clash of dinnerware that made me flinch, the sounds making me feel slightly claustrophobic. I was used to crowds but out in the open air. It felt like forever since I’d sat in an enclosed space with so many other people.
She took us toward a tiny table where there would be no room to put my stuff. The stranger touched her shoulder to halt her.
“The booth.” He gestured to an empty booth behind us that would take all my stuff and the two of us.
“That’s reserved.”