The fuck? I glare at Linden. I just know he’s suggesting this shit to piss me off.
“Nah,” Lachlan quickly dismisses him. “Not my crowd, not my scene.”
“Elton John is headlining on Sunday,” Bram adds, and I can tell he’s kicking Linden under the table because Linden is giving him the “what did I do?” look. “You can’t pass up a legend.”
Lachlan grunts in response. I think it means “we’ll see.”
The rest of the evening turns to talk about music festivals and bands. So many Scottish accents at once. Lachlan doesn’t provide much conversation and neither do I, we just sit there listening to Linden and Bram get in arguments over which band is better, Massive Attack or Portishead. In a way, it’s kind of nice. Their incessant yammering provides background noise and ensures that both of them are wrapped in their weird brotherly world. Which means Lachlan and I are in a world of our own.
Not that we even talk to each other, not that he’s even aware of being in this private world with me. It’s just nice to sit beside him and enjoy his presence, feel his heat, smell the warm amber of his skin. Being in the shadow of this beast is strangely comforting. He both kickstarts my heart and calms my nerves, and I can’t help but think that Bram is right. I do have it bad for him. Really, really bad. I am a smitten fucking kitten. And I’m starting to think it’s more than just in a physical way. I don’t know the guy at all—and it seems that nobody does—but I feel drawn to him, like our blood is made from magnets, pulling us together.
The sad part is, though, that all these crazy feelings are in my head. And that’s probably where they’re going to stay.
When the night gets on and Lachlan leaves to go home, I feel the loss. I don’t think I’ve ever felt sad over a guy, but all this Scot has to do is leave my vicinity and I miss him. Maybe I just miss staring at those lips, wondering what it would be like to take them between my teeth, what they would feel like against my mouth. Maybe I just miss taking in his tattoos, inventing stories for them in my head—the lion on his forearm is for his pride, the cross on his bicep is for the time he worked as a Trappist monk brewing strong beer in the Alps (I don’t know, it might be true). Maybe I miss fighting the urge to run my fingers over his beard, his nose, touching every faint scar on his face.
Or maybe I just miss the one-sided cat and mouse game that he doesn’t even know he’s playing. It’s the thrill of the chase, it’s how every small smile he gives me, every word he speaks, is a victory in itself. It’s challenging me constantly to try and win him over. And if there’s anything I’ve learned recently, it’s that I like to be challenged.
When I lie in bed later that night and stare out the window at the streetlights, I realize that, for the first time, my bed feels empty. Like it’s missing someone. And not someone who leaves in the middle of the night or the next morning. Someone who will stay.
The truth creeps in like an oil spill.
I, Kayla Moore, am a lonely, lonely girl.
***
When I walk into the office on Monday morning, there’s no denying I have a little extra swing in my step. Even though my piece won’t come out until Friday, I’m feeling good. Fantastic even. This is it. This is my new life. I’ve pushed aside all my woe is me crap from the weekend and am focused on the positive. Once that piece comes out, not only will it (hopefully) help Bram and Lachlan, but it will say to the world, “Hey fuckfaces! Hey, every person who’s doubted me! Look at me! Look what I’ve done with myself!”
But as I walk past Neil in the hallway on the way to lunch, he looks like the bringer of bad news.
“Kayla,” he says, pulling me to the side. “I need to talk to you.”
I’ve never seen him act serious before. “What?” I ask, wringing my hands together. “Everything okay?”