Authors: Avery Cockburn
Colin did as suggested, letting out a deep breath. “It’s not that I’m squeamish or claustrophobic,” he said, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s because I’ve not eaten today.”
“But I asked if you’d had breakfast.”
“Mind, I never actually answered.”
“Why on earth didn’t you eat this morning?” Andrew bit his lip in instant regret. Perhaps Colin’s cupboards were empty.
“I tried. I made toast, but I was…nervous.”
“About what?”
“Embarrassing myself in front of you.”
Andrew smiled, feeling suddenly warm inside. “Well, now you’ve done that and somehow survived. And I’m still here.”
Colin opened his eyes. “You don’t want to take me straight back to Glasgow?”
“Silly boy, I want to take you to my favorite café and put food in your stomach.” He tapped Colin’s elbow. “Buck up now, our group’s coming.”
Colin righted himself as the rest of their tour joined them to watch a video about another alleged ghost. Andrew kept more of an eye on his companion than on the flickering TV screen.
He’d thought
he
was the one afraid of
Colin
, not the other way around. But he should have known better, after this week’s stint of internet research on bipolar parents. Colin had no doubt spent his childhood walking on eggshells, waiting for the next mood swing to strike. The fact he expected Andrew to end their trip because of a minor mishap spoke volumes about how he saw the world.
Andrew sighed, wondering what he and Colin were doing with each other. Was this weekend a harmless lark, or was it the start of a glorious disaster?
No. It couldn’t be the start of anything but the end.
After the tour, he helped Colin stagger the short distance to a nearby café, an old favorite of Andrew’s from his school days. He’d phoned ahead this morning and had them save a table for him, though they didn’t officially accept reservations.
Once Colin had downed a nonalcoholic ginger beer and a bit of bread and butter, he quickly returned to cheeky form.
“Gonnae let’s go to one of those souvenir places on the Royal Mile there,” he said, biting into his roll. “Like Wee Shop of Scottish Stereotypes. That one looks good.”
“Please don’t judge my city by its tourist district.” Andrew studied the chalkboard menu on the wall so he wouldn’t have to watch Colin chomp his bread like a goat.
“I guess Glasgow’s got no tourist district. There’s loads to see there, but not in one trappy place like this. Glasgow just
is
Scottish, so it doesn’t need to be a Disney version. It doesn’t need to be Scotland-land.”
Andrew smirked at the comparison, despite his devotion to his home city. “The guidebooks all fail to mention that Edinburgh is the last place to go to meet Scots.”
“Right? I’ve not heard a single Scottish accent since we arrived, save our taxi driver—and the tour guide, sort of.”
“And me, of course.”
Colin burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the pair of lady tourists at the next table. Thankfully, he found the presence of mind to cover his mouth and swallow before answering. “Mate, your accent’s as English as the Prime Minister’s and you know it.”
“I don’t try to sound English. It’s just the way I’ve been raised, the people I’ve spent my life with. I won’t apologize for my background.”
Colin popped the last bite of bread into his mouth. “Neither will I.”
Their soup and sandwiches arrived then, along with another round of soft drinks. They tucked in, eating without speaking for a minute. Finally, to cover the sound of Colin slurping his soup—off the end of his spoon, no less—Andrew asked, “So, do you travel often?”
“Not really. I’ve got a passport, though. Charlotte paid for it out of club funds, in case I got scouted by some foreign pro club, which I haven’t.” Colin finally swallowed, then dragged his white paper napkin across his mouth. “What about you? You must go down south a lot, to London and all.”
“Afraid so. Aristocrats are required by law to spend a minimum of twenty days per year in Knightsbridge.”
Colin blinked. “That’s a joke, right?”
“Technically.” Andrew ate his tomato-basil soup off the side of his spoon, hoping Colin would learn by example. “London is a vibrant city, and in small doses I adore it, but it has a way of annihilating one’s soul.”
Colin studied him with a wry gaze. “Hm, I’d no idea you had a soul to annihilate.” He picked up his sandwich. “But it explains a lot.”
Such a cryptic comment. Andrew wanted to get inside this lad’s head in the worst way. “Talking of explanations, what’s the story behind your tattoos?”
Colin stopped chewing, and a shutter seemed to fall over his eyes. Then he set down his sandwich and stretched his left arm across the table. “This is a unicorn.”
“I can see that.” Andrew examined the black-line, almost tribalesque design, which included only the beast’s head, neck, and chest. Its mouth was open, and its flying mane resembled flames. “It’s rather angry-looking. Is it meant to represent a rebellious Scotland?” The United Kingdom coat of arms famously featured the lion of England wearing a crown, whilst the unicorn, symbolizing Scotland, was in chains.
“Very good. Especially cos this unicorn’s chain is broken.”
Andrew reached out and traced the links, which continued up and over Colin’s forearm, into the forest of fine, dark hair. “But those chains serve a purpose. Unicorns are savage beasts. Without their shackles, who knows what havoc they could wreak?”
“I guess we’ll see about that next month, won’t we?” Colin asked with a wink. It was the first time he’d referred to the Scottish independence referendum, even obliquely. Andrew tensed. Normally he relished political arguments, but today, with this man, he wanted to forget the world.
Colin didn’t linger on the topic. Instead he took Andrew’s hand and placed it over the curve of the unicorn’s jaw. “Feel that?”
There was a bump where the skin was raised. “What is it?”
“Compound fracture when I was thirteen. I fancied one of my mates at school. Thought it was mutual.” Colin pulled his own hand back. “I was wrong.”
Andrew gasped. “He broke your arm?”
“Not personally. He told some other lads, and they tried to throw me down some stairs. Luckily, I escaped. Unluckily, I escaped by falling over the banister.”
His matter-of-fact tone made Andrew’s skin prickle with unease. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” Coming from him, the words sounded empty.
Colin shrugged. “I found new mates. Things got better. But first they got worse.” He switched arms, extending the one with the black thistle tattoo. “I did these to myself.”
Andrew looked closer. About a dozen leafy prickles extended from the thistle’s long stem, which ran from elbow to wrist. At the center of each prickle was a thin, raised, white scar.
Oh God.
He reached out, then pulled his hand back.
“It’s okay,” Colin said softly. “You can touch them.”
The scars felt like harp strings under Andrew’s fingers, and reminded him of another wounded soul he’d cared for years ago. The thought of Colin hiding in his room, shedding his own blood because he’d no one to cry out to, no one to trust—
“Och, now you’re the one all peely-wally.” Colin touched Andrew’s cheek, which indeed felt pale from the inside. “Should I have told you the fake story behind the tattoos? Usually when people ask, I say I’m such a patriotic Scot, I wanted national symbols permanently etched upon my body.” He spread his arms in V formation, like a cheerleader. “Freeeeedom!” he squealed. The ladies at the next table laughed, then swooned when Colin spared them a wink and a smile.
“No.” Andrew sat up straight and collected himself. “I’m glad you told me the truth.”
“Me too.” Colin frowned down at his sandwich without picking it up. “But I don’t know why.”
= = =
The rest of the day, they played.
In the pubs, it was foosball, billiards, arcade games, then who could down a pint faster. In the clubs, it was who could dance longer, who could get more drinks bought for them, who could collect more phone numbers. It was almost like they were mates.
Colin knew they would never be mates.
Ten o’clock found them in a trendy pub not far from their hotel, sharing a plate of nachos topped with haggis and cajun chicken. “What’s our tally at the moment?” Andrew asked as he set his empty whisky glass on the polished wooden bar between them.
“Ten all.”
“Can’t be.”
“It is. We’ve each won ten contests.”
Andrew gave that dismissive wave that made Colin want to bite his hand off. “A foosball match is no equivalent to a dance marathon.”
“It was a foosball
tournament
, ya wee fandan, which I won seven-nil. You’re lucky I’m not counting each match as a separate victory.” Colin shoved a nacho into his mouth, enjoying Andrew’s wince at seeing him talk with his mouth full. “So how do we break the tie? And what prize does the winner get?”
“Here’s a proposal.” Andrew skated his finger around the rim of his glass. “You decide what our last contest will be, and I’ll decide the prize.”
“Fair enough.”
“Good.” Beneath the bar, Andrew’s knee brushed against Colin’s. “The winner can play master in the bedroom tonight.”
Colin swallowed hard, the edges of the tortilla chip scraping his throat. He’d rather die than become anyone’s servant, least of all this man’s. But the reverse—making Andrew do his bidding—was well worth the risk.
“Agreed. Now for our final contest…” He scanned the bottles above the bar. “This is important. Better have another drink to ponder it.”
“Of course.” Andrew ordered the next round, and when the whiskies arrived, he told the bartender, “I’ll settle our bill now as well.”
As the bartender turned to the register to fetch Andrew’s card, Colin downed his whisky in a single gulp, then clapped Andrew on the shoulder. “Race you to our room.” He took off.
“Wait!” he heard Andrew call out behind him. “I haven’t paid the—oh, blast it.”
Colin laughed as he sprinted down the stone-block pavement, dodging startled pedestrians and decorative iron lampposts. With such a head start, he might even have time to wait for Andrew in the shower. The thought of that lithe body naked, wet, and lathered beneath his palms nearly made Colin stumble as he veered left onto Princes Street and—
Wait. The street sign on the stone church beside him read SANDWICK PLACE. Wasn’t this their hotel’s street?
“Fuck.” He must have got turned around by all these crooked medieval roads and alleys. Which meant Andrew would win the race for sure, which meant…
NO
.
A pair of fashionable-looking women stepped out of the Pret A Manger to his left. “Pardon me,” he called, hurrying up to them. “Can youse help me find—”
“We’ve no cash.” The blonde one clutched her Louis Vuitton shopping bag against her hip and kept walking. “Try someone else.”
Colin’s face burned. “I’m not a beggar. I need to get to the Waldorf Astoria.”
Her friend turned and laughed. “Right, I’m sure you do.”
Colin dared not follow them, for fear of getting pinched for harassment. He pulled out his phone and turned on the sat nav. This could put him over his data limit for the month and cost him dearly, but he was desperate.
I can’t be his servant
, he thought, watching the location icon leap from Glasgow to Edinburgh.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
The surrounding area crystallized on his screen. He was exactly where he’d thought he was. It was the fucking street name that changed, from Princes to Sandwick, just past the hotel. He took off again, cursing the entire city.
Without waiting for the hotel doorman to open the door, he burst into the lobby, just in time to see Andrew standing in the lift, out of breath. He saw Colin, and his jaw dropped in surprise. But as the doors slid shut, he leaned back against the mirrored wall, crossed his legs at the ankle, and flipped Colin off with two elegant fingers.
“Oh no, I am
not
losing.” Colin shot through the lobby and into the grand hallway, searching for the staircase.
It found him.
He slid to a stop at the bottom, breath catching in his throat. He’d never seen anything so magnificent.
The wide, gray-marble stairs were flanked by two green-marble columns on either side. The staircase swept up to a landing, then split in half to curve back over his head.
“Everything all right, sir?” asked a man with an Eastern European accent standing at the concierge’s desk. “Can I help you find something?”
Realizing he looked like an invader, Colin pulled out his key. “My room’s upstairs.”
The concierge nodded. “Have a good night, sir.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Colin climbed slowly, running his hand along the polished mahogany banister. Nothing had ever felt so smooth, so quality. He stooped to let his fingers brush the intricate wrought-iron pattern beneath the railing.
He paused on the landing to look down at the hall’s gleaming white-marble floor, then up at the crystal chandelier, which seemed made of a thousand glittering icicles.
“What’s wrong?” Andrew was leaning over the railing on the floor above, peering down at him. “Is it your knee?”
Colin swept his arm over their surroundings. “This is like the staircase from
Titanic
.”
“A bit.” Andrew descended to the stairway’s curve, then gave a gentlemanly bow. “I say, would you do me the honor of escorting you to our stateroom of doom?”
Bizarrely, as he climbed the stairs, Colin did not think of the hot young Leonardo DiCaprio or even Billy Zane. He thought of the elderly couple who’d curled up on their bunk together, still dressed in formalwear, waiting for the water to take them.
Andrew’s hand had never felt so soft in his. Colin kissed it, right on the knuckles.
Together they walked toward their room, over the pale-blue carpet that muffled their footsteps. Colin knew he should give in, accept defeat, pay for his foolish mistake and his backfired attempt to outwit Andrew. But then he saw one last chance…
“Fuck is this?” Colin stopped beside a well-lit but empty marble pedestal at the corner of their hallway. “There’s nothing on it.”