Page 83 of Single Daddy Scot
Chapter Thirty-One
MAC
What becomes of the broken-hearted?
Aye, broken-hearted because that’s what I am. I’d realised it the minute she’d sent me away from her as she’d leaned against the door in that grubby back lane. Because why else would I give a fuck? Why else would I be feeling this way?
How do you know when you’ve lost your heart to someone?
I know the answer to that. When the muscle in question is no longer present yet the place it once was physically aches.
As for what becomes of the broken-hearted, that I din’nae ken. In the short term, I suppose, they hang out with their mates as a distraction. To blow off steam. They might even find willing pussy to bury themselves in.
‘So Mac. You must work out a lot. And I meana lot.’ The blonde’s fingers tiptoe down my arm, the muscle tight under my white shirt. It’s not tight because I’m showing off or flexing. It’s tight because I’m not into this. My skin is fucking crawlin’.
‘I do work out,’ I answer, taking a sip of my drink—one that isn’t working fast enough. Seems like heartache is immune to good whisky.
‘Your man here owns a fitness company.’ Will tips his glass towards me, flashing one of his trademark knicker-relieving smirks. He has his arm around Blondie’s wee pal, his fingertips resting on the curve of her hip. It occurs to me that his is dark haired while I’ve ended up with the blonde again. Is it because of Ella? Because he fancies her—especially after seeing her strip down to the equivalent of a couple of Band-Aids and a few bits of string?
‘What are ye looking at me like that for?’ he asks, mildly alarmed. ‘I told you, your place is too far away from where I live for me to get any decent sessions in.’
I don’t answer, but I think I may have growled.
‘And you’re both Scottish.’ Blondie’s hand touches my chest, lingering there for a beat more than I’d prefer. ‘I love the Scot’s accent. It’s so primitive.’
‘What is it wi’ people reducing others down to stereotypes? We’re either berserkers, raving drunks, or singing shortbread tins.’
‘So you’re only two out of three of those tonight?’ Will asks amiably.
‘I didn’t mean any offense,’ she says, looking up at me with her faux doe-eyed gaze. ‘It’s just, I mean, you’re so manly.’
‘Because I sometimes wear a skirt?’
By her expression, the irony is lost on her. On second examination, I realise she’s probably too drunk to grasp any fucking nuances. I take her hand off my chest, pat it in mine, and then return it to the high table between us.
‘Where’s Keir gone?’ I ask Will.
‘You know what he’s like,’ he answers with a shrug. ‘He’s away home.’
Bollocks. And Natasha’s right; it’s exactly what’s between my ears. It must be for me to come out tonight with Will. I’m still fucking angry with him. Lucky for him that I’m more fucking angry with myself.
‘What’s your favourite chocolate, Will?’ I ask, threading my arm around the waist of the blonde.
‘What, like a Twix or something?’ By his response, I’m not sure whether he’s confused or amused.
‘Nah. I mean, d’you like white or dark?’
‘Neither. I’m more of a savoury man.’
‘Lucky for you.’ My words directed at the dark-haired girl as I take her hand. ‘I like both,’ I purr, leaning in and whispering in her ear. She looks mildly shocked as I straighten but doesn’t pull her hand from mine.
‘What? What the fuck is this?’ Will complains as I begin to walk away, my arm around both girls. ‘It’s called payback, Willy boy,’ I call over my shoulder, his stunned expression warming my gut with some kind of sick satisfaction.
‘I don’t fuckin’ believe this!’
What becomes of the broken-hearted?
‘Go big, or go home.’
