Page 22 of Dirty Rotten Love
Grigor waves a hand in a gesture that encompasses approximately everything.
“Well,” I grin mischievously. “I didn’t get sent away, did I?”
This produces more noise. Dazza actually puts his fork down. Frasier looks like a man receiving confirmation of a theory he has held for years and is experiencing the complicated emotions of being right.
“The whistling,” says Tam, pointing at me. “That really was you. You did that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say serenely.
“He was almost nice,” says Whelan. “In the briefing. I mean, he was still MacLeod. But. Almost.”
“He didn’t tear chunks out of you when you drenched yourself in oil,” says Dazza. “In front of everyone. He just asked if you were hurt.” He shakes his head slowly. “I have been on this rig for years and I have never once seen MacLeod not tear chunks out of someone for something like that.”
That little nugget of information settles somewhere warm near my heart.
“To be fair, I handled it correctly after,” I say.
“You caused a spill. A pressure differential. You were covered in oil, Rory.”
“With great dignity,” I say. “I was covered in oil with great dignity.”
Tam snorts so hard he has to put his own fork down. I am very pleased with this.
“I need some of that,” says Dazza, with great feeling. “I genuinely need MacLeod to be nice to me. I am willing to make sacrifices.”
“Dazza,” says Frasier.
“I’m just saying. I would go to that door. Willingly. Tonight. Someone remind me what cabin.”
“You are a married man,” says Grigor.
“Separated,” says Dazza almost proudly. “And this would be for the good of the whole crew. A selfless act.”
“There can be only one,” says Frasier solemnly, which sets Tam and Grigor off immediately, the two of them dissolving into the wheezing helpless kind of laughter that means the Highlander joke has been deployed and I am once again the only person at the table who doesn’t fully understand it.
“There doesn’t have to be only one,” says Whelan. “What if we did a rota?”
Everyone looks at him.
He spreads his hands. “I’m serious. Once a week. One person from Green Crew volunteers. Keeps MacLeod in a good mood. We all benefit.” He looks around the table. “Democratically distributed. Fair for everyone.”
There is a beat of silence, and then the table considers this with the focused energy of men evaluating a genuine operational proposal. Every single person acting as if they aren’t pissing around.
“I’d put my name down,” says Dazza immediately.
“We know,” says everyone.
“A rota,” says Frasier slowly, as if tasting the word. “A MacLeod mood management rota.” He nods. “I’ve heard worse ideas.”
“You’ve suggested worse ideas,” says Tam.
“I suggested the thing with the valve coupling,” says Frasier. “That worked.”
“It absolutely did not work.”
“Well, the Macleod rota definitely will work.”
The pretense cracks suddenly and abruptly as these things do, and everyone starts laughing. The proper, belly-hurting and eyes-watering kind of laughter.
