Thierry gives him a dry look. “Right. To you, of all people.”
Lachlan shrugs. “Fair enough.”
“Though I have to say I’m surprised you dared to bring this beautiful woman to meet us,” Thierry says. He gives me an apologetic smile. “Rugby players aren’t known for being very classy.”
“Only French rugby players,” John jokes. “You should see him when he makes a try. He practically ballroom dances across the line, like a fucking pansy-footed waltz.”
“Well, I’m not very classy either,” I tell them. “Which is probably why I get on with Lachlan so well.”
“Get on?” John repeats. “You’re sounding like him, too.”
“I’m going to get you a drink,” Lachlan says and quickly leaves the table. I don’t miss the warning look he shoots his teammates.
They, of course, ignore it.
“So where on earth did you meet Lach?” John asks. “Don’t tell me they play rugby in America.”
“Actually, they do. He joined a pick-up league for a bit,” I tell them.
Thierry laughs. “That I would love to see. What a one-sided game that must have been.”
“He was trying to downplay his skills, but I don’t think it worked.” I turn to John. “I met him through friends. My two best friends are with his cousins.”
“Huh,” John says. “Seems I need to go to America to meet a good woman.”
“No,” Thierry points at him with his beer. “You need to go to France.”
He shakes his head. “They sound like heartbreakers over there, no thank you. As you can tell, Kayla, deep down inside, we’re all a bunch of softies looking for love in all the wrong places.”
I shrug. “Aren’t we all?”
They both exchange a questioning look. Thierry cocks his head at me. “Do you think you’re looking in the wrong place?”
I’m not sure what to do with that question because it’s oddly serious for what we were just talking about.
“I hope not,” I tell them just as Lachlan comes back, putting two big pints of dark beer on the table, foam spilling over the sides.
“Sorry, love,” he says to me. “They’re out of cider and their house wine is rubbish.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him, actually preferring the dark Scotch ales over the stuff at home.
“Hopefully they weren’t giving you a hard time,” he says, eyeing them both cautiously.
“Them?” I say. “They’re nothing but pussycats.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to you, softies.”
We all clink glasses, and as if on cue, the music in the pub gets louder.
More people come in.
The sky goes dark beyond the narrow basement windows.
By the time I’m done with my giant beer, Lachlan is on his third, as are Thierry and John.
They are all drunk and I’m struggling to catch up. The thing is, it’s loud in here and there are a bunch of girls giving Lachlan and Thierry the “eyes” and the music is grating and I’m feeling left out of the drunken conversation. They try to bring me in but their accents get thicker and thicker until I can barely understand what they are saying. I just want to drink more so that everything stops annoying me. But the beer is so strong and thick it takes forever to get through another glass.
Now, the atmosphere in the pub has completely changed. People keep banging into the table, spilling our drinks. I’ve seen Lachlan curl and uncurl his fists a few times, that wild, piercing look coming into his eyes, his face going red.
But Thierry and John are too drunk to notice or care, singing along to some screeching tune.
I lean into Lachlan and still have to shout to be heard. “Want to go and sit somewhere else? It’s so loud here and people keep bumping into us.”
I can’t hear what he says in return, it sounds more like a grumble.
I don’t know. I’m getting a weird feeling. He’s gone from relaxed as he was at the start of the night to tense and edgy. I don’t want to blame it on four Scotch ales but I don’t see what else it can be. I mean, I know he doesn’t like to be around people in particular, especially when there’s a bunch of them acting like idiots, so adding alcohol to the mix probably isn’t the best idea. If we could just go back home, we could settle down on the couch and watch TV or just find each other in the sheets of our bed.
Finally some girl with mangy blonde hair, orange skin and tits pushed up to her chin totters on over in her heels and drapes herself over Lachlan.
“You’re Lachlan McGregor!” she yells at him in a twangy English accent, her heavy, false eyelashes making it hard for her to keep her eyes open. “I have seen pictures of your cock.”
My eyes widen, my skin immediately growing hot. Did she just say what I think she said?
She looks at me briefly, enough to give me the up and down glare, then looks over at Thierry. “I’ve seen your cock too. Both very impressive. My name is Polly, by the way. You want to buy me a drink?”
I’m really waiting for someone to fill me in on this. I’m staring at Lachlan, open-mouthed, but he’s not looking at me. To be fair, he hasn’t even glanced her way either. He’s just staring at his half-drunk beer like he wants to smash the glass over someone’s head.
It’s John who explains to me. “They both did a nude rugby calendar a few years ago,” he says loudly. “I, of course, didn’t get the call. I think it’s because red pubes don’t photograph very well, even in black and white.”
So the nude rugby calendar really is a thing. When Neil, even Amara brought it up, I thought it was a joke. I guess not.
And with that, I calm down a little bit. If she’s seen his dick via a calendar then probably everyone has seen his dick and there’s not much I can do about that except be proud that the dick belongs to me.
And even though I don’t like this bitch touching my man, I’m not going to say or do anything. Don’t get me wrong, back in San Francisco I have no problems getting in someone’s face. I remember once having to step in when some chick was threatening to beat up Stephanie over some guy, I don’t even remember who. I had to get all crazy Asian chick in her face and luckily it didn’t come to anything more than that. But I have a feeling Scottish, or English chicks as this girl is, aren’t to be fucked with. I keep my mouth closed and ignore it.
Until it becomes impossible to ignore.
Because now the tawdry slut is standing behind Lachlan and running both her hands down his arms and whispering something in his ear.
“Um, excuse me, Polly was it?” I say, with my finger raised in the air. “I don’t think you want to do that.”
She gives me a glare with one closed eye. She looks like a drunken pirate hooker.
“Mind your own business,” she says, slurring.
I’m staring at Lachlan now, wondering why he’s not moving, not reacting. I don’t even know if he knows what’s going on at all, it’s like he’s in some sort of trance, which doesn’t help me at all.
Fine. I can take care of myself. I lean in closer and put my hand on her arm. It’s sticky and cold. “Polly, I’m not sure if you realize this but this man is my boyfriend which means he is my business. Now if you kindly remove your arms, there are plenty of available men in this bar that I’m sure would love a night with the likes of you.”
She sneers at me. “Oh fuck off, you slag.”
My head jerks back. I don’t even know what “slag” is but I’m guessing it isn’t good. I’m about to look to John and Thierry for some sort of support, since Lachlan has gone catatonic, when suddenly there’s a looming shadow over our table.
“What the fuck is going on here, huh?” A voice booms and I look up to see a big bruiser of a dude with a bald head and beady eyes standing behind the slaggy chick. He’s staring at the girl and the way she’s on Lachlan, like he’s got laser beams for eyes and is trying to burn a hole through both of them.
“Hey!” the guy yells, grabbing the girl by the arm and throwing her off of Lachlan. “What the fuck you doing with my girl, you cunt?”
I wince. Oh no. Oh no.