Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (15 page)

Somehow, someday, he’d find a way to deserve it.

= = =

“Were they Scottish pounds or English pounds?” Liam asked John later at the quiet end of the bar, where he’d just finished telling them about his meeting with Lord Andrew.

“They were hundred-pound notes, so, Scottish.” Now that he was sober, John wondered if he should’ve swallowed his pride and taken the money. He looked at Fergus standing beside his barstool. “When I think what you could’ve bought with two thousand—”

“Shut it. You did the right thing.” He slipped his arm around John’s shoulders and kissed his forehead. “I hope I would’ve had the courage to do the same.”

“I’d’ve taken the cash.” Colin gnawed on a thin red cocktail straw, leaning back against the bar, elbows propped on the railing. “I would’ve used it to buy space on a giant advert over the M8 and have it read, ‘Lord Andrew Sunderland is a manky wee prat.’”

“That’s rather mild,” Liam observed.

“There’s profanity restrictions for adverts.” Colin’s jaw jutted out, flicking the straw from side to side. “John, where’d you say those asylum seekers come fae?”

“Loads of places, but mostly Russia, Uganda, Nigeria—”

“Right. That’s your mystery solved, then.” Colin spit out the straw. “Andrew’s family pals about with Nigerian and Russian oil billionaires, the sort who come to the UK and buy Premier League football clubs and massive fucking tracts of land.”

“Are you sure?” Fergus asked him.

“All toffs do it. The Sunderlands probably got business deals with those oligarch pricks.”

John thought about it. “You could be right, mate. Makes more sense than the line he spun me about not opposing government agencies.” He sank his chin onto his hand, feeling more despondent than ever. “Leaves us in the same bind, though.”

“At least we got this.” Liam nudged the empty brandy glass, which sat on the bar at the center of their group, like a shrine to a false god. “According to the Internet, each sip we took was worth about fifty-five quid.”

“Fuck,” the rest of them breathed in unison. They all stared at the glass for a long moment.

“Those people,” Colin said, “they live in a different world.”

“Would it help to know that their world is dying?” John picked up the round-bowled glass and angled it to the light, admiring the luster of the remaining drop of brandy. “It’s been dying for over a century.”

“Not fast enough for me,” Colin said. “I’ll not be happy until we’re the Republic of Scotland and those hereditary titles mean fuck all.”

John thought of what Lord Andrew had said about Glaswegians’ passion for class warfare. “Underdogs,” he murmured.

“Sorry?” Fergus asked.

“It’s what the Warriors are. Underdogs.”

“Obviously,” Fergus said. “It’s one reason no club in Glasgow will play us in the charity match. If they win, they’ll be villains. If they lose, they’ll be mocked.”

“So we look farther afield.” John pulled out his phone, along with Lord Andrew’s card. His heart pumped faster in excitement at this new idea.

A few moments later, a smug voice answered. “Knew you’d come to your senses. Shall I leave the cash in an envelope with the doorman?”

“If you were serious about wanting to help,” John told Andrew, “there may be another way.”

“I
WON
’
T
MISS
this place,” John’s mum said as they pulled into the carpark at HMP Barlinnie, where his brother had been held in custody since his remanding nearly a year ago. Now that Keith had been convicted, it was only a matter of time before he’d be transferred to a facility for long-term prisoners.

John checked the zip on the plastic bag full of scones his gran had made. “Wherever they send him next will be worse. He’ll have to share a cell.”

“I’m trying not to think about that,” Mum said. “Which, I know, doesn’t stop it happening.”

John’s stomach twisted as they walked through the familiar, forbidding corridors, showed their IDs at the visitors desk, then entered the half-full waiting area. He’d never enjoyed visiting his brother and hearing him spew bile against Catholics, especially his own victim. But now that John had met Fergus, the thought of seeing Keith made him want to vomit.

At least his father wasn’t here to force the issue. As planned, the hospital would discharge Dad tomorrow to begin his four- to six-week recovery at home. When John had told him Mum was staying to help care for him, his father had been stunned speechless, a state that wouldn’t last long once he and his estranged wife were under the same roof.

They’d barely settled into the waiting room’s plastic chairs when a prison officer called their names.

As his mother stood and took a step toward the security area, John held out the bag of scones. “I’ll wait here.”

Mum pivoted to face him. “What? Why?”

“I don’t want to see him today.”
Or ever again.

“Because of Fergus?”

“Aye.”

Sighing, she took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “What shall I tell Keith? He’s expecting both of us.”

“Tell him whatever you want.”

“What if I want to tell him the truth?”

It was tempting, to let Mum be the one to see Keith’s face twist in disgust at the idea of John dating a Catholic. But that wasn’t fair to her. “I’ll tell him myself, just…not today.” The last thing he wanted was to start a row with Keith in front of their mother. “Tell him I’m ill. Or dead. Yes, tell him I’m dead.”

“That’s not funny.” She snatched the scones from him and turned away, her chin trembling.

John settled back into the unforgiving chair, feeling a complete coward. This double life would be the death of him yet.

= = =

After an excruciating forty-five-minute spell in the waiting area, during which he’d drunk two-and-a-half cups of abysmal coffee to stay awake, John joined his mother at the prison’s exit.

“How is he?” he asked her.

“What do you care?” she snapped as she brushed by him to go outside.

“Of course I care. I’m not ignoring him, Mum. I still write him every week.” It was easy to hide his true feelings in an email. “When we get home, I’ll send him an apology. I promise.”

She said nothing, lengthening her strides as she stalked across the carpark. John hurried to follow, his heart breaking at the sound of her sniffles. When she reached the car, she stabbed the key at the door lock several times, her hands shaking.

He took the keys from her and unlocked the door. “Let me drive.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather live to see Keith again one day.”

Ooft.
“Am I that poor a driver? Don’t answer that.” Living in the city, he’d little need for cars and therefore little practice at driving them.

His mother bent her head for a moment, then lifted it to look at him with overflowing eyes. “John, why have we disintegrated?”

“Oh Mum.” He took her in his arms, stifling his answers to that question. He might not be able to take away her pain, but at least he could stop making it worse. So he just held her close and let her cry against his shirt.

When her sobs finally eased, he said, “C’mon, let’s go home and enjoy our last day without Dad’s whingeing.”

She laughed through her tears as she let him go. “That sounds lovely.”

John got into the car and powered up his phone, which he’d had to shut off inside the prison. Within a minute, it rang with a new number.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he told his mum as she veered onto the ramp for the M8, a bit faster than advisable. “Hiya, Lord Andrew!” he answered, taking a perverse glee in conversing with a hereditary peer near one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.

“Greetings. I’ve got what you asked for.”

John pumped his fist. “Okay, shoot.”

“I spoke to a couple of my old Fettes mates,” he said, referring to the posh Edinburgh preparatory school. “They’ve an amateur football club, the Morningside Magnificence.”

“That’s their real name?”

“Yes, and it is meant without irony. They called themselves the Morningside Malfoys until the Harry Potter people complained. They adore charity work, since they believe the government has no business helping the poor.”

“Naturally.”

“They’re interested in your match. They’re arrogant enough they don’t believe they can lose, yet so hostile to political correctness, they don’t care if they pummel your mates into the dust.”

The perfect enemy. It seemed almost too good to be true. “You told them what my charity does?” he asked as Mum suddenly accelerated to pass a blue-and-yellow CityLink bus.

“I did. They’ve quite the libertarian streak, so anything that circumvents the government is just hunky dory, in Maximilian’s words. That’s their captain. He’s a bit of a…well, you’ll see. Shall I email his contact info to the address on your adorable little business card?”

“Please. And thank you.” John let slip a light flirtatious tone. “I knew you weren’t so bad after all, Lord Andrew.”

“I told you to call me Drew, though I rather fancy the way you say my title, like it’s a joke. Which of course it is.” His voice turned serious. “Now remember, I had nothing to do with this. If you say one word to connect me to this event, I’ll have my mates cancel the match.”

“So I can never acknowledge the aid of our handsome young benefactor?”

“Perhaps eventually, when I’ve the courage to come out as something more than an exquisitely vapid party boy.” His tone brightened. “Oh, and someday you must introduce me to the lads on the team. I’ve quite the penchant for footballers.”

“As do I—for one, at least. Bye now.” John hung up and looked at his mother. “That was Lord Andrew.”

“So you mentioned. You were flirting with him.”

“Fake flirting, all for the cause. Trust me, we’re not each other’s type.” He dialed Fergus’s number.

“You’ve got a type?” his mother asked.

“Everyone’s got a type, and please don’t ask what mine is.”

“Ask what your what is?” Fergus said, having picked up the phone a few seconds before.

“Hey, I’ve good news!”

“Me too. Your mate Katie just arrived at practice for a trial. So I’ve only a minute.”

“Then I’ll cut to the chase. I found you an opponent from Edinburgh, some Fettes toffs who call themselves the Morningside Magnificence.”

Fergus said nothing for nearly five seconds. “You made up that name.”

“I swear I did not.” Even John’s mum was arching a skeptical brow. “They used to be called—”

“Hold on, I need to share this with the others.” There was a brief murmuring in the background, then Colin’s cackle rang out.

Mum jumped. “What was that? Was someone strangled?”

Fergus came back on the line. “That cheered them. Sorry, I have to go now, but thanks for the bit of good news.”

“I’ve two bits, in fact.” At least John
hoped
Fergus would see this as good news. “Next Saturday there’s a charity ball put on by People for People—they’re sort of the umbrella group for New Shores and some other Scottish human-rights organizations. Cocktails, dinner, dancing, at one of the City Centre hotel ballrooms.” He glanced at his smirking mum. “Anyway, I’ve been planning to go for weeks and I was wondering if you’d be my plus-one?”

“I’d love to! Formal as in tuxedos and kilts?”

“Tuxedos, aye, but of course kilts are optional. You could wear trousers.” He picked at an old cigarette burn on the passenger seat. “I’m wearing a kilt.”

“Then I’ll wear one too.”

“Great.” John swallowed the celebratory shout working its way up his throat. “Sorry for the short notice. I know it puts you in a bind finding a tuxedo to hire.”

“I bought one last year for my brother’s wedding. I can’t wait for you to see me in it.” Fergus lowered his voice. “And out of it.”

John’s cock gave an eager twitch at the thought. More than a twitch, in fact. He shifted his legs and cleared his throat. “Yes, still with my mum,” he said, as if answering a question Fergus had posed. “So we’ll talk later?”

“Absolutely,” Fergus purred.

John hung up quickly before Fergus’s voice could make it painful to get out of the car. Traffic was unusually light on the M8, so they’d soon be home.

He sent Fergus a text:
I’ll book a room at the hotel.

“You know how to wear a formal kilt?” Mum asked.

“The man at the shop will show me. How hard can it be?” John tried to picture how Fergus would look Saturday night, knowing his imagination would fall far short of reality.

Fergus texted back,
Why? My flat’s an easy taxi ride away.

John: So that someone else can make breakfast. Also, I thought it could be a special occasion for us.

His heart pounded as he stared out the window, too nervous to look at the screen to see Fergus’s reaction. Another set of North Glasgow high-rise tower blocks passed by, their gray facades nearly blending in with the low, looming clouds.

John’s phone buzzed.

Fergus: Oh?

Then, five seconds later:

Fergus: OH.

F
ERGUS
EXAMINED
HIMSELF
in the hotel bathroom’s full-length mirror, trying not to think of the first and last time he’d worn this outfit.

No use.

He’d been a groomsman at his brother Malcolm’s wedding last July. Evan was his date, and they’d danced together at the reception, in front of the entire family. Fergus’s mother had cried more tears of joy over that sight than she had over the wedding itself. (Then again, his brother had been but twenty-two and marrying his pregnant girlfriend.)

Fergus had dared that night to dream of his and Evan’s own wedding. Not in a Catholic church, obviously, but perhaps in a hotel like the one he was standing in right now. There would’ve been white roses everywhere.

As Fergus straightened his tie—which was brand new, because he wanted to wear one thing tonight that Evan had never touched—he wondered if his ex had already been cheating on him when they’d danced at Malcolm’s wedding.