Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (23 page)

Then Logan gave him one last glare. “Proddy scum,” he whispered.

When he was released, John got to his feet and turned to see a fearsome-looking nun sending Logan back into the school with orders to see the headie.

“And if I find out you didnae give Father Pierce the full story, I’ll rap all your knuckles myself!” She turned to John, and her face softened. “Oh laddie, you look a state. Where you fae?” When he told her his street address, she took his hand. “That’s not far. I’ll go with you.”

Sister Mary Francis led him home, chattering about the lovely early spring they were having and whether it might snow again at the weekend. John couldn’t decide which scared him more: his dad seeing him with a nun or his mum seeing he’d torn another pair of trousers.

Just before they arrived, he interrupted Sister Mary Francis with a question: “Can I go to your school?”

She hesitated. “Aye, if your parents want to send you there.”

“But Logan said ‘No Huns Allowed.’”

“His father probably told him that, but it’s not true. Listen, dearie.” She stopped and squatted in front of him, the hem of her habit brushing the dusty pavement. “Wherever you go to school, there’s one thing you need to learn.”

He wondered if he was supposed to write this down. “What’s that?”

The nun tapped the side of John’s head. “To think for yourself.”

Sitting here in the garden, his arms falling numb around the sleeping Isobel, John played back Fergus’s angry defense.
I wouldn’t care if he was the Orange Order’s Grand fucking Master!

Obviously that had been an exaggeration for the sake of effect, but maybe there was some truth to it. Perhaps he could tell Fergus the truth about the Orange Walk, how desperately he’d wanted to make Dad proud and happy. They were each trying to live up to their fathers’ hopes and expectations, so perhaps Fergus would understand.

Yes, John would tell him tonight.

Though, if Fergus did get a wee bit upset, it could ruin the party. Or someone could overhear and freak out. The Taylors accepted John because they didn’t really know him.

He would tell Fergus tomorrow first thing.

After they’d left his mum’s house, obviously. And after dropping Izzy and her parents at the train station. And of course not whilst Fergus was driving. But definitely once they were home. Yes, John would tell him then, tell him everything.

He felt a great weight lift from his chest, like his lungs had doubled their capacity. Taking a deep breath, John looked down at Izzy sleeping against him, mouth silently working, her green hair bow slipping down her forehead.

Then he thought of his nephew, living in Southside poverty. If no one showed Harry an alternative, he could end up like his father, consumed with hate and despair that could someday land him behind bars.

Or perhaps these weans would grow up in a new Scotland, undivided by centuries-old hatreds. Someone needed to make that happen.

John stopped breathing. That someone could be him.

An idea was born in his mind that moment, an idea fueled by Fergus’s declaration of loyalty and John’s own determination to change the future. An idea much grander than a simple confession between lovers. An idea with the potential to reach everyone, everywhere.

Come the day of the Orange Walk, he’d make a statement no one would ever forget.

A
FTER
SEARCHING
FOR
John in the main house, Fergus found him pacing outside the cottage, still holding wee Isobel. “Where’d you go? I thought she’d kidnapped you.”

“Shh, she’s sleeping,” John whispered. He gave Fergus a forlorn look. “I cannae feel my arms.”

“You poor lad, you missed the cake. Let’s get her back to my brother.” Fergus took his niece, who whimpered drowsily at the transfer. “My family’s dubbed you St. John for this.”

They returned to the main house, John rolling his shoulders, which must’ve been fiercely stiff. Fergus made a mental note to give him a thorough massage later.

Many of the guests were on their way out, so once he’d deposited Izzy with Malcolm, Fergus was occupied with goodbyes and thanks-for-comings for nearly the next hour.

By eleven, they were down to the core family, including the Derry cousins, who’d avoided Fergus since their row in the garden. It was just as well, as he found it hard to hide his anger but didn’t want to upset Ma or John by telling them what had happened.

Now the three men were setting up a poker game in the study. Uncle Pat had joined them, and they were trolling for a fifth.

“Fergus!” Graeme called into the conservatory from the sitting room. “Come and play.”

He wanted to tell Graeme to fuck off, but John was standing nearby, finally enjoying a bit of birthday cake in peace. “No thanks,” Fergus said. “I’ve barely spoken three words to Ma since I arrived.”

“Your mate, then.” Graeme turned to John. “What do you say, Burns? Fetch yourself a glass and join us. We’ve got a bottle of Laphroaig 18, just for the players.”

Fergus started to warn John away, but it was too late.

“I’d be daft to refuse.” John set down his empty plate and started searching the bar for a clean tumbler.

Fergus went to him. “You play poker?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Just do me one favor.” Fergus laid his hands on John’s shoulders and whispered in his ear. “Take these bawbags for all they’ve got.”

= = =

“Och, what a night.” Fergus’s mother sank into one of the conservatory’s padded chairs. “I don’t think my feet will make it to their fifty-first birthday.”

He poured a dram of Stronachie for her, then himself. “You were wise to hide the good whisky. I’m sure most of our guests are gathered at The Old Mill by now.” He’d spent many a Saturday night in the Pitlochry pub himself.

“Better there than here. I’ve lost my late-night party stamina. When I was your age, your da and I would rarely sleep on a weekend.” Ma slipped off her stack sandals and stretched her toes. “Talking of sleeping, how’s the cottage?”

“Perfect. Thanks for setting us up there.”

“I thought perhaps you’d rather not sleep in your old bed with John after…I mean, you used to bring
him
here a lot.”

“Thoughtful of you.” His bedroom in this house was full of memories of his ex. “But Evan and I always slept separately when we visited.”

“You went to bed separately. You think I never heard him scurry into your room in the middle of the night?”

Fergus felt his face warm. “I did think that. Guess I was more naive than you were.”

“And I pray you stay that way.” She took the small china water pitcher and added a few drops to her whisky. “You seem so happy and relaxed now. Are you?”

It had been a long time since those words had been used to describe Fergus. “Happy, yes. Relaxed, hardly. It’s brutal trying to balance my job with being Warriors’ captain. I’m not used to all this responsibility. It was so much easier when…” He broke off and took a sip of whisky, letting the chirp of crickets fill the silence.

“When Evan handled everything?” she asked softly.

“He provided me with all I needed, including happiness. He managed my life so I never worried about anything but my Master’s degree. Then once I had it, he left me with no clue how to stand on my own.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Ma frowned at an ant crawling along the table’s bubble-glass surface, then flicked it away with one peach-polished fingernail. “Or you could say he left you once you
could
stand on your own.”

“That’s rather charitable.”

“Oh, I don’t mean he did it on purpose. Evan’s a right wee prick for what he did to you. I just mean that now he’s gone, you’ve discovered a strength you didn’t know you had. Strength you might not’ve found if he’d stayed.”

He swished his whisky, watching the pinpoints of clear-white party lights dance on its amber surface. Despite the pain Evan had inflicted, he’d given Fergus years of support, stood by him while he worked his way to the top of his university class and developed his skills and instincts as a footballer. If Fergus’s life were a building, Evan had helped him construct it. Then he’d demolished it by leaving. But the foundation remained, and from that foundation Fergus had built something even better. Something that was his.

His mother leaned close and whispered. “Speaking of things you’d not have found if Evan had stayed, what about John? Does he ‘provide you with happiness’?”

“He doesn’t need to.” Fergus gazed in the direction of the study, where his boyfriend’s booming laughter mixed with that of the Derry cousins. “With John, the happiness provides itself.”

= = =

Half past midnight, when his mother tottered off to bed, Fergus decided to fetch John. He had plans for him.

Nearing the study, he overheard rollicking banter that seemed to consist of John and the cousins teaching each other Scottish and Irish words for
drunk
. Fergus stood in the doorway, then put his hands atop the frame, casually stretching but also incidentally flexing his bare arms and displaying the inch of stomach revealed when his shirt rode up.

John looked up immediately and blinked in admiration. Then he let out an unconvincing yawn. “Right, that’s me away now. I thank you lads for a most enjoyable education.”

“Foo the noo!” Graeme called out, raising his glass.

“Foo the noo!” John echoed, then drained the rest of his whisky as he stood unsteadily. “Och, dead foo, so I am.”

They laughed and catcalled, and Uncle Pat stood to clap John on the back as he exited.

“How’d you do?” Fergus asked him on their way from the house to the cottage.

“No’ sae bad. They only took me for forty or fifty quid.”

“That’s a lot!”

“But if I’d bought four drams of Laphroaig 18 in a pub, I’d have spent more than that, so I call it a draw.” John staggered a bit. “Or was it five drams? I’m pure langers, so I cannae remember.”

“Langers?”

“Cork-speak for drunk. But langer also means penis, which I think says a lot about the Irish, don’t you?”

“You said you knew how to play poker.”

“I do. But one doesn’t make friends by taking their money.”

Fergus’s fists clenched as he thought of how his cousins had insulted John in the garden. “Those men aren’t your friends.”

“I know that,” John said quietly, his voice suddenly clear and sober. “But they don’t know I know that. Better they think me a fool than a threat.”

“Ah.” Fergus shook his head in awe as they reached the cottage. “You’re so wily sometimes, it’s almost diabolical.”

“Diabolical, aye?” John leaned against the front door. “Does it turn you on?”

“Do you exist? Because that’s all it takes to turn me on these days.” He kissed him, sliding his hand up under John’s shirt, tucking a fingertip beneath his waistband. “Stay here whilst I fetch a few things. Then I’ll show you some more magic.”

= = =

“You’re sure this is private?” John asked, shining the camping lantern on the wooded trail ahead of them. Fergus felt him squeeze his hand as some small night creature scampered through the underbrush.

“It’s more private than the cottage bedroom.” Carrying a thick flannel blanket and other necessities under his arm, Fergus turned left at the fork in the trail, which ended shortly at a secluded glade. “Here we are.”

“Oh…”

Fergus tried to see the glade through John’s eyes, as if for the first time. The round grassy area had been kept clear since lightning had killed a pair of trees when he was eight. A few saplings had sprouted up around the edges, but the center was all low grasses and wildflowers. Though the sky was still cloudy, the rain had stopped hours ago, leaving a thin sheen of dampness that made the glade glisten silver in the lantern light.

“It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” John said. “Or a slasher film.” He glanced around nervously. “Are there wolves nearby?”

“If by nearby, you mean Norway, yes. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your perspective—there’s no beast left in Scotland that can eat you.” He spread the blanket on the grass, then knelt in the center. “Other than myself.”

John set down the lantern, slipped off his shoes, then stepped forward onto the blanket. Fergus ran his hands up behind John’s thighs, gazing up at his face. Then he unfastened John’s trousers and pulled down his zipper.

“Sorry,” he said breathlessly, “I can’t stand another moment without this.” He released John’s cock from his boxers straight into his mouth, where it jerked and stiffened. Within moments, it had swelled to full size, stretching his lips with its impossible thickness.

Fergus looked up to see John’s eyes closed in bliss. He threaded his fingers through Fergus’s hair, then started gently tugging him forward and back. When John’s head met his throat, Fergus groaned and wrapped his lips tight around the base of his shaft, needing to consume this man he was falling in love with.

Wait.

He was
what
?

No. Not so soon after Evan. It was unthinkable.

As if reading his mind, John stopped him and cautiously pulled out of his mouth. Then he knelt as well, put his hands on Fergus’s shoulders, and gazed into his eyes for a long, heartstopping moment. Fergus searched John’s face for evidence of the ugly things his cousins had said about him, wondering if their perspective had changed his own.

John did look different to him now. He was more beautiful than ever.

John opened his mouth, seeming on the verge of a momentous statement. But then he kissed Fergus, melding their mouths with the heat of an emotion beyond words.

They threw off their shirts, then kissed again, holding tight. Fergus wanted never to let go, never to feel anything against his own bare chest but John’s, never to touch anything but the smooth skin of John’s back with those muscles rippling beneath.

Fergus softened his posture just a bit, curving his spine to mold himself against John, who read his signal in an instant. Cradling Fergus in one strong arm, John lowered him to the blanket, where he rested his weight beside him, one leg slung over Fergus’s hips. Fergus writhed at the pressure of John’s thigh upon his cock, feeling its warmth through both their trousers.