Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) (24 page)

Suddenly Liam’s lips went hard and tight. “This—” he said against Robert’s mouth. “This is exactly what I never wanted.”

Robert’s heart seemed to crack in two. “No…”

“I never wanted to hurt you. Knowing I did, it—God…” He kissed Robert again, half as hard but with twice as much passion.

Robert’s limbs were turning to liquid, so while he still had the strength, he planted his palms on Liam’s chest and pushed. “What is this, then? Is it goodbye?”

“No!” Liam stared at him like he’d been accused of murder. “
Goodbye
is one word you’ll never hear from me. Not unless you say it first. And even then, what you’ll hear is me saying, ‘Please don’t go.’”

Robert let himself breathe. “Then what are you thinking? What do you want?”

Liam’s gaze dropped to Robert’s lips again. As he moved in for another kiss, a car horn honked. Liam leapt back. They both looked toward the Gallowgate where the noise had come from, but no one was looking back. The horn was just normal Glaswegian driving temper.

Liam drew his hands up over his face. “I want…I’d like us to…date. At least have a go at it. One night, see what happens.”

“Wow, that’s romantic.” Robert bit his lip at the sound of his own sarcasm.

Liam’s face fell. “It will be romantic, I promise. We’ll—erm, I don’t know what we’ll do, but leave it to me. Saturday night. I’ll make it good. What do you say?”

Robert hesitated. Liam was a fool if he thought they could simply “have a go at it” and “see what happens,” as if they were just meeting for the first time and had little to lose. As if they’d not be left with an empty chasm in their lives if they fucked this up. They were all or nothing, the two of them.

But if they risked nothing, Robert knew, they’d never have it all.

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, Liam’s phone alarm went off roughly an hour after he went to sleep. Groaning, he fumbled for the buzzing monstrosity, knocking it to the floor, where it began speaking in a robotic female voice:

“It is Thursday which means it’s time to get the fuck out of bed and go running with Fergus he’s your best gay mate and really fucking important to you and anyway you didn’t work last night so you’ve no reason to be tired.”

“Shut your gob, ya cow.” He reached down to the floor and pressed his fingers all over the phone’s screen until it stopped buzzing. This action triggered the second text-to-speech riff:

“Did you not hear me say it’s Thursday don’t let Fergus down you fanny.”

He grumbled, hating Liam of the Past who’d programmed this “smart alarm” to go off every Thursday at Fuck My Life O’Clock. Liam of the Past had thought it hilarious to have a robot lady tell him to drag his arse out of bed. Liam of the Present found it rubbish.

Still, RoboCow was right. He and Fergus ran together every Thursday morning before his mate went to work, since Liam was usually off Wednesday nights. Of course, he’d forgotten to cancel today’s run after picking up last night’s shift a few weeks ago.

Liam rubbed his eyes, remembering how brutally busy the pub had been for Quiz Night. His toes felt like hot spikes on the ends of his feet.

Then he remembered what else had happened last night: Robert. Kissing. Kissing Robert. Making plans for Saturday.

Liam rolled out of bed with new vigor. Suddenly being awake seemed the best idea ever.

He quickly dressed, taking a moment to text Fergus to assure him he was on his way. Then he bounced out of his bedroom toward the kitchen, humming the pop song that had been a Quiz Night name-that-tune bonus question.

Munching a granola bar in one hand and a banana in the other, he examined his flat with a critical eye. Liam adored his home for the mere fact that it was
his
, that for the first time ever, he had not only his own bedroom, but his own bathroom and kitchen. It was paradise.

But it was no place for a hot date. The flat was clean but not “gay-clean,” as Fergus would say. The carpet was ragged, the paint was peeling, and the sofa still held a stubborn stain from last week’s chips and gravy.

Liam opened his phone’s banking app to check his balance. Pure sadness there, too.

He pondered this dilemma on his predawn journey to nearby Janefield Cemetery. Saturday night had to be spectacular. Robert didn’t need fancy wining and dining, but he
did
need to see Liam making an effort. He needed a gesture, something to put his faith in.

Liam arrived at Janefield just as the Number 61 bus was pulling away, its rear lights illuminating the misty rain. Fergus stood within the bus shelter, inserting his earphones and clipping his phone into his running belt.

“All right, mate?” Liam called.

“Aye.” Fergus gave him a manly fist grasp and one-armed hug. Then they passed between the stone pillars flanking the cemetery gates. “You look knackered.”

“Worked last night.” Liam kept an eye on the edge of the small derelict building that was once the graveyard lodge, in case anyone—living or dead—decided to leap out at them as they passed. “Forgot to tell you.”

“Forgot? Or decided you couldn’t live without our weekly run?”

“It is the reason my heart keeps beating.”

“I’ll be sure never to miss it, then.” Fergus increased his pace to a brisk walk, as he was no doubt being commanded to do by his running app, the one that told them when and how long to sprint for maximum footballer training benefit. “Feels like it could snow any second.”

Liam swept a hopeful glance across the dark sky. Snow was a pain in the arse sometimes, but the little kid inside him still loved it.

“How’s the wedding stuff going?” he asked Fergus, since it was his job as best lad—a role whose existence he’d yet to independently confirm.

“Fine. John’s worried we’ll never pull it off.”

“What about your wedding planner?”

“She seem a bit overwhelmed, to be honest, but it’ll be sorted in time. Anyway, she only does the normal stuff—flowers, food, et cetera. For John and me there’s also the whole getting-married-on-an-historic-day thing. And because I’m already, you know…”

“Famous?”

“…reasonably well-known, ever since the Warriors’ charity match, our engagement has brought on a whole new wave of media attention.” Fergus tightened his gray-brown scarf over his face, then raised his voice through the muffling wool. “John wants to hire a publicist, but that seems overkill to me. We’re not a business. We’re just two lads who want to marry.”

“Two lads who want to marry on the day the whole world will be watching Scotland.”

“That too,” Fergus said. “Oh, you’ll like this—the
Herald
is doing a story about how John and I are the poster boys for antisectarianism. ‘The Green and the Blue,’ they’re titling it. They did a photo shoot with us and our conjoined Celtic-Rangers football blanket, then another with the football scarves wrapped around each other’s forearms, like in a wedding handfast? Run now.”

Fergus began a light jog, which Liam gladly joined. It felt good to extend his legs, feel the life come back into his joints after a cold night. The rain was still light, so the footing on the paved path remained solid.

As Liam ran, the gray headstones of war dead blurred in his peripheral vision. At the top of the long hill ahead of them loomed Parkhead, the stadium where their beloved Celtic had collected countless trophies. He always found it a strange sight, these symbols of loss and triumph in his same field of view.

“Talking of religion,” Liam said, “what sort of ceremony is it? Not a Catholic one, obviously.”

“We’re having a humanist wedding.”

“A what, now?”

“It’s totally secular but with more ritual than being married by a registrar. We can make it whatever we want.” Fergus pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and put them on as he jogged. “There’ll be a unity candle, which I find a bit trite, but considering the divides we’ve overcome to be together, it seemed appropriate.”

“Okay.” Liam heard the skepticism in his own voice. “I mean, fantastic!”

Fergus chuckled. “John and I have to go to the registration office on the morning of the sixteenth to file our intention to marry.”

“Why the sixteenth?”

“Because of the fifteen-day notice period. They need time to make sure we’re not related to each other or already married to someone else.”

Or time for you two to come to your senses.

“Do you want to come with us to witness bureaucratic history?” Fergus asked. “It’s a Tuesday.”

“I work late Mondays, so…probably not.” Liam tried to seem disappointed.

“Right. Whatever.” Fergus sounded dismayed enough for the both of them. “On a more fun topic, have you sorted the stag party yet?”

Fuck.
“Not completely.”
Not at all.
“Still searching for the perfect place.”

“Remember, it needs to be after the nineteenth, since that’s when John’s exams end.”

Liam blinked away a raindrop. “Naebody told me this was to be a joint stag party.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? We’re both men.”

“That’s not the point, especially since men and women both like getting steamin’ drunk and watching strippers. The point is to do something separate. You really want John to watch you getting a lap dance from a man in a translucent pouch thong?”

Fergus laughed. “John would love that.”

“But would you enjoy it as much if he were there?”

“Hmm, fair point. But he might feel hurt if we exclude him.”

“Not if he’s got his own party.” As the cemetery path neared the stadium, it curved to the right, and Liam had to run harder to battle the westerly wind. “Andrew’s his best man—he’ll put on the world’s poshest stag do. They’ll be eating caviar off the abs of a high-priced rentboy, one wee dab on each part of his six-pack.”

“Ugh, I can’t stand caviar.”

The fact Fergus had even seen caviar in real life, much less eaten it, made Liam wonder how they had ever become mates (the answer was obvious—football). “This is your last chance to have fun on your own before you’re chained forever. At least until your divorce.”

“Or until I kill John for squeezing the toothpaste tube from the top.”

“But then you’ll be in prison, where it’s hard to find good strippers.”

“True. Voluntary ones, at least.”

Liam smiled inside. At least betrothal hadn’t curbed Fergus’s banter skills.

“I’ll talk to John about separate stag parties,” Fergus said. “Setting aside the cynical jokes for a moment—”

“You like me this way. I keep you down to earth.”

“I used to keep
myself
down to earth, before I met John.” Fergus lifted his chin into the mist. “I like it better up there in the sky, believing in daft things like love lasting forever. Someday you’ll find a man who makes you believe too.”

Liam knew any protest would start an argument in which he’d say something offensive about marriage. But Fergus deserved to revel in his happiness, especially after the soul-wrecking end of his relationship with Evan Fucking Hollister, as he was now known amongst their mates.

Besides, this could be the perfect opening for what Liam needed to discuss. “Maybe I’ve already found him.”

“You’re kidding.” Fergus pushed back the edge of his hood to gape at Liam. “Who? Anyone I know?”

“No.” Liam winced inside at the reflexive lie. “I mean, it doesn’t matter. But I wanted to ask you something. We’ve got a date Saturday, and I really want to impress him.”

“I can recommend some great restaurants.”

“That’s the problem, see.” Liam’s face burned with shame, and he nearly lost his nerve. “I’m pure skint. My sister’s giving me some cash for letting her stay there every now and then, but that won’t be for a few weeks, and to be honest, I don’t really want to take it from her.”

“Are you asking me to lend you money?”

Liam hesitated, wishing he could take it back. “Maybe? If it’s not too much to ask.”

Fergus said nothing for a few moments, then held up a hand, folding down each finger as he spoke. “Get ready to sprint in five, four, three, two, one.”

Liam shot forward, as much to get away from the embarrassing situation he’d created as to train his legs and lungs. But Fergus soon passed him, his stamina-rich midfielder’s legs eating up the path. He was nearly twenty yards ahead when he raised his hand to signal a return to a jog.

Huffing steam into the freezing air, Liam caught up to his mate. “Never mind. I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea.”

“It’s okay.” Fergus wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Sorry, I don’t think friends should owe each other money. It poisons things.”

Liam felt his face burn brighter. “You’re right. Forget I said anything.”

“I won’t lend you cash.” Fergus flashed a cheeky grin. “But I’ll
give
you something better.”

R
OBERT
FIDGETED
WITH
his tie as he entered the high-end Glasgow hotel through the automatic revolving door. He felt so out of his depth in places like this.

But when he stepped onto the lobby’s polished marble floor, he paused and took a deep breath.
You belong here. Why not?

Just then his phone dinged in his inside jacket pocket. He pulled it out and saw a new message from Liam, right below the one from Thursday reading,
Wear your glad rags and pack a bag for Saturday night. It’s now a VERY special occasion.

This new message gave him their room number and the time for dinner reservations in less than an hour, at the hotel restaurant Robert was passing now. It looked posh.

While he waited for the lift, he checked his appearance in the door’s shiny surface. His white dress shirt was brand new, but he’d bought the suit at a second-hand shop on Great Western Road yesterday, with no time to have it altered. He hoped no one would notice the jacket was a wee bit tight across the shoulders.

For the last four days he’d been able to think of nothing but this night. At uni he’d stared at the walls as the lecturers wrapped up the semester’s teaching period with exam review sessions. Today on the pitch during the Scottish Amateur Cup’s fourth-round match, he’d been hyper-aware of Liam’s every move, more focused on his fellow center-back than on his opponents. It was an improvement over their last match together—they’d won, for instance—but still more chaotic than Charlotte and Fergus would have liked.