Playing With Fire (Glasgow Lads Book 3) (22 page)

The song was still playing when Ben hooked his arm inside Robert’s. “Quick, to the bar. There’s always a rush for drinks at the end of a line dance.”

They made it just in time, and once they had their beers and whiskies they hurried—moseyed, rather—back to their original table. “Need the loo,” Ben said as he set down his drinks. “Try not to give my seat to any pretty ladies, okay?”

Robert glared at him. “I’ll do my best.” As he sipped his beer, he watched the other patrons pair up for a slow dance. A middle-aged couple in matching white-and-blue Stetsons shuffled together in a close embrace, fingers intertwined as tight as the knot in a taut rope. The lady rested her glitter-dusted cheek against the man’s broad chest, her eyes pinched shut in what seemed a blend of pain and bliss.

That’s when Robert caught the lyrics, which told of a crushing heartbreak that led a man to drink himself to death. As the tender chorus began, he had to clamp his lips shut to keep the song from reaching down his throat and squeezing his heart like a sponge.

It didn’t work, so he downed the rest of his whisky, hoping to match the burning of his eyes with one in his sinuses. Then the second verse rolled out, telling how the woman spent the next years following her dead lover through the bottle into the grave. Robert grabbed Ben’s dram and drank that, too.

The dancers blurred, even the painfully happy couple who looked so much like his parents that he wanted to run over and wrap his arms around them, make them promise to look after each other and live long fucking lives.

“Mate, you all right?”

Robert wiped his eyes and nodded at Ben. “What
was
that song?” he asked hoarsely. “The one just ended.”

“‘Whiskey Lullaby.’” He picked up his empty glass. “Talking of which—”

“I’ll get you another.” Robert stood to go to the bar, but Ben gently sat him down again.

“No, you won’t. I’m good with just the beer.” He slid into the snug, then reached across the table and wiped his sleeve over Robert’s wet cheek. “Give me your phone. I want to see something.”

Robert handed it over, realizing that of all the people in the world, Ben was the one from whom he had nothing to hide. “What are you doing?”

“You need to take action. Luckily, action is my specialty.” Ben flipped through Robert’s screens. “Where’s your Grindr app?”

“We’re not going on now.”

“We’ll just browse, see who’s about. Where is it?”

Robert took back the phone. “It’s in a secret folder.”

“Och, that’s so closet-y. Is it labeled something boring like ‘Memo Pad’ so no one’ll click on it if they find your phone?”

“No.” Robert tapped the Memo Pad icon to launch the Grindr app. He logged in, then set his profile to Online and waited a few moments while it scanned the Glasgow streets nearby. “There are loads more gays in Govan district than I expected.”

“I know, right? Working-class, salt-of-the-earth men. My favorite sort. Like this one here. Hiya.” Ben smiled up at a forty-something balding chap as he passed, then craned his neck to stare at his Wrangler-clad arse. “Think he’d have a go with me in the loo?”

Robert shook his head. “According to Grindr, you and I are the only poofs in this place.”

Ben snatched the phone. “Let’s see your profile. It probably needs medical attention.” He tapped the screen a few times. “Forty-eight unanswered messages, ya prick?”

“I’m not interested in those guys.”

“Then say so, or block them.”

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“It’s ruder to ignore them.” Ben thumbed through Robert’s profile. “You need some emojis to liven up your bio. Maybe a football?”

Robert frowned. “Emojis? Aren’t they kind of—”

“Gay? Yes.” Ben tapped his temple. “Learn to think like us. We’re like magpies—we love shiny objects.” He slid off his seat and came to sit next to Robert. “Shopping time.” Ben scrolled through the profiles of all the men within a two-mile radius. He pointed to one whose profile photo showed only a close-up of a dark beard. “Beware of folk without full facial pics. He could totally be lying about his age or his twelve-pack abs.” He ran a hand over his own stomach. “Do humans even have twelve ab muscles?”

“Let me do it.” Robert perused the profile pics while Ben sipped his pint, humming along to the theme song from
A Fistful of Dollars
. He stopped scrolling when he saw a profile for DublinBhoy, an Irishman currently located in Glasgow’s City Centre hotel district.

Ben peeked over his shoulder. “Ooh, nice. Chat him.”

“He’s twenty-eight.”

“Young enough to be hot, but old enough to be experienced. Though if his profile says twenty-eight, he’s probably at least thirty. But who cares? He’s proper cute.”

Ben was right, at least from what Robert could see on the profile pic. DublinBhoy had friendly eyes and an engaging smile. And since
Bhoy
was the self-adopted term for many Celtic Football Club supporters, it seemed he and Robert had a favorite team in common. Still, something held him back.

Robert’s phone bleeped with an invitation to chat—from DublinBhoy himself. “Whoa.”

“It’s a sign!” Ben slapped his palms together. “Answer him. Answer him now. Answer. Answer. Answer. Answer.”

“All right, all right.” Robert’s stomach fluttered as he brought up the chat window.

DublinBhoy: Hello!

“What should I say?” he asked Ben, who shrugged.

“Small talk never goes amiss.”

“Right.” He typed,
Hiya. Visiting our fair city?

After a moment, DublinBhoy replied,
Yeah my first time. I’m here on business but had some free hours yesterday and went to Kelvingrove Museum. It was AMAZING.

Flustrated: I live near there. I’m at Glasgow Uni. Year 4.

DublinBhoy: Nice. What do you study?

Flustrated: Digital Media and Information Studies is my course. Combined with Mathematics.

“That’ll either entice him,” Ben said, “or put him to sleep.”

Robert added,
I mostly do video game design.

DublinBhoy replied,
I love video games!
replacing the word
love
with a heart emoji.

“See?” Ben said. “If a twenty-eight-year-old businessman uses emojis, you can too.”

Flustrated: Me too (obvs).
Robert added a wink emoji before hitting send. “Happy now?”

Ben nodded. “Your turn to ask him a question.”

Flustrated: What’s your business?

DublinBhoy: Finance. BOOORRRING.

“Excellent,” Ben said. “Probably got loads of cash to splash on a fit young man like yourself.”

The thought should have thrilled Robert, as he’d always paid for dates, which meant they tended to be low-budget affairs. So why did he have the urge to shut down the app and delete it this instant?

When Ben nudged his elbow, Robert typed,
What a coincidence. I love money!
deploying the heart emoji as ordered.

Ben cackled. “You’re better at this than you thought.”

DublinBhoy: LOL. How about dinner tomorrow? It’s my last night in Glasgow.

“Yes!” Ben raised his arms in triumph. “What is it you footballers say? Get in!”

“Dinner? That’s like a real date.”

“It’s not. Listen.” Ben spread his palms across the table. “There’s a whole wonderful land between anonymous hand jobs and long-term relationships.”

“I know.”
It’s a land Liam wants to live in forever.

“If you want to explore this part of yourself,” Ben said, “and if you want to get over Liam, you’ve got to enter that land.” He squeezed Robert’s arm. “I promise if you switch off the romantic inside you, he won’t die forever. He’ll come back to life when you meet the right person. And in the meantime, you’ll have lived.”

Robert’s phone bleeped.

DublinBhoy: Did I scare you away?

Robert swallowed hard. The second-to-last thing he wanted was to be with someone—male or female—who wasn’t Liam. It felt wrong to his core.

But the
very
last thing he wanted was to go on living this way, with a burning wound in his chest and an ocean-wide rift between himself and his best mate. Maybe the only way he and Liam could find their way back to each other was for Robert to get over him.

He’d save their friendship by any means necessary.

Flustrated: Dinner sounds grand.

“Thank God,” Ben muttered.

Robert drank the rest of his beer while he waited for DublinBhoy to finish typing. The fizzy liquid only made his gut roil harder.

DublinBhoy: Excellent! This sounds so touristy, but can we go to a Celtic pub for a drink first? I’m a massive fan, as you can probably tell from my profile name.

Robert froze, thinking of Hannigan’s. He couldn’t take DublinBhoy to Liam’s pub.

But tomorrow was Wednesday, which Liam always had off. If Robert went to Hannigan’s then, Liam might hear from one of his coworkers or regulars that he’d been in with someone else. He’d know that Robert had taken his advice to see other guys, but without having it shoved in his face.

DublinBhoy: You’re not a Rangers supporter, are you?

Robert jumped to deny it as though he’d been accused of treason.
I love Celtic! And I know the perfect place.

“W
ELCOME
EVERYONE
TO
Hannigan’s for Wednesday Night Trivia!” The perky blond lass with the foot-long airborne ponytail bounced onto the pub’s wee corner stage. “I’ll review the rules pure quick so we can get started.”

Liam had never seen it busier at Hannigan’s when Celtic weren’t playing a match. Even the pub’s Friday trad music shows brought in only half as many folk as this quiz night. The entire far side of the room was crammed out with a younger-than-usual clientele, formed up into teams of three or four.

“Rule one,” the lass continued, “no shouting out answers. Am I right, mate?” She pointed to Billy O’Brien, who, despite his professed distaste for Quiz Night, had gathered himself a team of crotchety old East End gits “to show the whippersnappers a thing or two.”

Billy half stood and bowed as if to an appreciative audience. “I’ll do my best, doll.”

“Rule two,” she said, “no mobile devices whatsoever. You’re to use your brains, or what’s left of them after this lad’s seen to you.” She waved to Liam, who returned her grin and gesture.

The players fixed their attention on the perky hostess, their pens at the ready, their gazes full of an intensity Liam usually saw only on Olympic athletes.

Though the area near the stage was packed, the bar itself was empty, every customer absorbed in the game. Scarlett had warned Liam about these lulls. While the players were answering questions, they’d not be buying drinks. That left him too much time to run Saturday night’s conversation with Colin through his head again. The injured Warrior had shed light on a few truths Liam hadn’t been willing to face.

Number one: Hooking up with Robert had hurt their performance on the pitch.

Number two:
Breaking
up with Robert had
destroyed
their performance on the pitch.

Number three: There was no undoing number one without a time machine, but number two might still be reversed, if Liam could find the courage.

He pulled out his phone, brought up Robert’s number, and started to type.

Can we

Just then, the front door opened with a whoosh of wind. A tall, broad-shouldered thirtyish man entered, yanking the door shut behind him, fighting the gale for every inch. He paused just inside the pub, head swiveling then stopping when he spied the wall display of autographed Celtic jerseys.

Since Hannigan’s mainly catered to locals, it was less over-the-top “Oirish” than many Celtic Football Club-aligned establishments along the Gallowgate road near the stadium. The pub’s decor featured no shamrocks and only one faded Irish flag, beneath the high-def TV mounted in the far corner. So it was low on the list for tourists seeking a stereotypical Celtic FC experience—but high on the list of those seeking an authentic one.

By the look of wonder in this new customer’s eyes, Liam sensed he was the latter. He pocketed his phone without sending Robert’s text. It was far too important to dash off in a hurry.

The man approached the bar, smoothing his windblown hair, which was a slightly softer shade of red than Liam’s.

“All right, mate?” he asked the newcomer. “You with a team?”

The ginger’s brows popped up. “I’m a Celtic fan, if that’s what you’re asking.”

At the sound of his customer’s Irish accent, Liam switched on his thousand-watt smile. Promoting an international reputation was one of Hannigan’s primary goals. “Then you’ve come to the right place.” He kept his voice down to avoid disturbing the game. “But I meant, are you with one of the Quiz Night teams?”

“Ah, no.” He scanned the pub again. “I’m early to meet someone. Local lad.” The man leaned in, green eyes sparkling. “He said every other pub on the Gallowgate was pure shite.”

“Sounds wise. I’d do everything he says this evening.” Liam winked, fairly certain this guy was gay. “What’ll you have? Guinness?”

“Sorry, I’ve a strict no-Guinness-outside-Dublin policy. As I’m in Scotland, I’ll try a whisky without the e.”

“Any preference?”

“I’m open to anything.” The Irishman tilted his head. “What do
you
fancy?”

Yep. Gay gay gay.
“What I fancy and what I can afford are two different things.” Liam turned and reached for a bottle on the highest shelf, conscious the man was watching him stretch. “Auchentoshan is made nearby. It’s Scotland’s only triple-distilled whisky. You know what that means?”

The man brightened as he watched Liam pour the dram in front of him. “No, what?”

“Firstly, a higher alcohol content. Secondly, it’s sweet and delicate, like me.” When his customer laughed, Liam added, “On the inside, of course.”

He picked up the glass. “What makes you think that’s what I prefer?”