Playing to Win (23 page)

Yet the thought of another lad kissing Andrew, or touching him, or licking, sucking,
fucking
him…

Actually, that was pretty hot too.

Feeling like he was treading through a minefield, Colin offered a smile, a nod, and what he hoped was the correct answer. “Let’s just see what happens, okay?”

= = =

It wasn’t that Andrew was bored with Colin. Quite the opposite—he worried Colin could grow weary of
him
. Not since their first night had he asked to bottom Andrew, but if he was as versatile as he claimed, perhaps he missed the variety.

As predicted, the two of them were swarmed with admirers, who were none too subtle about the reason for their attraction.

“So what do you guys wear under your kilts?” asked a blond lad who was cute but a bit ruddy and thick-looking for Andrew’s tastes. “Are you like Braveheart?”

Andrew sipped his pint to hide his frown.
I swear to God, I will take the first man who doesn’t ask that question or mention that film.

“Whatdoyouthinkwewear?” Colin asked, running all his words together and dropping the “t” from “think,” as usual.

The blond (Steve, perhaps?) stared at Colin for a moment, then turned to Andrew. “What’d he say?”

“He asked what you think we wear,” Andrew replied, already scanning the club for their next candidate. Last time he was here, the men he’d met had been much more worldly. Perhaps the kilts attracted the clueless ones.

“That’s what I thought.” Steve(?) smiled nervously. “He talks super fast. Anyway, I hear you guys go commando. I mean, if you’re a true Irishman and shit.”

Colin exploded. “We’re no’ fuckin’ Irish, mate! We’re Scottish.”

“You said you were from Glasgow.”

“Aye.”

“Isn’t that in Ireland?”

Colin’s face twisted. “Get tae fuck, ya wee bellend.”

Steve(?) turned to Andrew. “What’d he say?”

“That’ll do. Goodnight.” Andrew patted the mouth-breathing muppet on the shoulder as he and Colin moved on.

“Why can’t they understand me?” Colin asked, eyes flashing with annoyance.

“It’s very loud in here.”

“They understand you, and I’m much shoutier.”

“Yes, but they’ve heard people like me in James Bond films.” Needing a stronger drink, Andrew pushed past another pair of gawkers, avoiding eye contact. “They’ve only heard people like you in
Trainspotting
.”

“
Trainspotting
was set in Edinburgh. I sound nothing like those yins.” Colin pulled him to a stop. “Here’s the deal—the first guy who can understand me, that’s the one we pick. That way you willnae have to translate all night.”

“Whatever you fancy, darling.”

Colin’s grimace held the hint of a smile. “Gonnae no call me ‘darling,’ ya fandan. That’s the least sexy word in the world.”

“Ah, but it turns me on how scunnered you get when you hear it.”

“‘Scunnered’? You’re speaking Scots now?”

“Aye, it must be the kilts…” Andrew ran a hand down over Colin’s bum, then pinched it. “…darling.”

“Shut up.” Colin yanked him into a hard kiss that made Andrew moan. As their tongues writhed together and the music pounded against his skin, Andrew felt his knees turn to liquid. Colin was everything he wanted tonight.

When they parted, Colin stared deep into his eyes, and for a moment Andrew thought—hoped—he would suggest returning to their hotel room, just the two of them.

Instead Colin said, “Time for more drinks.”

Head swimming with desire, Andrew simply nodded.

They turned for the bar and stopped short. The most beautifully ordinary-looking American lad stood there, watching the two of them. His short light-brown hair held a fashionable but not overly trendy cut, and his shirt and trousers said
I’m trying
but not
I’m trying too hard.

Most importantly, his semi-shy glance was bouncing between Colin’s and Andrew’s faces—not their kilts.

Colin found Andrew’s hand and squeezed.

“Hiya,” he said to the lad when they joined him at the bar, one on either side. “Gonnae let us buy you a drink?”

“Thanks. Or I guess I should say, ‘Cheers.’” He offered a crooked smile made of the world’s straightest teeth.

“Our pleasure.” Andrew ordered three drams of single malt. “You fancy whisky, I hope, er…?”

“Joey. And yeah, I do. Mostly Speysides, but sometimes I get adventurous with an Islay.”

“You know your Scotch. Impressive.” Andrew was warming to him already.

“I spent my junior year in London. Me and my friends took a trip to Scotland over spring break.” His gaze turned distant and rapturous, his brown lashes fluttering. “It was seriously the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. The Highlands and Islands, Inverness, Edinburgh—and the architecture in Glasgow, holy shit. No one warned me how gorgeous that city would be.” He reached for his whisky. “Sorry, I’m totally rambling.”

Andrew looked past Joey at Colin, whose face lit up like it was Christmas in August.

Joey lifted his glass in a toast. “Slàinte.”

“Indeed.” Andrew looked down, appreciating the symmetry of his and Colin’s kilts bookending Joey’s chinos in the hazy blue bar light. He pictured the lad sandwiched naked between them while they still wore their kilts. Perhaps this was a good idea after all.

Joey glanced down as well. “You probably get this question a lot, but I gotta know. Is it true—”

“Aye,” Colin said with a disappointed scowl.

“I didn’t even ask the—”

“You were gonnae ask if we free-ball it under our kilts.”

Joey shook his head. “Actually, I was wondering if it’s true Scotland’s going to become independent.”

Colin’s birthday face returned. “Aye, it’s true!”

“No, it’s not,” Andrew said.
Good God, is there no escape from this nonsense?

“It could totally happen.” Colin gestured with his glass. “The polls are starting to turn our way.”

“A momentary blip,” Andrew said.

Joey looked at him. “So you’re against independence. Is that because you’re English?”

“I’m against independence because it’s ludicrous—and I’m not English, I’m Scottish.”

“Sorry.” Joey rubbed his mouth, blushing. “You sound English to me.”

“See, I telt you.” Colin pointed at Andrew, who was feeling the first glimmers of jealousy. He shrugged off this nagging discomfort. Pre-threesome anxiety was perfectly normal. It didn’t mean Andrew cared.

Besides, this weekend was about giving Colin everything he’d never had, setting him free from want. Andrew had to be generous on all fronts in order to prove that giving didn’t mean losing. They could enjoy this lad Joey without enjoying each other any less.

Right?

When Colin turned away to order another round, Andrew leaned over and spoke into Joey’s ear. “It’s Colin’s birthday. He fancies you, and I want to make him happy. If you know what I mean.”

Joey’s eyes went wide, and he nodded. “I think I do.” He gave his lower lip a nervous lick. “Are you—I mean, will you be—”

“Oh yes.” He mirrored Joey’s lip lick. “The three of us. But it’s about him, all right? Not me. Not you. Not you and me. Not for one moment.”

Joey glanced behind him at Colin, who was examining the bottles atop the bar and gnawing the end of a red cocktail straw. “Um, speaking of birthdays, I gotta ask. How old are you guys?”

“He’s nineteen, I’m twenty. Don’t tell the bartender.”

Joey laughed. “As long as you’re at least eighteen, I don’t care.”

Colin turned around then. “What’s so funny?”

Andrew knew if he lied, Colin would think they were laughing at him. “Joey asked our ages so he’d know he wouldn’t get arrested for fucking us.”

The cocktail straw fell from Colin’s mouth. His shocked,
shit just got real
expression told Andrew that Colin had indeed thought this was all a joke.

Now what?

The bartender delivered the whiskies, breaking the tension. Colin quickly distributed the glasses to Joey and Andrew. “Okay, then. Get it doon ye!” He threw back the dram in one swallow, then slammed the glass down on the bar. “Let’s dance.”

A
NDREW
WAS
NOT
bluffing about the threesome. Colin could tell by the way he and Joey ground against him on the dance floor, one behind, one in front; and by the way Andrew watched with avid interest as Joey slid his hands over Colin’s hips while they danced.

Colin tried to divide his attention equally between them, counting the number of seconds he focused on Andrew, then on Joey. But he kept adding time with Andrew, searching for ambivalence in those steel-blue eyes, hoping to find the answer to his most burning question:
Don’t you want me all to yourself?

Finally Colin went to fetch another round of drinks, leaving Andrew and Joey on the dance floor together. At the upstairs bar, he ordered four blended whiskies (an extra for himself, to steady his nerves). While he waited, he gnawed another cocktail straw and Googled
how to survive your first threesome
. The search results were monumentally unhelpful and seemed full of dire warnings of ruined relationships.

Did he and Andrew even
have
a relationship? They had fun together, and they shared a love of football, and they made each other laugh. Their connection in bed was unlike anything Colin had ever experienced. He’d always been an intense lover, but often his intensity was faked, a compensation for his uncertainty. But with Andrew, he’d no need to pretend. Andrew stoked every emotion at once inside Colin—hate, rage, lust, fear, and something that occasionally almost felt like love.

How could he divide that intensity between Andrew and another man? If he did, would it vanish? Would he come to see Andrew as just another fuck pal?

The drinks arrived, and Colin pulled a handful of cash from his sporran. All these American notes were the same moldy green color, so it took him a moment to find the correct ones. As he waited for his change, he threw back the first dram to silence the nagging voice inside.

Something’s been born between you and Andrew. Something real. What if this threesome with Joey smothers that something in its cradle? Would it be worth losing him, just to become the delicious meat in a sweaty fuckwich?

“Maybe,” he said aloud, then tossed back another whisky to help him decide. He collected his change—cool American coins!—and took the remaining pair of glasses to the banister overlooking the dance floor, forging a crooked path with unsteady steps.

The DJ was playing one of Colin’s favorite Calvin Harris tunes, a bouncy hymn to hedonism that always made him drink more than he should. He searched for Andrew and Joey, finding them at the center of dozens of hopping bodies. They shouted the lyrics to each other, hands in the air with the rest of the crowd.

They were dancing like mates, Colin realized, not like lads who wanted in each other’s trousers. He smiled and set his drinks on the railing’s shelf, the voice inside him finally speaking reason.
Tonight you’ll have both these delicious lads, and you will never, ever forget it.

Suddenly Joey bumped into the man dancing behind him, then bounced forward into Andrew’s arms. They laughed together at the mishap…but then they didn’t let go.

Joey snaked a hand behind Andrew’s head and pulled him down into a kiss.

A red veil of rage dropped over Colin’s eyes. He picked up one of the drinks in a grip so tight he thought the glass would shatter. He wanted to hurl it over the railing and smash it into their heads. Into their stupid kissing faces.

“Hey.” Someone touched his shoulder.

Colin jumped, then turned to see a beefy dark-haired guy in an olive-green T-shirt. “What?” he snapped, half expecting him to be a bouncer informing Colin he didn’t belong in this exclusive club.

“I was about to ask if I could buy you a drink.” The beefcake pointed to the glasses in Colin’s hands. “But I see you’re good.”

“I am good. I am fucking tremendous. And so are you.” Colin shoved one of the drinks into the stranger’s hand, then toasted him, nearly missing the glass. “Cheers.” He drained the dram in one gulp. “Now you can buy me a drink.”

= = =

Andrew broke the kiss, pushing Joey away as politely as possible. “Sorry, not without Colin.”

“Oh my God! Right, sorry.” Joey wiped his mouth with his wrist. “I got carried away.”

“No worries.” Andrew looked around, hoping Colin hadn’t seen the kiss. He kept dancing with Joey, but farther apart, until the song ended. “Let’s find Colin. He’s been gone too long.”

“The lines at the bars get crazy on Friday nights,” Joey said as they made their way off the packed dance floor. “Sorry, I mean the queues get mental.”

“Don’t apologize. I speak American.”

Joey stopped at the curving stairway to the top floor. “He might’ve gone up where it’s less crowded.”

“Good idea.” With a strange dread hardening his gut, Andrew hurried up the stairs. Joey lagged behind, pinned to the railing by the crowd. Andrew reached back and took his hand—partly to pull him along and partly to make it look as though they were together. That way fewer men would slow Andrew down trying to chat him up.

The top level was nearly as jammed as the one they’d left. Andrew craned his neck to search for Colin at the main bar. “Where have you gone, you silly boy?” he muttered.

Joey tugged Andrew’s hand. “There he is!”

Andrew turned to see Colin sitting on the edge of a stool at the smaller side bar, his left foot propped on the leg of a muscular young man with buzz-cut dark hair. Colin’s knee was bent to show his companion the black supportive brace, making the hem of his kilt slide far up his bare thigh.

“There was this massive
pop
,” Colin shouted to Muscle Man as Andrew and Joey approached, “and my knee just exploded in pain! I thought, ‘fuck me, my football career’s pure finished.’ But my physio’s a fuckin’ superhero, and now I’m brand new, see?” He flexed his knee, making the kilt ride even higher. “Scored the equalizer in our first—oh look, it’s Lord Andrew!”