Page 121 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Time blurs my world into a series of shows and sex, and during the latter, my tongue contains more passion than it ever has. I suck on Finlay’s tongue and, like it’s a game, turn him into a writhing, moaning mess beneath me. On other nights, I lavish Rory’s cock, surprised by how gentle, how sacred the act is, like I’m using my tongue to worship the noblest part of him.

Like a good girl, I don’t complain about the theater shows ever again. My weeks hinge on Finlay’s reward, and the following week, he treats us all to a performance of him at an open-mic night.

We’re in a cozy bar situated in a charcoal-gray building that resembles a miniature Lochkelvin, a centuries-old castle with varnished wooden walls, gleaming floors and glittering strings of fairy lights. At our scrubbed mahogany table, we sit with drinks that Finlay, the devil he is, managed to wangle from management as compensation for his open-mic slot.

Apparently word’s got around that Finlay Fraser’s performing a free show in Edinburgh, and the pub is heaving.

I still forget, sometimes, that Finlay is a bona fide musical god with actual fans. He’s not A-list famous, or even well-known at all, but he has his own devoted following who’ll certainly do their best to boost him into those ranks if he keeps the music up.

“Exit’s on the left,” Danny murmurs to Luke, who’s as alert as a meerkat around this many people in such a small, confined space. Around our table, elbows jostle for a small patch of territory in this basement bar, and Luke adamantly drinks soda water, glancing nervously around.

Danny takes his first gulp of Guinness and makes a series of contorted, puzzled faces, like he hadn’t anticipated the taste, white foam lining his upper lip. I gesture discreetly to his face, trying not to giggle.

“I’m sure he won’t be that bad,” Rory drawls, his eyes picking out Finlay, who’s chatting cheerfully to the compere.

Luke rolls his eyes. “Not everything’s about Fin, you know.”

Sometimes it’s like Rory doesn’t know, because other than catching my eye to offer a warm, indulgent smile, Rory’s gaze rarely leaves Finlay that night. I get the impression Rory’s quietly impressed with his fellow chief, as he plucks out soft, sincere music on his acoustic guitar.

In his battered jacket and artfully shredded clothes, Finlay looks so understated, so down-to-earth. You’d never expect him to be the progeny of one of the richest families in the city, attending one of the most elite schools in the world. On a small makeshift stage, Finlay sits on a wobbling wooden bar stool, looking like his scuffed, scratched and heavily stickered guitar is the only possession he has in his life. It’s just an image — I’m all too aware the real Finlay is a scheming political maestro — but it’s one he cultivates like it could have been him in another life: the weary traveler, the singing vagabond, the pauper with a secret stash of riches to fall back on.

Finlay’s voice sings of universal truths. His eyes slide closed as he falls into his music, his melodies weaving spells around the bar.

I place my head on Rory’s shoulder, and hold Luke’s hand in mine. Under the table, I stroke Danny’s leg with my foot. It feels intimate, all of us together around the table as we watch Finlay sing his tales of love and sorrow.

The crowd adores him, leaving a small but respectful semi-circle around him. Some are recording the show, live-streaming it for the unlucky people who were turned away at the door due to the packed venue, or unlucky to live somewhere other than the world’s beating heart of culture in August.

At one point, Finlay winks directly into the camera, much to the audience’s whooped delight. Even Luke snorts beside me. Finlay’s enjoying himself on stage. He’s cut himself loose, doing something that doesn’t involve politics, and it’s kind of a huge relief.

Being locked inside has done none of us any favors.

“This next one, I want tae dedicate tae the lass over—” Finlay pauses, his eyes flicking across to the corner where we are, where Luke is, and immediately thinks better of it. “The lass from o’er the water. The lass I always carry in my heart.”

Beside me, Luke audibly exhales.

I listen avidly to every word, and lock eyes with Finlay as he sings the final verse:

Fight fire with fire

And I’ll be your flame

As the stars shine down

We’ll be alone again

Who else you belong to is not my concern

When we’re together we can’t help but burn

There’s an awed hush following his dancing, heart-wrenching melody. Applause breaks out, and I swear it lasts minutes. Danny cups his hands around his mouth to amplify his enthusiastic cheer.

“Go get ‘er!” someone shouts from the bar, and the crowd laughs.

I blush and so does Finlay. The individual bulbs from the fairy lights shine onto his flushed, satisfied face, his dark wing of hair, turning it into a silky-soft darkness anyone would want to run their hands through.

“He’d have to ask me first,” Rory comments mildly, and my stomach flutters at these words spoken only for me to hear. It’s a fiercely possessive remark but the same tone is not present in his voice; instead, it sounds more akin to a suggestion, like Rory truly wants him to ask.

“And lastly,” says Finlay, with a boyish, pleased grin, “I’m gonnae leave ye wi’ this classic. I hope I dae it justice for ye.” He pauses as he picks out the first few opening bars. “For the auld-timers among ye, thanks for yer support. For those new in town, I hope ye make many memories here, and welcome… taeCaledonia.”

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