Page 101 of Lochlan

Lochlan pads to the bathroom while I watch his broad back and tight ass disappear around the corner.

“Why are we always in the kitchen?” I mumble to myself. The coffeemaker is a state-of-the-art piece of equipment that has too many options to prepare your morning joe. I start the process to figure out how to brew a normal cup of coffee.

Lochlan arrives as I'm placing mugs on the counter with one hand and pouring from the coffeepot with the other. His wet hair is back from his face, lips in a tight line, and he’s buttoning his shirt up from the bottom.

After dumping in the milk from the carton I set out earlier, I push it toward Lochlan and point to the sugar. I drink deeply, feeling the caffeine coursing through my body. “I know I'm going to regret this, but finish your story.”

Before answering, he dumps sugar in the mug, then samples. “Do you know why I'm in America?” he asks, slipping onto a stool.

“When I was trying to figure out how best to meet you, I did a little research. I read American articles about you. The information was standard stuff; it was my father who told me no one knew why you left Scotland. The speculation is that you finally embarrassed the family long enough, and they sent you away.”

“There are only two people who know why I left and you'll be the third.”

A shudder rifles my body at his ominous words that I'll be included in a circle of people who know his tightly held secret.

“Are you sure?” I'm hoping he says no, but there's determination to speak.

“If I'm ever free of this situation and can come to you, you need to know the kind of man I am. I'm not perfect. I've made mistakes. Some I've regretted, others I'm trying to find the will to regret.”

My nerves are jumping with a warning. “What could be that bad?” I drink, peering over my cup. “It's not like you killed someone, right?”

The joke falls flat. His stern expression doesn't change. “Would you stop loving me if I had?”

I glance at my phone, wondering if this is taking a weird turn.

“You don't need to call Geordie, gaol. Logan said he'll call when they're leaving the main house.”

“If you're trying to make me uncomfortable, you've done it.”

He shifts in his seat, eying me warily. “It wasn't my intention. I was trying to find out if you'd stop loving me because of my past misdeeds or the ones I've committed in the present.”

“If you want me to give you a list of how my love for you could die, that's not possible.”

His tense fingers rub his temple. “I understand the complexities of loving someone too well. It should be easy, but it's been fucking painful.”

This is the first time his armor has slipped enough for me to see that, behind the coldness, he's vulnerable. “I'm sorry you didn't get the happily ever after with Fiona and that I'm not willing to stick around to see you through this drama. I understand the grey areas of life. That we can love someone, love them deeply despite their behavior.”

“I didn't want this to be a debate.”

“It seems like you want me to commit. I've made it clear that I can't commit on a hope your life might be different.”

“Love now, commitment later,” he says, wanting more than I can give. “I want to know if I'm fighting for us.”

I lean back and cross my arms, more as a protection for me against whatever is torturing him.

“We'll only find out when you tell the last of your story.”

The stool creaks as he sets one foot down to push to his feet. He moves to lean against the wall as if he needs to be far enough away not to infect me with his words. His grimace returns, jaw tight as he begins.

“I'd been on a binge for months. One day blended into the next with no sense of time. I didn't care much; all I was interested in was continuing to stay numb. Geordie stayed with me during that time, not as a participant in my self-destructive madness, but as someone to watch over me. We'd play this game,” a wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips,” or I was the one playing the game. It was to lose him at every opportunity to get time away from my constant shadow. Sometimes I'd get away with it for hours, but he always found me. I think he must have been on a first-name basis with every pub manager in Edinburgh. He probably gave them a reward if they reported a sighting of me.”

I silently signal to him that he should get to it, and not wander aimlessly down nostalgia road.

He tilts his head. “In my own time, lass, this is not easy to tell.”

When I don't relent, he shrugs and continues. “No matter. It was late. I'd been drinking most of the evening with some newfound friends. The pub was closing, and I was arguing with Geordie about going to an after-hours club. My companions didn't have the stomach to join the conversation, so they vanished.

“We were alone in a back room, finishing up our drinks, when Harris appears. He had the same disgusted look on his face he always has when seeing me, but somehow there was a satisfaction behind those narcissistic eyes.

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