“I asked ya not to cook breakfast.” Ye got me staying here free and everything.
“Pish! The times we came to yer parents’ fancy home, L—” Gowan stops from mentioning his departed wife’s name. “The food . . . We loved the food. Grab some bevvies, Little Brody. I’ll send ya off prepared for the likes of that slimy bastard, Ewan McFarland.”
* * *
Gowan wouldn’t have me commissioning a ride in Scotland. My uncle had picked me up from the airport, and now, the lad’s given me his 1995 Mitsubishi L200 to get around in. On my drive through the rich green land, my mind flops like a dying fish from one nuisance to the next. There’s onearsehole that’s breathed past his expiration date. The other bonny lass has my baws drawn so fecking tight, begging to release inside her.
With a heavy groan, I turn left at a fork in the road. Regardless of the next step for us, I’ve constantly told myself the madness between us ends when I say so.
My boot pushes onto the break, and the truck lurches to an abrupt stop.
“Where’s all this traffic come from?” I mutter. Moray’s usually much easier to navigate. I’m behind a line of cars on the road, leading left into a pebbled pathway. Up the way, crowds of people exit their vehicles at the edge of an estate that once belonged to Scotland’s Lord Chancellor. In the lot, lads don their best kilts. Lasses wear dresses.
Then I notice it. A few cars ahead of me is a classic vehicle. Painted on the rear window is a light pink “just married” sign.
“Shite, if all goes well,” I snort, slowly pressing on the gas while traffic continues into the driveway. They’re eager to watch some unlucky fellow sign away his future.
“Shite,” I grunt, waiting for the road to clear up. I pull my wallet from my pocket, take out a few crisp notes and place them into the glove compartment. I’d planned to offer the money to Gowan later, but this’ll do.
Once the road opens again, I arrive at the even grander McFarland estate about twenty minutes later.
I pull up to the driveway, where a guard stands to attention. All Ewan’s hired guns wear the same men-in-black getup. The mouse-haired arsehole rests his hand on the butt of his gun while leaning into the window.
“Brody MacKenzie,” I clip out.
“Ye have an appointment?”
My fingers clutch under, knuckles growing taut. “Ewan’s like an uncle to me. Do ye schedule appointments to talk with yer uncle?”
The truth resonates in his shifty, fearful eyes—a big, fecking hard nae.
“Ya saw me yesterday, mate. By that there look on yer face, my name preceded me then too. Ye were fecking shaking in yer boots,” I sneer, “but I’ll remind ya, I’m the Surgeon.”
The guard finds comfort in fisting the handle of his gun. When his eyes link onto mine, he notices me watching him like a hawk. His hand falls at his sides.
“I ca-can’t—”
“I said, open the gate before I perfect yer ugly mug.”
“Mm-Mr. MacKenzie . . .unfortunately, regretfully, ahem, I can’t do, ahem, that. I’m gonna phone it in.”
“Och, okay, ye wasted my time yesterday.” I open the truck door. He stumbles back, dropping the phone from his hands. My steel toe boot crunches into the late-model cellular phone while I reach behind me. My switchblade swivels in my fist.
The guard plasters himself against the wrought-iron gate. “Mr. MacKenzie!”
“So ye mind me name, aye.”I advance on him slowly while Justice’s pretty face and hesitation from earlier feck with my mind. “Me thinks ye should smile every time ya tell someone they have to wait so ye can ring in yer bloody questions. Brilliant, aye?”
“Bu-but,” he sputters, turning his face toward the gate. My forearm holds the side of his face in place, fingers gripping harshly into his brown hair.
“But if ye, if ye hurt me, I-I work fer Ewan. He’ll see it as a declaration of war! Mr. MacKenzie, please be rational.”
“Aye, he will.” I nod. The blade sinks into the side of his mouth. Heated red blood leaks out.
“Arr—”
“A half smile won’t be quite a declaration of war, aye? A wee smirk, right about here,” I lift the tip of the blade, grazing it across the side of his mouth. The sharp tip draws a welt on his pale skin. The guard’s screams might as well be the trumpets of the second coming.
On the opposite side of the gate, a gravelly voice says, “Ya know the wee cunt’s on to something. Harming him shows ye have nae respect for Clan McFarland.”