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“I’m no’ wearing this,” came the shout, about ten seconds after she’d handed them the underwear.
“Fine,” Betty snapped. “Don’t wear it. Twin? Hey, you. Aye, whichever one you are. Hand me my bag. I need my phone if I’m to call the Drymen Domino Team and tell them the modeling’s back on.”
“You can’t just call us twin,” Megan told her as she handed Betty her bag. “We have got names.”
“You wouldn’t dare call Drymen,” Archie shouted before his head popped out from behind the curtain.
“Aye, I’d dare.” Betty clasped her bag in front of her and glared at him. “If you’re no’ man enough to model my underwear, then I’ll find some men who’re up to the challenge.”
“These underpants aren’t right,” he argued.
“They’re the latest fashion. I’ve done my research, and I know what people want. I sold knickers for thirty years. On top of that, Kirsty’s Scottish underwear is her best seller. This ties in with that. Now, am I calling Charlie, or are you going to man up and come out from behind the curtain?”
He glared at her, and the curtain dropped back into place.
“Fire up the fog,” Betty called to Claire. “Get ready with that camera,” she told Jean. “Let the sheep loose as soon as the boys appear,” she said to Megan.
They were ready. Holding her breath, she waited for the men to come out from behind the curtain. The material twitched. There was muttering. Someone cursed. And then the curtain was whipped back. Three of the four old men who called themselves the Domino Boys stepped out into the graveyard.
Claire gasped. Megan sounded like she was choking. And Jean’s jaw dropped.
Betty grinned.
The men were naked except for the underpants she’d provided and their socks and shoes. But it wasn’t the wrinkles or the pasty white skin that had the women stunned—it was the underwear.
“This looks daft,” Archie said, pointing at the sporran stuck to the front of his tartan briefs. “And it’s no’ very practical.”
As a pink sheep wandered past him, Betty remembered the camera. “Get snapping, Jean. We don’t want to miss any of this.”
“Aye.” Jean sounded a bit stunned, but she took the photos.
“The underwear isn’t supposed to be practical,” Betty told Archie. “It’s supposed to be modern and sexy. And it is. Isn’t it twins?”
“Oh, aye, dead sexy,” Claire said in a high-pitched voice.
Megan just kept on choking.
“At least you’ve got a sporran,” James complained. “All I’ve got is this patch of tartan to cover my goods, and my arse is hanging out.” He turned around, and sure enough, his bum cheeks were bare, and there was a string up the middle of his backside. Well, two strings.
Megan made a strangled noise, while her sister just gawked.
“It’s called a jock strap,” Betty told him. “I looked it up. But you’re wearing it wrong. Those straps are supposed to go around your thighs, not up your backside.”
“Then there would be nothing there at all.” James sounded affronted. “This is indecent. I could get arrested flashing my arse like this.”
“It’s supposed to be sexy,” Betty reminded him. “For the boudoir.”
“Even if I was inclined to get frisky in this thing, by the time I got it off, the mood would have passed.”
“Just go drape yourself over a gravestone while Jean takes some photos.”
“I’m no’ sit
ting on one. No’ with my backside hanging out.” James stomped over to a headstone, followed by a pale blue sheep.
“What’s this thing?” Hamish said, pointing at the little tartan apron covering his privates. Under it, he had on white Y-fronts.
“It’s a loin cloth,” Betty said. “And why are you still wearing your underwear?”
