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37
“Jessa! Ye in here?”
I’m washing my hands when I see Finlay hovering by the entrance of the woman’s restrooms, an exaggerated palm clapped over his eyes. “I’m no’ lookin’! I swear I’m no’!” The other women shoot him bizarre looks. It seems Finlay’s insistence on keeping things respectful is somewhat at odds with the guys having noisy sex in the adjacent stalls without our consent.
“I’m here,” I tell him, my lips spreading into a smile. I feel more relaxed now, knowing that somewhere, there’s a piece of myself inked on the walls here, that someone may read, and that may plant a seed down the line.
I wait until we’re out of the restroom before divulging. “There’s graffiti. About Benji. I was adding to it.”
“Whit? Whit kind o’ graffiti?”
“Things in favor of him. But, more importantly, also things against him. Even some pro-Luke stuff.”
Finlay stares at me, his eyebrows raised. “Whit did ye add?”
I hesitate. “About Benji being, you know, an abuser. A liar. Someone who doesn’t deserve to be—” I glance around, watching the rest of the nearby students carefully, and lower my voice, “—king. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
A surprised smile lights up Finlay’s face. “No’ much? Sassenach, ye’re incredible,” he tells me sincerely, and inside I feel myself glowing with warmth.
We pass down the narrow hallway, which has become crammed with bodies. I soon understand why. A small table filled with leaflets about the latest activities at St. Camford has been repurposed for a different kind of activity altogether.
“Here!” one of the guys closest to the table slurs, and I recognize him as the tuxedo-wearing instigator of homeless-gate. This time he holds up a flat banknote, money apparently able to drip from him, and he raises it obnoxiously to the crowd. “Look at Daddy Milton! Prick’s still on all our notes! Ha-HAH!”
A portrait of a handsome man wearing a crown is shown to everyone gathered around the table. He has a serious, noble face and large, kindly eyes, and maybe, just maybe, the similarity is big enough that he could have easily pretended to have been Luke’s biological father for the rest of his life.
“How d’you think that Milton twerp acts when he sees a bit of silver?” the guy asks the crowd, in love with the sound of his own voice. In a squeaky, effeminate tone, he offers mockingly, “‘Hello, Daddy!’” He shakes his head, grinning wryly. Finlay and I try to squeeze past all those assembled and blocking the exit, only to receive dirty looks in the process. “Nah, fam. It’s ‘Hello,cuckold’ more like! Ha-HAH!”
Everyone laughs along with him. In front of me, Finlay mutters an exasperated, “Jesus Christ.”
The guy then pulls something from his pocket and says in a faux coy manner, “Yeah, I’m going to show youexactlyhow you respect the crown.” And in front of everyone, he rolls the banknote tight between skilled fingers, his head diving down onto the table. I can’t see what’s happening anymore but I can make an educated guess.
He raises his head with a victorious sniff, his hair flopping sweatily against his forehead. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest second as he soaks up whatever soothing buzz has just entered his system, before a broad, cocky smile breaks out across his face. “Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs in a low voice, and it takes the turning of several heads to realize his leer is directed at me. He flicks the rolled-up banknote between his fingers, his gaze on me like dark mirrors. “Want some?”
More heads turn in my direction. Finlay’s hand around my wrist is like a steel cuff as he tries to push back against the crowd.
I ignore the guy and follow Finlay, stumbling through groups of men who think nothing of touching and brushing against me, passing women who flick supercilious sneers at me through curling lips.
“Stupid frigid bitch,” I overhear tuxedo guy saying, and even though we’realmostat the exit — we’re right there, closer than we’ve ever been before — Finlay stops completely. He turns his head over his shoulder, lines of tension running up his back and in the tightening of his hand around my wrist.
“How about you fuck off?” Finlay says loud and clear, so unexpected by the tittering crowd that silence immediately falls.
“Fin, no,” I whisper, but he turns back around, the crowd parting for him as he stomps his way to the powder-dusted table and toward the tuxedo-wearing guy leaning against it.
He flicks a lazy gaze down to Finlay’s deep purple kilt and black Docs, back up to his wild sprawling mass of hair, before settling on the kohl-lined eyes. “Yo, pretty boy,” he murmurs haughtily, already sounding somewhat out of it, “you know howgayit is to stand up for women?” He chuckles to himself, as if his statement is in any way funny. His gaze never leaves Finlay’s resolute face. “She’ll never shag you, mate,” he whispers loudly, before his half-cocked grin curls at a mean angle, “but then I think it’s more cock you’re after than coke — and sadly for you, fella, I don’t swing that way.”
Finlay doesn’t even blink. In a quiet, cool voice, he states, “You’re no’ fit tae look at meorher, ye deranged cunt.”
And just like that, the whole lazy, uncaring demeanor of the guy in the tuxedo switches. Before I know what’s happening, he’s flying at Finlay, his hands sliding up his front and gripping at his shoulders, crawling and tightening all the way up to Finlay’s neck.
Finlay pushes back with several well-aimed kicks, breaking tuxedo guy’s hold on him, until the two end up grappling together and colliding into the walls.
Gleeful chants of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” break out. As they barge past the crowd, the crowd obligingly follows, as if hungering for the excitement and violence needed to liven up this staid, comfortable bubble. The two men break through into the main dance hall, followed by the hollering, jeering crowd. Screams burst out and people quickly stagger away from them.
Rory and Danny watch the brawl in a detached way, as though not fully comprehending it, before following the trail of destruction back to me. It would be comical, really, were it not actually happening. I see in real time the moment Rory’s gaze hardens like he means business.
Finlay crashes into a table containing an ice sculpture, and the beautiful swan explodes into thousands of chips and chunks. Tuxedo guy dives again for Finlay’s neck, which Finlay bats away with another set of swift, ferocious kicks, pummeling the guy until he collapses to his knees. The two of them wrestle, shoes sliding on the slippery wet floor, both of them turning and turning until tuxedo guy crashes with a solid slam into the sound system, and feedback squeals agonizingly throughout the hall.
Finlay doesn’t stop kicking him. He batters the guy, punching him and kicking him until he lies there, slumped and defeated, to the point I almost feel the slightest particle of pity.
