Calamity Jena (Invertary 4)

“You’re not supposed to see it, you lunatic. Now stop whatever you’re doing to my kitchen. You’re my lift and we need to go.”

“Uh-nuh, you’re not going anywhere until you change. You can’t go out like that. Do you want him all over you?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. Just get something else on.”

“Donald Matthew Donaldson. Do I look like one of your sisters?” She didn’t let him reply. “No, I don’t. We are not related. You are not my big brother. You don’t get to tell me what to wear on a date. After meeting your sisters, I’m sure you don’t get to tell them either. If I want Bob’s hands all over me, then that’s my business. This is my date. Not yours. If you’re not going to take me to Bob’s house, I’ll go on my own. Or better yet, I’ll call Bob to come pick me up.”

Matt glared at her for a minute. She seemed serious. It took all of his self-control to stop from throwing her over his shoulder, stomping up to her bedroom and demanding she wear something else—even if he had to dress her himself. Instead he took a deep breath, snatched his keys off the table and stomped to the front door. “Fine. I’ll take you.”

He stopped inside the front door frame, spinning so fast that Jena fell against him.

“For the record, princess. I’m more than aware you’re not my sister.” He slowly ran his gaze down her body. “For a start, if you were my sister, I wouldn’t be thinking about what kind of underwear you have on under that dress. Or if your legs feel as silky as they look.” Matt put a hand on the small of her back and leaned in to her ear. “I definitely wouldn’t be wondering how long it would take to get you out of your dress and into my bed.” He stared down at her. “Still sure this is what you want to wear for Bob?”

He watched her eyes widen and her throat roll as she swallowed. She nodded.

He clenched his jaw at her stubbornness. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let’s get this over with.” He released the warm woman in his arms and stalked to the driver’s side of his car.

“I can’t believe you dragged me out tonight,” Claire whined. “I don’t want to be out. I want to go home and read my new book. In bed. In my fleecy onesie. With a mug of hot chocolate and Adele playing. I don’t want to hang out at the local pub. I don’t want to socialise. I don’t want to be here. Full stop.”

“When did you get to be so boring?” Megan frowned at her. “It’s like I blinked and missed it. One minute you were my fun-loving sister. The next you want to stay in on a Friday night. Last time I checked, we were still twenty-two. Women our age don’t curl up with a book on a Friday night.”

“The smart ones do! It’s not like I’m making you suffer by staying home all the time. When was the last Friday I stayed home? Huh? Tell me that?” Claire stomped her red suede boots as Megan pulled the heavy pub door open. “You can’t answer because it was never. That’s when.”

“I see your lips move, but all I hear is blah, blah, blah.” Megan stuck her nose in the air. “Fantastic. It’s karaoke.”

Claire’s mood plummeted even further. “Great. A bunch of old people taking turns to sing ‘Stand By Your Man’.”

“Tammy Wynette. Can’t beat a classic.” Megan grinned widely. “But you can murder it when you’re tone deaf and have downed several whiskeys. Not to mention the Scottish accent lends its own unique appeal.” She scanned the room. “Ooo, front-row seats.” She grabbed an armful of Claire’s red cowl-neck sweater and dragged her towards a round table over in the corner near the toilets and, unfortunately, the makeshift stage.

“Kill me now.” Claire let out a groan.

“What do you want to drink? Kopparberg?” Megan was already heading towards the bar. Reaching into the front pocket of her tight jeans for her tiny wallet.

“Just a Coke. Diet.”

Five minutes later they had their drinks and were being tortured by the dulcet tones of eighty-seven-year-old Betty. The tartan-clad cube of a woman was singing the song she always sung on nights like this, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”. Unfortunately for everyone watching, she had a dance routine to go with it.

“I need to film this one week and put it on YouTube,” Megan said in Claire’s ear.

“Yeah, why should we be the only ones who suffer? Let’s spread it around.”

“Oh, you’re a delight tonight.” Megan reached for her raspberry-flavoured cider and took a large gulp. The bottle stopped at her lips. Her eyes went wide. Claire could feel the panic coming off her as though it was her own.

“What?” Claire turned towards the door to see what had ratcheted up Megan’s anxiety level.

A second later, she was just as frozen as her twin. Standing in the pub entrance, his attention currently fixed on the stage, where Betty was gearing up for her big finale, was the man they’d almost run over.

“What do we do?” Megan whispered. “Run? Talk to him? What?”

Claire felt the bottom of her stomach plummet. “Maybe he won’t remember us.”

Before they could make a decision, the guy’s eyes swept over the room. They snapped back to zoom in on them. He jerked in place. His friend was still talking to him, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips thinned in clear determination as he stalked towards the twins. His eyes never left their faces, making them act like deer caught in headlights.

“I say we run,” Megan whispered.

Claire felt her sister grab her arm and take a step back towards the toilets, and the corridor that led to the hotel entrance. From the look on the guy’s face, Claire agreed it might be wise to run. Unfortunately, her feet hadn’t received the memo from her brain and were stuck to the floor.

He came to a stop in front of them. His eyes ran over Megan, before turning to Claire. “Two of you,” he muttered. He studied both of them for a few seconds more before focusing in on Claire. Recognition flared in his eyes. Claire felt her world tilt. “Angel.” He growled as he reached for her. “Mine,” he said.

Claire took a deep breath. “Run,” she screeched.