Chapter 6

The alarm went off on my phone at seven on Tuesday morning, and I buried my face in the pillow with a groan. I'd been awake half the night, tossing and turning as I thought about meeting Skorpa. Part of me was convinced I should call him and tell him I changed my mind, while the other half was filled with anticipation and trying to decide what to wear.

I hauled myself out of bed, showered, and made coffee. Then I thought about it some more. I wasn't going to change my mind. I never arranged to do something with someone and then let them down—unless of course, the person turned out to be Haeston and I'd been misled. I still didn't know what to expect with Skorpa. He'd been nice to me so far, but he wasn't a nice guy as a rule. He was a criminal and two stints in prison proved it. I'd seen him smash Haeston's nose right in front of me, and he'd had a smirk on his face when he did it. Not that Haeston didn't deserve it.

I scowled at my phone. What was I getting myself into? He had said it was just a drink and it was up to me to decide if it was actually a date. So, what did I want? What I wore and how I behaved would answer that question. I could turn up in jeans and a torn-up tee shirt like I had at the gig and act casual; or I could wear something nice and make it obvious I was making an effort—or as nice as I could wear in the Coalpit without drawing a lot of attention.

"Oh God," I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. Then I snatched up my phone, opened a browser, and searched for Sven Hansen.

He wasn't hard to find. There were several articles from when he was arrested for assault fifteen months ago. It had been an argument with some other guy that got out of hand, or at least that's what the reports said. A few pictures of the victim showed a guy with two black eyes, a broken nose, and a split lip. The description said he also had a broken wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and four broken ribs. There were several pictures of Skorpa, and he had a beard then—mostly grey and long enough to tie into a ponytail.

I looked back further and found reports from 2005 about his previous arrest and prison sentence. He got seven years for possession of a class A drug. Another man who was a known accomplice of his got a much longer sentence for possession and distribution, but they couldn't prove Skorpa was dealing because he only had a small amount of cocaine on him that could have been for personal use. It was his first drug offence, while the accomplice was a dealer who had already done jail time for possession of various substances. The details I read stated that Skorpa was twenty-nine when he was sentenced that time, which made him thirty-nine or forty now.

What I read didn't help me decide what to do. He could potentially be a drug user or a supplier, even after being caught for it. I already knew he was violent. I was probably out of my mind, like Brida said. But I'd always liked bad boys—maybe not quite as bad as this. I studied his picture on my phone—piercing dark blue-grey eyes; a long scar from the right side of his forehead, past the corner of his eye and down his cheek; another scar on the left side of his forehead. His hair was dirty blond and hung past his shoulders in the picture—now, it was several inches longer than that.

I tried to remember more details from Friday night. He wore a tee shirt and when he rested his hands on the barrier either side of me, I had looked at his hands and arms—strong and toned, but not bulging with huge muscles like Ragnar and Erik. He wore a heavy silver thumb ring, and a couple of rings on his other hand. He had several tattoos on both arms, but I hadn't looked closely enough to see what they were.

I turned my phone off and began looking through my clothes. I was going to see him—there was no question about that—but I still wasn't sure how I wanted to play this. I didn't have a lot of work to do that day, which was a good thing because I wouldn't have been able to concentrate.

I had a new pair of black jeans—the kind you had to pour yourself into. They'd look good with long boots with a bit of a heel. I pulled out several tops and held them up in front of my full-length mirror. All were either black or purple, but the first was too fussy, the next was too smart, the one after that showed too much cleavage, and the last one looked like I belonged in a convent. I tossed them all on the bed and went back to the wardrobe. Plain black long-sleeved tee shirt?

"I'll be too hot," I muttered. It was twenty-four degrees out. It would be warm all night. No point wearing jeans either. Denim shorts? No, they were so short, half of my arse hung out of them. Black dress? Then I'd definitely look like I was going on a date. "Fuck it." I gave up and went to make myself another coffee. I sent Sihtric a message on Facebook. 'Are you working today?'

He answered after a minute. 'No, but I don't mind doing some overtime for you.'

'Don't want to put you out.'

'It's no trouble. I owe you for the awesome pics of Bloodhair.'

I rolled my eyes. 'Pick me up at 6.45?'

'See you later.'

I tried to do some work for a couple of hours, but it was a waste of time. The time seemed to be racing on into the afternoon and I still hadn't decided what I wanted to do about meeting Skorpa in as much as I didn't know whether to make it a date or not. The girls thought I was insane. I probably was. The last time I went to meet a guy, he turned out to be Haeston, and the following weeks had gone a long way to destroying my confidence. I had never been like this. I'd always known what I wanted. I'd never wondered how to behave, or what to wear. I hadn't worried about the consequences; I'd just enjoyed myself. I needed to find that person again—I'd liked her.

By the time Sihtric arrived and messaged me to say he was outside, I was ready in the black jeans and a sleeveless black top with boots. My hair was loose and hanging to my waist, and I wore minimal makeup—only eyeliner and lipstick. I took a last look in my mirror, then hesitated. If I switched the black top for a band tee shirt, I'd look the same as I had at the gig on Friday.

"What do you want?" I asked my reflection. "Time to decide, girl."

I messaged Sihtric back: 'Be there in a few mins.' Then I stripped off my clothes again.

I had a fairly new short stretchy skirt in dark blue—dark enough that it looked black in a dim light. I pulled it on and put the long boots I'd been wearing with the jeans back on. I had a dark grey strappy top that would go with it—plain, but nice material. I took my bra off and put it on, then turned around and peered at myself in the mirror. I looked hot—still casual, but nice enough to look like I'd made an effort.

I grabbed the small bag on its long strap that I'd put my essentials into, shoved my phone in it, and made my way down to Sihtric's taxi. I got in the front seat.

"Wow, look at you. Got a date?"

"Kind of." I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was seven o'clock. "Shit, I'm late."

"Where are we going?"

"The Coalpit."

He raised his eyebrows as he started the engine. "Are you meeting Skorpa?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You didn't say no. Besides, who else do you know that goes there?"

"All right, you got me. Go on, you're allowed to tell me I'm crazy. Brida and the others already did."

Sihtric grinned. "Who am I to judge? I've hooked up with some fairly dodgy guys before now, and some of them turned out to be all right. He seemed decent enough to you the other night."

"Yeah." I tried not to fidget as the car sped across town. My mouth was dry, and my heart pounded as if I'd been running a race. 'Get a grip,' I told myself silently. 'You're in charge of what happens tonight. Find that girl you were before Haeston.'

Ten minutes' later, Sihtric parked outside the Coalpit. I gave him a tenner, despite his protest that it was his day off and he was doing me a favour. Then I went to the door of the bar and looked in. It wasn't crowded, but there were probably twenty or so people in there, all of them guys. I'd never worried about walking into a bar full of people and drawing attention to myself before. I wouldn't let myself creep in there all anxious now, either. I pulled open the door.

I took a quick glance around and spotted Skorpa sitting at the far end of the room with Ragnar and another guy I'd never seen before. So far no one had noticed me, but as I stepped inside and let go of the door, the wind caught it and it slammed into its frame. Twenty pairs of eyes turned in my direction, some showing immediate interest. What the hell.

I straightened my shoulders and strode down the middle of the room, feeling a little bit like I was on a catwalk as every man I passed turned his head to follow my progress. Someone whistled, and my lips twitched. Skorpa, Ragnar, and the other guy all stared too, Skorpa with an approving smile. Then I reached them, and Skorpa pulled out the chair next to his for me to sit down. I sat and gave Ragnar and the other guy a brief nod in greeting.

"All right, Skade," Ragnar said. "This is Dagfinn."

Dagfinn had long black hair and a short beard. He nodded and smiled. "My turn to get the drinks in." He got up. "What will you have, Skade?"

"A cider, please."

He headed off to the bar. I looked around again and noticed that everyone else had gone back to what they were doing. I turned my attention to Skorpa. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt with the cuffs undone and rolled back, and leather trousers.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I said.

He smiled. "I wondered if you had thought better of it."

"I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't have said I'd meet you and then not turned up."

"Well, I wouldn't have blamed you if you had." He leaned closer and I felt his breath on my cheek. "You look good."

"Thanks." My heart was still pounding, and I decided I hadn't made a mistake. "So do you."

Dagfinn returned with three pints of beer and one of cider. He and Ragnar began talking as they drank their beers, not really paying attention to Skorpa and me.

"So, tell me about yourself," Skorpa said. "Who is Skade? Or Kaitlyn."