CHAPTER TWO
BONNIE
Cake consumed today: None, and frankly, I don’t think I can function properly.
Job offers accepted: One, and I have little to no experience for it.
Days since last male-induced orgasm: Seventy, and I wiped a cobweb from my lady area this morning.
Current residence: Scotland, apparently.
This is what they call making a decision on a whim. Let’s hope it doesn’t bite me in the butt.
“No way am I driving that,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “This was your grand idea—you drive it.”
Surrounded by stone buildings that look like they’ve been plucked straight from Mary Poppins, Dakota and I stand in front of our rental car, four large bags by our side and a rope in hand. Cars speed right by us, filling up Inverness’s charming, if narrow, city streets. There isn’t a tree in sight, just wall-to-wall cement and stone, but the spectacular architecture is making my mouth water—and I’ve never thought twice about architecture until this moment.
But even though we are surrounded by magnificence, it doesn’t negate the predicament parked right in front of us.
A MINI Cooper.
Our form of transportation.
An itty-bitty green MINI Cooper.
Such a petite vehicle normally wouldn’t be an issue—they’re adorable—but when you have to cart six months’ worth of luggage two hundred miles into the mountains, it doesn’t scream “practical.”
But don’t worry. The rental company provided twine to secure our bags on top of the roof.
Oh, and in case you weren’t aware, the Scots also drive on the other side of the road . . . and the other side of the car.
“Please, Bonnie, I can barely hold it together.”
My beautiful best friend who thought of this brilliant idea—traveling across the world to sell coffee to strangers—forgot one minor detail: she suffers from horrible motion sickness. She spent our entire flight with her head in a bag while I rubbed her back and prayed to Jesus she wouldn’t throw up on my leg.
“Can’t we call an Uber or something?” I ask.
“No, this is the car Finella and Stuart arranged for us. Plus, I don’t think Ubers drive out to Corsekelly. The town is really small.”
“Dakota, that is a clown car.” I point to it. “And you expect me to drive it through twisty, windy roads with two hundred pounds of luggage while navigating the opposite side of the road?”
“You’re never one to back away from a challenge.” She tries to smile, but it’s pained. “They’re expecting us in a few hours.”
I sigh and move around the car. “The hospitable thing to do would have been to pick us up.” I fold down the back seats and shove a suitcase in the rear. I lift up another suitcase and shove that one in as well. When I realize that’s all that’s going to fit, a light sweat breaks out over the back of my neck. Oh shit. I turn to Dakota. “Uh, so now we have to use the rope?”
She glances down at the thick woven cable in her hand. “I’m thinking . . . maybe?”
“Fine, I don’t care. Let’s just get them loaded up.”
Together, we lift the first suitcase up top and then the second. How on earth are we going to—?
“Awright, lasses, dae yi’ll need some hulp?” a deep voice says from behind me.
Ehhh . . . what?
I spin around to find a tall man with bright-red hair on top of his head and framing his face from ear to chin. He’s wearing a charming smile and a tempting kilt. What I wouldn’t give for a touch of Marilyn Monroe wind right about now.
“Umm . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand you.”
“Och, y’er American. Dinna fash yirsel, y’er in guid hauns.”
*Blinks*
*Mentally cleans out ears*
*Blinks again*
“You told me they speak English here,” I hiss at Dakota.
“They do.” She looks as stiff as I do.
Snagging the rope from my hand, the rental car guy moves around the car like a ninja, strapping down the suitcases and securing them better than I ever could have. If I did it, Dakota would have to spend her first week in Scotland nude.
Dusting off his hands, he surveys his work and then turns to us. “That shuid dae it. Whaur ye aff tae?”
Oh God, I can’t understand a damn thing he’s saying. I want to say he’s speaking English. I can recognize some words. They’re in there, and he’s acting like we should know what he’s saying, but it’s not translating.
Sweat creeps up my neck.
The corners of my lips flatten out, and I wince. “I’m sorry. Little jet-lagged. Uh, can you repeat that?”
He chuckles and plants his hands on his hips as he rocks back on his heels. At least he’s a jolly man. “Where. Ya. Aff. Tae.”
Aff tae.
Aff tae.
Off . . . tae.
OFF TO!
Good grief.
“Where are we off to?” I nearly shout, feeling like I just answered a Jeopardy! question correctly.
What is, “I don’t understand a damn thing this man is saying,” Alex.
“Aye.” He nods.
Okay, totally know what “aye” means. Man, we’re on a roll now.
“Corsekelly,” I say.
“Och. Aff tae see th’ Boaby Stane?”
There goes our streak.
“Boaby Stane?” I ask.
“Aye, Boaby.” He taps his crotch and then pelvic thrusts at us. “Boaby.”
“Boaby?”
“Aye.”
Tap. Thrust.
Boaby . . . Boaby . . . uh, drawing a blank.
“Ya know. Boaby.” Tap. Thrust. “Boaby.” Tap. Thrust.
Dear Jesus, what is happening?
I clutch Dakota’s arm. “He’s hitting his crotch. Is he asking for payment?”
“Boaby,” he says slowly and then scratches the back of his head. “Err, Americans say ‘penis.’”
Boaby is a penis?
So he is looking for carnal cash. Good God, that’s bold.
I need to get us out of this situation, and fast. “Yes, sir. We are aware you have a penis,” I blurt. “I’m sure it’s quite sturdy, given your ability to strap suitcases to a roof, but if you’re looking for payment, I’m sorry to say we’re both lesbians. Lovers, actually. This is my lover.” I grip Dakota even tighter. “We would be terrible at anything you’re interested in. Fumbly hands and terrible mouth diameter.”
He wipes a hand down his face. “Penis . . . Stone,” he enunciates, trying very hard.
Well, there you have it, folks: he’s trying to communicate that he’s currently erect.
His penis is hard as stone. That doesn’t make things uncomfortable at all.
“My God,” I whisper to Dakota. “They are forward here.” Turning back to him, I say, “Congratulations on your erection, sir. Quite a feat to accomplish in the middle of a city.” I give him a solid fist shake. Solidarity. “Keep up the good work—”
“The Castration Stone.” Dakota has spoken up . . . finally, despite being hunched over and completely out of it, thanks to the flight. “He’s not boning out—he’s talking about the Castration Stone.”
“Aye.” He winks at Dakota.
Okay, now I’m really lost.
“I’ll explain in the car.” She straightens up but still looks like she might puke. “We got a job at the coffee shop in Corsekelly,” she explains to our knight in wooly tartan.
“That’s ye twa lasses? Ah saw th’ advert, ya know.” He chuckles. “Need directions?”
“Directions.” Now, that I understood.
“Maybe you could write them down?” I ask. Pretty sure there shouldn’t be a problem with English on paper.
“Sure.” He chuckles some more.
I reach into my backpack and hand him my notebook and a pen.
As he writes, he says, “Canny oan th’ roads. They’re wee’er ere.”
Wee-er. *Giggles*
He hands me the paper. “Juist follow th’ A82 tae A887. Follow signs to Loch Duich.” He winks. “Guid luck.”
“Did you catch that?” I ask Dakota.
“Hoping you did.”
“’Tis on th’ paper.” He guides us to the car and opens the doors for us. When he closes them, he hands us the ends of the rope. “Haud oan ticht.” One more wink, and then he takes off.
With one hand clutching the rope that tied the suitcases and the other holding the directions, I look over at Dakota. “Uh, is this rope not secure?”
She glances at the rope in her hand as well. “Looks like it’s not.”
“Well, this should be fun.”
“Oh my God, the cars are going to hit me!” I scream as I drive down the road, one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped in a death grip around our trusty rope.
“Stay in your lane and they won’t.” What lane? The streets in Inverness are tiny. The painted lines are faded, some are zigzagged, and the stone buildings are practically on top of us, offering no visibility.
They may be pretty, but good God, they do nothing to help the driving experience.
“They’re coming for me. They know I don’t belong here.”
“Just focus!” Dakota screams, clutching the dashboard with one hand, the rope with the other.
“I am focusing!” I scream back as a car zooms past us from the other side. “We’re going to die!”
“What in the fresh hell does that say?” I ask, hanging my head out the window as I try to read a street sign. Still stuck in the city.
Still being attacked by oncoming traffic.
Still trying to figure out why there are no trees!
“For someone who’s worried about getting hit, you should be more concerned about keeping your head in the car,” Dakota says, her voice full of fear.
“I can’t see—this windshield is so small.”
“Turn right. Google Maps is saying turn right.”
“I think I need to turn left.”
“I’m telling you to turn right.”
“And I think you’re wrong . . .”
“Stop staring at me. I told you I was sorry,” I say, feeling the heat of Dakota’s peeved gaze.
“Are you listening now?” Dakota asks, still pale from the ten minutes we spent on the side of the road so she could throw up. My left turn resulted in a rather scary downhill road that brought us face to face with an oncoming tour bus.
“Listening.” I give her a charming smile.
“Stay on this road, and do not turn unless I tell you.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I answer with a smile that does nothing to help the green tinge in Dakota’s cheeks.
Please don’t let her throw up in the car.
“We’re GOING TO DIE!” I scream for what seems like the tenth time as we merge into the inner circle of a roundabout.
“AHHH!” Dakota flails, holding on to the rope as we corner on two wheels.
(Not really, but that’s what it feels like.)
“Mother of Jesus, what hellish labyrinth are we in?” I yell out the window as another car passes us.
“We’re circling the devil’s teat,” Dakota whimpers. “That’s what we’re doing.”
“We drive in Los Angeles, for fuck’s sake. We can do this.”
“The rope is slipping!” Dakota calls out.
“For the love of God, don’t let go. Hang tight, Dakota. We can do this.” On a scream, I turn on my blinker and hope for the best.
Ten minutes later . . .
“Let me know when you’re ready,” I say, gripping both ropes while Dakota heaves out the side of the car. “Roundabouts were made to destroy the hearts of tourists.” I glare up at the cloudy gray sky. “I see you, Scotland. I see your witchy ways.”
“So . . .” I break through the silence that’s fallen over our car as we peacefully make our way down the winding back roads of Scotland. The scenery has become increasingly green—found those trees—and instead of troublesome buildings to navigate through, we’re delighted with the tumbling mountains with the occasional sheep dotting the meadows. “That was fun.”
“Why were you honking so much?” Dakota asks, weak and most likely dehydrated.
“It felt like it was my only defense mechanism.”
“I’ve never seen your jaw unhinge like that before.” She stares blankly out the windshield. “The swear words you said. Very . . . colorful.”
“Seems like roundabouts bring out the trucker in me.” I clear my throat, feeling hoarse from the banshee-like screaming I did while trying to cut across the three-lane death trap.
“I don’t think I can ever unsee what happened back there.”
“That’s fair,” I say quietly. “I understand. That was a side of me I don’t think anyone was expecting to see, myself included. But, hell, we did it. We are taking Scotland by the whisky and lochs.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Dakota says, staring out at the stunning nature and rugged mountains. Dark shadows from the looming clouds above add a mythical feel you can’t find in smoggy California.
“It does—you know, like ‘taking the bull by the horns,’ but . . . forget it. So, about that whole Penis Stone thing. I thought he was asking for . . . payment by tapping his crotch like that.”
“The Scots aren’t Neanderthals, Bonnie. They speak English.”
“That was not English back there.”
“Some people have thicker accents than others. When I spoke to Finella on the phone yesterday, she had a very pretty accent, easy to understand. I had no problem speaking with her.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Was she the one who told you about the Penis Stone?”
“No, I read about it when I was researching Corsekelly.” The green shade that once was Dakota’s face has now dimmed to a normal skin color, thankfully. “Apparently that’s what the town is known for. That and a goat.”
“Oh-kay. Want to elaborate on the Penis Stone?”
“You know the show Iron Crowns?”
“The one with all the incest and rape?” I ask.
“Yeah, the one you couldn’t stomach anymore, so we switched over to watching Jane the Virgin.”
“I would marry Rojelio in a heartbeat. Give me some of that Latin love.”
“Even I would consider marrying Rojelio.” Dakota chuckles.
“It’s the Rojelio gift baskets, isn’t it?”
She clutches her heart with her free hand. “He puts so much thought into them. Anyway, Iron Crowns made TV history when they had the Serpent Queen—”
“Ugh, she was creepy. I’m all for women’s empowerment—own that crown, baby—but then she’d flick her serpent tongue out at people, and it just didn’t sit right with me.”
“And castrate her soon-to-be betrothed.”
“Wait . . . what?”
“Listening now?” I nod. “Apparently he cheated on her with a chambermaid, and to make sure he learned his lesson, the Serpent Queen took him to this cave that has a flat stone slab in the middle of it. She had him pinned down, with his willy out, and then . . . poof, the boaby was gone.”
I chuckle. “Oh, I see what you did there, and I like it. ‘Boaby.’ Do you think Scottish girls tickle the tip and talk to the boaby like it’s an animal? ‘Who’s been a good boaby today? You have, yes, you have.’”
“Why are you the way you are?”
“Can’t be sure.” We both laugh. “So, Penis Stone, huh? Fascinating. Our new home is famous for a castration rock. I’m kind of digging it. Iron Crowns was filmed in Scotland, then?”
“All over. I saw that Corsekelly has a plaque in town dedicated to the Penis Stone.”
“I’d be shocked if they didn’t.” I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “My Instagram is about to be lit.”