The Highland Fling(5)

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!