Welcome to my first instalment of my Scott MacLean series. I would just like to point that all characters were a figment of my imagination so if any similarities have occurred, it is merely coincidence and completely unintentional. Many thanks to SpongeRob and JoeyS69 for their help and suggestions. Please feel free to comment at the end of the story. All comments are gratefully received, no matter how critical they might be, as it shows that you have taken some time out to read my work.
"Dammit," I muttered under my breath. I'd forgotten to pick up the carrier bag I'd left by the door. No biggie, just some suits and a dress for Lindsey to drop in at the dry cleaners. But still, for me, it wasn't the fact they would now be a day later in being deposited, it was the fact I'd forgotten them completely. And the wrath I'd face when I returned home later.
Sighing with frustration at my lack of memory, I checked my watch to see if it was at all possible to get from the bus stop to the house and back again in... 3 minutes? Maybe if I was in the habit of regularly forgetting things so I had lots of practise of running from here to my house or they fitted modern day watches with morphing capabilities, then yes. Seeing as the morphing-man-transporter hasn't been invented at bus stops either...
Anyway, no chance of getting that carrier bag now, I spotted the bus coming up the road. I say bus, I really mean yellow and purple monster.
"Morning," I said to the driver once he'd pulled up with a screech of brakes and the doors scraped open. He responded with a nod. The silent type. There's generally three types of bus driver I've found. The worst is the chatty, friendly type who wants your life story before they give you your ticket. Then there's the angry bus driver who isn't bad unless you mention something like "Good morning" (which is how I learnt to only open with the time of day, and not to qualify it with anything), and who flicks your change into the relevant compartments just a little too aggressively. Then there's the silent type. These are highly unpredictable folk. I see them as hermits behind their Perspex screens who exist solely to drive people around for a few hours taking money when someone's generous enough to pop some on the tray. I'm sure kids these days have latched on to the silent types as an excellent form of getting free rides.
"Single to Lakeside Road please," I say, putting a pound coin lightly in the tray.
The driver coughs. And just looks at me.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, wondering if this man had completely lost the power of speech.
A long bony finger points to the digital display indicating I'm in fact 20 pence short. The crafty silent type, overcharging the honest customer by putting in the wrong starting stop. Grinding my teeth, I fish around in my jeans searching for loose change. I slam a 50p coin on the tray, giving the driver a glare. Nonchalantly, he pops the change on the tray along with a ticket and immediately drives off at break neck speed.
Once he has reached a continuous speed and I've stopped hanging on to the rails for dear life, I stagger my way down the aisle, aiming for the spare seats towards the back. Thankfully it's not busy today.
The bus comes to a screeching halt again, causing the woman in front of me to drop her book as the clientele are thrown forwards. There's a chorus of tutting and disappointed noises from the people behind me.
A girl in her mid-twenties, her long red hair blowing about behind her gets on the bus. This is Amie, who works with me. She's not the sort of girl many people would give a second glance to. Well, that used to be the case. About six months ago she claimed to be going on holiday for a week, and turned up the next week sporting massively altered breasts. And I'm not exaggerating, she must have gone up at least four cup sizes.
Apart from her 'prize assets' as she refers to them, she is otherwise quite unremarkable to look at. When she opens her mouth though, the world melts and you're transported away to a magical kingdom. She has an Irish accent. I die for Irish accents. Call them my weakness if you like, but when I hear the sweeping tones of a young Irish female, my heart skips a beat and standing up suddenly becomes an effort. Work definitely has its perks sometimes. As she retrieves her ticket, I give her a wave as she looks up.
"Silent type huh?" she says clambering up next to me, the Irish lilt in her voice quite apparent this morning. I rest my hands on my knees in a futile attempt to stop them quivering.
"Evil silent type," I confirm.
"Really? He only charged me 90 pence."
I turn to glance at her. "Must be the low cut top you're wearing," I say, nodding at her cleavage. "Did you inflate them extra large this morning for added effect?"
She smiles back at me. "I knew there was a reason I put on a push up bra today," she replies, a twinkle in her eye.
There's not much to add to that, just another good opportunity to peek down her top.
"That's it Scotty, you get your eyeful in now, might stop you doing it at work," she says, catching me in the act.
"Well, if you didn't put those things under my nose, I wouldn't be tempted to look now would I?" I retort, pointing at the offending articles, sat high up on her chest, practically taunting me.
"If you've got it, flaunt it," she replies haughtily, leaning down to fiddle around in her bag for something, giving me another perfect opportunity to sneak a peek as her breasts swing forward. She comes back up clutching a pocket mirror and some lipstick.
I sit and stare out of the window for a bit, trying to stop my head turning the other way to ogle Amie's rack, which is the main activity on my way to work in the mornings. She doesn't mind me doing it. In fact I think she secretly likes the attention, but always makes a big show of making me out to be some kind of breast obsessed pervert (which in all fairness I am). It's probably the fact that I know Amie and it's quickly become one of our bits of banter that's meant it's developed to a daily ritual. Deep down I think it's more the fact she turns me on something chronic and making jokes about it all is my lame attempt to try and hide that fact.
But I try and maintain the banter option. It's safer and stops me blurting out that I fancy her like crazy when I'm drunk. I go out for a game of squash and a few drinks a fair bit with her other half and I still haven't figured out whether he's the type to appreciate people he knows casting her longing looks or not.
"How's things with the new flatmate today then Scotty?" Amie asks, now reading a newspaper she acquired from somewhere, not taking her eyes off the Hot Gossip page and starting a conversation at the same time. How do women do it?
Ah yes. Lindsey. "Yeah, they're OK I guess. She'll be mad that I forgot to take her dress to the cleaners again by the time I get home, but hey, I'm only human."
I did originally have the flat to myself, but ended up having to advertise for a flatmate to move into the spare room when I realised there was nothing to be gained by being noble, trying to survive on my own. Lindsey was the one of the last people of a pretty poor bunch to enquire. But as soon as I opened the door, and she walked into the flat for the first time, my whole life shifted direction.
(3 weeks ago)
The door buzzer went, waking me up from my doze on the sofa. "Dammit," I muttered. I'd not meant to fall asleep, I was supposed to be tidying the flat for my next round of flatmate interviews.
I clambered over a pile of magazines and made my way to the front door, frantically trying to flatten my hair from its newfound tousled state.
I took a moment to compose myself before opening the front door. I was expecting a 25 year old female who enjoyed nights out and playing the violin apparently. Lizzie something was it? She had rung up this morning while I was on my way out the door so I hadn't paid the greatest attention.
I undid the latch and was greeted with the sight of a tall, slim brunette, dressed simply in a white blouse and a pair of skin tight jeans. I liked what I saw...
"Hello there, I'm Scott MacLean, welcome to number 30," I said eventually, extending a hand.
She grinned. It was an impish grin that implied she could be a lot of fun, and for some reason this immediately made me relax. "Well, hello Scott MacLean. I'm Lindsey Sanderson." She shook the proffered hand firmly.
Lindsey. That was it.
"Well, come on in. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?" I asked as she made her way over the threshold. I'd learnt the importance of just trying to be warm and friendly to begin with. A lot of the interviewees had been over-nice to me which I found very off-putting. Like they were pretending we had already met and knew my life story.
She did this adorable foot shuffle and gave me a sheepish look, a finger twirling in her long dark hair. "Can I be really cheeky?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Sure."
"Well, I didn't think you'd have any tea that I'd like, so I brought a few bags of my own," she said.
"Ermmm, sure. I'll show you the kitchen. If you'd like to step this way," I said, ushering her down the hall, my mind half curious to assess what she looked like from the back. I wasn't disappointed. Her jeans were moulded to a very pert bottom. The sort that you just want to reach out and touch in the street when one walks past you. Not that I ever did. As if touching it would get you anywhere... Well, apart from in jail in all probabilities.
.... There is more of this story ...