Page 5 of A Highland Gargoyle’s Lucky Star (Tales from the Tarot)

Chapter five

Noah

Mama Delilah’s Daily Horoscope Reading

Stay alert, Sagittarius! Having fun is all well and good but losing sight of the bigger picture could ruin your plans. Others secretly covet something you have. Don’t fall for schemers or scammers. Use your head and trust your instincts. But don’t be too suspicious of everyone since a new love interest will appear on the scene and you don’t want to send them packing!

B oarding the Caledonian Sleeper train is like entering one of my nerdiest fantasies from childhood. It’s giving Hitchcock’s North by Northwest meets Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express vibes. The original one, of course.

Could there be anything cooler?

Granted, there’s no murder or espionage on this train. Hopefully. Movies are movies for a reason.

At this moment, I’m downright giddy as I look around in wide-eyed wonder and take about a hundred photos to share with my parents. I don’t care if I’m being a bit cheesy, but the whole experience just feels so… special.

I immediately start sending pictures to Mom and Dad, courtesy of the train Wi-Fi.

Me: Look at this, Mom! It’s like something out of one of the old movies you, and me, and Pops would watch together.

Mama Jama: We made you into a cinephile with good taste! People don’t know the classics anymore.

Me: I’ll always have fond memories of those cold winters cozied up under blankets with hot cocoa while we watched TCM.

Mama Jama: I’m getting teary-eyed just thinking about it. Even your dad would join us sometimes.

Papa Bear: What am I, chopped liver? Great pics, btw.

Me: Hardly. You were usually doing one of your mega puzzles in the corner.

Papa Bear: I love puzzles. You guys love movies. We make it work.

Mama Jama: Too true. You like to be with us in your own way, don’t you, Gavin?

Papa Bear: Of course. You’re the humans I love most in this world.

My heart swells with a sudden burst of homesickness.

Me: You know I love you guys for real, right?

Mama Jama: Now you’re making me worried. Are you okay?

Papa Bear: Noah’s just a sensitive soul. You know that, Delilah.

Me: I’m cool. Just feeling nostalgic. Wish Pops could see this right now.

Mama Jama: Baby, this trip is for you. Besides, your Pops would be so proud of you for doing this. Just like your dad and I are.

Papa Bear: Ditto that.

I sniffle a little. Just thinking of my feisty grandfather, and my amazing parents. Honestly, I’m super fucking lucky in that department and I need to appreciate it a lot more when times are tough.

Me: Pop’s probably looking down on me and cheering me on.

Mama Jama: You know it! Besides, if you meet a hunky Scotsman and fall in love, I might just make it over there for a wedding.

Papa Bear: Ooh. I’d love to visit a whisky distillery over there. Get to work wooing someone!

Me: I think you’re both getting WAY too ahead of yourselves on that one.

Mama Jama: You never know. The universe works in mysterious ways.

Papa Bear: Your Mom’s right about that.

Me: Sure, sure. Gotta go now, guys. I’ll send more pics soon. Love ya!

Mama Jama: Love and kisses. Be safe!

Papa Bear: Have fun and use your smarts.

I put away my phone as a steward comes over and shows me to my compartment.

When making my reservation, I splurged and got myself a sleeper car. How could I not? Movies always make them look so cool.

Thanks, Pops! I couldn’t have done any of this without my inheritance.

He always supported me and my dreams, and from this day forward I intend to live my life to the fullest in a way I know he’d be proud of.

The steward gives me a brief tour of the cramped space before punching my ticket and disappearing to assist other passengers.

Sure, the compartment is small, but I’m giddy as a kid while I explore every little detail, including the miniscule en suite shower room. I set my backpack on the floor and flop down on the bottom-level twin bunk that’s already made up for the evening. I’ll admit, I might be starting to feel a bit of jet lag finally.

It’s been a whirlwind of a day and my mind is still having trouble processing everything that happened during my impromptu bus-driving stunt earlier. But you know what? Part of me is seriously proud of myself. I never knew I had that in me. I don’t like to think how things could have turned out so much worse.

I shiver and drape an arm over my suddenly tired eyes. Feeling the train jolt as it starts to move and leave the station, I force myself to sit up. Much as I’d like to sleep, I really need to get some food into me.

As if on cue, my stomach makes a slightly terrifying noise that sounds like a wild beast demanding to be fed.

Priorities, Noah.

Food, then sleep.

The prospect of visiting the dining car and having my first serious meal on a train rouses me enough to get up. I squeeze into the shower stall and take a quick shower, which revives me quite a bit after my long travels. Once I towel off, I scrounge in my bag and find a clean knit sweater my mom found on sale that looks presentable and a fresh pair of dark blue jeans. After putting on deodorant and running a hand through my damp brown hair, I grab my wallet and cell phone and lock my compartment, then make my way toward the dining car—or Club Car, as they call it.

Walking between cars on a train when it’s moving is a little awkward, and I nearly trip twice on the way to my destination. I’m swiftly shown to an open single seat by the windows. Opposite me and against the other wall are several booths for larger parties, but overall, the space is much smaller than I’d imagined.

A server comes and takes my order and then I sit back, taking it all in. The dining car is wonderfully retro and seriously cool. I stare out the window at the dark landscape passing us by. It’s a shame I won’t get to see more of the beautiful countryside as the train makes its way north, but I decide to make plans to travel during the day on my way back so I can actually see everything I’m missing right now.

The dining car’s filling up quickly, and just as my food arrives, another man appears and takes the seat next to me.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you. Things are a bit crowded in here tonight.” He gives me a friendly smile, and I return the gesture.

He’s got a posh English accent, one I heard in different parts of London earlier in the day, and he’s dressed in a suit that looks like it could have come off a runway. Hell, so does he. The guy could definitely be a model.

He’s got lovely golden hair styled to perfection to frame his angular face. His high cheekbones and bright blue eyes scream model to me, and the watch on his wrist appears to be a designer brand and probably worth more than my entire meager personal fortune. Even his cologne smells expensive.

After he orders, he leans closer, studying me with obvious interest.

Ordinarily, I might be flattered by this kind of attention from such a handsome, suave-looking guy, but there’s something about him that sets my warning radar off.

Also, the model analogy my brain can’t let go of is conjuring up scenes from Zoolander. If this guy gives me the Blue Steel, I will totally lose it.

I narrow my eyes as he studies me with an increasingly sultry gaze. He’s got to be some kind of scammer. Maybe a gigolo.

I’m from Chicago, so I’m relatively street-smart and know to trust my instincts. This guy oozes sex appeal and practically gives off the “I’m rich” signs, but I’m getting big-time jackhole vibes from him too.

Dudes like this don’t go for guys like me unless they have unsavory ulterior motives.

I’m wearing jeans and a cheap sweater. While I’m not an unattractive man, I sincerely doubt I’m the type this guy usually goes for.

That thought just heightens my overall wariness. Thankfully, I have my food to keep me and my mouth distracted. Being a fairly adventurous eater, I opted to try the haggis with neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce, and I’m pleased to discover everything is delicious. I focus on fully enjoying the experience as the man attempts to make conversation.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” Mr. Model with Money purrs at me.

I arch an eyebrow at him and swallow a mouthful of food. “Isn’t it customary to introduce yourself first when trying to flirt with somebody? It’s only polite.”

He chuckles, but the laughter never reaches his eyes.

Red flag alert.

“I’m Malcolm.”

“Noah,” I say while shoving a large bite of haggis in my mouth.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah. Is this your first visit to England?”

I take a gulp of my water and nod my head. “Yep. But I’m going to be traveling primarily in Scotland.”

He rests a hand under his chin, never taking his gaze off me. “And is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?”

I have to fight back a snort. He’s laying it on far too thick and must think I’m some kind of fool. Granted, there are a lot of idiot tourists out there, but

I like to think I’m a sensible guy with a good head on my shoulders.

“That’s private.” I shift my body as far away from his as possible, giving clear signals I’m not interested.

He just plasters that smarmy smile on his face and I try not to lose my appetite. I’m enjoying my meal too much and refuse to let him ruin it.

With resolve, I pop another bit of the neeps and tatties—some kind of blended mashed potato mix drizzled with the whisky sauce—into my mouth.

I moan like the food slut I am. These potatoes are so fucking delicious. Creamy and savory, with that slightly sweet sauce, and I think I’ve found heaven. The Irish better watch out because evidently the Scots know how to make some damn fine spuds!

I savor the rest of my meal, forgetting all about my dining neighbor, only returning to full awareness when my plate is empty.

“That good, huh?” Malcolm asks.

I lean back in my chair and rub my stomach, ignoring his bedroom eyes. “Divine,” I confirm.

“What do you say about getting out of here? I’ve a double room and plenty of space.”

Wow. He just went for it, even though I haven’t given him any encouragement. That seals the ick factor in my book.

My whole body tenses. “Sorry, but I’m not interested.”

His fake-looking smile once again doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s a shame.” He gets up. “Safe travels, Noah.”

Malcolm exits the car and I can breathe again.

I don’t know what it was about him that rubbed me the wrong way, he just gave me the ick.

When I’m about to get up and head back to my compartment, one of the booths opens up and a rowdy group of enormous men swagger into the Club Car and take the table.

Holy. Fucking. Outlander . Fantasies!

They’re all wearing kilts.

I pinch myself and yelp.

This is real and I’m awake.

The Star card was right. Good things are finally coming my way!

Like a moth to the flame, I flutter over to them, unable to stay away. I know I probably have hearts in my eyes but I don’t even care.

“H-hi, there. I’m Noah and I just have to say your kilts look amazing on you guys.”

To my surprise, they greet me warmly.

“Noah! Good to meet, ye.”

“Pull up a seat and join us, lad.”

Not one to pass up a golden opportunity to covertly ogle Scotsmen in kilts, I take them up on their offer.

They introduce themselves as Iain, Angus, Jack, and Craig.

“American, eh?” Craig asks.

I beam. “Yep. This is my first trip here. But I’ve wanted to visit Scotland forever.”

Iain hails a server. “It’s my shout. What’ll ye have, Noah?”

I decide to go with whatever they’re drinking, which ends up being large pints of beer.

When in Scotland, right?

“Can I ask where you all are heading?”

“Inverness for the Interspecies Highland Games,” Jack says.

My eyes widen. “Let me guess. Do you all participate in the games somehow?”

They grin in unison and Craig gives me a hearty slap on the back, nearly sending me reeling onto the floor.

“Aye, lad. We’re all doin’ the caber toss,” Iain announces.

“The what now?”

Angus, the redheaded one with a beard and biceps for days, lights up. “Och, Noah, ye’ve got to come to the Highland Games. The caber toss is when a bunch of Scotsmen compete in tossing a log as far as they can.” He winks at me. “And we do it while wearing a kilt.”

My mouth drops open, and I wipe at it in case I’m drooling. “A log as in a tree ?”

“Aye,” all four say in unison.

Sweet Scottish lumberjack porn fantasies, here I come—in more ways than one!

I fan myself and take a hearty swig of beer to try and cool down as visions of kilted Scotsmen tossing trees dance through my head.

Iain, a rather handsome bald man, flexes a beefy bicep at me. “We’ve been training for this. I’m determined to win this year.”

“How heavy is a caber?”

Craig, the group’s obvious jokester, waggles his blond eyebrows. “You probably weigh the same as a mid-size caber.”

Angus strokes his beard as he sizes me up. “Aye, mate, I think you’re right.”

Jack, the dark-haired, blue-eyed quiet one, gives a solemn nod and raises his pint before taking a swig.

Iain lets out a hearty laugh. “I bet I could bench press you easily, lad. You’re just a wee thing.”

I pout. “I’m not that small.”

Yes, at five foot six, I’m a lot shorter than most men, and my build is slight too. Okay, compared to them I am fucking small.

I study Iain. Yeah, he probably could bench press me.

My balls give a faint tingle.

Fuck. That could be really hot, actually.

I spend the next hour drinking with the four men, all of whom can seriously hold their liquor! Keeping up is impossible, and three pints in, I’m definitely drunk and listing in my seat.

I’m also giggling at every little thing.

Not sure exactly why, but I tend to be a happy drunk who laughs a lot.

Fortunately for me, my new friends find it rather amusing and keep trying to one-up each other as they tell me dirty jokes.

“So, what are your plans here in Scotland?” Angus finally asks me as I try to stop laughing myself silly.

I wipe at my eyes. “Now that’s a story!”

The beer fuels my lengthy oration as I share my convoluted, and probably not entirely coherent, tale of woe.

“And that’s how I ended up here,” I slur a little. “Visiting bonnie Scotland! The bucket-list trip of my dreams.”

Iain nods sagely and drains his pint glass. “Aye, Scotland’s the best.”

“If it’s not Scottish, it’s crap !” I say, but I don’t attempt my very bad Mike-Myers-inspired Scottish accent. Even when drunk, I realize that might be offensive.

They all blink at me in confusion except for Jack, who gives a soft snort of laughter and tells his friends, “It’s from an old Saturday Night Live skit.”

I beam at him. “I like you.”

He blushes.

Awww, what a cutie .

“I don’t really have an official travel itinerary. Just planning to explore. Gonna start in Inverness and head all over.” I sigh dreamily. “And if I happen to meet a sexy gay Scotsman who wants to start a romance with me, I’m all for it.”

I jolt.

Oops. I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud.

“Then you should definitely come to the Interspecies Highland Games. It’s very inclusive. In fact, I know a few men who’d love to eat up a cute thing like you,” Iain says with a wink.

My cheeks, already warm from all the beer, get even warmer.

I extend my hand, holding out my pinky. “Pinky swear you’ll introduce me.”

He throws his head back and laughs, wrapping his pinky around mine and shaking. “Aye, it’s a deal.”

By the time I’m ready to head to my compartment for some much-needed shuteye, I’m three sheets to the wind and staggering with my new friends as they start singing a rendition of a song rather appropriately called “The Drunken Scotsman”—although I’m actually far more inebriated than they are even though I consumed about half the beer they did.

We part ways when they head back to their coach seats and I make my way back to my sleeper compartment. Earlier, when I was still sober, we did share contact info, and I hope to be able to watch them toss cabers in the Highland Games before I have to return home.

I’m humming happily to myself as I drunkenly amble back to the bed that is calling my name. As I stumble onto a gangway between train cars, I shriek when a figure steps out of the darkness, blocking my path.

I clutch a hand to my chest and wheeze.

“Fucking hell. Don’t scare a guy like that,” I scold, but the faint slur in my voice undermines me a smidge.

Then I squint. “You? Ugh.”

Malcolm glowers at me. In the dark, he looks a lot more dangerous and warning bells go off in my head. Gone is the suave mask he’d worn earlier. Now his expression matches the dead glare of his blue eyes.

“I tried to play nice with you, Conduit, but you had to go and make things difficult.”

What the fuck is this dude on about?

As I stare at him dumbfounded, he pulls out a needle, the syringe gleaming in the shaft of moonlight coming through the window.

Malcolm takes a menacing step closer. “Now, be a good little fool and go to sleep. When you wake up, my employer will explain more to you.”

I’m not even listening to what he’s saying because none of it really makes any sense. All I can do is stare at the motherfucking needle in his hand.

I hate needles.

Naturally, I scream like a Hammer horror film heroine.

“Shut up, you little shit!” he hisses.

Malcolm makes a grab for me with his free hand, but just then the train brakes to go around a corner and we both lose our balance. He stumbles backward and I lurch toward him, deciding for some insane reason to turn my forward momentum into an opportunity to tackle him.

Mind you, I’ve never tackled anyone in my life.

Although I’ve dreamt of doing it to Sam Heughan.

And Henry Cavill.

Oh, and David Tenant—but who hasn’t?

I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk, but I somehow manage to slam into him with quite a bit of force and he drops the needle.

I am officially a total badass!

“Take that, asshole. This is not going to be my murder on the Scottish Express!”

The train lurches again and we tumble to the ground in a heap.

I struggle to crawl away, but he grabs my hair and yanks on it—hard.

“Owwww!”

He wants to fight dirty? This fool has no idea. Bitch, I’m from Chicago!

I ram my forehead right into his perfect face, and even though it hurts like a sonofabitch, I’m pleased to hear a satisfying crunch. He lets me go for a moment, his hands automatically going to his bleeding nose.

With what energy I can muster, I start to crawl away, my scalp still stinging. That fucker better not have left me with a bald patch!

I hear a roar of anger and glance back to see him leap at me again, and I don’t have time to get away.

In a flash, we’re rolling around on the floor of the gangway. He’s much bigger than me, but I’m using every underhanded trick I learned as a kid to fight back. I knee him in the crotch and bite his hand.

He lands a punch to the side of my head and, momentarily dazed, I see black spots.

Grunting with triumph, he holds up the needle he dropped.

Panicked, my body acts on its own, and I viciously stab a finger right into one of his eyes.

He rears back, howling in pain, and I take the opportunity to grab the needle out of his hand, then slam it right into his chest and press down the plunger.

For a moment, he stares down stupidly at the needle, and so do I.

Whoa.

Malcolm staggers to his feet, shaking his head and looking dazed. His nose is still bleeding and his right eye’s swollen from my well-placed finger jab.

“Whoa, dude. I think you should sit down.”

I don’t know why I’m trying to help this guy who was… what? Trying to drug and then traffic me or something?

“Have… to… go…” he says as he reaches for the handle of the door leading outside.

“This is a moving train!”

But he isn’t listening.

Just as he opens the door, his eyes roll back in his head and he starts to fall.

I lunge for him.

I don’t entirely know why. After all, the dude just attacked me. But I also don’t really want his death on my conscience.

For a second, I feel a moment of hope when I grab hold of his arm. But that quickly turns to outright fear when I realize I’m not strong enough to pull him back inside.

Instead, I get dragged along with him and we start sailing out of the open door.

So long, sweet Scotland fantasy. Apparently my life has turned into Throw Mama from the Train instead of Highlander .

I squeeze my eyes shut at the sight of the ground I’m about to make impact with.

Fuck you, tarot card! You were wrong. My bad luck is literally going to kill me this time.

Then the air is knocked right out of me when something swoops in and lifts me until I’m flying.

Literally.

When I can breathe again, I warily open one eye to see that I’m ascending into the night sky.

I open the other eye and slowly look up.

Into the face of the person who saved me.

Or should I say, the gargoyle who did.

The incredibly sexy gargoyle who’s holding me in his arms and whisking me away into the night.

“Calgon, take me away,” I whisper, channeling Mama Delilah in the midst of this magical moment.