Introduction
Scandalous Scotsman, is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s British Bedmate.
It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
I Hate Monday
Lizzie
Seven AM
The age-old question: What’s the worst pain a person can physically experience?
A burn?
Electrocution?
Tooth pain?
Childbirth?
Getting kicked in the balls?
I find the answer, lying on the floor at the bottom of my stairs.
Hands down, the worst pain ever is stepping on a Lego, barefoot.
“Ouch, damnit, shit, fuuuuck!” I cry out in pain and anger.
“Hello?”
I hear a muffled, deep voice coming from my empty home. This place has been free of testosterone for over two years. A no-man zone.
I know I’m alone.
Is it possible I hit my head hard enough that I’m hearing things?
Reaching out to grab the towel that had been wrapped around me, I answer my own question. “Thirteen stairs and 2017, anything’s possible.”
I hear a laugh and ignore it. No need to question my sanity any more than I already do. I roll onto my stomach then push my naked self up onto all fours.
I look around to see what damage the fall caused to the laptop, sketch pad, pencils, phone, last night’s empty pint of Halo— stop lying to yourself— Ben and Jerry’s, spoon, and the water bottle —um, hum—and empty wine bottle that I was carrying down to avoid another trip up the stairs.
My laptop isn’t smashed, but my water bottle is spilling all over the floor and …
“Son of a bitch.” I start to stand when a sharp pain shoots up my leg. “Motherffff-ather,” I nearly cry as I crawl to save my drawings from drowning and my phone from getting water damaged … again.
I grab for my sketchpad first and hear a groan followed by a graveled, “Fuuuuck.”
“Oh my God.” I cringe when I see that my fall somehow triggered my phone to not just call but FaceTime someone who has now possibly seen me completely and totally naked. I hit “end call,” and then hit it again, and again, and again to ensure the call has in fact ended.
Still freaking out, I then hit “delete all calls.” Why? Gut reaction.
Once I’ve settled down, I look at my pad and see that my happy faces are now wet and smudged to look like charcoal tears.
Imagine that.
8:30 AM
Standing in the ER, because I can’t sit— my ass hurts that bad from bouncing down the damn stairs—I try not to put too much pressure on my throbbing leg, because it hurts like hell, or touch my bare foot to the floor. I’m still stunned it’s not bleeding profusely, because it hurts worse than hell.
I look at my watch. I’ve lost an hour already, an entire hour, time I will never get back, time I need to get my new classroom in order before they tear it apart for the new academic year overhaul.
I look around and see people actually bleeding but certainly not dying.
I’m going to hell.
But, in all fairness, I don’t have time for this, not when my classroom has now been added to the list of those getting fresh paint, and I’ve yet to preserve the murals and box up some inspiration so they don’t get ruined. It’s not just a classroom; it’s a creative environment. Who the hell decides painting over years of magical murals is a good idea?
My mentor’s, Ms. Kennedy, the woman whose class I spent many days in substitute teaching, and as her long-term sub in June of last year, room was now going to be brushed over in one single color, dulling and removing all that she was leaving us. It wasn’t fair. Yet, life seldom is.
I know it’s because creepy Ken, who used to clean this room like it was his job —by the way, it is his job— is still pissed that I didn’t swipe left, or maybe it’s because I blocked him on the devil app. Well, screw you, creepy Ken. I will persevere.
I make a mental note to toss some Legos on the floor and hope he steps on them. I make another mental note to remind myself to pick them up before my kids start coming in after summer break.
I look away from the pregnant woman, who I can’t help wanting to tell, This is nothing, sweetheart. Wait till you step on a Lego. Now that’s a kind of hell no breathing exercise can prepare you for … but I don’t.
“Ms. Bloom?”
I look toward the hallway.
“Ms. Valentine,” I sigh.
“Mrs. Hogue,” she corrects me with a smile as she walks toward me, two cups of coffee in hand. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I am. Just a bit banged up.”
She looks around the room. “Would you like some coffee while you wait?”
“If I could be honest with you, Bridget, I really don’t have time for waiting. My classroom needs to be boxed up before they start demolishing it. I’m already late getting things done because …” I pause, because admitting I’ve procrastinated would be further embarrassing. “Because —”
She holds up her hand. “Dr. Hogue is about ready to clock out, but I don’t think he’d mind seeing Brendan’s all-time favorite substitute teacher.”
Her son, Brendan, is one of those kids you never forget. As a student teacher, I was there when his father was killed in a car accident. I will never forget what a brave little man he was. But it wasn’t until I lost my own father that I realized the strength he truly carried.
She looks around as if she’s trying to make sure no one is looking, nods toward the hallway, and whispers, “Follow me.”
Uncomfortably lying on my belly with a cold pack on my ass, completely and totally embarrassed, I wait for Bridget, who is scheduling an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon, who I had to literally pinky promise the very handsome and hilarious British Dr. Hogue that I would see today.
The curtain moves, and I look back over my shoulder. Even in pain, I can’t help smiling.
Looking down at her tablet, she tells me, “Dr. Stewart has an opening at four.”
“Your husband is not just a beautiful man, he has a beautiful soul.”
She looks up at me, smiling with her eyes.
“I bet Brendan adores him. He obviously adores you.”
She shakes her head. “Back when Ben died, I never thought I would ever be happy again. I never truly believed a man would ever come into our lives and love us like Ben did. Turns out, Simon loves us better.”
I sense there is a story behind that statement, but I don’t pry. Opening old wounds is not something I care to do to others … just myself on occasion.
After removing the cold pack from my ass, I roll to my side. “You look so happy.”
“I really am.” She sits on the stool beside me. “But you’re in a hurry. Your very own classroom. You must be so excited.”
“I am, but I’d love to hear all about it one day.”
“When you’re healed up, I’m sure I’ll see you in yoga class again.”