Free Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) by Marita A. Hansen Page B

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want.” He refocused on me with a serious expression. “So, are ye up for an
extramarital affair?”
    Beverly smacked him again. “Paul!”
    He picked up his fresh ale and indicated
to Beverly. “Ignore her; she’s just sour ’cause she gets none.”
    Beverly pushed at his back, almost making
him spill his ale. “Go away if you can’t be nice.”
    “Och, am never nice, yet ye still love
me.” He turned and kissed her cheek.
    “Just go away,” she said gruffly, trying
to sound cross, the smile pulling at her lips ruining the effect.
    “ Okay , whatever ye say, love. Just
don’t leave withoot me. Remember, ye’re my ride home.” He gave me a wink.
“While you can ride me home, lassie.”
    Beverly shoved him again, this time making
his ale slosh over the side, wetting his hand. “Get lost, you creep.”
    “Fine, I’ll go find some nicer lassies;
maybe one o’ them will give me a gobble.”
    She scowled at him. “You’re repulsive.”
    Laughing, he licked the ale off his hand and
headed for a dyed-blonde woman who taught maths.
    “What’s gobble mean?” I asked.
    Her scowl grew. “It’s British slang for a
blowjob,” she said, watching him stop by the maths teacher. Sneering at the
woman, he leaned down and whispered something into her ear. She slapped his
face, barking at him to ‘Fuck off’.
    Beverly shook her head. “That man has no
sense. He should know by now to keep away from that bitch.”
    I watched as Paul snapped at the woman,
calling her a trumped-up ‘hoor’ . She got up and moved to another table
with her friend, flicking Paul a well-manicured finger. Paul made an obscene gesture
at her and returned to the table of men. He sat down in front of the TV, his
attention drawn to the cricket match again. The woman he’d harassed pulled out
a pack of cigarettes and indicated to the door, then headed out, leaving her
friend for a smoke.
    I refocused on Beverly. “I don’t know why
you like him.”
    She breathed out. “Half the time he’s a
sweetheart, the other half he’s a creep. I cling onto the good half, not to
mention I find him incredibly attractive.”
    “I suppose he’s not ugly.”
    Her eyebrows drew together. “Oh, come
on . I know his personality can be off-putting, but you have to admit he’s
good-looking.”
    I shrugged. “He’s not my type.”
    “Then, who is your type?”
    An image of Dante flashed into my head
uninvited, of him up on the stage, following the photographer’s instructions,
looking gorgeous as usual. I fought back a grimace, upset that I’d thought of
him before my husband.
    Needing a distraction, I opened my purse
and removed an image of Markus for Beverly. “My husband’s my type,” I said,
holding the photo out for her to see.
    Her eyes widened. “Good God! He’s
gorgeous.” She looked up at me. “What does he do for work? Model? ”
    I smiled. “No, he’s a P.E. teacher.”
    “Now I can see why you don’t think much of
Paul.” She wriggled her eyebrows at me. “How about we do a swap? You can have
Paul, while I can have that blond god after he arrives.”
    I laughed. “Definitely not.”
    “You sure? Neanderthals are all the rage,
you know. You’ll also save on buying shoes, since you won’t need them in the
kitchen.”
    I snorted out another laugh and shook my
head.
    She grinned. “At least show Paul the
picture of your husband. I want to see what he says.”
    “I’d rather stay away from him,” I said,
glancing at the man again. He was shaking his fist at the TV, insulting one of
the cricket players on the screen.
    Beverly leaned her elbows back against the
bar, her top pulling tight across her pudgy stomach. “Then, I’ll tell you what
he’ll say.” She deepened her voice, putting on a Scottish accent again. “Why
would ye marry that git? He looks like a pretty boy poser, not a real man like
me.” She lifted an arm and flexed it. “Get a load o’ this, lassie. Bet yer wee husband
cannae compete with that.”
    I