Newcastle Brown | NEON LIT

The Quayside in January was no place for a soft southerner in an inadequate jacket. I'd come to Newcastle for a conference, gotten horrifically lost after the wrong kind of pub crawl, and was now standing on a bridge over the Tyne trying to remember which hotel I was staying at.

"You alright there, pet?" The voice was pure Geordie, musical in ways that southern accents could never touch.

I turned to find a woman in a puffy jacket, cigarette in hand, watching me with amused concern. She was short, round, with bleached blonde hair and makeup that could survive a hurricane.

"Lost," I admitted.

"Aye, I can see that. Where you meant to be?"

I showed her the hotel booking on my phone. She laughed—a proper belly laugh that made her whole body shake.

"That's the other side of town, man. You'd never make it in that coat." She stubbed out her cigarette. "Come on. Me pub's just there. Get you warmed up, call you a proper taxi."

The pub was a proper Tyneside establishment—brown interior, pool table, locals who looked up when we entered and went back to their pints when they saw who I was with. The woman—"Gemma, love, I run this place"—installed me at the bar and poured something brown and warming without asking.

"Newcastle Brown," she said when I raised an eyebrow. "When in Rome, like."

I drank. It was good—malty, smooth, exactly what I needed. Gemma poured herself one and settled on the stool beside me.

"So what brings you up here then? Business or pleasure?"

"Conference. Digital marketing." I shrugged at her expression. "It's not as boring as it sounds."

"It sounds proper boring." But she smiled. "And the night out? How'd you end up on the wrong bridge at midnight?"

"Pub crawl with colleagues. Lost them somewhere around the third venue. Then my phone died. Then I made some choices."

"Some choices." She shook her head. "Soft southerners. Can't handle a proper session."

"That's unfair. I can handle sessions."

"Can you?" Her eyes were sharper than her cheerful tone suggested. "Prove it then. Match me drink for drink. If you're still standing in an hour, taxi's on the house."

"And if I'm not?"

"Then I get to tell everyone about the lightweight Londoner I rescued." She poured two shots of something clear. "Stakes are stakes."

Three hours later, the pub was closed, the locals had gone home, and neither of us had fallen over. We'd graduated from shots to whisky to a bottle of wine that Gemma had produced from somewhere behind the bar.

"You're alright," she admitted, refilling my glass. "For a soft southern lad."

"High praise from a Geordie."

"Highest there is." She leaned closer, and I could smell her perfume under the pub smells—something sweet, something warm. "Can I tell you something?"

"Go on."

"I knew you were staying at the other end of town. I also knew I wasn't letting you walk there in that coat." Her hand found my knee under the bar. "Sometimes I see someone and I think... yeah. Worth getting to know."

"And you thought that about me?"

"Don't fish for compliments." But she was blushing—actual pink rising through her foundation. "I thought you looked lost. Not just on the bridge. Generally lost. Like someone who needed..." She trailed off.

"What?"

"Looking after." Her hand moved higher. "And I'm good at looking after people."

I kissed her. She tasted of wine and cigarettes and something underneath that was just her—warm, northern, unexpectedly tender. Her body pressed against mine was all softness and heat, and when she pulled back, her eyes were bright.

"Mine's upstairs," she said. "If you fancy actually getting warm."

Her flat above the pub was cozy chaos—books, blankets, a television bigger than mine. She led me to a bedroom that smelled of the perfume I'd noticed earlier and started undressing without preamble.

"Fair warning," she said, unhooking her bra. "I don't do gentle. Geordie girls know what they want."

"Show me."

She showed me. Pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top, took control with an efficiency that left me breathless. Her body was all curves and softness, breasts heavy against my chest, hips rolling in rhythms that had me grabbing the headboard for purchase.

"There," she gasped. "Right there. That's it, pet. That's exactly—"

She came with a shudder that went through us both, her whole body clenching around me. I lasted about three seconds longer before following, crying out something that wasn't quite words while she rode us both through it.

"Better than the bridge?" she asked afterward, sprawled across me like a satisfied cat.

"Significantly."

"Good." She kissed my shoulder. "Conference finishes when?"

"Friday."

"Then you're staying here till Friday." It wasn't a question. "I'll feed you proper food, show you the real Newcastle, and teach you what northern hospitality really means."

"Is it always this hospitable?"

"Only for the ones worth it." She propped herself up. "Now get some sleep. Tomorrow I'm taking you to the Grainger Market. If you're going to be mine for a week, you need proper nourishment."

I stayed till Friday. Then I extended the conference trip by a week. Then I started finding excuses to come north every month.

The conference doesn't even happen in Newcastle. But Gemma doesn't need to know that. What she needs to know is that the soft southerner she rescued learned to handle his drink, handle the weather, and handle a Geordie woman who knows exactly what she wants.

And what she wants, apparently, is me. Lost on a bridge, warmed in a pub, and kept coming back by the kind of hospitality that doesn't exist below the Tyne.