Cinnamon? Seriously, that was her name? Tori shuddered and wished she could wash her eyes out with antibacterial soap.
‘C’mon, Tori, get over here,’ Mark wheedled, placing his rather small hands on those pendulous breasts. FF looked her up and down but didn’t break her stride.
‘Hey, honey, don’t be shy. I’ll be gentle.’
Uh…like, no, Tori thought, a thousand nos. Call her weird, but if girls didn’t—even her in fantasies—turn her on then there was no chance of her getting it on with a skanky-looking girl with tattooed fairy wings on her butt.
So, apparently there were some things she wouldn’t do for love. This was good to know.
‘Get over here, Vicky…it’ll be fun,’ Mark ordered, pumping his hips.
‘Don’t call me Vicky…’ Tori snapped. Like that was important right now. God. She glared at them both, tasting rage in the back of her throat. The urge to scream at them was overwhelming.
It took a lot of effort for her to keep her tone low and cool. ‘Give me a sec, okay…honey?’ She pasted a thin smile on her face. ‘I’m just going to grab some things and you can carry on. A little warning, though…he’s very quick off the trigger.’
The movement on the bed stilled as they both looked at her.
‘Oh, God, you’re going to be bitchy about this,’ Mark said. Anyone would think she’d caught him drinking milk out of the carton, not screwing a peroxide blonde with inch dark roots.
‘Maybe I should have run this by you before you came home…’ Mark conceded.
Tori lifted an eyebrow. You think? She caught his hips lifting and thought that she might be sick. ‘Are you really going to discuss this while you’re still on the job?’
It was like watching the footage of a really huge natural disaster, horrific but fascinating, Tori thought as Mark patted FF’s hip. She climbed off him and lay back on the rumpled bed, her long-suffering sigh audible from across the room. Mark sat up, his penis—his condom-covered penis…thank God for small mercies!—still ready to party.
So, apparently, he wasn’t completely stupid…
And it was equally apparent, she thought as she eyed his still small but straight-as-an-arrow erection, that she was the only one who Mark couldn’t get a hundred per cent hard for. After all the work she’d put into their sex life, that was possibly an even bigger slap in the face than the fact that she’d caught him doing another woman in their bed and expected her to join in.
Tori briefly closed her eyes before stalking past the bed to the huge walk-in closet, reaching for her overnight bag on the top shelf. She pulled it down and grabbed underwear, some T-shirts and clothes for the weekend.
‘What are you doing?’ Mark asked as she walked back into the room and headed towards the en-suite bathroom. She flicked him a glance. He’d swung his legs over the side of the bed and was looking irritated.
‘Making freaking cupcakes,’ she snapped. ‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’
‘You’re overreacting, Vicky.’
Tori sent him a look that was designed to shrivel his balls. Damn, it didn’t work. Tori walked in the bathroom and swept her make-up and toiletries from the marble-top counter into the designer toiletry bag she’d bought Mark for his birthday. Walking back into the bedroom, she shoved the toiletries into her bag, picked it up and slung it over her shoulder.
Mark reached for a robe, pulled it on and ran a hand through his blond hair. ‘This is your fault, you know, you don’t give me what I need.’
‘You’re so full of it. God, Mark, but…what the hell?’
‘I told you that I like it often and I like it varied—’
‘Your often is ridiculous and your varied is halfway to weird! And this—’ she waved her hand towards the bed ‘—this is unforgivable! And, for your information, there is nothing wrong with missionary style on the odd occasion!’
‘You don’t love me enough.’
I don’t love you at all. The thought popped into Tori’s head and it surprised her. Didn’t she? She’d thought she did but then shouldn’t she be feeling a lot more devastation along with her overload of disgust?
‘You’re acting like a psycho and freaking out for no reason,’ Mark told her before yawning, not bothering to put a hand over his mouth.
‘Yeah, you really are hurting the vibe,’ Frantic Fairy solemnly agreed.
She had to get out of here before she killed someone. Seriously. Prison orange was so not her colour.
Tori narrowed her eyes in warning. ‘Screw you. Actually…’ Tori just looked at her lying on the bed—their bed, on the sheets she’d bought and paid for!—naked and checking the messages on her mobile ‘…just screw him.’
All she’d wanted was a cup of tea, Tori thought as she sat in the back of the taxi as it took her home. Home to Lancaster Road, to Poppy and Izzy.
Izzy might not be there, she reminded herself. Izzy was with Harry now, in love and so damn happy it sometimes hurt to watch them. But Poppy would be home…
She just needed to get home and she would feel better. They loved her, they always had, and right now she needed to be around people who did.
Love, her holy grail, her constant search. It didn’t have to be perfect, or a ballad or a fairy tale. She didn’t want a prince but she sure as hell would like to be someone’s princess.
But obviously not Mark’s any more.
‘You…’ Izzy’s voice was loud in her head ‘…are the ultimate bum magnet when it comes to men, Toz. You look around and choose the most screwed-up guy in the room.’
Maybe she did but there was always the divine hope that this man could be the one who could love her; intensely, absolutely, for ever.
She was a master of wishful thinking.
She should’ve dumped Mark ages ago but she’d kept hoping that she could change him, that she’d wake up one day and he’d be…better. And, let’s be honest here, she adored the fact that she was centre of his unwavering attention, of being constantly and continuously wanted. It wasn’t the love she craved but it was something…
It was enough of a something for her to ignore the naughty text messages she’d seen on his phone, the teenager who’d rocked up at the door a couple of weeks ago looking for Mark, not to mention his ex-girlfriend who constantly called. She suspected that he’d dipped his ink in any and all of their wells but she’d never found the—what was Alex’s expression?—the smoking bullet. They’d fought about it—hell, they fought about everything!—and she’d justified staying with him by thinking that their emotional, loud, crazy see-saw of life was better than her being alone and loads better than the cold war she’d grown up in around her parents. Hot fights were always better than derisive comments, sarcasm, frosty insults tossed out with a contemptuous, sneering smile. She’d take loud and explosive over quiet and deadly any day.
At least with volatile you got some sort of warning and you could attempt to avoid or contain the emotional bloodshed.
Quiet but deadly…wasn’t that the perfect way to describe her parents’ formal union? She was quite sure that if she called it a marriage the gods of love would nail her with a lightning bolt.
Mark wasn’t perfect, far from it, but neither was she. But at least they expressed their emotions…loudly and often. Maybe too often to be healthy. And maybe he hadn’t been the poster-boy boyfriend but he was someone to wake up to, go to sleep with.