‘She’s booked with Pauline at three,’ she says crisply.
‘Wonderful.’
‘The nail technician will be around tomorrow. Do you want to book her at the same time?’
‘Why not?’’
‘Manicure & pedicure?’
‘Excellent. See you tomorrow,’ I say and ring off.
I throw my phone on the bed and take Monstrosity out of my bedside table. Monstrosity is my diary. I call it that because there is a long fanged monster made with furry blue material on the cover. I sit cross-legged on the bed, unlock him, and flip the pages to today’s date.
Dear Monstrosity,
I think it’s safe to assume I f**ked up.
Out of sheer spite the enemy kissed me and I, well, I kind of kissed him back.
In my defense:
There is no logic to a crush.
I was in a weakened state.
I was caught woefully unprepared, and
The enemy is, while clearly rude, crude, vulgar, unrefined, whorish, cocky and just low, also very experienced. On a side note I suspect he may be sugarcoating his lips on the sly. Seriously, no man should taste that sweet. Either that, or it could be some dark magic.
It’s true he won this round, but I will take heart from the fact that one battle does not make a war. All is not lost. If I get desperate I might even invest in body armor for the lower half of my body. By hook or by crook I will try to release myself from this torment. As a last resort I will even considering initiating Plan B.
It is now four in the afternoon and to console myself I’m going down to the kitchen to eat some scones. I deserve it.
I will start over tomorrow.
Wish me luck.
I lock my diary, put it back into the bedside drawer and go out of my room.
The Hunter residence is a five-storey, London town house decorated in a limited color palate of white and grey, black, and an occasional splash of bright color to add glamour to the contemporary feel. I take the stairs with its black runner carpet, my hand sliding down the smooth intricately patterned wrought iron banister.
I walk past Crittal style windows that serve to section off the living room where there are fabulous sixteenth-century antiques brought in from Milan, canary yellow sofas and a seventies chandelier by Seguso.
The kitchen is behind a door with a black and white mural. I push it and enter a large rectangular space done up in walnut and cream. Simple, clean, and smelling like a food lover’s paradise.
Cora, a tiny woman with sandy hair and warm hazel eyes, is sitting at the island watching TV. I glance at the screen and notice it is not one of the usual shows she watches. Cora is a fierce romantic. Occasionally it will be Cake Boss, but more often than not, she will be watching Say Yes To The Dress, I Found The Gown, or something that features a happy bride in it.
‘Whatcha watching?’ I ask as I take the seat next to her.
‘The Real Housewives Of Beverly Hills,’ she says without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘How come?’
‘I missed last Sunday night’s show so I’m watching the repeat.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘There’s only ten minutes left. Watch it with me. See this bitch talking now. She’s the one I hate the most. Everyone else thinks that Lisa Vanderpump is the bitch, but this is the real bitch. She’s always causing trouble.’
I smile at how involved and mad Cora is. The camera pans to a beautiful, flawlessly made up blonde.
‘This one here is Erika,’ Cora explains. ‘She’s the richest of them all. The rest of the housewives are all secretly jealous of her. They don’t own private planes, but both Erica and her husband each own one.’
The next shot cuts to what seems to be an enormous argument.
‘They’ve got all this money and they’re always fighting about stupid things,’ Cora says disgustedly. ‘Sometimes I just want to shake them and knock their silly heads together.’
I hide a smile at her passion. While the shit is still flying around the screen, the show is over and Cora shakes her head with exasperation and gets up. She goes to the oven and peers through the glass door. Nodding with satisfaction, she opens the door and pulls out a tray of hot scones. Cora has asbestos hands so she peels the scones from the parchment with her bare hands and arranges them on a cooling rack.
From the fridge she fetches the container of clotted cream and puts it on the island table together with a jar of homemade strawberry jam. I have to say, Cora makes the best jam in the world, every spoonful will have at least one chunk of strawberry in it.
I start laying the island surface with two plates, a couple of knives and two spoons. I tear off four pieces of kitchen paper and lay them besides the plates.
Britney, who has been to Mrs. Ottilia Flutie’s finishing school where she has learnt how to eat oranges with a knife and fork, says that there is a very clear etiquette involved in eating a scone. As a matter of fact, there are only two approved ways to eat scones properly.
First you have to cut it horizontally. That then is the last time you can use the knife on the scone. The scone must then be eaten open faced. The jam and the cream added bite by bite, or one half scone at a time. Basically, don’t ever turn it into a damn sandwich.
I spread enough jam and cream on my warm scone to leave long teeth marks and do the one-half-scone-at-a-time thing, and Cora employs the bite-by-bite method. The scones are so good we do not even speak. Mrs. Ottilia Flutie would have a heart attack if she saw me pick up every last crumb with my fingers and suck it off.
‘What are you making tomorrow?’ I ask as I clear the table.
‘Apple pie,’ Cora says, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
I put the dirty plates and utensils into the dishwasher. ‘With custard?’
‘You can have yours with custard if you like, I’ll be having mine with rum and raisin ice cream. Scrummy combination.’
I think about it for an instant. It does actually sound good. ‘I think I’ll join you.’
‘You won’t regret it.’
‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘All right, love.’
As I leave, Cora increases the volume on the TV. I trudge upstairs, open my laptop, and see that Leah is already awake. I Skype her and she answers holding a bowl of cereal in her hand.
‘Hmmm … let me guess? You met the singing sensation.’
‘Yeah,’ I say with a small laugh. She knows me so well.
‘And,’ she prompts.
‘And he kissed me.’
‘On the cheek? On the forehead? On the hand?’
‘On the lips.’
‘Oh sweet Jesus. You fell at the first hurdle.’
‘Well, I didn’t fall exactly. It was just a kiss. I was taken by surprise. It won’t happen again.’
‘Just a kiss? Then why is your face red?’
‘It’s hot here.’
She shakes her head disapprovingly. ‘You know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘I think you should skip all preliminaries and move on to plan B. Get it over with, draw a line in the fucking sand, and then let’s go on our vacay.’
‘No way. I’m not throwing in the towel yet.’
‘You’ve already thrown in the towel.’
‘Look. I have more self-control than you think. I just … need a bit of time to adjust. This is not easy for me.’
‘I’ve got news for you, Tori. It’s not going to get any easier.’
‘I’m not moving on to Plan B,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Well, not yet, anyway. I don’t think I need to.’
She puts down her bowl of cereal and sighs. ‘Before I do some straight talking, you know that I love you, right?’
‘Right,’ I say slowly. A lecture is coming my way.
‘Stop being delusional. You’re wasting your time trying to resist him. The more you resist temptation the stronger and more potent it becomes. The longer you keep spending time with the guy the more entrenc
hed your feelings will become.’
Of course, she is right.
‘The man is well and truly unavailable to you, long term anyway, but if you play hard to get you will only make him chase you which will make you fall even harder. You need to say yes, sleep with the guy once or twice, and put an end to your girlish crush once and for all. I mean, a guy who looks that good has probably got a small dick.’
‘He doesn’t,’ my mouth blurts out before my brain can get into gear.
‘What?’ she explodes, her eyes popping open.
‘Um … he has a big dick.’
‘And you know this because?’
‘He had an erection and I saw it through his jeans,’ I confess.
‘Oh Lord. Just get your condoms ready, OK?’
‘You should have more faith in me.’
‘I do. There is merit to my strategy. Good looking and a big dick means he’s definitely a lousy lover. You’ll be wanting to be rid of him sooner than you think.’
Not if his kiss is anything to go by. Fortunately I’m not dumb enough to voice this particular thought.
‘So when are you seeing him next?’ she asks, picking up her bowl again and spooning another mouthful of cereal into her mouth.
‘Tomorrow. He’s throwing a pool party. Britney is all excited about it because Taylor Swift is coming.’
‘Hmmm. Do you think you can swing an autograph for my sister?’
That evening Cash doesn’t turn up for chicken pie. I eat my dinner without tasting it, and wonder if Leah might have been totally wrong. There will be no need for condoms at all because Cash has already lost interest in me.
Chapter Seven
Cash
Hunter by name and hunter by nature.
Goddamn. She’s something else. My head’s reeling and the blood is pounding so hard in my dick I feel like pulling over to the side of the road and fucking taking care of it myself, but I don’t need to see grainy pictures of me jacking off in my car on the evening news. Been there. Done that. And I definitely don’t need Octavia breathing hot air down my neck again about imaging, branding, target audience, or urban cool.
Nope.
Still? Tori fucking Diamond, eh?
My little sister’s PA. Who’d have thought she’d be the hottest thing to cross my path in a long, long time? She’s so hot she’s bouncing with it. And that attitude of hers. Talk about a badass mouth. I can already see it full of my dick.
And my, my, what a sweet picture that is.
I was a walking zombie this morning. I’d been up all night partying hard and all I wanted to do was go back and crash in my own bed. Yeah, I know, it’s called a hedonistic lifestyle.
But as Fate would have it, I’m driving down the road when I spot the Bentley with Victor cooling his heels in the driver’s seat. On Harley street? There’s only one scenario: Britney was up to no good again. Believe me, I fucking cuss the air blue, but I stop and go in, and there she is like a long, cool drink on a hot day. Blonde hair down to her waist and the ass on that bird. It’s one of the reasons I still believe in miracles.
Oh, yeaaaaah.
If a jaw ever dropped … but damn if she didn’t look at me as if I was a bit of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of her shoes. It made me want to rip the clothes off her back and give it to her right there.
You see, when every woman you meet can’t wait to choke on your dick and lays it all out on a silver platter for you, you start to yearn for the woman who throws you a bit of shade. You miss the buzz of a chase. You wish someone would resist you. Everyone wants a piece of Cash. She doesn’t. That makes her fucking precious.
I just had to break off a little piece of that Kit Kat.
I chased her all the way to my father’s house and right into my old bathroom. So she’s naked and in the bath and giving me all the sass, but I catch her staring at my dick like a starving animal looking at a fuckin’ feast.
I don’t know. Maybe she never saw a dick so big, but fucking hell I could have roasted a pig in the bonfire in her eyes.
You gotta respect a contradiction like that!
I mean, one minute she’s slaying you with her tongue and giving you spicy ass attitude, next moment she’s looking at your junk like it should be registered on the endangered species list. It’s a challenge and an invitation, but in my case it’s a red rag to a bull.
Tori Diamond just put hunt back into Hunter and poured a little bit more awesome sauce on to my already fantastically awesome life.
I glance at the speedometer. 102 MPH.
There are no speed cameras on this stretch of the road so I lean on the accelerator and revel in the rush of watching my metal baby eat up tarmac at incredible speed. Music is blasting from the stereo and adrenaline is coursing in my veins. The high is unbelievable. This is my life. Money, pussy, and speed.
What else is there, anyway?
Chapter Eight
Tori
A cousin of mine who once won a minor beauty pageant used to say real beauty requires hard work and discipline. I didn’t truly know what she meant until I go shopping with Britney.
We spend hours looking for the right dress. She tries on what seems like a hundred different outfits in at least thirty shops. She twirls in front of me in dresses that are, quite frankly stunning, and decides that they make her grasshopper long legs look stumpy and fat or her augmented and perfect 32C chest look flat and blah.
She almost bursts into tears because the color of one of them, she believes, makes her glowing teenage skin look washed out. Another classically simple dress gets the ultimate insult.
‘I’d rather wear one of Kanye West’s plain white T-shirts that he has the cheek to sell at $150.00.’
I flash a placating smile, find a broken sweet in my jean’s pocket, slip it into my mouth, and crush it to death between my teeth. Then, just as I am about to tear my hair out with sheer boredom, we go into Couture Couture and Britney finds a mini-dress in Clementine. Even I have to admit this dress is special. It is super-sexy, trendy, and perfect for her body shape. Good, I think we can take a break for a couple of hours before her appointment at the hairdresser, but life is never that easy.
‘Now,’ Britney says, moving again towards the dress rail, ‘we have to find something for you. I think I saw something that might be perfect just now.’
There is absolutely no way I’m buying anything at Couture Couture. Even the tiny dress Britney is swanning around the shop in carries a £695.00 price tag. That’s more than three weeks’ worth of wages to me, and there is no way in hell I’m about to go traipsing around the shops all over again.
‘I have a little black dress. I think I’ll wear that,’ I say trailing behind her.
Britney stops in her tracks, balances her weight on one hip, and looks me up and down. She reminds me of one of the divas in that Real Housewife reality show that Cora likes to watch.
‘What little black dress?’ she asks.
‘You haven’t seen it. I didn’t bother to unpack it.’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘I have seen it. Isn’t it made out of T-shirt material?’
‘Well, yes, but I can dress it up.’
‘Absolutely not,’ she says imperviously, and turning away from me resumes rifling through the dress racks.
‘Look, even if I do decide to buy something, I definitely can’t afford to get anything from here.’
‘Hmmm …’ she says, ignoring me and moving quickly through the rack.
‘Britney,’ I call, my voice louder and more impatient.
‘You’re not paying for this dress. I am,’ she says without turning around.
I puff air out of my cheeks. ‘It’s really nice of you and everything, but you will not be paying for it, will you? Your Dad will be, and I don’t think he’ll appreciate being forced into buying me such an expensive dress.’
She turns to look at me in surprise. ‘Dad’s not going to mind me buying you a dress. It’s not like it’s every day that Ca
sh comes home and throws a party.’
I shake my head.
‘If you don’t believe me I can call him right now and ask,’ she challenges.
‘That won’t be necessary. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I’d just feel uncomfortable accepting such an expensive dress from my employer.’
‘Think of it as a uniform. You have to come to the party with me and you need an outfit that won’t show me up.’
‘OK, let’s compromise. Maybe we can stop by Topshop or Miss Selfridge and I’ll find something suitable there.’
She wrinkles her nose in disgust. ‘Tori, you don’t understand, do you? Everybody there will be dressed to kill. You might as well come naked instead of a little number from Topshop.’
I stare blankly at her. My mother calls it my owl look.
‘It’s just a dress,’ she says persuasively.
‘Fine.’
‘Good,’ she says with satisfaction, and turns back to the rack. Less than a minute later she yanks something out from the rail. ‘How about this?’ she cries triumphantly.
I stare at it in amazement.
‘It’ll be gorgeous when it’s wet,’ she says, walking towards me.
Wow! I don’t know about it being gorgeous when it’s wet, but it’s awesome dry. I mean, I would never even have considered a zebra print, semi transparent, maxi dress with a plunging neckline and long sleeves, but now that she has pulled it out and is waving it temptingly in front of me, I have to admit she knows her fashion. I take it from her and look at the price tag. An eye-watering £799.00. On sale. Supposedly reduced from £1,399.00.
‘Have you seen the price?’ I whisper, horrified.
‘If you don’t hurry up, we’ll miss my hair appointment,’ she prompts, one eyebrow raised expectantly.
I take the dress from her and bustle into the dressing room. I wriggle out of my clothes and pull the dress over my head. I zip it up and I can quite honestly say I have never worn anything so revealing, sexy, or glamorous before. I feel slinky and sheer, and in a funny sort of way like my grandmother’s favorite movie character, Suzie Wong.
‘Come out then,’ Britney calls.
I step out. ‘How do I look?’
The Bad Boy Wants Me: A Bad Boy Romance Page 4