The Bad Boy Wants Me

‘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?’