“Thanks,” Toby said, grinning at her.
“I think you’d look good as weeeeellll,” Blonde Two said, smearing her mouth all over Toby’s neck. “Can we leave soon?”
“Sure,” Toby said, and Blonde Two grabbed his cheek and kissed him.
Tabby watched them make out, and to her horror, the heat burning through her reached scourging point. She’d wanted to leave, but couldn’t. Toby was wielding evil magic against her, gluing her to the spot while strangers pawed at the chest she’d once laid her head on. Blonde One bit Toby’s ear, and Tabby forcibly shook her head. “So, I’m gonna go…”
Toby and Blonde Two stopped kissing. She’d expected him to look at least a little uncomfortable, but he was still smirking. “I’ll call the studio then. Figure out the tattoo thing?”
“Whatever. You can talk to Noah about it.”
Toby curled a hand around Blonde One’s shoulder. “I don’t want a tattoo from Noah. I want a tattoo from you.”
Time went a little strange then. She’d stared at Toby, and he’d stared at her, and his blondes got all lemon-faced, clearly irritated to have their three-way interrupted.
“Toby…” Blonde Two pouted. “Make her go away.”
“In a sec.” Toby’s blue gaze bored into Tabby’s. “So, you’ll tattoo me?”
Blonde Two touched her nonexistent roots and smirked at Blonde One. Tabby was suddenly very aware of her regrowth.
“No,” she said flatly.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a cunt.”
Both blondes gasped.
“Don’t be like that,” Toby said. “I’ll pay your maximum rate plus a little extra for a job well done.”
He said it all low and suggestively, and Tabby couldn’t help remembering the way her pussy had squeezed tight around him as though it never wanted to let him go. She felt a wild urge to claw Blonde One and Blonde Two out of the way and take her rightful place on Toby Tennant’s lap
… which was probably why she’d gone in on him like a nuclear warhead…
“How about instead of paying my usual rate, you jam your money up your dickhole?” she’d told Toby in her sweetest baby-girl voice.
“Might be hard,” he said. “It’s mostly electronic…”
“Mehmemememeheehehehewwww,” Tabby mimicked, totally losing her cool. “Go fuck yourself. I wouldn’t tattoo you if you had the last piece of living skin on earth, you jumped-up, spoiled little tit-fucker.”
“What a bitch,” Blonde One had drooled. “And so meh.”
“Soooo meh,” Blonde Two agreed, uncrossing her mile-long legs and almost knocking over the vodka. “Like… go get your hair done.”
Tabby’s hands had balled into fists. “Toby, tell your bitches to go eat some biscuits and sober up before I come over there and rip the extension tape clean off their heads.”
Before either blonde could say anything, Toby cut in. “Enough. Tabitha, is that your final answer on a tattoo?”
The tone. The presumption. The refusal to take ‘I wouldn’t tattoo you if you had the last piece of living skin on earth’ for an answer. Tabby exploded. “No, champ, my final answer is ‘Go kick rocks, you tacky bootlicking piece of shit.’”
“Oh my God,” Blonde One slurred. “You’re so loud!”
“I know,” Tabby snapped. “Be grateful because if it weren’t for women like me, you wouldn’t be allowed to drive.”
The blonde made more sucky lemon faces and Tabby gave her the finger. She still felt a little guilty about that, but whatever. It wasn’t unfeminist to hate some pick-me bitch. Equality meant women were allowed to hate shit women. God knew men hated shit men.
“I’m leaving,” she’d told Toby. “Have fun with your cabal of dye-job bitches, and never talk to me again.”
