“Wha—”
Mark advances on me and I step back, the counter digging into my lower back, blocking my escape to the door. His hand slides suggestively down my arm, sending goosebumps in its wake before landing on the wrench clutched tightly in my grasp.
A million thoughts wage war in my mind—two of them being loudest of them all. It is like having an angel and a demon on opposing sides and I am being pulled between them. The fucking bastards. They should know that I don’t want any part of their shit just as much as I don’t want any part of Mark’s.
Or did I?
I really don’t like him, and I really don’t want him to touch me, even though my body is screaming otherwise. I am fucked. Any way I look at this situation, I am completely fucked.
And I blame it all on Lydia. This is all her fault. Try to do something nice, and look where it lands you: highly medicated and up against a sink with someone who is probably a serial rapist wanting to shove his horse-sized cock into our pipes to clean them out.
My hand yanks from his hold and slams the wrench into his temple. Mark jerks back and stares at me in disbelief. I nail him again. He drops like a rock at my feet.
I glance between him and the wrench wondering what the fuck I just did when movement in my peripheral vision startles me.
Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing only lingerie, is Lydia.
I’m dumbfounded as she looks at Mark and back to me. In my nervous state, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Horse cock.”
