High Heels & Pink Glitter (the heavily edited version)

Over the edge

AUTHOR'S NOTE - contains strong language and adult scenes.

And that, Kelly mused, as the taxi flew over the Kingston Bridge towards the city's south side, was where she should have left things with Mark.

A one-night stand—absolutely glorious, and boy, the man knew what he was doing with his fingers, tongue and cock, ensuring she orgasmed not once, not twice, but multiple times—or even a hook-up every now and then when her libido got the better of her, but Kelly had made the classic female mistake.

How did that old joke go? The one about women marching up the aisle to their beloved, with one thought in mind.

Aisle. Altar. Hymn.

Guess what, ladies? When a guy shows you who he is the first time, believe him, as the late, great Maya Angelou (kind of) stated.

To be fair to Mark, he'd never promised her a relationship. No, no, he preferred their easy-going arrangement, in which he phoned her or turned up at her door, late at night, horny, wired or drunk, frequently all three.

He assumed that was what she wanted as well.

But sometimes he chatted to her. Inconsequential stuff about his work, what he was watching on TV or the state of Scotland, and she would argue with him, point out the flaws in his various opinions, and he would break off, stare at her in almost reverential awe and tell her how amazing she was.

And no matter how many times she battled with her subconscious, repeating her business mentor's imaginary exhortation, Do not fall for him, Mark Murray is NOT a good man, expend your energy on finding someone better, her subconscious plugged fingers in its ears, and chanted, la, la, la not listening!

At least this time, she reasoned with herself as she paid the taxi driver and exited the car, she had ignored his calls and text messages, and even sent him packing when he showed up one night at her door for a grand total of fifteen weeks.

The Mark Murphy who opened the door to his second floor flat looked so different that she wondered for a second if she was at the right address.

"Jesus, Mark. What happened?"

No sign of his habitual uniform of immaculate, snowy white T'shirts and designer jeans. Instead, the figure who shuffled in front of her was clad in a paint-stained hoodie and a pair of shorts that finished just above his knees, the skin all around one bruised blue and yellow.

But it was his face that took her breath away. A black eye, its lid swollen and purple red, a busted lip and, when he gave her a wobbly smile, a missing front tooth to complete the unpretty picture.

She slammed the door shut behind her. His flat had altered dramatically since that first time she'd been there. He'd ripped out all the carpets, replacing them with laminate flooring, and a giant-screen TV dominated the living room, opposite a black leather sofa.

Mark sat down on it, wincing, and indicated for her to do the same.

"Micky Ross and a couple o' his pals jumped me as I was comin' out the pub earlier on."

"Do you need to go to hospital?" she asked.

He shook his head. Too quickly. "No, I'll be alright. First thing Monday, I'll phone for an emergency appointment at the dentist's. See if they can fix my teeth."

"Isn't there a risk of infection if you had it knocked out?"

He pointed to a glass of water on the small table next to the sofa. "I've been swillin' my mouth out wi' that. It's got TCP in it. That'll help. Thanks for comin'. I couldnae think o' anyone else."