Get Outta Your Head

Gotta Burn Inside

"Hey!" You call out, letting yourself into Howard's hallway through the open front door. Despite his millions, he has still managed to evade the art of home security and rarely locks his front door if he's meandering about in the kitchen or shagging a girl upstairs. You hope for the former as you toe your boots off against the skirting board.

"Hey sweet-cheeks! Mexican or Indian tonight?" He asks before he's even in sight. You hear the groan of an armchair and the padding of socked feet for a second or three before Dougie appears before you. As per, he's dressed in cotton tracksuit bottoms and a worn t-shirt. Your stomach rumbles in response to his question and you screw your eyes shut for maximum concentration.

"Pizza?" You wince with good humour, dumping your bag on the floor so you can bend to retrieve the two bottles of white wine you've brought with you. Howard merely rolls his eyes as he takes the peace offering from your outstretched arms and that's when you hear Mark.

"Thank you! " He yells, half jogging down the stairs, wiping his hands on his black skinny jeans before he pulls you into a hug from behind. "I said pizza and he told me to fuck off."

"That's because you have pussy pizza." Howard counters. "People who insist on only eating margheritas should be burnt at the steak."

Mark throws his hands up in defence, moving around you and shuffling into the living room.

"Gary not here yet?" You try for nonchalance but feel as though you've failed. Howard doesn't seem to detect anything out of the ordinary though and simply shakes his head.

"No. I assume he's stealing another bride, or saving another child from starvation - Actually, I think he's seeing his solicitor about buying two thirds of Peru."

You both laugh at your friend's expense as Howard slings an arm around your shoulder, ushering you into the lounge to join Mark.

"Not seen much of him this week then?" You press, slumping yourself down in the corner of Howard's sofa – sleek black and L shaped to compliment the large quilted yellow pouf in the centre of the room and the hot pink arm chair with the garish pattern nestled in the bay window. Not a touch of it is out of character.

"Erm..." Mark looks like he's contemplating the meaning of life for a moment, perched on the pouf with his elbow on his leg and chin in his hand. "Monday and Wednesday I think, wasn't it? Or was it Monday and Thursday?"

Either way you get the picture - not much. Truth is, you haven't seen Gary since last weekend. Last Sunday evening to be exact when you finally managed to disentangle yourself from his bed sheets and make your way home like a respectable adult after a fierce weekend shag-a-thon. The only contact you'd had between then and now, aside from your group WhatsApp, was a private text to you on Wednesday asking what he should get his niece for her birthday.

For a dangerous minute you daze, remembering the way his mouth felt, hot and wet, against your clavicle. How sore the bruises on the backs of your thighs had been until Tuesday after he'd had you against the kitchen counter, too impatient to lift you properly and preferring to slam you against the marble finish repeatedly until your legs were numb and your mind was blank. You remember Saturday morning and the way he'd taken the coffee cup from your hands and smacked your arse to urge you into the shower. He hadn't joined you, instead he's waited on his bed, hard and impatient, ready to have you again the moment you materialised in nothing but a damp towel.

"What took us so long?" He'd groaned on Sunday afternoon, fucking you lazily after a heavy gym session. And on Sunday evening when you finally insisted that you had to go home and prepare for work in the morning, he'd thanked you for the best weekend of his life, driven you home and fingered you so expertly on the driveway that you couldn't resist dragging him into your bedroom for one last shag.