Page 64 of Mark & Don't Tell

Vic

tHaT’s NoT fAiR.

Linc

You’re such an asshole.

Kai

You guys sound like kids fighting over a toy. Maybe I’ll just have Daria for dessert.

I bite my lip, knowing, without a doubt, that isn’t a typo. Kai probably knows exactly how to use his tongue, and after the orgasms he gave me the other night...I’m tempted to accept.

Vic

You have to pick, little doe.

Why do I have to choose?

Linc

I’m all for two-on-one, but I have a whole date planned for you and me.

A little bubble appears, showing that Vic starts typing, then stops, then starts again. I wait a minute, running my finger over the soft leather of the choker he gifted me, but whatever he was going to say, he must decide against it.

Out of fairness, I think it makes sense that Linc takes me on a date next.

Linc

Fuck, yeah.

I laugh and send another quick text.

But maybe Vic and I can have coffee the next morning? I’d love to see your shop, Vic.

Vic doesn’t respond, and I’m worried I said the wrong thing, but before I can send another message, someone slaps the roof of my car. I screech and throw my phone, scowling at my mom, who is glaring at me through the passenger window.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

“I’m coming, Ma,” I shout, hating that I already sound mad. Grabbing the shopping bag, my purse, and phone, I climb out of the car and lock it.

Though Mallory Lowe used to be beautiful, you would never know it now. Anger and time haven’t been kind to her. Her hair is bleached and fried, and her skin is leathery and wrinkly from sunbathing for hours on end when she was younger. She looks like she smells of cigarettes and whiskey, and as I walk around the car and catch that sickly sweet scent of her favorite liquor, my stomach turns.

It’s only five-thirty, but her eyes are glassy, and there’s a slight sway to her stance as she scowls at me.

“Hi, Mom.”

“What are you doing here?”

Ignoring the punch of pain that accompanies her gruff response, I hold up the bag. “I brought Marco some cleats for football.”

She glances at the bag. “Your dads help you with that?”

I bristle. “No,” I lie. “I used what was left of my paycheck and?—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Daria,” she snarls.

I should’ve known better. One thing Mom is good at is spotting liars. It’s why she’s so good at poker.

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