Prologue
Four years and three months before the yacht party
At four in the morning, Cheryl quit trying to sleep. She ripped off her silk eye mask and pulled out her phone. It was midday in Melbourne and her body refused to believe it wasn’t still there, instead of a motel room in Hamburg. She was in Germany running her DJ friend Eden’s social media accounts as she went on her first European tour. It was a dream come true, getting paid to go to international music festivals. Cheryl didn’t want to be ungrateful, but the quality of the accommodation so far was… bad. Itchy pillows, zero hot water, cockroaches galore. Between that, the hectic schedule, and her lack of sleep, she didn’t feel like a glamorous jet setter. She felt like a bag of shit.
She suddenly became aware of a low, repetitive thudding noise. Squinting at the adjoining wall, a high-pitched whimper made what was going on obvious.
“Baby,” a woman panted. “I’m almost there.”
A low grunt and the thudding sped up.
Groaning, Cheryl pushed a fingertip into each ear. Eden had the room next to hers and was clearly getting her brains fucked out by her new boyfriend, ex-professional AFL footballer, Sloan ‘Willow’ Williams.
Well, at least she wasn’t the only one not sleeping.
As the thuds and moans continued, Cheryl’s body heated under the scratchy covers. It wasn’t that she wanted Willow. Or Eden. But the two of them had such amazing chemistry that it was hard not to be jealous. She couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone the way they wanted each other.
Sighing, she got out of bed and dug through her luggage for her headphones. She put them in and cranked up Kero Kero Bonito until she couldn’t hear the sex. Still wide awake, she texted her mother a few photos of Germany, and reminded her to see her GP to renew her prescriptions.
I know, her mother replied. Go enjoy your holiday. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Although that’s almost everything.
Smiling, Cheryl checked her emails. She’d taken a leave of absence from work to go on Eden’s tour, but that hadn’t stopped her boss, Bridgette, from CCing her in everything. She replied to a few, made her out-of-office auto reply even snarkier, then bailed to Instagram. She had a few DMs, some bots pimping ugly jewellery, her friend Lucia tagging her in a post to win free Chardonnay for life, and…
Cheryl’s heart gave a little pulse. She had a message from Patrick Normal.
She’d met the football player at a club. He was a friend of Willow’s and—when they were introduced—so high he could barely talk. He’d hit on her in a harmless if near-incomprehensible way and the next day found her on Instagram to apologise. She told him it was fine, and they’d been chatting ever since. She wasn’t an idiot; she knew he was flirting with her, but it was the friendly kind of flirting that didn’t stress her out. She clicked on his message.
Hey, how’s Eden’s tour going? Your video in Berlin was ace.
Cheryl smiled. The little green bubble in Patrick’s profile photo said he was online. Why not indulge in a little late-night banter?
Thanks, she wrote back. I broke a heel filming Eden from a ladder, but it was worth it.
He replied a second later.
You broke your foot!?!
No! she wrote. My stiletto!
???
Cheryl got up and rummaged through her luggage until she found the busted knockoff Sergio Rossi and sent him a photo.
See? And don’t judge me for keeping a broken shoe. I’m determined to get it fixed and justify spending $89.99 on eBay for fake designer shoes.
Ahh, I get it. They’re sexy heels. Am I ever going to see you in them?
Cheryl chewed her lower lip. She could either write back a joke or—and the thought made her lonely vagina flutter—tell Patrick he’d see her in sexy heels and nothing else when she got back to Melbourne and push their flirtation into overdrive.
Patrick was pretty cute; tall and jacked with mussy gold-brown hair and big Labrador eyes. Plus, he played AFL which was an ego boost. What woman wouldn’t appreciate a hot football player chasing her?
Then again, Patrick Normal so wasn’t her type. She liked older men—it was kind of her thing. And whatever his actual age, Patrick wasn’t an older man. He reminded her of the Disney ingenue boys: Aladdin, Hercules, the dude from Atlantis… Sweet, handsome, and eager to please. It didn’t bother her, but she wasn’t Disney Princess age. She was Evil Stepmother age. Hooking up with Patrick might be way more trouble than it was worth, especially now that they had mutual friends.
She went to his profile and examined his last few pictures. He was very photogenic, if even more baby-faced than she remembered. How old was he? Nothing on his Instagram gave it away, so she typed his name into Google.
A full profile popped up, including photos of Patrick in his football uniform and a short bio. There was a bubble titled ‘Age.’ Inside it were two numbers and two words.
20 years old
