“Good point, Chez—”
She poked him even harder. “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you?”
“Apparently. And I don’t get it. You’re allowed to call me a sexy pig.”
“That’s cute! That’s a cute little inside joke! Besides, I know you’re not offended by me calling you a beautiful fuck-hog.”
“I’m not, but that’s my point. How are you so offended by me calling you Chez?”
“Because I hate it!”
They continued their debate until Stomping Ground closed, taking their argument back to his place. He and Cheryl sat on opposite ends of his couch and yell-talked about nicknames until they were both blue in the face.
“You can’t pick your own nickname,” he said for the millionth time. “I hate my family calling me ‘Youngest’ but I’m used to it. Besides, I am the youngest.”
“Not now that your brothers have kids!” Cheryl said, also for the millionth time. “And if you don’t like them calling you that, why don’t you ask them to stop?”
“Because it doesn’t matter!”
“It does! Being treated the way you want matters!” She was drunk, her dark hair falling in her eyes in a way that made him want to kiss her. He raised his beer to his lips to distract them.
“You get to choose your own nicknames,” Cheryl went on. “Or you at least get veto power. What if I started calling you… ‘Patty-Bear?’”
“I’d fucking love that.”
Cheryl gave him a reluctant smile. “Fine. What about… ‘Pat in the Hat’?”
He couldn’t stop himself from grimacing.
“A-ha!” she said, pointing at him. “You hate being called ‘Pat.’”
Not usually, but he hated the way she said it, all quick and clinical, like a doctor. ‘How are you feeling today, Pat?’ A girl like Cheryl might fuck a Patrick, but she’d never wind up in bed with Pat.
“Pat,” Cheryl repeated. “I’m gonna call you Pat. Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat, Pat.”
“That makes me sound like a middle-aged woman!”
“Too bad. You live by the sword, you die by the sword, Pat.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. Pick your own nickname. Just stop calling me Pat.”
Cheryl bounced up and down on his couch, clapping her hands. “I win! I win!”
“Brat.”
“Brat in the hat,” she corrected.
Then he got an idea. “What about KitKat?”
“Huh?”
“KitKat. Your nickname. Because you’re all scrappy and evil but I let you get away with it because I like cats.”
Cheryl narrowed her dark eyes and he laughed. “Exactly like that. You’re such a fucking cat.”
“Shut up.” But she didn’t look mad. “KitKat…” She rolled the word around her mouth like a candy then smiled. It wasn’t her usual sunny smile. This one was slow and wicked. The kind he imagined she’d give him before pulling down his zipper and sliding her tongue across his cock.
“What? You gonna veto ‘KitKat?’”
