He was so glad it was Cheryl. He was so glad of fucking everything.
She collapsed onto him, curling into a sweaty ball on his chest. He pushed some hair aside and kissed her forehead. “Good girl.”
She moaned happily and he said it again, “Good girl. You’re my good, good girl, KitKat.”
“God, I love you saying that,” she mumbled. “It’s so embarrassing.”
He tapped her forehead lightly. “Bad girl. You let me call you whatever I want.”
“Hmm, okay…”
“Good girl.”
She laughed and they lay together for a long time, breathing deep and listening to the birds twittering outside. He didn’t ever want to get up, to separate their bodies, but eventually, Cheryl lifted her face from his chest. “I, um, really have to pee?”
He grinned. “You have my permission.”
“Asshole.” She hesitated. “What time is it?”
His phone was still under his pillow, and even though he didn’t want to tell her, he found it and pushed the lock button. “Eight.”
“Eight?”
“Thirty.”
Cheryl jolted. “I have to be at work in twenty minutes!”
Patrick tossed his phone across the room and grabbed her shoulder. “Nope. You’re calling in sick and staying here with me.”
“No! We have so much going on! All these clients that are pissed off—”
He spun her onto her back, pinning her. “That’s nothing compared to how pissed off I’ll be if you don’t stay here with me.”
“Bridgette will know I’m not sick!”
“So? You’re always doing whatever she wants. How about you stay here and do whatever I want instead?”
Cheryl’s tortured look softened into one of mischief. “What does that involve?”
He looked down at her and made a promise to himself. He would make Cheryl see herself the way he saw her, or die trying. “Stay and I’ll show you. Please, KitKat. Please stay?”
12
One year and seven months before the yacht party
Sharon Walker’s hair had once been thick and strawberry blonde, but her medication had turned it grey and thinned it down to nothing. Her scalp was too sensitive for dye and even brushing could hurt nowadays.
“Is this okay?” Cheryl said as she ran the baby comb across her mother’s head.
“It’s fine.” She took a shaky drag on a Marlboro Red. “Keep going.”
Cheryl had given up trying to make her mum quit smoking. The woman was wheelchair bound, had to take a million pills a day and could barely eat and drink. She was allowed a vice.
“Do you want to hear about Eden?” Cheryl asked.
“Sure. What’s she up to?”
“Writing a song about Willow’s, quote, ‘magic dick.’”
