Playing For Keeps (Playing For Love #5)

Playing For Keeps (Playing For Love #5)

By Eve Dangerfield

Chapter 1

1

“ W oooooo! Cheryl’s getting married! Wooooooooo! ” Eden drew in a deep breath, clearly preparing to ‘woo’ harder.

Cheryl put her hand in her best friend’s face. “Is doing that ironically making it funnier, or what?”

She shouldn’t have bothered trying to silence Eden; the male dancers—who were currently dressed as firefighters—rolled their hips in unison, and ear-splitting cheers rocked the bar like a hurricane. Eden jumped to her feet to scream alongside everyone else, and Cheryl sucked more daiquiri from her penis straw, resisting the urge to check the time.

This was a problem of her own making. She’d told Eden she wanted a cliche bachelorette party. She was tired of ‘paint and sips’ where everyone drank one glass of wine and reproduced the same shitty oil paintings of a pot plant. She was done with cheese boards, yawning aunties, and polite games of ‘Guess where the bride and groom met!’

She never thought she’d get married, let alone to the hottest, sweetest guy in the world, and she’d wanted to fucking celebrate . She’d wanted old-school chaos. Veils with dicks on them and pink sashes and massive cocktails and naked dudes. The whole nine yards. And that had led her to here, front row seats at the 2am performance of Thunder from Down Under.

That was the problem with Eden, her maid of honour and best friend since high school; she was a touring trance DJ who had taken planning the most insane, old-school bachelorette party as a personal challenge. Cheryl had wanted chaos, and she’d gotten it. Eden had hired three pink buses, filled them with every female, femme and non-straight dude Cheryl had ever met, and it was off to the races. A penthouse suite full of high tea and sparkly drag dress-ups, axe-throwing where all the targets were pictures of Cheryl’s ex-boyfriends, personalised penis-shaped hydro cups brimming with tequila, a pass the parcel in which more illicit substances were unwrapped with every layer, dancing, drinking, everything, anything .

But good as she was, Eden couldn’t have planned the enthusiasm with which her friends and co-workers had plunged face-deep into the bedlam, getting more fucked up than Cheryl had seen many of them in years—if at all. It had been a long year, and it was apparent she wasn’t the only person sick of eating too much cheese and being in bed by eleven at bachelorette parties. The levels of steam-blowing-off were uncharted. She’d had fun, was still having fun, but she was also starting to feel a little detached. The truth was, she was almost thirty-four and had dedicated more time than most to partying her brains out. The novelty factor would always be limited in terms of what she’d never done before. And it turned out that when it was your party, everyone wanted to talk with you, drink with you, dance with you, and all the attention had burnt her out. She felt like an asshole for feeling that way, though, especially since this whole thing had been her idea.

The club DJ transitioned to that staple of the male strip show—Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’—and Cheryl got to her feet alongside a once again wooing Eden and gave a few half-hearted dance moves. Luckily, the guys were giving it their all on stage, and she was left to sway and sip daiquiri. She’d already had her ‘bride-to-be dance’. She’d gone backstage and been carried out by six shirtless guys to ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time.’ It had been amazing, but it had also been two hours ago, and Cheryl’s feet hurt. She’d hoped people would be considering bed by now, but the pass-the-parcel prizes were well and truly keeping everyone on their feet.

She pulled out her phone and found a text from Patrick.

Derek: AWOL.

Byron: On his phone.

Martin: Convinced stripper is in love with him.

Jason: Convinced he’s in love with same stripper.

Antony and Dom: Arm wrestling.

Willow: Arguing with bouncer about Super Rugby.

Teammates: Going in and out of the toilets like someone’s giving out free money in there.

Bouncer: Too busy arguing with Willow about Super Rugby to notice.

Me: Reminding myself I’m going to marry the hottest girl in the world, and I only have to do this once.

Cheryl smiled and sent him a heart and a crying, laughing face emoji. Secretly, part of her had wanted a huge bachelorette party so she wouldn’t feel left out when Patrick’s footy mates took him on a tits and ass tour of Melbourne’s finest strip clubs. It wasn’t that she thought he’d cheat, but he was gorgeous and younger than her, and female strip clubs had none of the campiness of male ones. Patrick wouldn’t be dancing around to Britney songs; he’d be trying not to get a boner while some uni student showed him her entire labia.

“I don’t need to go to the strippers,” he’d told her a hundred times. “I don’t give a fuck what the guys think; they’re getting a night’s worth of free piss and paintball. That’s enough.”

But Cheryl knew as well as anyone that if Patrick didn’t indulge his brothers and colleagues in touching boobs they weren’t married to, she’d get the blame. And since she was already self-conscious around his teammates and family, she didn’t want the heat. She was secure enough in their relationship to let her fiancé get lap dances… At least in theory. It was still nice to know his night wasn’t sunshine and rainbows either.

“Holy shit,” Eden shouted. “Look at Bridgette go!”

Cheryl turned to see her former boss—the one who’d shit-canned her with no notice last year—waving a fistful of notes at the biggest, horniest-looking dancer. Considering the smallest Australian note was a five, that was certainly more money than Cheryl planned on giving anyone who wasn’t holding a small baggie.

“Get it, girl,” she said mildly as Bridgette was immediately ushered on stage and seated in a leather chair.

“I’m sorry she’s here,” Eden groaned. “She saw the email I sent your mate Devon and invited herself, and everyone at your old work was so worried she’d flip tables if she wasn’t allowed to come?—”

“It’s fine,” Cheryl said as Bridgette pressed her face into the dancer’s greasy abs. “You can’t deny the entertainment value.”

“Fuck her entertainment value, you should be up there! Hang on, I came prepared. I can simply lure these hoes away with cash...”

Eden dug through her purse, and Cheryl touched her wrist. “Don’t worry about it. I’m gonna go catch a break.”

“You sure?”

“Totally, I’ll be back soon.”

She made her way through the club and into the mercifully empty smokers’ area. Pulling out the single pack of cigarettes she’d allowed herself for the night, she lit up, staring at the glowing skyscraper windows that passed for stars in the CBD.

Though it might rage on for hours, the bachelorette party would eventually end, and when it did, she’d have nothing to focus on except her wedding. And she wanted, very much, not to focus on the wedding. A huge blowout party was something she could get behind. Seating arrangements, table decorations, flower girl bouquets, and six-course meals were a whole other matter. Patrick was making most of the decisions, but that was the problem?—

“Can I grab one of those?”

A tall guy in a hoodie appeared at Chery’s elbow and gestured at her cigarettes. She understood the ‘leave a penny, take a penny’ rules of social smoking and handed him the pack and lighter.

“Thanks,” the guy said. “Enjoying the show?”

“Yeah, I am. Do you work here?”

He laughed. “Is it that obvious?”

Yes, considering he was jacked and wearing more self-tanner than Cheryl had ever applied to her own body. Considering she’d graduated high school in 2009, that was saying something. “Lucky guess. You guys are doing a great job.”

“Trying, at least.” He gave her a shrew look. “Needed a break?”

“It’s all a bit much,” Cheryl admitted.

He laughed again. “I can understand that better than anyone. I’m Evan, by the way.”

He held out a hand, and Cheryl shook it. Evan’s friendly smile didn’t budge, but his peanut-butter-coloured fingers lingered on hers. “That’s a fantastic dress.”

Cheryl groaned inwardly, wishing Eden had picked out a slightly less slutty white negligee. This was why bachelorettes so often went to gay bars to drink and dance. But as she’d firmly told Eden—they weren’t pestering the gays on their home turf.

She shifted away from Evan, taking a deep drag on her cigarette so she could finish and get back to her friends. “Thanks, it’s kind of the bride-to-be uniform.”

“You’re way too young to be getting married.”

She kept herself from rolling her eyes with difficulty. “Nope. I’m looking forward to it. My fiancé’s amazing.”

“A lot of girls settle down too fast. I see it all the time working here.”

“I bet,” Cheryl said, grinding out her unfinished cigarette. “Well, I’m gonna head back in?—”

Evan turned to the left, partially blocking her path to the door. “Stay and chat for a bit. It’s your last night out before you tie the knot, yeah?”

Cheryl desperately tried to think of a polite way to tell him to fuck off. She could say Patrick was six-four and the captain of a professional football team, but that would probably only make Evan keener. Guys loved the idea of fucking a footballer’s wife behind his back. Then, mercifully, the door to the smokers’ area burst open and out stumbled Sal Thomas, Byron’s younger sister, in a black pleather bodysuit. They were carrying a plastic pirate sword and looked high as actual balls.

Spotting Cheryl, they let out a whoop worthy of Eden. “Greetings, bachelerino! How’s it doing?”

“Good—”

“We’re actually tryna have a quiet chat,” Evan interrupted. “Maybe you could head back to the show if that’s cool?”

“It’s not cool,” Cheryl snapped, officially over it. “I can talk to whoever I want.”

Evan turned to her, all shock and apologetic. “Sorry, I’m just trying to help. I thought you wanted a bit of a break.”

“I do want a break. But I want to talk to Sal…”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Evan laid a light hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go to the bar and have a drink.”

Cheryl took a step backward. “Don’t touch me!”

Sal’s bugged-out green eyes went from Evan to Cheryl and back again. Their gaze narrowed, and they hoisted their sword. “M’lady Cheryl, is this lily-livered cheeseball making you uncomfortable?”

Cheryl looked at Evan’s fake-ass smile. “You know what? He is.”

“ En-guard! ” Sal shouted, lunging forward and poking Evan in the chest with the tip of the plastic sword. “Get out of here, bilge-swiller! Go back to the inky depths from whence you came!”

“What the hell?” Evan sputtered as Cheryl burst out laughing.

Sal withdrew, swishing the sword like a musketeer. “Avail yourself of this location, you scurvy dog!”

“I think that means you should leave,” Cheryl added.

Evan scowled. “But I’m still smoking?—”

Sal smacked the cigarette out of his hand. “And now you’re not, m’hearty.”

Evan looked at Cheryl as though expecting her to defend him. “Get going. And stop trying to fuck brides.”

Scowling, he headed for the door. “Fucking drunk bitches. You’re all the same.”

“Avast, no one cares what you think!” Sal shouted, jabbing Evan in the back. “Be on your way, and be quick about it!”

The door slammed, and Sal lowered the sword, stomping on Evan’s still-burning cigarette.

“That…” Cheryl said, pulling her cigarettes out again, “… was amazing.”

“Cheers.” Sal slid their sword into one of the bodysuit straps. “Always good to save a damsel in distress.”

“Want a smoke?” Cheryl asked, holding out the pack.

“Hell fucking yeah!”

As Sal gleefully parked beside her, Cheryl realised she didn’t know them that well. Only that they were a drag performer and got along with Eden like a house on fire. From what she’d seen tonight, Sal was an all-time party person, as extroverted as their older brother was withdrawn.

“How are you finding the party?” she asked.

Sal exhaled smoke. “Banging. Great night. Only I’ve been doing your mate Shelly in the bathroom, and now she’s all, ‘I have a boyfriend, and I think I just cheated on him.’ ”

Cheryl groaned. “Shit. That sucks.”

“You’re telling me. No one wants to be an inadvertent home wreaker. Like, what am I even supposed to say to her? ‘Yes, yes, you did cheat on your boyfriend, you rogue betch, get your shit together’? ”

“That’s on Shelly. She’s the one in a relationship.”

“Yeah,” Sal said gloomily. “I just wish I could meet someone cool. I’ve been on the apps all month, and it’s a nightmare.”

“Chats that go nowhere?”

“That and the only guy I halfway liked picked me up in a car that had a bumper sticker that said, ‘Get ya snatch out.’ ”

“Fuck off!”

“Yeah. I don’t think he’s The One.”

“Probably not. Well, try not to put too much pressure on yourself. I was single forever until a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, Eden was saying. I can’t see that, though. You and Patty seem like you’ve been together for ages.”

“That would be our weird friend history.”

“I can’t wait to have a weird friend history with someone.” Sal snuggled into Cheryl’s side. “Is this okay?”

Cheryl was surprised to find it was. She wasn’t the touchiest person, but something about Sal circumvented her usual walls. She wrapped an arm around them and smoked, feeling close to contentment for the first time all evening. Although as she stared up at the sky, she realised it had been longer.

She loved Patrick. She wanted to marry him as much as she had the day he’d proposed, and if there was such a thing as soulmates in this world, he was hers. But the wedding situation was getting out of hand and taking with it the ease she’d always felt in her fiancé’s presence.

It had all started with her dress. She’d initially planned to go shopping on Labour Day weekend with only Eden at her side. Then Patrick had informed her that his mum was coming to town with his four sisters-in-law, and wedding dress shopping was officially a group affair.

Cheryl had instantly smelled a rat. Maybe if she’d put her foot down then and there, she’d have stopped the wedding slide. Instead, she’d told Patrick that sounded lovely. Katherine, Patrick’s mother, wasn’t usually pushy, but she and the daughters Normal had clearly come to Melbourne on a mission. Cheryl was practically frog-marched to the fanciest bridal boutiques in Armadale and made to try on dresses so expensive they didn’t even come with price tags. Eden had tried to intervene, but she was dogpiled by Patrick’s sisters-in-law and plied with bottomless champagne until she was giggling and cheering the gowns as loudly as anyone else.

Stressed as she was, Cheryl had liked a lot of the dresses. But then Sass, the bridal assistant, had brought her a Vera Wang with a corset bodice and delicate tulle skirt, and The Thing happened. The dress felt right the second Cheryl had seen it, and when she tried it on, it fit like a dream. Looking at herself in the mirror, she’d teared up at how much she looked like a beautiful, elegant, happy bride. When she’d exited the changing room, everyone gasped as if it were a Hallmark movie.

“That’s the one,” Katherine had said firmly. “That’s the dress.”

Before Cheryl could blink, her future mother-in-law had handed the overly eager Sass a black AMEX. She’d tried to protest, but everyone shushed her and gave her more wine. She turned her attention to Eden’s bridesmaid gown and the flower girl dresses—which were also paid for by the mysterious black card.

“KitKat, I looked after it,” Patrick had said when she came home, tipsy and hostile, to demand answers. Toward the end of the bridal store debacle, she’d pulled Sass into a change room and all but threatened her with legal action if she didn’t tell her the price of her dress.

The answer—as much as a brand-new sports car—had made Cheryl feel like she was covered in fire ants, eating her skin and devouring her blood. But Patrick seemed genuinely confused by her panic.

“Wedding dresses are crazy expensive, baby. You’re still covering your mum’s nursing home bills, and I know you’d rather go into debt than let me help you.”

“So? That’s my choice.”

And Patrick had given her one of his patented ‘I’m the sexy man of the house, and I know best’ looks. “Not anymore. I wanted us to get married, and I take responsibility for how much this wedding will cost.”

“By siccing your mum on me?”

“She’s just excited to help! It’s the last wedding she’ll get to plan for any of us.”

“Until your brothers get divorced,” Cheryl had muttered. She was being a bitch, but considering how often Patrick’s brothers were in the doghouse for sports betting five grand or ‘winding up at the strip club’ after work drinks, it didn’t seem out of the question.

But instead of taking her bait, Patrick had taken her arm, his gold-brown eyes melting her in that utterly unfair way of his. “I can’t wait for the wedding. Mum says she’s never seen a more beautiful bride.”

“Yes, but ?—”

“I bet you break my brain; you’ll look flawless in that dress.”

Then he’d kissed her, and Cheryl—still pretty lit from bridal store wine—ended up banging Patrick Fitzwilliam Normal on his living room floor instead of demanding to repay him. That was something that happened frequently before the wedding plans had started, but became stupidly common after Vera Wang D-Day.

Cheryl had known she couldn’t contribute as much to the wedding as Patrick. He was a professional sportsman from a rich family, and she was a fatherless pov with a sick mother and a gig in communications.

But it soon became clear she wouldn’t be allowed to contribute to a single wedding-related thing. Not the venue, the flowers, the caterers, her make-up, or anyone else’s make-up. Not only that, but Patrick and his accursed relatives had expanded the wedding budget from ‘mid-tier black tie event’ to ‘GDP of an oil-rich island nation.’ Every decision was made on quality instead of cost. Every decision increased her feeling of being covered in ants.

“Nothing but the best for my KitKat,” Patrick said whenever she tried to talk to him about it. “Let me take care of everything.”

Cheryl wanted to, but she’d also grown up pouring water into her orange juice, and the numbers flying around what was ostensibly her wedding made her want to scream. And no matter how many times she told Patrick he’d become that old guy from Jurassic Park who kept throwing money at bullshit no matter the expense, he stayed irritatingly proud of what he clearly saw as chivalry. Then he fucked her until she couldn’t think clearly. And now she was staring down the barrel of a Woman’s Weekly wedding spread with a single looping thought in her brain: I hate this. I hate all of this. I hate that this is happening to me.

“Huh?”

Cheryl started and found herself still sitting in the beer garden of a male revue, Sal Thomas looking expectantly up at her. “Sorry?”

“You said, ‘this is bullshit’ and kind of thrashed around a bit,” Sal explained.

“Oh.” Cheryl ground the last of her cigarette. “I dunno.”

“Don’t be like that! I told you about fingering your mate!”

“You did.” Cheryl sighed, aware she did want to talk to someone about the Patrick Jurassic Park situation. Sal seemed open-minded and removed enough from the Normal family to be safe. “I’m not sure how I feel about my wedding.”

“You’re not gonna run away, are you?”

“No! God no! I love Patrick! I want to get married.”

“Then what? You’re not sure you want kids?”

Cheryl was struck by how easily Sal said it, with zero judgment and obvious compassion. Again, it spurred her to honesty.

“I didn’t once, but I do now.”

Unlike the wedding budget, she and Patrick were on the same page about babies. They’d agreed to start trying as soon as the wedding was over. Cheryl had promised to take her last birth control pill that morning. The prospect was terrifying, but at thirty-four, she needed to get cracking. Patrick seemed nothing but delighted by the idea of being a young dad, but all of his brothers and most of his friends and teammates were parents. Probably because they also had shitloads of money and, thus, zero stress about renting or sacrificing an entire income for childcare.

“I wish he wasn’t rich,” Cheryl burst out. “Or I wish I was rich. I’m sick of this Cinderella shit.”

“Oh,” Sal squinted at her. “He’s knobby because you don’t have family money? Like condescending?”

“No! He wants the wedding to be all picture-perfect and expensive, and I want things to be simple.”

“Like, you want to elope, and he won’t let you?”

“No,” Cheryl said, nettled. It felt like she was making out that Patrick was some controlling asshole, and he wasn’t. He was the kindest, most generous person she’d ever met, and after a lifetime of looking after herself and her mum, she loved the leadership role he took in their relationship. Making her life easier by calling the shots. He didn’t understand she wasn’t being all cute and bashful about how expensive the wedding was getting—she was genuinely uncomfortable.

“I like that he wants us to have a big day,” she told Sal. “And I want it to be nice or whatever, but I don’t want two billion chocolate fountains or a surprise parachute ride or whatever crazy wedding crap Patrick’s cooking up with his mum.”

“I see.” Sal pulled their plastic sword from their belt and began swishing it through the air. “Actually, I don’t. I think you might need to start at the beginning with the aid of another smoke, m’hearty.”

It took two cigarettes for Cheryl to explain the Vera Wang dress and six-course Michelin star meal and the horse-drawn carriage that would be pulling her to the largest historically preserved Catholic Church in the state of Victoria.

“Fuck,” Sal said when she was done. “You’re right about the Cinderella thing. It’s all a bit serious, hey?”

“I reckon,” Cheryl said gloomily. “I know he’s just being nice, and he wants me to… feel like a princess or whatever, but I don’t want to feel like a princess.”

“I get you. I only want to feel like a girl some of the time.”

Sal's voice had a clear note of pain, and Cheryl put her arm around theirs. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah. Sometimes I do, but not right now. I wanna be the one giving advice; it makes me feel better about myself.” They grinned. “Besides, you’re just deflecting.”

“Busted.” Cheryl returned the smile. “So, what’s your advice?”

“Fuck him senseless.”

Cheryl had been expecting something more along the lines of ‘try open communication.’ She gaped at Sal. “What?”

“Fuck him sideways, then tell him this wedding makes you want to cringe yourself into another dimension. He loves you and shit, so he’ll promise to make it all better. Then all you have to do is hold him to it.”

“Isn’t that a bit… underhanded?”

“Isn’t getting your mum to pay for someone’s wedding dress without telling them?”

“Touché. I mean, I guess I could try.”

Sal laughed. “You don’t have to try. You’re hot as balls. Everyone knows you’ve got Psycho wrapped around your little finger. As if you haven’t already done something like this.”

“I dunno.”

Sal gave her a look.

Cheryl remembered when Patrick wanted to spend a week renting the same Bali Airbnb as his footy mates. The possibility of spending six nights and seven days living with the kind of people you didn’t want to grab a coffee with—and their wives—had wrecked Cheryl’s head. But she’d only made her case to Patrick after she’d invited him to fuck her ass on their balcony under cover of darkness, and in that warm, giddy state, she’d found he’d been a lot more willing to compromise. In fact, he’d gotten right on his phone and started Googling hotels.

“I have done something like that,” she admitted. “Fucked Patrick and then asked for a favour.”

“And it worked?”

“Pretty much. But that was small beans; this is our wedding .”

“So, go big. You’ve gotta have something in your back pocket? Didn’t you once show up at some old guy’s house in a maid costume and give the dude a heart attack?”

Fucking Eden.

“Marlon didn’t have a heart attack! It was palpitations .”

Sal cackled. “Whatever. Heard you still had to call the ambos. Hey, have you ever thought about doing drag? You could be ‘Femme Fatal; the bitch whose tits literally kill granddads.’ ”

Sal said something else, but Cheryl was no longer listening. She did have something in her sexual war chest. An outfit she’d been holding onto for longer than she and Patrick had been together. A costume she’d bought back when she and her former best friend were only casually fucking. Well, not a costume so much as a pink buttplug tail, collar and a cat ear headband. She’d later expanded the look to include pink fur-trimmed gloves and lingerie that worked with the tail. But she’d never worn it.

Patrick had always called her KitKat, and she liked the idea of kitten play, but it had never seemed the right time to go all out. She was shy about how she’d initiate acting like a sexy kitten, but sitting next to Sal, she felt a ring of intuition similar to seeing her Vera Wang dress.

Why couldn’t she seduce Patrick as a horny girl cat and try to get him to see their wedding from her perspective? At the very least, it would be empowering to be the one in control. To make him play her game. She pictured the look on his face when he saw her with a buttplug tail, and her nipples tightened. She could roll out the kitten play experience tonight. Her hair and make-up had been professionally done this morning—courtesy of the Black AMEX card—and she and Patrick had both been drinking. He was probably all turned on by all the strippers, and they’d already discussed bailing out of their respective parties to hook up.

She’d have to Irish goodbye, but everyone inside the club was wasted enough to kick on without her. Eden would make sure of that.

“Sorry,” she told Sal. “I’m gonna ask Patrick if he wants to hook up tonight.”

“Go for it,” they said, sidling another smoke out of the pack.

After a moment’s consideration, Cheryl decided to go obvious.

I can’t stop thinking about my sexy fiancé’s cock. Does he want to come home and give it to me?

She had barely hit send when she got a response.

Fuck yeah, I’m out of here. Be home in an hour.

Then, another message.

Get ready, KitKat. I’m gonna make you forget every man on earth but me.

“Shit,” she told Sal. “I’ve gotta go beat Patrick home and put on my… do what I’m gonna do.”

“Nice! Do hetero intercourse all over your horny fiancé until he sees sense. Only try not to kill him, yeah?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Cheryl said, handing Sal the last of her smokes. “Patrick’s heart is much stronger than Marlon’s.”

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