Page 160 of Not That Ridiculous

With Kevin.

Worked for me, too.

Liam releasedthe house that afternoon, but it was a while before I slept there again. Kevin and I walked into my bedroom and stared at the mess for a bit, then walked right back out.

“Let’s stay at my flat until the weekend,” Kevin said.

I didn’t argue. The forensics crew had destroyed the wall while extracting the other three bodies and it would take a while to clean up. We could have stayed in the guest room but why would we when we could go to Kevin’s beautiful tidy flat instead?

We sneaked Phil up to the flat with us and got busted the next morning sneaking him down again by Kevin’s landlady. Marzena failed to be won over by Phil’s unique charm—his clumsy head-to-the-groin greeting wasn’t always a hit. Luckily, Ray welcomed Phil back with open arms and was more than happy to keep him until we’d sorted the house.

Pippa demanded that I let her openandclose the next weekend, since she’d proved that she was more than capable of doing it, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I finished work on a Friday afternoon and didn’t even set foot in The Chipped Cup until Monday morning.

Kevin obviously got very excited about moving up his remodelling plans, now that everything was in a shit state anyway. I didn’t bother arguing.

A hot, wonderful, amazing, young man wanted to fuck me silly, roll off, and go and install a new bathroom while I had a nap to recharge my energy for round two?

Fine by me.

Once he’d promised to keep detailed financial records so I could pay him back for parts if not labour—to be tussled over later—I turned him loose on it.

A couple of months ago, life was very, very different.

I had a dilapidated house, the beginnings of what threatened to become a serious high blood-pressure problem, an aching well of loneliness I refused to admit to, and zero hint of change or improvement on the horizon.

Now, here I was: I had the best boyfriend in the world. I loved my dog and my job. I had excellent and trustworthy staff. I was more than capable of telling off the horde of journalists that descended when the news blew up and hit the national headlines, and I was more than happy to let Karen Strickland photograph my house before the best boyfriend in the world gave it theHomes and Gardenstreatment.

In return for giving Karen access, as soon as Kevin had finished working his magic, she’d write a follow-up article for theInquirer.

Supposedly, it would be to update any interested readers on the case. Really, the after photos would be a fantastic showcase of Kevin’s amazing skills.

Once other people saw what he was capable of, I knew that he’d start getting inquiries. And, once he realised that he had options, maybe he’d get to do more of what he loved, whether he stayed with Craig or went into business on his own.

I’d tell Kevin the plan before Karen wrote the follow-up. If he didn’t like it, Karen would leave him out of the article entirely, and keep the focus on the update.

He and Craig did indeed have the showdown that I’d anticipated, because Craig was indeed that much of a hustler.

It didn’t even take him three days to try it on.

To my disappointment, all that happened in the end was that Craig agreed to stop calling Kevin at the weekends, he stuck that stupid sign on his own damn car rather than Kevin’s Land Cruiser, and he swore never to call Kevin the Chipping Fairford Corpse Finder again.

To his faceoron his advertising materials.

Yes, life was good indeed.

And then Kevin went up into the loft.

EPILOGUE

“Icannot believe you’ve never been up here,” he said, six weeks after he got a hard-on for my bedroom wall and found the dolls.

“That carried a bit more weight the first time you said it.” I stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding it. He’d told me it was a top-of-the-range, well-balanced ladder that didn’t need holding, but I didn’t see how the extra support could hurt.

He was wearing work boots, cargo shorts, his tool belt, and a sleeveless t-shirt. His work goggles were pushed back on his head, he had his gloves on, and yes. It was doing a lot to me.

“Let’s not forget,” I continued, “you’ve had six weeks to get your arse up here and yet you’re only just doing it.”

“Been busy, Charlie,” he said mildly.

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