by Emmy Ellis
You’ll Be Sorry - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis rev 2019
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2019
All Rights Reserved
You’ll Be Sorry is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
A key jangled in the front door lock. Kerry’s stomach rolled over, and she clenched the edge of the kitchen sink.
Fuck. Fuck. He’s home.
She dashed around, putting the last of the clean plates away, and looked to ensure nothing stood out of place. Last week she’d missed wiping a grain of salt from the black marble worktop, and Dan had…punished her for it.
She raised her fingers to her cheekbone. Though the bruising had faded to a dirty yellow, pain still remained. She swore he’d chipped the bone. It even hurt to smile.
His footsteps tapped on the wooden living room floor, drawing nearer. His keys met the coffee table, his briefcase placed on the floor beside the TV stand, just like they always did. Fabric rustled as he removed his suit jacket.
Just like it always did.
“Kerry?”
The sound of his voice sent waves of fear racing through her, and she swallowed.
“In the kitchen!” She pasted on a smile, her body movements loose, giving the impression she was unafraid. Her brown hair, long and free, hung down her back the way he preferred it. Negligee on, feet bare, face made up.
He appeared in the doorway, his face showing the strain of his day. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. If she dared to be more critical, vulture’s feet slashed the edges of his mouth.
Yes, he’d had a bad day.
His white shirt bore no wrinkles—how did he manage that in his line of work?—and his suit trousers still retained the sharp crease she’d made yesterday with the trouser press. No sign of him having sat down—the backs of his trousers at the knees were as fresh as the front. Perhaps he’d been on his feet all day. Perhaps he owned several pairs of those trousers and she didn’t know it. She wouldn’t put it past him to change three or four times a day in his office.
OCD. He definitely suffered with that.
He came into the kitchen and ran his hand through his hair. His wedding band caught the light from the fluorescent above, and, in her head, Kerry witnessed a brief glimpse of the moment she’d placed the ring on his finger. She shook off the memory of that charade and smiled wider.
She stepped towards him. “Are you okay?”
He frowned, his eyebrows meeting above his slender nose. “Okay what?”
Fear flickered in her gut. “Darling. Are you okay, darling?”
His scowl melted. “That’s better. And, yes, I’m okay.”
He strode to the centre island, drew out a stool, sat…and stared at her. Her stomach knotted, and the seemingly ever-present bile crept to the back of her throat. She swallowed again—something she did a lot of these days—and clasped her hands behind her back, fingers entwined, squeezing in a rhythmic motion to calm her nerves.
“Would you like to eat now?” she asked, not daring to move before he gave her the green light.
Long seconds passed. He appraised her from head to toe, his gaze lingering at her groin. Early evening sunlight streamed through the French doors that led out onto the patio, its shaft hot across her body, undoubtedly giving him a glimpse of what lay beneath her translucent outfit.
He brought his hands up to rest beneath his chin and balanced his elbows on the island. His perfect nails, manicured weekly, reminded her of the time he’d dug them into her shoulders as he’d spun her around and slapped her face for forgetting to wipe the edge of his plate. She’d slopped gravy when she’d poured it.
Dan didn’t like sloppiness.
“Yes, I’d like to eat now. Why else would I be sitting here?” he asked, his near-black eyes narrowing.
Kerry faced the oven. Tears scalded and plopped down her cheeks. She opened the door and bent to retrieve the casserole dish and hoped he hadn’t seen her crying.
“What have you done today?”
His tone jarred her nerves, and she jumped. Her heart hammered, and she placed the dish on heat savers on the worktop.
“I cleaned. I changed the sheets. I went into the city to buy beef for dinner. I met Sara for a cup of coffee. I came home. I—”
“Did you know that you say ‘I’ at the start of every sentence whenever I ask you that question? You do know, don’t you, because I’ve picked up on it enough.”
“I—”
“There you go again.”
She lifted the lid from the dish. Steam rose and bathed her face. Lid in the sink, she reached for two plates.
Dan’s hand encircled her wrist.
He yanked her arm upwards, twisted her to face him, and pushed her against the worktop edge. Heat from the scorching dish met her back.
No. Oh, no. No, not that…
He leant towards her, his face inches from hers. His breath smelled of mints and the last lingering scents of the coffee he always sipped before leaving work. She kept her free hand at her side, and he tightened his hold on her other wrist, pinching the skin. She held back a wince. Steeled herself for what was to come.
“Several things have knobbed me off me since I got home, Kerry.” He pressed his chest to hers and nudged her back a bit more. “One, your negligee. I don’t like it.” His knee wedged between hers. “Two, the ‘I’ thing. How many times have I told you to stop doing that?” A rhetorical pause—he didn’t expect an answer. “Three. You’ve made a casserole…for the second time this week. Remember,” his other leg joined the first and prised her legs apart, “don’t replicate meals.” His eyes widened, and he forced her closer to the hot dish. “Four. You met Sara for coffee. I. Don’t. Like. Sara.”
Air hitched in Kerry’s throat. Steam from their meal dampened her negligee and stuck it to her back.
He shoved her into the dish. White-hot pain shot from the point of impact and up her back. She gritted her teeth and kept her gaze fixed on the bridge of his nose. The dish clattered against the worktop, falling off the heat saver. Scalding gravy, meat, and vegetables splashed, burning her skin until she switched her mind off.
“And five… You don’t fuck like you used to.”
Dan yanked her negligee up, and in seconds held his rigid cock, guiding it between her legs.
“Let’s shag like when we first met, eh?” He inclined his head, his breath hot on her neck, his tongue flashing over her skin. “Show me how much you love it. Scream my name.” He thrust inside her and gripped her shoulders, and those man
icured nails…those nails dug into her.
Abruptly, he moved his face in front of hers again. His eyes held menace, a dark foreboding that curdled her insides—milk on a windowsill, bathed in sunlight.
His fist met her nearly healed cheekbone. Her head snapped back and banged on a wall cupboard. Pain radiated through her entire body.
She didn’t make a sound. Dan didn’t like it.
She closed her eyes, bore the agony of the dish, the food, those nails, the indignity, and him—and prayed for sunshine tomorrow. She could wear her sunglasses then to hide her sham of a marriage that would undoubtedly be written all over her face come the morning.
He finished and said, “We’ll need dinner, seeing as tonight’s is fucked. I’ll go and buy it. You know, if you don’t learn to do as I say…you’ll be sorry.”
The front door slamming signalled her time to breathe, to cry. Kerry turned to examine the damage. Food dripped and plunked onto the floor. The mug tree had toppled over, and a china cup lay in two halves, the handle snapped off, resembling the outline of an ear. She sighed and picked it up.
The ‘Why is he like this?’ never got answered no matter how many times she examined the past to see if she’d been the catalyst for his change. She’d stopped milling the questions over and over after he’d broken her ribs two years ago.
She dumped the cup in the bin. Cleaned the mess. Once the kitchen appeared as it usually did, there was no sign of their ‘discussion’ as Dan would call it.
She’d long passed the stage of wanting to switch him back to how he’d been when they’d first started out. Had passed the stage of using his lonely childhood as an excuse for his behaviour.
Sharp laughter burst from her, and she hung her head back.
She had to get away. Undetected. But how the hell would she manage that?
Her husband was a detective, for fuck’s sake.
Chapter Two
Detective Inspector Dan Stone walked into the Italian and, with a practiced eye, took in the customers. The usual sat at tables covered in cream linen, the kind of people he’d stared at as a child, his nose pressed to restaurant windows, his mouth watering at plates heaped with food he thought he’d never get to taste. Yet here he stood, inside one of those restaurants, about to order food for himself and his bitch of a wife who’d had the cheek to cook the same meal twice in one week. What the fuck?
Kerry’s inability to grasp his simple requests grated on his bloody nerves. Had she been this dense from the start? Had he been blinded by her back then? No, he hadn’t. He’d approached this relationship with all his plans in place. Kerry must have been playing a game of her own, pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d done the same.
He ordered then leant against the back wall. It seemed Kerry needed further tutoring in order to meet his needs. He reckoned she no longer wanted to please him, that her misdemeanours of late were done on purpose—even though she risked a good slap. The stupid bitch didn’t know who she messed with. Didn’t know a good thing when it provided for her, gave her the means to spend money on all those fucking sunglasses she always bought.
Dan stared at a group of men. Obviously out on the town for a meal and a beer run, they threw banter at one another in easy camaraderie. He smirked at their conversation.
“My wife won’t let me have a motorbike,” one said, his expression telling all—that his missus was in charge.
“Can’t you try and persuade her?” another said.
Persuade her? Yeah, with your fist. That’s the only way she’ll listen.
Dan shook his head, and the bell on the door jangled. A woman entered. A woman he knew. And hated. Sara Westholm bumbled inside, her plump cheeks ruddy, her thighs a thick abomination. Disgust roiled in Dan’s gut and, as Kerry’s friend ambled towards him, her black leggings, baggy T-shirt, and leopard print, voile scarf knotted around her neck looking ridiculous on her, he smiled and greeted her as though he loved her as much as his wife did.
“Dan! Fancy seeing you here!” she gushed. “Kerry said she’d left a casserole slow-cooking in the oven when we met for coffee today. What brings you here?”
Good girl, Kerry. So you did meet Sara today.
Dan adopted his perfected, good-husband role and smiled wider. “Kerry works too hard to keep me happy. A casserole will keep in the fridge. I thought I’d treat her tonight.”
Sara’s eyes widened as though Dan was just the best thing on God’s good earth. He stifled the urge to punch her eyes so hard the skin puffed and she wouldn’t see for a week.
“Well, aren’t you just delightful? Where can I buy a man like you? Morrisons?” She frowned. “No, not there. Um…” She fumbled with her bottom lip. “Harrods? Yeah, that’s it, Harrods.”
Buy a man? Where did these women get off thinking they could own a bloke?
Jesus fucking Christ.
He laughed and placed his hand on her shoulder. “You know, Sara, you’d be a fine catch for any man. You’ve just got to wait until the right one comes along.”
And he’d have to be blind to find you attractive, you fugly bitch.
She sighed, and her double chin wobbled. “Aren’t you just the sweetest? If I’m honest, I’m a tad jealous of Kerry, you know.” She gave him a coy glance from beneath lowered lashes—was he meant to find that attractive?—and patted his hand that still rested on her shoulder.
His stomach clenched at her clammy skin.
His order arrived, and he thanked the waitress, and, facing Sara, said, “Like I said, you’d be a fine catch.”
Sara tittered. “Are you flirting with me, Dan Stone?”
He chuckled. “No! I’m too in love with my wife to flirt with anyone. Can I give you a lift home?”
She beamed at him, showing creamy teeth, coffee stains an adornment he’d rather not have seen. “No, I have a taxi waiting outside. I phoned my order in—just got to pick it up.”
“It’s no problem. I’ll even tell the taxi driver to be on his way for you.”
Sara jiggled on the spot—damn weird woman—and said, “Oh, well, if you’re sure…”
Of course I’m fucking sure.
He smiled.
“Aw, go on then.” She let out a bugging, giddy laugh.
One that obliterated that last grated nerve from earlier.
* * * *
Sara barely fitted in the seat beside him. Her thighs spilled over the edges—one of them rested against the handbrake—and Dan resisted telling her he’d changed his mind, to get the hell out of his sports car, and walk home. The exercise would do her good.
He smiled at her as she buckled up. The seat belt dug into her stomach until he lost sight of it altogether. He pulled out of his parking space and sped in the direction of her home.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” she said and leant forward to smooth her fingertips over his leather dashboard. Sweat marks lingered for a second, then the AC devoured them.
Dan shuddered.
“It is.” He gunned the engine.
“Ooh!” Sara whooped raucously. “It’s like being on a roller coaster.” She clutched her takeaway bag closer.
Yeah, you don’t want to lose your dinner, do you?
“What did you order?” he asked.
Harmondsey’s city lights either side of the road sped by in a blur of neon against the ebony sky.
“The usual. Meatballs. I love their tomato sauce.”
I bet you do, piggy. “Me, too.”
He took a left and drove towards the wharf.
“Hey, you took a wrong turn.” She straightened up. “What with you being a detective, I’d have thought you’d know these roads like the back of your hand.”
You’ll get the back of my hand against your cheek if you don’t shut the fuck up.
“Shortcut.” He glanced at her.
“Ah, it’ll be a new one on me then.” She sagged back and stared out of the window.
Dan returned hi
s attention to the road. Tall trees lined it on both sides, their lower branches meeting in the middle, creating a tunnel effect ahead. The moon, its light unable to penetrate the leaves, remained hidden until Dan swerved into a dusty, middle-of-nowhere track.
“Strange shortcut,” Sara mumbled.
“Oh,” he said brightly, “I thought you’d like to sit for a bit down by the wharf. With me.” He manoeuvred along the dirt trail, cursing the jumping clods of dried dirt that smacked on the car.
“You did?” Sara gave a timid smile, all trace of her usual bluster gone. “Whatever for?” She gripped her meal bag tighter.
He sighed and snatched a quick peek at her. “Well, to be honest, I’m worried about Kerry.” He frowned and sniffed, taking another right turn that led to the deserted, far end of the wharf.
“Why? Is something wrong with her?” Sara looked at him. She released her bag, brought her hands to her face, and peeked through podgy fingers. “Dan, tell me…is she okay?”
His deliberate, pregnant pause was designed to increase her worry, and he stopped beside a stone wall. A huge crane stood to the rear, and he stared into the rearview mirror at the thick metal chain that dangled from it, the fat hook on the end a little higher than a tall human. In the distance, the main area of the wharf spread before them, nighttime workers illuminated specks in the overhead lighting. He killed the engine and rolled his window down. The tang of stagnant water blasted in.
“Dan?” Sara lowered her hands and placed her food bag in the footwell. She reached out and touched his arm. “Please…tell me what’s wrong.”
“I think she’s planning on leaving me,” he said.
Exiting the car, he left the driver’s-side door open and strolled close to the wall, towards the crane.
Sara’s footsteps on the uneven gravel sounded behind him, and he grinned. She’d followed him then. Her breaths puffed out in her attempt to catch up with him.
Beside him now, her frame diminutive against his, she said, “Oh. Are you sure? She hasn’t mentioned anything of the sort to me. And why would she leave you when you’re so wonderful?”
