4 The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide

by Josie Brown

  And finally, he jumps at the chance at getting a big old heart with your name on it tattooed on his bicep. (Granted, it beats the alternative: having it branded on his ass.)

  Now Arnie is practically living at the house, too. He claims it’s needed so that Emma can do sweeps of the text messages found on Benjamin Rooney and Richard Higginbotham’s smart phones, but my guess is that he’s afraid Jeff is moving in on his turf.

  A ten-year-old? Really? Gimme a break. Spies are a paranoid group. For that matter, so are immature techies.

  Not to mention Arnie is just another mouth to feed, which is why I’ve sent Jack to the Hilldale Whole Foods, to stack up on vittles. This mission is costing us a mint, what with Emma’s strict adherence to a vegan diet.

  The only good news is that Jeff eating healthier in order to impress her, unlike Arnie, who slips out to his car every so often to snag one of the Twinkies he’s hidden in the trunk.

  He slams it quickly when he sees me walk out to get the mail, but the proof that he’s feeding his heartache is the cream on his lips. I swipe the back of his hand across his mouth. When he sees the smear, he shrugs. “What does it matter? She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. She’s quite aware of you. She’s just waiting for you to make your move.”

  His jaw drops halfway to his chest. “Wow. Really? Is that what you think?”

  “Arnie, I don’t think. I know. So, why don’t you ask her out on a date?”

  “I…I guess I could.” While he contemplates this exotic notion, he stuffs the Twinkie wrapper into the pocket of his sagging jeans. “What do you think, a meal and a movie?”

  “Sure, that’s a start. Yelp up a five-star vegan joint. Afterwards, take her to a foreign flick. Maybe something German and existential.”

  He frowns. “You don’t think I could talk her into heading over to Chili’s for some baby back ribs, then the Star Wars retrospective in Culver City?”

  “You’re trying to impress her, not gross her out.” Seeing the devastated look on his face, I quickly add, “It’s okay to have different tastes. Opposites attract, yada yada. But if you really want Emma to see you in a different light, you’re going to have to show her you’re willing to get out of your comfort zone.”

  “I get it.” He sighs. “I figure if it worked for Sarek Xtmprszntwlfd and Amanda Grayson, it can work for Emma and me.”

  “Say what?”

  “Spock’s parents. You know, in Star Trek. His father is a cool-headed Vulcan, while his mom is an Earthling.”

  It’s times like these I want to smack this boy silly. However, bitch-slapping an Acme asset will only put me in Dutch with the boss man, so instead I give him a shove in the direction of the house. “Do it now, before Jeff gets home from school and tries to impress her by shooting twenty baskets in a row.”

  It works for all the little mean girls in his class, so he’s trying it on Emma. Yes, he’s as clueless as Arnie. But in his defense, of course, he’s yet to hit puberty.

  “You see what I mean? I can’t compete against a jock, no matter their age!” Arnie rambles back into the house, and just in time, the lucky duck. Penelope, Tiffy and Hayley drive up, catching me like a deer in headlights. As I rack my brain for an excuse I can give them for whatever torture they’ve hatched for me, Hayley waves me over with a white envelope.

  “Donna, this was delivered to my house, but it seems to be yours,” she shouts.

  I guess the only way to shut her up is to do it with my fist in her mouth, so I head over her way. “What exactly is it?”

  “I don’t know. Something from Carl, perhaps?” She holds it up to her nose and sniffs it. “Smells like him: you know, Old Spice. And it’s addressed to ‘My Darling Donna.’ But the ‘o’ in your name is shaped like a heart, so my guess is that it’s a love letter.”

  What the heck? From Jack?

  I snatch it out of her hand. “Hey, this envelope has been opened!”

  Tiffy shrugs. “That’s what happens when those things get too close to a steam iron.”

  “Ah, I see.” She’s lucky I’m not holding one now, because the cord would be wrapped around her pretty little neck.

  “Go ahead, read it,” Penelope says impatiently. “It’ll make your day. I know it made mine. That husband of yours should be writing erotica!”

  I’m too dazed to stop her from grabbing it back from me and reading it out loud:

  Miss me, Doll?

  So sorry I haven’t gotten back to you before now, but you know how it is when I’m on the road. It’s work, work, work and no play for your man Carl.

  That’s okay. The “play” part comes the next time you’re in my arms.

  In fact, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about us. Or more specifically, you. About the cute way you always moan during our love play. How your nipples harden at the sight of me. How you always insist on being on top. How all that tough girl naughty talk makes you so damp, and makes me so hard.

  And how you do your damnedest to bring me to my knees.

  But face it, Donna: more than anything, you love being dominated.

  Well, I aim to please. Next time we’re together I’ll have you writhing in pain, screaming for mercy and begging for me to put you out of your misery.

  Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

  Soon, my love. Much sooner than you think.

  Carl

  PS: You are my greatest escape. For that alone I’ll always love you.

  Why, that son of a bitch!

  Give me a break. Everyone moans when they’re being strangled. And if I’m damp when I’m with him, it’s from perspiration, not passion. Taking down a six-foot-two one-hundred and ninety-five-pound bully is hard work.

  And the only reason my nipples are hard when he’s around is because I keep my bullets in my bra. No man expects to find cold hard steel next to a warm heart.

  The next time we’re together, we’ll see who ends up writhing in pain.

  Carl knew that putting this letter in Penelope’s hands would make me the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

  Or the most envied woman in Hilldale.

  This is all too obvious when Jack’s Lamborghini careens up the driveway and he jumps out, two bags of groceries in tow. I know just what Penelope and her posse are thinking: Jack has been catapulted from into that rare firmament known as Super Stud Muffin: a husband who not only boasts a Goslingesque physique and pens naughty love notes to his wife, he handles the grocery shopping, too.

  Jack has reached my side just as their collective sigh crescendos into something akin to a group orgasm. Waving at his fan club, he murmurs, “What did you do to put them in such pain?”

  “That’s not pain. It’s sheer ecstasy. And I didn't get them there. You did. Or more to the point, Carl.”

  Before he has a chance to ask me exactly what I mean by that, the dulcet tones of Sugar Daddy chimes from my cell phone.

  I’ve got another date with destiny.

  As Jack nudges me toward the front door, I can just imagine what my neighbors are thinking: once again, the Stones are in for an evening of fun and games.

  If only they knew.

  I’m already inside the house when I realize Penelope still has Carl’s letter. I guess I’ll have to break into the Bing household in order to get it back.

  My guess is that I’ll find it in her nightstand drawer, next to her dildo.

  My latest invitation reads this way:

  “I prefer a bird like you, who doesn’t mind carrying a little meat on her bones. It’s a pleasant change for a toff like me self, who’s tired of watching pretty women turn up their noses at a savory steak and kidney pie, or take a bite or two, only to boak it all out in the loo. If you’re thinking to yourself, ‘This bloke is too right,’ I say let’s quit twatting around and hit the trough together, my treat.

  In fact, my private chef will create a fantasy feast fit for milady. Your obsessive predilection for ‘greasy bangers’ (as you so
delightfully put it) has been duly noted, and is much appreciated. Expect my limo outside your flat by 1800 GMT.”

  Interesting. “I take it, then, we’re off to jolly ol’ London?”

  “Righto.” Jack taps away on his iPad, arranging our Acme jet. “I guess this sugar daddy is something of a foodie.”

  “If so, then maybe I should wait to break the news to him after dessert, so that I get a square meal. In US currency, Acme’s per diem sucks. In London, we won’t be able to afford chips with our fish.”

  “I hear ya, sister.”

  While he makes our arrangements, I click onto the profile that got my latest mate all hot and bothered. It’s not a pretty site. My face has been PhotoShopped to look forty pounds heavier. It now sits on a body that looks suspiciously like Melissa McCarthy’s.

  Underneath, the caption reads, “I’m a slag for a platter of bangers and mash!”

  Right now the only thing I want on a platter is Arnie’s head. “Arnie! Get your ass in here!”

  Both my Smith & Wesson and a Beretta are within reach. After this bit of chicanery, Arnie should be so lucky that I aim at his feet and not his kneecaps.

  Jack is fully aware of this. “Whoa, cowgirl! You can’t shoot the boy wonder.”

  “Oh no? Why not?”

  “He’s an Acme asset.” When he realizes a shrug is all he’ll get from me, he adds, “Besides, if he pees on your rug, you’ll have one big mess on your hands.”

  Damn it, cooler heads always prevail.

  “No way in hell am I beefing up for this gig,” I grumble.

  “I hear you, loud and clear. Okay, so when the guy sees you, tell him that since your profile went up, your doctor insisted you go on the Mediterranean Diet.” He pulls me into his lap for a kiss. “Besides I like you just the way you are.”

  “Oh, yeah? How is that?”

  Jack knows a trap when he hears one. “Um… you know, just right. Perfect, in fact.”

  “Not plump?”

  “You? Nah!”

  “Zaftig, maybe?”

  He tilts his head as he contemplates an answer that will keep all his fingers and toes intact. “I may not know how to spell that, but I’m smart enough to know I should say no.”

  That’s my boy.

  Unlike, Arnie, who has a lot of explaining to do. When he doesn’t show up, I realize the tone of my voice tipped him off that he’s now persona non grata in the Stone hacienda. He’s headed back to Acme headquarters.

  That’s okay. I know where he lives.

  The London apartment Acme has secured for me is in a shabby chic walk-up in the boho neighborhood of Notting Hill.

  As agreed, Sugar CEO Number 3’s limo driver rings the bell promptly at eight o’clock in the evening. This is a hired ride, so there is no reason to leave a GPS bug on the back seat for future tracking. Besides, my earring will track and transmit my location and any conversations.

  The windows are tinted, and I’ve been blindfolded, so I can’t see where we’re headed, but Jack and Abu are trailing the limo. When the limo finally pulls to the curb, it turns out we haven’t gone too far: just a mile, south and east, to the street known as Kensington Palace Gardens, where every home on the block is really an estate worth tens of millions of pounds, and every neighbor is in fact a billionaire, an ambassador, or a rock star with money to burn.

  Life doesn’t get better than this.

  I’m wearing a raw silk Cavalli dress that flows like a baby-doll negligee. It’s low cut, and mini in length. I presume my mystery date expects a muumuu, but this is the best I can do.

  Finally the car stops. The driver opens the back door, walks me up the stairs, where two bodyguards stand in front of a heavy oak double doorway. As we approach one speaks sotto voce, which is apparently loud enough to be heard by the mike in his Bluetooth. A moment later the door opens, and I’m ushered in by an elderly butler.

  “Please, follow me,” the butler murmurs.

  “The address has been blinded in the public record,” Arnie says. “I can’t pull the owner’s name. I’ll see if I can hack the City of London’s property registry.”

  “Make it quick,” Jack warns him.

  There are two more guards at attention in the marble foyer rotunda. I’m sure Jack and Abu are taking a headcount, since I may need a little help getting out of here.

  Three hallways spoke out from the foyer. We head down the center one, passing one stately room after another until we come to a grand formal dining room.

  By the look of things, Henry the Eighth is back, and he’s holding a victory banquet. There are dishes of onion with shaved black truffles, a veal tenderloin with a béarnaise sauce, a banana cream pie, oysters on the half shell, whole baked chickens, a rack of lamb, mashed potatoes, a bowl of caviar, a glazed duck, even a lobster.

  I’m glad this dress doesn’t have a belt.

  At least this time I’m not wearing Spanx.

  The butler pulls out a chair. I take it I’m supposed to sit down. Okay, works for me.

  What I don’t count on is his strapping me into arm restraints, and putting a blindfold over my eyes.

  “Not good,” Jack whispers in my ear. “Now, just how are we going to recognize our man?”

  I’m just about to answer when a voice behind me says, “My word! You’re not at all what I was expecting! You can’t be more than seven stone thirteen.”

  I do the conversion in my head. That’s around one-hundred-and-eleven pounds. Really? I look that heavy to this guy?

  Blimey, he hit it right on the head.

  “You’re pretty good,” I say with a sexy murmur. “How about taking off this blindfold, so that I can see you, too.”

  “No no no, my wispy little sylph! First a little appetizer, to fatten you up! Open up and say, ‘Ah.’”

  The voice is so close now, I can smell his breath. Pickled herring? Ewwww, yuck. If he sticks that in my mouth, I’ll gag, I swear.

  I feel his fingers on my lips. When I open them, he crams something between them.

  I’m prepared to spit the crap out. But hey, it’s pretty darn good. “Yummy! Is that a peach trifle, with a hint of lemon?”

  “Yes, sweets for my sweet! Do you like it?”

  “To die for. You must give me the recipe.”

  “You’ll have to settle for this.” Sugar CEO Number Three tips my nose with something creamy.

  I stick my tongue out and up as far as it will go. Alas, not as far as I'm sure Sugar CEO Number 3 would appreciate. No matter. He dabs a little on my lips.

  I smack them together. “Whipped cream, with just a hint of mocha?”

  “Ooooh, you’re good, my little Yankee Doodle noodle.”

  He sticks a creamy finger in my mouth. My gag reflex is in full force but I tamp it down and do my best impression of a woman in the throes of an foodgasm.

  He must believe I’m turned on because the next thing I know he’s slapping something cold, wide, and wet on my décolleté. “Um…excuse me, are those lasagna noodles?”

  “Yes. You’ll love the sauce! Pesto!”

  So much for my designer Cavalli. The only saving grace is that he pulls it off, over my head.

  “Oh my God,” Arnie gasps, “The dude’s a WAMer!”

  “A what?” Abu asks.

  “He has a food fetish,” Jack explains. “WAM is an acronym for ‘wet and messy.’ As in any kind of food that can be licked off another person.”

  Abu and Arnie are laughing so hard in my ear that I have to keep from wincing, let alone telling them to shut the fuck up.

  “You know, I have a fantasy, too,” I purr to Sugar CEO Number Three.

  “Do tell, milady.”

  “I’m lying on this table, naked except for my heels. You can only imagine what I can do with your trifle. Among other things.”

  His hand pauses on one breast. Next, I feel the restraints come off my wrists. Finally the blindfold comes off, too.

  And I’m staring at Britain’s answer to Jabba the Hut
t. In a tux no less.

  Yeah, okay, what did I expect? Calories in and in, and in, equal pounds on. Do the math.

  I hold out a dainty hand. “We haven’t met formally. I’m Cookie Lonergan. And you are?”

  “Hungry,” he hisses. He bends down over my breasts, the better to lap up the pesto sauce. “Your name is…. delicious.”

  “I need him looking at you, not drooling on you,” Arnie mutters. “Otherwise, the system can’t recognize him. I hope his face isn’t covered in sauce, or that might make it harder, too.”

  “Thank God she’s not wearing a wire,” Abu snickers. “He would have eaten it by now.”

  I jerk Jabba’s head up by the roots of his hair. “My, you’ve got the most beautiful eyes.” I lick my lips. “They’re the color of chardonnay grapes. Speaking of which, how about a little wine? You know, something to whet our appetites for our meal?”

  “Jolly good idea! We can do it the Japanese way. I’ll drink mine out of your golden triangle. Delicious!”

  The next thing I know, Jabba is tossing a few of the dishes on the floor and I’m being lifted onto the table. All I can do is pray that Arnie’s facial recognition software kicks in, or I’m so greasy that I can slip out of his big paws before I’m his main course.

  “He’s Baron Maynard McChesney of Whitefriars,” Arnie declares triumphantly. “He owns the United Kingdom’s largest media conglomerate, including two tabloids, and the country’s largest financial newspaper. Rumor has it he’s got dirt on every UK celebrity as well as every member of Parliament, and even a few secrets stashed away on the royal family.”

  “If so, he can blackmail a few pawns who will be valuable for the Quorum,” Jack says. “Donna, he should be easy to turn, because he’s got so much to lose: wealth, his company, prestige, contacts—”

  “Not to mention prison chow is nothing like this,” Abu pipes in. “Go get’em, Cookie.”

  I’m just about to read Maynard the riot act when there’s a knock on the door. He sighs, annoyed that he’s been interrupted from the task at hand: slathering pesto sauce on my thighs. As he lumbers toward the door, he wipes his hand on a napkin.