by April Hill
Chapter Six
The day after Carlotta’s body was discovered, I made a few calls—one of them to the mysterious Oovie, whose real name turned out to be Uri Vanoff, master of the mournful gypsy balalaika, ex-lover to Carlotta, and fellow Communist agitator from what he called “the old days” at Berkeley. Uri was very helpful, explaining that he knew Carlotta’s family, in some little village south of Rosarito Beach. He volunteered to get in touch with them, and also agreed that after the police had finished what they needed to do, he would return Carlotta to the loving arms of her family, to be buried in the ancestral plot. I knew that she had really wanted to buried on her own property, but since that was neither legal, nor feasible, Uri’s suggestion seemed to be the most respectful option.
* * * *
NOTE: A few months after all the details and paperwork surrounding Gabe’s murder and Carlotta’s had been cleared up and filed away, Uri came to me and confessed that he had altered the burial arrangements somewhat, by having Carlotta cremated. Fine, I said. He also admitted to having gone a couple of steps further—by scattering most of her remains up and down Encantada’s pristine beach. Also fine with me. But then, whether at the prior wish of the deceased or by his own inspiration, Uri had elected to dump a good deal of what remained of Carlotta’s mortal remains in Regina Vanderplum’s immaculate back yard. Among Regina’s prized roses, specifically.
I didn’t confide these last details to anyone, by the way, and I will expect the same from all of you. The best part of it was that when Regina couldn’t get the price she was asking for her house—possibly because Carlotta’s property looked like something out of Tobacco Road—she made the reluctant decision to take the house off the market and stay where she was, for the time being. At least until Carlotta’s shack was condemned, demolished, and forgotten. Afterward, whenever I spotted Regina on her knees, digging amongst her manicured roses (and Carlotta’s ashes,) it brought a smile to my face. Poetic justice, of the most straightforward and satisfying kind.
For those of you who are reading this for purely lascivious reasons, you’re probably wondering if I ever got spanked for defying Matt’s direct order and going over to Carlotta’s. The answer is no. Matt is a really nice guy, and he was wonderfully understanding about how upset I was by Carlotta’s death.
It took a little more than a week for that wonderful understanding to wear off.
* * * *
Everything started beautifully, when Matt suggested that what I needed was to get some rest, and to get away for a few days—like maybe an extended weekend in Laguna Beach? The mention of Laguna Beach was no coincidence, of course. It was a bribe, pure and simple. I was still determined to stay involved with the investigation into Carlotta’s murder, and Matt was still determined to keep me out of it. He knew perfectly well that Laguna Beach was one of my favorite destinations in the whole wide world, and here he was, slyly offering me the chance to spend time there with my favorite person in the whole, wide world.
“We’ll spend three or four days in a top flight beach front hotel, find some first class restaurants, and spend money like we had it, how’s that?” Matt asked, upping the ante.
It took me approximately five seconds to cave in.
“Great,” Matt said, pulling me close for a long, deep kiss before I could change my mind. “I’ll call my next door neighbor Rita to take care of Ben. She’s got a key. I watch her cat when she’s away on business, so she owes me a favor.”
“Rita, huh? “I inquired sweetly. “Funny you never mentioned her before. What does this ‘Rita’ person look like?”
Matt grinned. “You’ll meet her when we get back. Anything I say now will just get me in trouble.”
I looked down at what I was wearing. “What about clothes? I hate to be one of those women who claim they have nothing to wear, but I have nothing to wear.”
“You’ve got what you brought with you from the house,” Matt said. “The bags are still in the trunk of my car, but if you need anything else, we can do some shopping after we get there.”
Yes, shopping would definitely be required. The only wearable items I’d brought with me to Matt’s place were two pairs of well-worn jeans and a trio of equally worn cotton blouses. Here I was, about to enjoy a romantic getaway, and all I had to wear to bed (however briefly) were a couple of Carlotta’s garish old muumuus—comfortable, but not exactly alluring. Primarily in the interest of minimizing laundry, you see, I have always preferred to sleep in the raw, but given Carlotta’s tendency to come and go without notice, and bring with her a number of house guests, I had begun sleeping in her cast-offs. I made this decision after a couple of late-night hallway encounters with total strangers—both of whom were inebriated males in their late seventies, and both of whom were one hundred percent naked.
We got to Laguna late Friday afternoon, checked into a gorgeous beach front suite, and started planning where to have dinner. Everything was perfect—until it stopped being perfect.
I started the argument, of course. I always start it. I looked out the sliding door at the ocean, and began thinking about Carlotta’s, again. I still wanted to go back to the house and look for answers as soon as we got back to Malibu. So, I mentioned this to Matt—trying to sound casual. He shook his head and said no—very firmly, which should have been my cue to shut up. Instead, I said yes, just as firmly. He said no, again. I said yes, again, and he said no. Keep this up for another page or two, and you’ll see how much progress I was making. I then pointed out that it was fairly obvious by now that I wasn’t the target. Carlotta had been the target, right? Matt wasn’t so sure of that, and in any case—he explained patiently—the house still wasn’t safe. I then explained—perhaps a bit too vociferously—that I wasn’t goddamn planning to live there, just to get my fucking crap, bring some of it to his place, and to put the rest of it in goddamned fucking storage.
I finished this dishonest and profane little speech with a flourish, by hurling his overnight bag through the open door, onto the balcony. It was a terrific gesture, and artfully done, if I do say so, myself. It was also ill-conceived, and badly timed, since the overnight bag didn’t land on the deck, at all. It flew over the balcony railing, and onto the beach, six stories below. I think Matt was suffering from delayed stress or something, because in maybe five seconds flat, I was across the arm of the couch, with my face squashed against the seat cushions, my underwear dangling around my ankles and my bare butt shivering in the early evening breeze.
I’m going to leave out the details, because there are only so many times you can write the non-words “OW!” or “O-O-O-W-W-W!” before they become redundant. When he had finished spanking every square reachable inch, my ass was in flames, and I was so mad I could have spit nails. Matt, on the other hand, seemed refreshed and relaxed. This whole spanking business was evidently a great cure for stress—for one of us, at least. But it wasn’t starting out to be the romantic weekend I had hoped for.
While Matt went out and looked around in the growing darkness for his overnight bag, I got in the luxuriously appointed shower, which turned out to be another bad decision. Water, cool or warm, stung like hell. I was already slathered with the hotel’s expensive perfumed soap, though, which meant that I had to finish the job, or walk around scaly and stiff all night, so I hopped up and down and said “shit” maybe 400 times until I had rinsed most of the soap off. Then, when I heard Matt returning, I crawled into bed with my face to the wall, and began sobbing—my best imitation of heartbroken sobs, interspersed with a few pitiful whimpers. I thought about locking the door, but I was in this for the full drama, and if Matt simply remained in the other room and fell asleep on the couch, I’d miss my big scene.
He didn’t come to bed for a while, and by the time he came into the bedroom, I was running out of fake tears. I sniffled loudly, and sighed, waited for a moment, and then began sobbing again, pretending I hadn’t heard him come in. When I felt him standing next to the bed, I figured I’d won the game
. An apology was imminent.
A second later, he pulled down the covers and swatted my sore backside, really, really hard!
“Nice try, Greta Garbo, but no Oscar,” he said, with a chuckle. “You’ll be happy to know that my bag, clothes, tooth brush, and razor are all probably on their way to Hawaii.”
“Good!” I snarled. “I wish you’d gone in after them. I hear great white sharks like to dine at night. “
“I guess that means I should sleep on the couch?”
“Sleep with the fishes for all I care!” I said coldly. “This relationship is going nowhere. It’s over.”
I felt Matt sit down on the bed, but I didn’t turn around. “Are you sure of that?” he asked quietly.
“Positive. I’ll start looking for an apartment as soon as we get back to your place.” The mattress sank a little under his weight, and I knew he had lain down next to me. I moved farther away, close to the edge of the bed. He followed, lifted my hair, and kissed the back of my neck.
“Go away!” I slapped at his hand.
Matt’s left hand slid under the covers, slowly up my hip, and across my stomach. I shivered, but said nothing. His fingers brushed my nipple, and then squeezed it slightly. He kissed the back of my neck again, and began to move his hands down my body, very slowly, until his fingers inadvertently brushed against my still very hot rear end. NOW, you’re saying! This is the moment to tell him to get lost for good, right? Well, you’re absolutely right! The man had spanked me so hard my ass was still pulsating like a damned coffeemaker, so why didn’t I turn on him with righteous indignation and tell him to get the hell out of my life?
Well, it’s because I have this little problem with self-control, you see, and because Matt’s left hand was toying with my nipples, his right hand was between my legs, and…
Even on top and astraddle, my butt still stung with every move I made, but Matt managed to take my mind off it by nibbling my nipples hard when I leaned close enough, and refraining from cupping and squeezing the adorable cheeks of my adorable ass, as he is usually wont to do in this position. Afterward, I slept like a log—on my stomach.
Which is how Matt came to share my toothbrush, and shave the next morning with my hot-pink disposable razor (which is hideously dull from overuse and left his face looking like he’d been in a dog fight) and why he had to use my roll-on deodorant (which smells like lilacs) and why his underwear was still slightly damp at lunch, having spent the night drying over a bathroom towel rack.
We slept until noon, called for room service, took a long, lovely shower together, and then went back to bed. (I needed rest, remember?) After a totally lovely afternoon where I got maybe twelve minutes of actual rest, we ordered from room service, again—cold, roasted chicken, a bunch of chilled grapes, and a bottle of excellent white wine—and ate supper on the balcony.
With all the “rest” I was getting, we somehow never got around to going shopping, so when Matt suggested an evening stroll along the beach, and advised me to dress comfortably, I had to remind him that my selection of beach attire was still severely limited.
“What do you think?” I asked, modeling the least offensive of Carlotta’s shabby muumuus. “A retro beach cover-up, maybe?”
Matt smiled. “You like you’re shrinking, but it’ll be dark soon, so who’s to notice?”
So, I rode down in the elevator and sauntered through the hotel’s elegant lobby looking like a diminished Queen Lili‘uokalani.
We walked for a long time along the beach, and when we found a private spot by the rocks, Matt arranged the blanket he’d brought from our hotel room on the sand, and I sat down—carefully, and then made room for him next to me. It was chillier out than I’d expected, and my upper arms were beginning to shiver. I was about to suggest that we go back inside when Matt wrapped his arms around me and kissed me, hard and deep, which reminded me that I was totally naked under my “beach cover-up.” When he pushed me back on the blanket, though, the sand was still warm, and with Matt’s body pressed against my own, I forgot the cold completely. He slid one hand beneath my voluminous skirts and chuckled softly when he encountered no obstacles.
“Now I know why these things were invented.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” I said. “I read somewhere that the muumuu was invented by Christian missionaries, to cover the wanton nakedness of the native Polynesian women. The missionaries usually insisted on something underneath, of course—like cotton bloomers.”
Matt lifted the hem of my flowered garment and glanced underneath. “What, no bloomers?”
I sighed. “No bloomers, no panties, no bra—no impediments at all, should you still feel wantonly inclined.”
“I’m inclined,” Matt murmured, burying his face in my hair.
So, I lay back on the blanket and looked up at the stars, trying to remember if I’d I ever been happier in my entire life than I was now.
Finally, Matt pulled my ridiculous garment all the way up to my neck, and then bent down to plant one kiss on each breast, and another just below my navel— which prompted me to giggle.
“Sorry about the giggle,” I whispered. “I think I’m a little nervous. I’ve been imagining something like this ever since we met. Just the two of us. No murderers, no phone calls, no cadavers, not even poor Benjamin, sitting on the end of the bed and watching us.”
“I don’t know whether you realize this or not,” Matt said, “but your dog is jealous of me.”
“It’s not that,” I explained. “He’s just very protective of me. I think he’s afraid someone will hurt me.”
Matt grinned. “Okay, so I’ll try to be very gentle.”
I giggled again. “Like hell you will. I didn’t come all the way out here on this freezing beach, wearing nothing but a stupid pup tent, so you could be gentle. I expect to be fucked until I scream for mercy.”
Matt nodded his agreement, and proceeded to do exactly as I had asked.
I slept late, again, the next morning, for rather obvious reasons, and when I woke up, the muscles inside my thighs were aching and pleasantly sore. It felt about as nice as pain can feel, but I was still stiff. While there is probably no such thing as too much sex, you must remember that I was, and generally always am, totally out of condition. A marathon, for whatever good cause, still leaves the runner wrung out like a rag the day afterward.
When I crawled out of bed and crab-walked across the room to pull the blinds, the sun was so bright it nearly knocked me backward, reminding me again how I hate California weather. On one side, our room overlooked an atrium designed to resemble a tropical rainforest, complete with orchids and live birds, but it was all wasted on me. The blood of generations of Scottish highlanders flows in my veins. I need fog and mist in the morning, not sunshine and birds on stilts.
Matt was nowhere in sight. I’d already learned that the man is like that pink rabbit in the battery commercials. He never seems to get tired, however hard I try to wear him down. It had been a long, extremely energetic night, and if I was remembering the details of it correctly, Matt had done the lion’s share of the hard work, yet here he was, up bright and early and probably walking upright. Of course, Matt doesn’t live on Twinkies and Ding-Dongs and sugary carbonated beverages full of useless calories. He was probably downstairs right now, sitting in the sunshine and eating a healthy breakfast of fresh fruit and whole-wheat toast with no butter, and swilling down a half-quart of orange juice with the pulp left in it. All of this while reading every page of the New York Times and at least one other major newspaper. It was enough to make you wonder about our future together.
I staggered to the bathroom and stood under the hot water for ten minutes, until I began to feel human. By the time I turned off the shower, dried off with an enormous, thick white towel the size of a bedspread, and slipped into the luxuriously plush terry-cloth robe the hotel had provided, Matt was back in the room, looking fresh and well-rested.
He took me in his arms, kissed a spot on my throat,
and slipped both his hands inside the robe.
“Good morning.” He leaned down to say a polite good morning to each of my still wet nipples—with a small nibble—and finished the greeting with a firm squeeze to both cheeks of my damp backside.
“You seem to be feeling very perky this morning—considering,” I suggested.
“Considering what?”
“Considering we’ve had,” I glanced at the clock on the bedside table, “maybe one hour’s sleep.”
He shook his head. “Correction. I’ve had an hour’s sleep. You’ve had nine.”
“Unless I get a good ten hours,” I grumbled, “I’m a zombie.” It had not escaped my attention that as we chatted, Matt was edging me slowly backward, toward the unmade bed. “You’re not serious,” I groaned.
Matt grinned. “Did I forget to mention that I’m a morning person?”
“Did I forget to mention that I ache in almost every place I have a place?”
“What you need,” he said, nuzzling into the side of my neck, “is to warm up those sore muscles. God, your body is hot.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “It’s not you. The water in the shower is hotter than the dishwasher in your condo. Every inch of me is pruny, and probably sterilized.”
Matt wasn’t taking no for an answer, and by this time, my resolve was definitely weakening. I was about to surrender myself and fall backward onto the mattress, but Matt had something else in mind. He led me to small desk by the window, removed the telephone and set it on a chair, and placed the chair’s cushion on the desk. Then, turning me gently around, he bent me forward over the lovely foam-green writing desk and lifted the back of my soft plush robe as high as it would go. I groaned inwardly, and waited for the sound of his belt being removed. I couldn’t recall specifically what I was about to be spanked for, but I knew I’d probably earned it, somehow, so I tried to be philosophical, and resign myself to what was coming. In my opinion, though, Matt’s timing could have been better—and certainly more romantic.