The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

  He pressed himself against the wall, hiding his face against his up-flung arm, as he imagined the surrender of her innocence—and despaired in case he was mistaken. Had another man beaten him to that delicious body? Was she already initiated into the ways of love?

  Carlo dragged in a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. He squared his broad shoulders and strode to the head of the grand staircase. He stopped. This was preposterous! Besotted by a slip of a girl who was in his employ. He must rise above such base feelings.

  Elizavetta scrambled up the marble steps towards him.

  “Where’s Nanny Angela?” she asked. “We were having fun with the squirting water.”

  Carlo scooped her up in his arms and settled her against his firm chest. “She’s gone to put dry clothes on, cara. And you must do the same.”

  “No, Papa...” the little girl wailed.

  Carlo turned and found himself face to face with the nanny, now clad in her customary black skirt and neat white blouse. His fingers itched to slip the chaste garment off her to expose her pretty breasts again. The blood rose in his cheeks, and in his loins.

  “Take her,” he snapped, pushing his daughter into Angela’s arms. But the four buttons on his sleeve became entangled in the nanny’s tousled curls and they were trapped together.

  “We must put Elizavetta down,” he grated. They managed a strange dancing bob until the little girl was set on her feet.

  Face to face again, Angela stood pressed against his telltale body as he tried to untangle her corn-gold curls from the sleeve of his impeccable dark jacket.

  “Grazie,” she said. The corners of her mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles.

  Carlo had no luck with his cat’s cradle of fine soft knots. Working one-handed was difficult, and up close the nanny was fragrant and tantalizing. He glimpsed her dainty breasts where the blouse opened against her neck. Imagined their tender pink peaks again. Tasted her still on his tongue.

  With an exclamation of frustrated longing he somehow shrugged off his jacket and thrust it into her arms. “I need two hands to do this for you.” His fingers returned to her hair where the sleeve was still comically snagged.

  “But of course,” she agreed. “Two are always so much better than one.”

  Meg leaned back. “Too much?” she asked.

  Romy and Liz shook their heads.

  “Very inventive,” Romy said.

  “Great little scene,” Liz agreed. “He’s got a lot to answer for, hasn’t he?” she said, glancing toward the tall, tanned and toned young man who’d just pushed himself away from the tree where he’d been leaning.

  The three of them watched in disbelief as a beefy bearded man approached, kissed him wetly on the mouth, and tucked an arm around him. Hip-to-hip they wandered off down the street.

  “Jee-sus!” Liz exclaimed.

  Meg choked on her wine, and Romy banged her forehead down on the table top with a whoop of laughter.

  The waiter chose that moment to return for their orders, and found three women with watering eyes, helpless giggles, and no idea of what they wanted for lunch.

  CHAPTER 24 - IAN GOES FOR GOLD

  The after-work appointments suited him well. He’d had five of them now, and was used to the routine. He’d be there again this evening, just as soon as he locked up Haroldson’s Plant Center and drove across town in the van.

  The first time had scared him silly, although it was a real buzz walking into the place with Liz.

  Going anywhere with Liz was a pleasure. People looked at her all the time, and then at him.

  He’d held the ground floor door open for her and she’d led him up a seedy staircase.

  “They do all sorts here,” she said. “Manicures and seaweed wraps and waxing and facials. They have the new stand-up suntan tubes, but the old beds are fine, and that’s what they do the cheap deals on. It’s nice, having a little lie down.”

  Ian nodded, having no idea what he was in for.

  Liz pushed open a swing door, and he nearly bolted. “Hi, Herbie,” she said.

  Herbie wore a red T-shirt, a tartan kilt and ankle length brown boots. He had beautifully shaped and colored fingernails.

  “Gidday gorgeous,” he said to Liz, and then looked at Ian.

  “New sun-bed client, Herbie. This is Ian.”

  Herbie stretched a huge hand across the faux marble counter-top with its bounty of beauty products. He gave Ian a hearty handshake and led them both out of the reception area.

  “You’re in number four, Liz .”

  She disappeared, and Ian flinched at her easy desertion.

  “And we’ll give you number six, mate.” He stood aside so Ian could enter the cubicle. “First time?”

  He nodded, speechless.

  “Right—put the UV shields on your eyes and the rest is up to you. Change position a bit so you’re evenly exposed.” He twisted a dial and the sun-bed flickered into humming life. “Tissues there, if you want to cover the old bloke. And this button here—” he made sure Ian could see—”lowers the lid. Auto-stop, so don’t panic.” He left.

  Ian pushed the bolt across to ensure privacy, and shot a look of extreme suspicion toward the brilliant buzzing monster he was expected to lie on.

  He took a deep breath, stripped to his briefs, and lowered himself with caution onto its creaking plastic surface. He adjusted the evil looking black eye shields and the world went away. Where the hell was the control button now?

  He prodded one shield up and fumbled for the switch. The lid shuddered down. He held his breath until it stopped, then relaxed a little and nudged the small pillow into a more comfortable position. Closed his eyes. And began to enjoy the warmth.

  Herbie had set a small fan going on an adjacent chair, and Ian soon imagined he was in Honolulu or Singapore or somewhere else where a suitably tropical breeze might be wafting. Quiet music with birdsong surged out of the ceiling. After a few minutes he tilted onto his left side to even up the exposure. Another little time went by and he wriggled further onto his right.

  It was becoming ever hotter. Fiery as the streets of Cairo where he’d set part of his spy novel. Career diplomat Curtis and belly dancer Anouska had travelled there from New York to meet a contact, and had been ushered at gunpoint into a small baking-hot outhouse. Their hands had been tied, their mouths covered with silver duct tape, and they were left alone in their unpleasant little prison.

  Curtis edged closer to her, trying to position his hands so they aligned with hers. Could he get enough purchase to loosen the knots that bound her wrists together? His own hands, invisible behind his back, felt increasingly numb. He needed to act now, while he had some vestige of feeling left.

  A high barred window opened onto the street, but the constant din out there meant their muffled moans were unlikely to be heard.

  Music blared somewhere close by—haunting Arabic quarter-tones and rhythmic drumming. Palm leaves fluttered and clattered above. Their spiked shadows played on the wall. Engines revved. Brakes squealed.

  A diesel truck had been parked for several minutes, motor thrumming, before roaring away into the distance. And raucous shouts sometimes pierced the constant background noise.

  Curtis’s legs were killing him. He’d folded himself against the wall, trying to give Anouska all possible comfort. Now his muscles were cramped and shot through with red-hot knives of pain. He gritted his teeth to withstand it, attempting to hide his suffering. Anouska’s trusting velvet eyes held his above her gag of shining tape.

  He wagged his head sideways to indicate she should move. Her brow creased with questions. He shuffled inch by inch across the filthy floor, trying not to think of the inevitable damage to his cream linen trousers.

  She closed her eyes in acknowledgement, and pushed her feet against the wall to gain some traction. Curtis grunted as his joints unbent a little and the pain intensified. Slowly, like deep-sea monsters mating in swirling dark currents, they repositioned themselves.
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br />   He hoped to achieve the ultimate comfort of untying her. But if all he could manage was a touch, a recognition of her beauty and humanity, that would be better than nothing. He leaned toward her and pressed his cheek against hers. She sighed and gave a small husky moan.

  Her long straight hair brushed over his skin. Her lush lips were an inch away, and might as well have been a mile. His parched mouth ached to kiss hers, but the adhesive on the silver tape held firm.

  He leaned away and resumed his agonizing shuffle, groping behind himself to make contact with her hands. The rough rope bit tightly against her tender skin, but he felt a frayed end, a place to begin worrying at. With infinite slowness and patience, he proceeded.

  Twenty minutes later, one hand was free. She knelt up and prized at his knots in turn. They loosened a fraction. The relief was maddening. He wanted to rip the rope away so he could embrace her.

  At that instant they heard footsteps close to the door, and the rattle of a key in the lock. They froze. Anouska clenched her hands in their expected position behind her back. Their filthy jailor wrenched the door open.

  “Water!” he barked.

  He set down an old metal bucket and plastic cup, then reached towards Anouska’s gag. He tore the tape from her face.

  Curtis shuddered. Anouska’s pain must be intense.

  She knelt, moaning, hands still appearing confined as he dipped the cup in the bucket and raised it to her lips.

  At last Curtis slipped his hands free. He would bide his time...see what the fellow had in mind for them before he revealed they were unbound.

  A dirty hand travelled down Anouska’s neck and caressed one of her breasts, sliding insolently over to her nipple and pinching it. She gasped, still recovering from the pain of the tape before registering this new indignity.

  But Curtis’s nerves were stretched to breaking point by this last horrible insult. He flexed his fingers several times behind his back and reared up onto his knees. Their jailor turned and gave an evil cackle, pulled the cup from Anouska’s mouth and flung the last of her water in Curtis’s face.

  At least that had taken the fiend’s mind off Anouska’s body for a few seconds. Curtis’s brain blazed with fury.

  There was no longer any sign of a gun. He ripped the tape from his mouth.

  “Back, darling!” he snarled, hoping she’d understand and obey. He lunged at their tormentor’s legs, managing to topple the scum so that his head cracked against the hard stone wall. While their jailer lay stunned, Anouska dipped out a cupful of water for Curtis, then staggered up and poured the rest out in a rushing silver cascade. She brought the bucket down with a mighty clang. Curtis winced. Two blows on the head like that should keep the bastard quiet for long enough—maybe forever.

  He tilted her face up to his and pressed a passionate kiss onto her inflamed lips. “More later,” he promised, draining half the water from the plastic cup and insisting she finish the rest.

  They slipped from their prison, locked the door and made their cautious way—

  There was a loud clunk and a whirr. Absolute darkness. Ian came awake with a jolt. His sun-bed session was over, and the lid had set him free. Disoriented and dozy he lurched to his feet, knocking the fan off the chair and making a lucky grab for it before it hit the floor.

  That night, is his distorted bedroom mirror, he saw his white skin was now the softest pink—except for the outline of his briefs. Herbie’s comment about ‘covering the old bloke’ swam through his brain. An all-over tan, eh? Well, it was private enough inside the little cubicle. Why not?

  And that’s why, at subsequent sessions, Ian lay down with a paper tissue tucked neatly around his willy, and his gardening gloves on to let his arms catch up with his hands.

  CHAPTER 25 - SLIPPERY AS A NEILL

  “Well, I don’t know what to make of him,” Romy said to Liz as they walked back to their cars together after the birthday lunch. “He’s always been so straight with me. Anything I’ve ever asked for has been done just about instantly.”

  “He’s a honey, your Neill.”

  “Well, not this time. He’s really digging his heels in. And I don’t think it’s a big deal at all. I’ve worked long hours for thirteen years. Including the whole seven I’ve known him.”

  “It’s time you had a break,” Liz agreed.

  “I know he works hard, and he’s great with the kids. But they’re all at school now. He could get a proper job and let me try writing full-time. I’d be there for them if they needed me.”

  Liz nodded. It seemed fair enough to her.

  “I’ve got a racy Regency on the go. It’s good. It’s better than anything else I’ve done. I want to really get stuck into it.”

  Liz made soothing noises.

  “I’ve been long enough with ADverts. They’ve more than had their pound of flesh from me.” Romy shook her dark curls in annoyance.

  “And Neill’s against it? That’s not like him. He’s always been wonderful.” Liz had often compared Neill’s competence and obliging nature with The Bastard’s inflexible behavior. Paul did nothing unless it suited him—Ingrid would no doubt twig to that before too long. Even Brett and Rosie knew that Daddy could be a prickly customer.

  “He says I can give up my job and write all day. That’s not the problem. But he’s dead against a permanent job for himself. He just slops about picking up fix-it jobs and getting recommendations from neighbors. Sometimes he works in the same street for weeks on end.”

  “So is it his lack of ambition that bothers you?” Liz asked with caution. “What did he do in Scotland?”

  “Worked on an oil-rig. Made good money and then came travelling.”

  “If he’s fine about you writing all day, what’s the worry?”

  Romy aimed the remote at her expensive little car and beeped it unlocked.

  “I can’t live like that, Liz. What if the next book doesn’t sell? I’ll feel unsafe. If you’d grown up like me, you’d be the same.”

  Her Romanian parents had struggled to set up their business in a new country. Her father had spoken English with difficulty. Her mother not at all. Yet they’d somehow thrived. And they’d pushed hard work and planning and contingencies into Romy with the baby food. She was organized, a stickler for detail, a strategist. ‘Spontaneous’ was not in her vocabulary.

  “You’ve cracked it, as far as I can see. Three books published already.”

  “Yes, but he’s not acting straight with me, Liz. He’s being...devious. He’s hiding something. I don’t like it. I’m getting very, very nervous. Sorry to dump this on you.”

  Liz shrugged. What could she say that would help? Nothing maybe. She changed the subject. “Here’s something to take your mind off Neill for a moment: Ian. I’ve got him having suntan sessions and made him buy some decent clothes.”

  Romy’s jaw dropped. “Ian?”

  “Absolutely. The Invisible Man. Tony’s attacking his hair on Thursday. I’m going to unveil him at the Christmas meeting.”

  “Ian? Dear old Ian? You must be joking?”

  “No—he’s quite hot under those awful clothes. Heaps better than I was expecting. He does a lot of hard physical work. A totally ripped body.”

  “Our Ian? Ian Haroldson?”

  “And I think a decent haircut will make a huge difference. He’ll be my Christmas treat for you all.”

  They laughed a little unkindly. For the last couple of years Ian had been an object of affection and gentle ridicule, although the girls had tried never to make either too obvious to him. He was so earnest about his Irises—showing his catalogue around with pride, reeling off incomprehensible botanical names to the group as he did so. They treated him rather like a lovable scruffy mongrel. He was harmless. He was devoted. He was simply there.

  Romy opened the car door and tossed her bag across to the passenger seat. “If he turns out well, maybe you could use him to bait Paul? Instead of my car and Neill’s shirt? A little favor in return for the make-over?” Sh
e sent Liz a wink as she belted herself in.

  Liz opened her mouth and snapped it shut again. “Just wait until you see him.”

  Romy’s car snarled into life and pulled away.

  Liz stood staring after her, tapping her teeth with her car key. Ian as bait for The Bastard...was it possible?

  CHAPTER 26 - MEG’S BIRTHDAY BONANZA

  While Meg and Romy and Liz enjoyed lunch, and planned who was bringing what for the pot-luck Christmas meeting, Al and Ben and Michael laid siege to her spare bedroom.

  Ben’s birthday present for her was a respectable computer desk which he’d spotted at a charity sale down the road.

  “Thirty bucks—fantastic!” he’d enthused. Al had hidden it in his garage for a week, and he and Michael had roped it somewhat precariously into the Audi’s trunk for the ride to Meg’s home that morning.

  “Watch the wall,” Al warned, wincing as the two boys lurched up the staircase and around the tight bend at the top. The two nosy cats skidded by.

  “We need to push the bed over the other way,” Ben panted, heaving the spare bedroom’s heavy old single around at right angles. “See—it’s great.”

  He grinned in triumph as Al and Michael slotted the desk beside it.

  With much subsequent cursing, the old computer from Ben’s room was untangled and re-installed upstairs. Meg had her writing space at last.

  “She’s familiar with that one,” Ben said.

  Meg used the modern library system at work for checking books in and out, chasing reserves, and the like. But the old home computer was where she did all her writing. And this salved Ben’s conscience no end, because he was now the proud owner of some cast-off equipment from Al’s office. At a very good price. Well, almost no price, really. As the boss, Al could swing these things for friends and family.