The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

  “We were somewhat drunk,” she muttered.

  “Did he manage to? Grope you?”

  “A bit. And all hell broke loose because Vi caught us at it. Then the pipes burst,” she added, leaving several confusing scenes competing for attention in his brain.

  “But you’re all right?”

  “Fine. The x-rays showed nothing broken.”

  “He hurt you?” The demand was lethally quiet. Al’s gaze roamed over Liz’s perfect face and body.

  “Not much, as it turned out.”

  “What the hell happened? Start from the beginning.”

  “The beginning,” she mused. “All of us having drinks on an empty stomach I suppose. Disgusting sweet sparkling stuff that slid down too damn easily. Then quite a lot more wine with lunch. And Vi made a trifle with about a gallon of sherry in it. We were all half plonked.”

  “Not your average subdued literary luncheon then?”

  She gave a twisted little smile. “We only do the lunch once a year. The rest of the time it’s tea and coffee at the afternoon meetings.”

  “And when did you get attacked?”

  “Far from that. It was supposed to be a thank you kiss. We were in the bathroom.”

  “Together?”

  Liz waved the inquiry away. “Forget it, Al. It’s not the way it sounds.”

  The waiter approached before she could explain further, leaving Al simmering, and wondering how else it could possibly be made to sound.

  “And?” he demanded, once the menus had been supplied, and some waiterly chat dispensed.

  “Let’s leave it. Vi burst in. The vanity broke. I landed on the floor. The pipes gave way. Lots of water, not much blood, okay?”

  “And who was this drunken clown who made the pass?”

  “Only Ian—my Friday night lover.”

  Al’s blood pounded in his ears. He’d heard Meg mention Ian, so the name wasn’t a total surprise.

  “Like you’re going to be my Sunday night lover,” Liz continued in the nick of time.

  He’d been close to making a total fool of himself; Liz had fired up every protective instinct in his big body. He floundered in deep water, surrounded by sharks.

  “Not for real, then?” he ground out.

  “About as real as you’ll be.”

  He clenched his very good teeth together and gave her a tight smile.

  “I might just have two entrees,” she said airily. “It was quite a big lunch. What are you having?”

  You—however long it takes.

  CHAPTER 40 – WET DREAMS

  Johnno had never been more pleased that Eloise had immersed herself in drama. Oblivious to the rest of the world, she spent hours transforming herself into Mrs. Robinson.

  It couldn’t have come at a better time; he was neck-deep in treachery, intrigue, and sea water.

  Although school had closed for the long summer break, Johnno continued to arrive with a packed lunch and Thermos of tea to spend uninterrupted days at one of the classroom computers.

  His story had him by the throat; no way in the world could he leave it alone. Even on Christmas Day, while forced to spend ‘family time’ with Eloise and Tigger, he wheedled Tigger into providing him with information off the internet.

  “Can you Google me up a map of New Caledonia?”

  Her fingers danced on the keys of her ever-present Mac, and she swiveled the screen toward him. He leaned on the outdoor table where the smeared lunch plates still remained, and peered at the long narrow island deep in the South Pacific Ocean.

  Eloise dozed in her new Christmas lounger under the big canvas market umbrella, eyes closed, ears open.

  “There’s Noumea, so where would Port Plaisance be? Can you expand that—get in any closer?”

  Tigger twiddled. “Ah, so that’s your marina,” she said. “You’ve got him landing there?”

  “Not yet...not yet...” Johnno muttered. “He’s been anchored off the Isle des Pins for a while, keeping out of their way. Remember all those tall narrow trees, Ellie? Not pines as we know them—more like Norfolk Pines with monkey-tail fronds? I wonder if they’ve got any caves nearby? I need a cave.”

  He pored over the map a while longer. “Anse Vata—we went swimming there on that holiday a few years back. Nice beach.”

  Eloise shifted in the lounger, making it creak.

  “Remember that?” he asked, well aware she was awake and listening. “Anse Vata beach? The big black sunhat you bought? And the wind wouldn’t leave it alone? The old chaps playing boules?”

  “Waste of money, that hat,” Eloise said. “I couldn’t pack it to bring it home.”

  “Ah, but you did look the part, my girl, with those huge sunglasses and the sarong. I could give Francine a sarong like that...” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  “If she’s French, it would be a pareu.”

  “Eh?”

  “A sarong’s Malaysian. The Polynesians call their wraparounds pareus. Where’s she from?

  “Tahiti.”

  “Well, there you are then...” The smugness in Eloise’s voice came very close to pricking Johnno’s post-lunch euphoria. He counted very slowly to ten.

  The pathway across the sea glittered in the early light. The first rays of the sun settled like a dusting of pollen on the topmost branches of the tall primeval trees. Almost as though they were rising out of their island, they became molten gold.

  Cooper watched, alone. The ocean rested calm now—the best time of day to slip ashore unnoticed.

  A few minutes passed before the ketch swung around far enough to obscure the dinghy from the beach. He stepped down into it, rigged up his hastily created ‘fisherman’ and rod, and sank into the water. If anyone had him under observation from the shore it would now look as though he was attempting to catch his breakfast.

  He swam fast, keeping low in the water, and raising his head only the bare minimum of times.

  She waited in the cave.

  “Francine,” he groaned, pulling her to him and pressing his wet body along the length of hers.

  “Cooper!” she exulted, wrapping herself around him to warm and comfort his cool flesh. “Ah, Cooper...it’s been too long.”

  “Ssshhhh...” he said as the heat began to build between them, spreading as it always did until they were consumed by their fierce need for the other.

  “I didn’t think it would be today,” she murmured between kisses. “But when I saw the ketch out there at dawn, I hoped.”

  “Have you been able to contact Luc?” he asked, wrestling with the knot of her green and white pareu, knowing full well she wore nothing under it, just for him. He slid the fabric away from her rich coffee-hued skin and traced the path from her jaw to her luscious breast with his tongue.

  “Yes, Luc is on standby,” she groaned as he suckled at her puckered chocolate nipple.

  “And Dupres?” he demanded as he moved to pleasure its twin.

  “Dupres has the merchandise,” she confirmed, sliding her hands under the waistband of his swim-shorts and attempting to push them down over his hips.

  “So everything is in place? There’ll be no mistakes?”

  She knelt and worked the clammy shorts past his erection and on down his legs.

  “No mistakes,” she whispered, closing her soft lips around his shaft and then drawing away. Cooper groaned.

  Francine gazed up at him—her dark eyes holding his silver-blue ones, her dusky skin now jeweled with water from his swim. Her lush breasts swayed as she moved.

  For him this was paradise after the long weeks alone at sea. “Come into the ocean with me.”

  She drew a sharp breath.

  “I want to bury myself in your heat while the sea rocks us both insane with pleasure.”

  “No, don’t jeopardize your cover now you’re so close. You don’t know who might be watching through a telescope.”

  “I’m just a yachtie out for an early-morning swim. No knife. No gun.”

&nb
sp; She raised her shoulders in a very Gallic shrug.

  “Spread my pareu out,” she suggested. “The sand here is soft. You mustn’t risk being seen in the open, and especially not with me.”

  “You want no public connection at all?”

  “Only private connection,” she murmured, drawing him down beside her as the sun continued its slow climb up the cloudless sky.

  CHAPTER 41 – MARCY MESSES UP

  She chewed on a long strand of hair.

  Bastard!

  Thought he could treat her to dinner and then waltz on inside with her, did he?

  Scumbag!

  Reckoned a ride in his fancy car and two entrees and crème brulee was foreplay?

  Dream on, Mr Sabatini. It’s going to take more than that.

  Liz tossed, wide awake. It was barely six o’clock on a sunny Sunday. She was too hot. The sheets were noisy. The summer light seeped in around the Roman blinds.

  She snapped on the bedside lamp, dragged the laptop out from under the bed, booted up, and scrolled through to the Marcy folder. She’d let Marcy loose like a half-starved Pit-bull and see how Alan Freaking Sabatini liked that.

  “Where are you today, Marcy?” she wondered. “Are you shopping, girl? Are you hang-gliding off the Empire State? Are you maybe at the firing range with your pistol aimed right between the eyes of a tall dark Sicilian?”

  Or are you...? Yes, maybe you are...

  Marcy hooked her thumbs into the suspenders holding up her lacy black stockings, pulled, and snapped the elastic back onto her long thighs. She lifted one spike-heeled scarlet shoe, grasped her ankle in her hand, and raised her leg until she’d achieved the splits against the long silver pole.

  If her audience had been dogs, the drooling would have been disgusting.

  But her audience was two dozen top level businessmen, hidden in the shadows of the dark smoky club. All eager for a glimpse of female flesh, and willing to pay handsomely to admire hers.

  She wrapped her arm around the pole to hold herself upright, then bent and straightened her knee, rubbing up and down in time to the slow throbbing music. Every eye in the room followed.

  She hooked her raised leg around the pole and swayed backward until her long hair brushed the dusty stage. Her back arched like a bow; her breasts strained to be free of the tightly laced corset.

  She writhed like a beautiful snake, around and around the shining silver shaft, giving them first a cheeky slice of bottom, then an open-thighed glimpse of pussy with the narrowest strip of crimson silk across it, and next a luscious sweep of shoulder and a smoldering pout directed with devastating accuracy into the eyes of every man present.

  She leaned against the pole, pretending fatigue, rubbing up and down like a sinuous Siamese cat.

  At the twitch of a hidden cord the straps over her shoulders gave way. The corset’s lacy cups slid lower. A collective murmur of anticipation rose from her audience. And she turned her back, denying them their treat.

  She bent from the waist, displaying her endless legs and enticing bottom...swayed to the primitive rhythm of the music and shook her breasts free of their constraints.

  She turned, pretending not to notice that her big dark nipples were now on display.

  Her audience leaned forward. Trousers were adjusted. Banknotes were produced.

  Marcy prowled the central walkway, suffering the wayward caresses as eager hands tucked generous donations into her stocking-tops, behind her suspenders, up under the barely-there thong, into the lowered cups of her black and red corset.

  At the end of the walkway one tall man sat, impassive.

  Marcy raised her foot and planted the cruel spiked heel of her scarlet shoe close to his groin. His dark eyes shot sparks, and his nostrils flared with lust as her scent wafted across the small space between them.

  She rubbed her finger and thumb together in the age old sign for money.

  None was forthcoming.

  She ground her heel down.

  He barely flinched.

  But his hand shot out and grasped her ankle, tipping her off balance so she tumbled into his arms.

  Marcy struggled—to no avail.

  “Dammit, Marcy,” Liz wailed. “You’re supposed to be the winner here!”

  CHAPTER 42 – THE CROSS MALTESE

  “I’ve written a story for that contest,” Bobbie said, sending Meg a nervous glance across the kitchen. “It’s not like anything I’ve written before.”

  “Not erotica then?”

  “Goodness, no. You couldn’t write erotica for a competition, could you?” She looked down at the floor again, blushing pinkly. “And I don’t think I was very good at it anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t know. You never showed us any,” Meg said, feeling guilty about spying on the chained warrior. “So is this for the Chapter Bookshop Contest?”

  “Mmmm. Fifteen hundred words. It’s not easy when you’re only allowed that many. To make anything happen, I mean. But Jamie has this boxer dog he rescued from the fire…”

  Meg raised an encouraging eyebrow. This didn’t sound too promising. A dog story? “So is it about the rescue? You could make that quite exciting, but it does need to have elements of romance.”

  Bobbie shook her head. “No, not the rescue. Jamie and I were in Napier—on that big beach walkway they’ve built—and there were all sorts of dogs being walked, and it got me thinking.” Suddenly she produced a sheaf of paper from behind her back and thrust it toward Meg. “Would you read it for me? Tell me if it’s worth sending?”

  Meg glanced down at the first page. “Inseparable,” she read. “Nice title. I’d love to.”

  “There’s no hurry.”

  “Fifteen hundred words won’t take long. Put the kettle on and I’ll read it right now.”

  “Oh. Well. Only if you want to. It’s probably no good anyway.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Meg said, sending blushing Bobbie an encouraging smile.

  “Control that great hairy beast!” Dan Carpenter yelled as half a ton of slavering shag-pile rug barreled across the sand apparently intent on killing Miss Sweetie.

  The girl he’d been introduced to only as ‘Sarah’ let out a piercing whistle and her enormous Bernese Mountain Dog skidded to a halt, dropped to its haunches, and continued to eye Miss Sweetie as though she was lunch.

  “Good boy, Auric,” Sarah called across the breezy beach.

  Dan had joined the Bolton Bay dog walking group almost by accident. For the last fortnight he’d pounded past them on his morning run, and one day someone had called out, “Get a dog, mate, and then you can go slower.”

  “I’ve got a dog,” Dan yelled back, cutting his speed down for a few seconds. “I’m looking after one for someone.”

  “Bring it along and join us,” a ponytailed blonde invited. Dan had noticed her each time he ran. He didn’t need asking twice.

  “We’ve got the wrong dogs,” he said the following morning. Slim blonde Sarah with her jaunty ponytail should have Miss Sweetie, his grandmother’s snowy Maltese Terrier. Gran had sometimes tied Miss Sweetie’s topknot up with a shiny pink ribbon so she had her own little ponytail.

  And he needed the Bernese Mountain Dog—or at least something more masculine than his perky white bundle of mischief. A chunky black Labrador, or even better a bronzy Boxer with its streamlined muscles and athletic gait. Dan considered himself streamlined and athletic. Bronzy too, with his summer tan and streaky brown hair. Weren’t dogs supposed to echo their owners’ looks?

  “I didn’t choose him,” Sarah said. “I got landed with him when my boyfriend Richard left for the States. But he’s such a honey.”

  Dan wondered if she meant Richard or the dog until she added, “He won’t hurt her,” as she crunched across the sand beside him.

  Miss Sweetie looked far from worried. She pranced right up to enormous Auric and sniffed his black and tan legs. He lowered his massive head and snuffed and wuffled the length of her excited wriggling body.

>   The little Maltese Terrier seemed to adore beach-walking, and had unaccountably chosen the huge Mountain Dog as her special companion.

  Which gave Dan the ideal excuse to stride along beside forthright Sarah.

  “So why do you have a fluffy toy?” she asked him in return.

  “I didn’t choose her either. She’s my grandmother’s dog, but Gran finally got too ill to live at home and had to go into care. I’m staying in her cottage until it’s sold, house-sitting I guess. I take Miss Sweetie to visit her every couple of days. They feel it’s therapeutic.”

  “How do you have all this time free?”

  Great. First she thinks I have an effeminate dog and now she suspects I’m a beach bum on the dole.

  “I’m a chef, so I try to run or surf most mornings before I start cooking.”

  She nodded at that. “I bet you pay for it at the other end of the day though.”

  “You get used to it.” And because she’d asked about him, he felt he could reverse the questioning. “How about you?”

  “I’m a nurse, so I know all about evening shifts,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m only working part time this year so I can finish my Masters.”

  “Get away from there, Timmy!” one of the men yelled as a Cocker Spaniel started to roll in something that was probably rotten fish. The rest of the group—all retired—called their own dogs to heel.

  “Is she a show dog?” Sarah asked, eyeing Miss Sweetie’s long sand-sweeping coat. The pristine white had become decidedly grubby around the edges, and it was a magnet for bits of dried seaweed and twigs. By contrast Auric’s distinctive white face-stripe and chest looked crisp and clean against his massive black body.

  Dan shook his head. “Spoiled rotten though. My grandmother’ll have a fit if she sees her in this state. I’ll have to find a groomer to give her a bath and a trim.”

  “Save your money,” Sarah said, patting Auric as he bumped against her thigh for attention. “I’ll do it for you if you like. I’m used to bathing this big boy, so how hard can a little squirt like her be?”