The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

  Dan had the next day off work so he arrived at lunchtime, bringing a bowl of his best risotto, a bag of assorted salad greens, and a very wriggly dog.

  “You didn’t have to bring food,” Sarah said, plainly pleased that he had. They sat at a shaded table in her sunny yard, eating and talking for far too long.

  Finally he sighed, stretched, and stood. “I promised Gran a visit today,” he said, reluctantly starting to tidy the lunch plates away. Sarah was easy company. He felt relaxed and wound up at the same time. How long since a woman had done that to him?

  Once he’d cleared the table she scooped Sweetie up from the lawn.

  “Trim first or wash first?” she asked.

  “I guess if you trim first there’s less to wash?”

  They achieved some sort of success with Dan holding and Sarah trimming, but it wasn’t easy, and Sweetie soon resembled a tousled mop instead of her silky self.

  “I thought you were used to doing Auric?” he asked.

  “I bath him but he doesn’t need trimming.”

  “The next bit’ll be easier then.”

  But Miss Sweetie treated the bath as a game, bursting out of the big basin of warm water Sarah had set on the table top, drenching Dan and eventually obliging him to remove his soggy denim shirt. Sarah’s blue tank was soon spotted with splashes, too—and Dan saw the outline of a pretty bra through the thin stretchy fabric, and the sweet curves of her breasts as she bent to restrain the sopping struggling dog.

  Sweetie yapped. Auric, confined to his run, howled in a deep sad voice.

  “This is hopeless,” Sarah snapped, pink and disheveled. “I’m going to let Auric out and see if she’ll hold still with him sitting close by.”

  “Up!” she said, indicating the sturdy timber bench beside the table. Auric instantly upped, and sat, and panted, feathery tail sweeping through the air and thumping the seat. His brown eyes glowed below their distinctive tan eyebrow spots. Sweetie put her head on one side and gazed adoringly at him. Sarah and Dan soon made much better progress.

  “They’re The Odd Couple,” Sarah said, rubbing Sweetie with a towel. “Do you think she’ll object to my hair drier?”

  “She’s objected to everything else,” he said, glancing at his watch and knowing his grandmother would soon be getting anxious. Sweetie took the noise and hot air in her stride as long as Auric stayed close. She even suffered the tangle-brush without too much complaint.

  Dan eased back into his damp shirt, clipped Sweetie’s lead on, and led his refurbished toy out to the car.

  Gran exclaimed with dismay at Sweetie’s new appearance but her eyes lit up when he started talking about Sarah. And he found her curiously easy to talk about.

  Two weeks went by. He and Sarah beach walked every morning, sometimes shared brunch when she didn’t have lectures, talked non-stop, and managed to see a couple of movies. Dan fixed the crooked latch on Auric’s run and the loose handle on one of Sarah’s kitchen cupboards.

  And then Gran’s cottage was sold. The new owners requested a short settlement date—the end of the month. With only a fortnight left, Dan knew he had to move out fast.

  “There’s a spare room at my place,” Sarah said in a very offhand manner as they packed up the last of Gran’s good dinner set together.

  “What about Richard?”

  “Not coming back.”

  “So?” What was she really offering?

  “So I need to rent out his room.”

  Okay, he could live with that and see where it led.

  Five nights later Dan parked his car in Sarah’s driveway, unlocked the front door with his own key, and headed for his king-sized bed.

  Sarah appeared in her bedroom doorway, covered neck to toes in a big pink robe, looking rumpled and sleepy and irresistible.

  “Come and see these dogs,” she whispered.

  Auric snored softly in his big dog bed in the corner of her room. Sweetie lay cuddled close against him, blissfully breathing with the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

  “Do you think it’s catching?” Dan asked hopefully.

  “Don’t get any ideas like that,” Sarah replied, sending him an unreadable grin.

  And as he left her room, he heard with ears well-used to cutting through the clatter and clamor of his restaurant kitchen, her quiet murmur of “yet.”

  Meg glanced up as Bobbie set a mug of coffee down beside her. Bobbie kept her eyes averted, looking as though she expected the guillotine blade to fall on her neck at any moment.

  “It’s lovely,” Meg said, laying the sheaf of pages beside the mug. “It’s a great little story. You’ve got it all. Nice hero and heroine. Something interesting going on. And a definite indication of a love affair to follow.”

  Bobbie gnawed her bottom lip, still looking far from convinced. “You really think it’s okay?”

  “More than okay. Well done, Bobbie. You have just the right voice for sweet and gentle romances. I can’t quite imagine you writing erotica, to be honest.”

  “I did find erotica pretty hard,” Bobbie murmured.

  Not to mention purple and forked, Meg thought.

  CHAPTER 43 – NEW YEAR’S HEAVE

  “Yep,” Ian yelled to the truckie. “Yep—bit further. That’s fine. Right there.”

  The truck braked with a deafening hiss. The driver leapt from the cab and engaged the machinery, swinging the dumpster down onto Meg’s driveway. The old Toyota sat drowsing on the front lawn, out of the way.

  He unhitched the clanking chains and reversed the hydraulics before roaring out of the gate. Meg peered over into the echoing steel space once he was gone.

  “We’ll never fill that!”

  “The next size down looked too small.” Ian stood, hands on hips, a happy man with a project under way. “I brought my loppers and the pruning saw. Your old Pittosporum needs a lot of dead wood taking out. The Pandorea’s running rampant over your fence and could do with a good chop back. I thought I’d tidy the garden for you by way of apology for the mess inside.”

  Meg, who was absolutely never up this early on a Saturday, nodded as though she’d always known the names of the half dead tree, and the dark-leafed creeper she sometimes took the clippers to when it started scratching the car.

  “I might have a go at that big flax bush around the back,” she offered. “There are lots of old stalks on it.”

  By later that morning they’d half filled the bin with vegetation, the garden looked better than it had in years, and Ian had taken his shirt off.

  Meg watched him from the kitchen window as she stirred three sugars into his tea. Not quite the fantasy plumber she’d conjured up, but not bad.

  He looked hard and whipcord-strong—with long muscles bunching under his sweat-sheened golden skin as he stretched and tugged and dragged and lifted. More like the dangerously sleek men in the Calvin Klein underwear ads than the bulgy one promoting the Bowflex gym machine on TV, she decided.

  No complaints at all, really.

  “Time you stopped,” she called, carrying his tea and her coffee out onto the back patio. He looked up from loading the wheelbarrow with the broken concrete which had lurked in a heap behind the garage for as long as she could remember. “Or would you rather have something cold?”

  He grinned and deserted the concrete. “Nah—tea’s always good. Three sugars?”

  “Three sugars. You must get through pounds of the stuff.”

  “Work it all off,” he said, unconcerned.

  If his chest hair was black, he’d be Carlo, Meg thought. She’d always pictured her Italian billionaire as a lean lanky hunk. One of these days the nanny would get a real treat.

  Every Italian Meg had ever seen was short and nuggety, with knotty muscles and often a little pot belly from too much good cooking. Rico Favucci from just down the road, for instance. And Gary’s old fishing mate, Leo. Ben’s rugby coach at school—Luca someone-or-other. But hey, this was fiction...

  “Anyway, did you send your partial off?�
� she asked.

  Ian lowered himself into one of the timber patio chairs, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and stretched both long arms to un-kink his shoulders. Meg watched as his chest expanded and his six-pack popped into sharp relief. Yes, she imagined he’d have looked good hanging out Liz’s panties the day before their last meeting. She averted her eyes before he opened his and caught her rather too admiring inspection.

  “Printed it out on Christmas Day. Synopsis, three chapters, query letter, postal coupon, self-addressed envelope. It’s a bit of a process, isn’t it? So now we wait.”

  “Now we wait,” she agreed. “Mine went on Tuesday.” She handed him his tea.

  “Mandy heard back quite fast.”

  “Faster than I’ve ever known it to happen. Maybe she struck a new keen editor?”

  “Maybe they really did like it?”

  Meg shook her head. “She’s got all the medical jargon, but she can’t really write. I don’t fancy her chances. She needs to finish the rest of the book, anyway. A partial’s one thing; a complete novel’s quite another.”

  Ian ran his hand back through his hair. “So no-one’s ever wanted the whole thing before this?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Not very. But she might amaze us.”

  “I’ll tell you who might—Eloise’s husband. She doesn’t think he has a show, but he’s a chatty little Welshman...one of those people who’s a born story-teller. Ever met him?”

  Ian slapped at a sandfly sampling his chest. “Don’t think so. Didn’t know he wrote. He could join our group.”

  “She’d never let him. He’d steal her thunder. She’s twitchy enough about Tigger being part of things for a while.”

  Meg raised her coffee, and then added, “I’m fairly sure Tigger chose my Ben as her holiday toy-boy.”

  Ian turned to her, mid swallow, and started to cough. “Damn,” he spluttered, setting the tea down. “Really?” He continued to cough and clear his throat for the next little while.

  Meg waited until he was quieter. “Surprised you, did I? They were definitely seeing each other, and I noticed tremendous scratches down his back. Fingernails for sure.”

  “Well, well. She’s a pretty little piece. I can’t take those dreadlocks though.”

  “Ben no doubt thinks they’re very cool.”

  “Ben’s twenty years younger than we are.”

  “Twenty-three,” Meg corrected. “My fortieth last month.”

  “And mine this month.”

  “We should have some birthday toasts at the next meeting, then.”

  Ian sucked air through his teeth. “God, no. Not after what happened at the last one. I won’t live that down for a while.”

  She laughed, remembering the chaos, and Vi’s accusations. “Liz seems to have recovered. I saw her in town on Christmas Eve. She was in a tearing rush to get away—nothing wrong with her that I could see.”

  “How did the chap in the bath towel go? Your bloke?”

  “Not really my bloke. Haven’t been out with him for a while now. Liz said Paul was pretty gob-smacked finding her with two different half naked men the same weekend. I think she achieved what she wanted.”

  “She’s quite a piece of work. Not that I’m complaining. She got me out of a rut, that’s for sure. And into trouble,” he added with a wry grin.

  Meg leaned back with her coffee, and they drank in companionable silence. Occasional bees zoomed past, breaking the ever present shrieking of the summer cicadas. A distant lawnmower droned in the background. The jasmine’s cloying fragrance sat heavy in the warm air.

  Ben and Michael had hitchhiked north to Auckland for the New Year’s Eve celebrations. Bobbie had gone camping with Jamie and some of his friends. Al had faded out of the picture somewhat. Meg presumed he was away on holiday somewhere. Although she relished her extra writing time, it was nice having a man for company again—even if it was only Ian.

  “Do you want me to have a go at the front border before I get stuck into the bathroom?” he asked.

  “You’ll be turning the water off for that?”

  “Not for a while. I’ve got the pipes capped.”

  “I might get a load of washing on, then. I’ll weed the border, Ian. You do the demolition.”

  “The rest of the demolition.”

  “You made a pretty spectacular start on it...”

  “Let’s hope the finished result is what you want. I’ve got the new pedestal basin in the van, by the way. And those tile samples you wanted another look at.”

  They fell into easy silence again and finished their drinks. He tipped his head back for a few minutes and soaked up the sun. “Right,” he said, stretching, standing, and reaching for Meg’s mug. He set both on her kitchen counter as he made his way through to the scene of the crime. “Can you give me a lift out with the old vanity when I whistle?” he called back over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 44 – TROPIC OF CAPRICORN

  Al had no idea why he’d agreed to it.

  He’d suggested Fiji or Hawaii. Surely two weeks alone in a tropical paradise would be time enough to break through her defenses?

  Liz had counter offered with a hands-off fortnight on the Gold Coast of Australia—accompanied by her children.

  “Great. Excellent. A real family holiday,” he heard himself say, as astonishment and frustration prickled through him.

  She shot him a wicked smile, accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a quiet “Yeah, right. I’ll make the bookings then.”

  His role seemed to be as their rental-car chauffeur. He ferried Liz and Brett and Rosie to the Dreamworld fun park and hung on grimly as various machines flung them around and threatened to steal their breakfast. He thanked his lucky stars Brett was too small to be allowed onto the huge rollercoaster, and then wished the boy was a bit older when he was dragged through the bouncy colorful kingdom of Wiggles World.

  He was captivated by the big cats at Tiger Island, though, and couldn’t help comparing Liz to the prowling beasts. Was it her graceful walk, or her tawny streaky chestnut hair, or the fact that she was just plain dangerous?

  He drove them all to The Big Pineapple and the ginger factory for tours of exotic fruit plantations and gift shops full of sugary treats.

  Feigned patience in huge shopping malls while Liz bought Rosie an extraordinary number of sparkly pink T-shirts, and Brett drooled over violent toys.

  Enjoyed himself rather more on the wildlife safari.

  And sighed with relief when he was allowed to stretch out on any of the spectacular beaches.

  He bought more ice-cream in a week than he had in the last five years; mopped up a howling Rosie when she spilled orange juice all over herself; supervised Brett’s visits to assorted gentlemen’s public toilets, and paid and paid and paid. And always Liz was near —in skimpy shorts, inadequate skirts, strappy tops, a brief black bikini, and a separate out-of-bounds bedroom.

  Everywhere they went, he watched the eyes following her. Men ate her up, and he bristled with indignation and pride. Women cast admiring and envious glances; he imagined they speculated she might be a fashion model on leave from the catwalks of Paris or Milan. He adored accompanying her, and burned as she continued to hold him at arm’s length. But nothing would have dragged him away.

  On the eighth evening she said, “Okay kids, you’re off to Auntie Helen’s tomorrow.”

  Al gave silent thanks for the respite from endless theme park visits—and Liz patted him on the butt and murmured the glorious words “And you and I are off to Heron Island.”

  “What? How?” he asked, caught unprepared.

  “We fly up to Gladstone and go out by helicopter. I’ve booked us a beachside suite for four nights. You’ve taken all the crap I’ve thrown at you, and now you get the payoff.”

  Stunned, grateful, disbelieving, he didn’t notice they had burgers yet again for dinner.

  “So tell me a bit more about this place.” They sat side by side at the small airfield by t
heir equally small bags. Liz had done a rigorous re-pack, and the excess had been deposited at Auntie Helen’s, along with Brett and Rosie.

  “It’s part of the Capricorn group, out on the Great Barrier Reef. Really small. Been a marine research station for years. Very unspoiled. No buildings higher than the trees. No day-trippers. Just reef walking and swimming and snorkeling. Nothing to distract us.”

  “Food?” he asked, very distracted indeed by the turmoil in his trousers.

  “Everything’s included. We entertain ourselves,” she added, placing her right hand on his left thigh and giving a gentle squeeze.

  Al still reeled with shock. Finally Liz’s enticing body seemed within reach. But however desperate he was to grab her and strip her naked and bang her brains out against the waiting room wall, he had no intention of jeopardizing the fortunate position he now found himself in. He ran his forefinger over the back of her hand in a soft circular caress and then lifted his finger away, pretending interest in the approaching helicopter.

  Liz squeezed a little harder.

  He smiled, rose, and approached the window to watch their craft land.

  Behind his back, Liz smirked. This was going to be fun.

  The clattering machine lifted, lurched, and then rose into the sky. Soon, sea the color of Liz’s eyes stretched to the horizon. Pieces of the huge reef embroidered the sea floor in fantastic haphazard scrolls through aquamarine water as clear as diamonds. Tiny bird-inhabited islets slipped by. And finally Heron Island hove into sight—a lush green teardrop in all the blue.

  “Magic flight,” Al said, once they’d alighted and it was quiet enough to talk.

  “Magic few days, with any luck,” Liz suggested, sending him a hot glance he refused to acknowledge. He knew playing hard to get was juvenile, but it was time she got a bit of her own treatment back, gorgeous little witch that she was.