The Bonk Squad (5 page)

“
Oh—and I had it all ready
to bring today, too,” she replied, reddening. She sloughed off her
garish yellow visibility vest and produced a flat package from its
pocket. “Muesli slice from the health shop,” she
offered.

“
Lovely. Thanks.” Meg took
the seedy stuff to the kitchen and arranged it on a
plate.

Ian had bought the chocolate biscuits
yesterday (women always liked chocolate). He’d finished his
synopsis and stashed it in the van. He’d rolled the brand new
layout for next season’s Iris catalogue in plastic bubble wrap so
the pages were ready for his ladies to admire.

He could talk forever about
the beauties of
chamaeiris
and
biflora
and
variegata
and
germanica
and
pallida
and
stylosa
, and many more Iris varieties
if given the chance.

Generally people didn’t give him the
chance.

And he’d showered.

He regarded his long body with
disfavor. The mirror in his bedroom was somewhat distorted, being a
cheap one from the nearest hardware store. But Ian was willing to
believe the slight bulge around his waist really did
exist.

His legs certainly were
that long and sinewy. His hair was a thick, brown, undisciplined
mop. His skin was
always
pale. You couldn’t risk working outside as he did
without covering up—the hole in the ozone layer was an ever present
threat to a nurseryman and garden center owner.

And his tanned hands looked
super-silly on the ends of his long, pale, hairy arms. Perhaps he
should wear gardening gloves more often? He remembered Lady
Chatterley watching her gamekeeper washing himself in a basin of
water outside his cottage. She’d contrasted Mellors’ white
shoulders with the ruddy brown skin of his neck.

Ian supposed he had a brown neck as
well. He twisted to see it in the mirror. Ah well, it hadn’t put
Lady Chatterley off. Great book, that. Really sensuous. He wished
he could write anything half as good.

Now he was standing side-on to the
mirror, his cock hung in profile. Like a disapproving nose poking
out of a bearded face. Long, like the rest of him. Some woman ought
to be making use of that, but where was she? Not at Haroldson’s
Plant Center, that was for sure.

He climbed into clean white Y-fronts,
dragged on a white singlet, a freshly ironed green shirt with long
sleeves to hide his pale hairy arms, and roomy jeans. He added a
wide leather belt to hold them up—liking his jeans loose because he
had to bend and stretch a lot with his job. He hopped about as he
pulled on his good black shoes to match the belt—a change from his
gardening boots or filthy old sneakers.

Done. His haystack of hair would be
dry by the time he arrived if he drove with the window open. He
grabbed his phone, the chocolate biscuits, and the Iris catalogue,
and loped out to his sign-written white van. Haroldson’s of
Hastings—Iris Specialists.

Today he intended reading his updated
synopsis to the group. His hero and heroine sounded fantastic. He
knew the conflict between them was now a great deal more intense
than when he’d first had the idea for the novel; Romy and Liz had
set him straight on that. And the resolution was a stunner—if he
could write it with enough emotion.

Ian kept his writing life entirely
separate from his work. He didn’t see why Mrs. Purvis and young
Lorraine and Jack Fulton should tease their boss about his ambition
to be a novelist. There’d be time enough to tell them he was a
writer once he had an actual book to wave in their
direction.

He drove a little faster than usual
along St Aubyn Street. The writing group was his treat for the
month, and for once there were no plants in the van to sway about
and get damaged. He tended to work seven days a week, living on the
premises as he did. Not that he minded. What else would he do with
his time? Might as well be making a buck or two.

But every fourth Saturday
afternoon was
his
.
He enjoyed the sense of shared purpose as the group read, and
discussed, and hoped, and dreamed about the books they’d one day
see in print.

And it wasn’t impossible—Romy had
proved that. Her third historical novel would be in the shops any
day now. She’d attached the design to the email she’d sent the
group, and then brought the shiny printed version along to show
them last time. They’d all fingered it with envy.

A spread-legged swashbuckling pirate
type—shirt flowing backward off impressive shoulders—stood braced
against the mast of a sailing ship.

Romy had been infuriated they’d used a
model with a smooth chest. Her heroine enjoyed running her fingers
through the crisp hair on her hero’s hard pecs and taut abdomen
apparently, so that made mincemeat of her story.

Ian enjoyed the women’s chat and
gossip. They were bitchy but bore no grudge longer than a few
minutes. He found them intensely co-operative and helpful, unlike
any male groups he’d been part of. The aggression of his old
football team and sailing crew were in stark contrast. Why was it
so damned important to be the one giving orders all the
time?

The boat lurched with a
sickening roll. He reached out a muscular arm and enfolded her
possessively.

“
Lean on me, Liz. You’re
safe now.”

She turned her huge
aquamarine eyes toward him in silent thanks. The sea roared like
thunder. It was far too noisy to attempt further speech.

She slipped from his grasp
and cannoned against the thigh-high storage locker, anchoring
herself with slender fingers thrust into the tangled ropes. Ian
sheltered her with his body, desperate to bring warmth to her
shivering frame.

She moaned his name,
trembling with fear. He drew closer, enticed by her soft feminine
neediness, and tightened his arm again, wishing she would accept
more than mere body-heat from him. She twisted a little, and his
hand enclosed the soft swell of her breast. He caressed the
treasure gently, searching out the rosy peak that his lips yearned
to suckle.

Liz drew a sharp breath
and moaned his name again. He lowered his face to her creamy neck,
nuzzling amongst her luxuriant hair until his hot breath warmed her
chilled skin. He chanced a tiny kiss—the merest brush of his aching
lips against her glorious flesh.

The boat pitched and
yawed, and he was thrust hard against her. He was thrust against
her, hard. He was hard—he thrust against her.

Make up your bloody mind,
Ian!

Liz’s thin muslin dress
had been ripped away by the raging waves. Her long sinuous back
pressed against him, smooth and supple. The gentle undulation of
her spine drew his lips downward. A kiss for this little bump...a
lick for this pretty knob...a nibble here, a nip there. His mouth
slid lower until it encountered a tiny strap of lavender lace
traversing her hips.

He tore at it with his
teeth, reveling in the sound of it ripping away from her body,
leaving her most luscious flesh exposed for him.

Still she sprawled across
the locker. Still her hands grasped the ropes for safety. Her long
legs were spread-eagled to maintain her balance, but the water had
now calmed a little.

Ian pressed against her,
his tattered trousers no barrier between them. His hot flesh
invaded hers, and the waves rocked them ever closer to their
precipice of pleasure.

The van tire scraped against Meg’s
curb, and Ian wrenched himself back to reality.

Dammit! He’d entirely lost the
sensation. He groaned with frustration. Liz had attracted him from
the first moment he’d met her. She was so far out of his league he
wouldn’t consider attempting to chat her up. But a good
brain-fuck—that was a different matter. He was quite accomplished
at those.

Was she already inside the house? Her
blue SUV wasn’t parked in the street, but she sometimes got a ride
with Romy.

It seemed only decent to stay in the
van for a few minutes until he was feeling less randy. Sighing, he
reached for his synopsis. One final read through might do the
trick.

What could you
do
with a
twenty-two-year-old daughter? Leave her at home so she’d waste
hours on the phone to her boyfriend half a world away in
London?

Send her out with local friends and a
pocket full of your own hard earned money—because the girl wasn’t
looking prosperous.

Or take her along to the
meeting?

Eloise Thomas sighed with displeasure.
Of course it was lovely to see her. But it would have been good to
get some notice, instead of having a dreadlocked stranger arriving
on the doormat at dinner time, shouting ‘surprise!’

She was a dear girl, really. But the
hair was a shock. Her glorious tumble of curls had been reduced to
a collection of frizzy matted sausages. And she wore the oddest
shoes, claiming they were the latest thing. Working for the Royal
Mail, if you please—out in all weathers delivering letters into
suburban letterboxes. So much for the brave words about big money
in the computer world of London...

No, she could come to the meeting,
like it or lump it. Eloise’s bank balance was at an all-time low.
If Tigger had spent her postman’s wages on a fancy laptop and
airfares home, with no thought to supporting herself during her
holiday in New Zealand, well that was her look-out.

Another gusty sigh followed
the first one. Did she think her long-suffering mother was made of
money? Plum parts were thin on the ground once an actress hit
forty. Of course Eloise had her regular radio commercials with Baz
and Pamela. But no juicy TV roles so far this year. And the stage
work paid nothing—
nothing
!

She stubbed out her cigarette next to
the plughole in the kitchen sink, wrinkled her nose at the smell,
and turned the water on hard to swill the ash away.

If only she could sell a novel or
two—with huge print runs, foreign language translations, heaps of
royalties—she’d be happy at last. Johnno’s wages as a woodwork
teacher hardly kept them in luxury.

And he gave her no encouragement at
all.

Other husbands were helpful when the
computer played up.

And consoling when rejection slips
arrived.

Not to mention physically
inspirational.

Liz’s ex was an absolute hunk. If
someone like The Bastard wandered about the house semi clad and
sleepy eyed she’d have no trouble inventing sexy stable boys and
lusty lords and delightful dukes. Johnno Thomas was five foot nine
and fifteen stone these days. But she had to admit he was okay in
the dark—still had that heart-stopping deep suggestive voice that
had snared her in the first place. With the soft Welsh
persuasiveness. And the wicked sense of fun.

But instead of being the short,
intense, edgy ball of energy that she’d first known, he was...a
lethargic, cuddly teddy bear.

“
Are you ready, Tig?” she
called.

Unwisely she’d named her first and
only child Antigone. An-tiggo-nee. Greek—daughter of Oedipus. A
beautifully dramatic name, she’d felt at the time. Ideal for the
daughter of a successful actress who’d appeared in both a TV drama
series and on the cover of the Woman’s Weekly.

Johnno had resisted, of course. “I’ll
call her Tigger then,” he’d confirmed in his husky Welsh lilt. He’d
been hoping for Myfanwy, or even better, a son.

“
Okay if I bring something
I’ve written?” Tigger asked.

“
Something you’ve done for
the meeting?”

“
No—months ago. It’s a sort
of try-out for a novel. Just the first chapter. I’ve got a bit
bogged down. I thought maybe your group could get me going
again.”

“
Darling, this is very
exciting!
Two
writers in the family. Well, well.” (She was secretly quite
miffed. How dare the girl just announce it casually like
this?)

“
Three,” Tigger said. “What
about Dad?”

“
What
about
Dad?” Eloise asked with
narrowed eyes.

“
His book. The island
thing.”

“
Ohhh...” Eloise sighed,
flapping a hand as she tried to recollect anything Johnno had ever
said about writing a book. Surely not. Trying to outshine her, was
he? “I don’t think that’s a very serious project,
darling.”

“
Mom, he’s steaming along
these days. Over half way through.”

“
But Tigs, he never goes
near the computer. I think perhaps he’s having you on.”

Antigone shook her head. The dreadful
dreadlocks bounced over her shoulders. “He’s doing it at school.
Starts the kids going on their woodwork project and leaves them to
get on with it, unless they want to ask him something. Uses the
classroom computer. He’s got the manuscript on a flash drive in his
briefcase.”