The Bonk Squad Page 17

  Tony tilted Ian’s head forward and ran a caressing hand down from his crown to his neck.

  “Nice-shaped skull,” he said. “Hold it there.”

  Ian flinched as electric clippers buzzed up the back of his head. More hair cascaded down. “Jesus,” he muttered.

  “We’re getting close,” Tony drawled, swinging the chair around and crouching so he could inspect Ian eye-to-eye.

  He cupped Ian’s face in his long bony hands, tilted it this way and that, then ran his fingers through what remained.

  “Don’t look so scared, man. You’re the ultimate bad-ass city-boy now. Lizzy’s gonna love ya.”

  He dug something sticky out of a gold pot, rubbed it between his palms, stroked it into Ian’s newly shaped hair, gave a couple of casual tweaks, and swung him around to the mirror to inspect the final result.

  Who the hell was staring back at him?

  The man in the mirror looked ten years younger and belonged in a glossy magazine. He had razor-sharp cheekbones, small neat ears, and dense chocolate hair cut close to the sides of his head. Longer strands spiked on top and flopped casually over his brow.

  Ian took a deep breath and regarded himself with disbelief. He angled his head to the left…to the right. He sat up straighter.

  “Yeah baby—you’re beautiful,” Tony teased as he removed the silver wrapper and shook Ian’s trimmings onto the salon floor.

  CHAPTER 31 – FORK ME!

  Meg ground her teeth together and fumed. Al took up way too many of her evenings. Bobbie lurked, pale and pretty with her new boyish haircut, in the writing den, trying not to get in the way...being totally in the way. Only lunchtimes were now available for writing—and scribbling on a notepad in the staff-room was far from satisfactory. Meg had been separated from her computer for a whole week. It was killing her.

  She turned into her driveway, parked the Toyota, grabbed the groceries, and slammed the car door to get her own back on the unfairness of life. It caught the seatbelt and didn’t latch. Cursing, she set the bags down and tried again. A can of mixed bean salad intended for Bobbie tipped, escaped and rolled off down the slight slope. Meg heaved a very deep sigh.

  “I’ll get it,” Bobbie’s still-husky voice assured her from where she waited by the front door.

  “You’re up and about then? Feeling better at last?”

  “I went to work this afternoon. Just half a day. But yes—I’ll be okay now. People were so nice.”

  “About the fire? I should hope so.”

  “The fire? I suppose. But I meant my hair really. And Liz’s clothes.”

  “The butterfly has come out of her chrysalis,” Meg said, hoping the butterfly would soon flutter off and set up home elsewhere.

  “Is it all right if I’m not here for dinner tonight?”

  She asked so shyly that Meg’s radar pinged onto Supersensitive. “A date?”

  “Oh, not really. Not at all. I mean...” Bobbie’s confusion became more delicious by the second. She took a deep breath. “My old landlord Mr MacArthur...um...well, his son really...called by just after you left. He brought me here the night of the fire. I was so dopey and shocked I didn’t know who it was at the time. Well...”

  Her face was a study in embarrassment and hope. After long practice with a teenage son, Meg stayed silent until Bobbie continued.

  “I’d only ever seen him out the window. Never spoken to him at all. And in the dark...” She trailed off again, dropping her eyes from Meg’s and gazing out over the street.

  “He always looked nice. And he was nice, bringing me here when he should have been helping his parents with all their mess that night.” Bobbie rocked from foot to foot, eyes down, cheeks blushing. “Anyway, he found some photos in his car. They must have slipped out of my album. He brought them around this morning.”

  “And asked you out for dinner?”

  Bobbie nodded. “Only at his parents’ place,” she added in a hurry. “They’re renting a house until the insurance gets sorted out, and so on. We’re going there.”

  “You could go somewhere else for a drink first,” Meg suggested. “Or to a movie afterwards?”

  “He’s called Jamie,” Bobbie murmured. “Jamie MacArthur. He’s lovely. He’s a university lecturer. He has a dog he rescued from the fire.” She looked down at her feet. Meg glimpsed shiny red toe-nails. That was new!

  “We had coffee this morning,” Bobbie added. “I was all ready to go to work, but somehow I stayed here. And he didn’t seem to want to leave. We sat in the sun for ages.”

  Meg knew an opportunity when she saw one. “Would you mind if I had a session at my computer while you’re gone?” she asked, seizing the first opportunity in a week to transcribe her scribbled pages.

  “No—of course not. I’ll go and take my flash drive out.” Bobbie drifted inside, forgetting the can of bean salad she’d offered to rescue.

  Meg’s heart expanded. It was Al’s night for Rotary. Ben had early evening cricket practice. Bobbie would finally be out of the way at last. A little more progress with Carlo and the nanny might be possible.

  She disposed of the shopping, made coffee, grabbed a slice of bread and honey, and headed up the stairs.

  “If you’re out and about, you’ll need a key,” she called through Bobbie’s doorway. “You can come in late then and you won’t disturb Ben or me.”

  She rummaged in the odds and ends drawer for Gary’s old front door key—the one she always put under the big plant pot for electricians or plumbers when she needed work done on the house.

  “Yours for the duration,” she said, dropping it into Bobbie’s outstretched palm.

  How long would ‘the duration’ be? When could she have her computer back full time?

  Bobbie wrestled the key onto her Amnesty International key ring. “I won’t be very late.”

  “Stay as long as you like,” Meg encouraged, hoping to gain as much time as possible for her three chapter partial.

  The moment Bobbie trotted downstairs Meg shot into her den and settled herself in front of the keyboard like a mother hen fluffing herself down over a brood of chicks. The goldfish in the screen saver image swam to and fro through waving fronds of waterweed.

  Good, Meg thought. She’s left it on.

  She jiggled the mouse, and surprise hit her as she found writing not her own. Apparently the can of mixed bean salad wasn’t the only thing Bobbie had forgotten.

  The cave lay eerily dark; candles flickered in the far-most recesses, but illuminated almost nothing. Mordilla crept forward, ears straining to catch the barely human sounds that had drawn her there.

  The noise came again. An anguished grunt. Then the sharp metallic jingle of chains bumping against solid rock. Something—someone?—lurked deep inside the granite prison, confined by god-knows-what cruel method.

  A huge shadow swept over the wall nearest to her, and she reared up in terror, feet glued to the spot, biting back her instinctive scream and somehow staying silent.

  Another deep grunt. Another rattle of chains as the shadow retreated, as though a giant beast had lunged forward to test his bonds and then slumped in defeat.

  Mordilla’s heart thumped. Although her footfalls were silent, she was certain the prisoner would hear the thundering pulse that filled her ears with its hectic beat. She stood stock still for long minutes, listening, detecting only the faint inhalation and exhalation of hoarse and desperate breathing.

  All her senses were honed super-sharp now; her eyes accustomed to the gloom...her delicate nostrils flaring at a disturbing musky scent carried on a wafting stream of air. The hairs lifted on the back of her neck in anticipation of danger ahead. Yet something drew her on.

  The beast was apparently restrained and could do her no harm. But what of his captors? Surely the candles indicated another recent presence?

  With infinite caution she crept along, pressed to the chilly wall, until she could peer around the final protrusion of rock.

  She froze.
>
  A naked male god was crucified there. Tall, lean, muscular, and the most beautiful creature Mordilla had ever set eyes on. A dark blindfold covered his eyes. Emboldened by the knowledge he couldn’t see her, and seeing no other person in the cave, she stepped away from the wall and inspected him.

  Leather thongs bound his wrists to rings set high in the granite. Too high for her to reach yet. But it was the chains which grabbed her complete attention.

  From a ring in the rock, the links had been twisted around his magnificent up-thrust erection and then secured to a second ring on the far side of his body. He was literally held prisoner by his penis. It pulsed, purple and slippery, as Mordilla’s anxious eyes examined him.

  “Don’t be scared,” she murmured.

  He grunted. She had no idea if it was with fear or surprise or lust.

  “Don’t be scared,” she repeated. “I know how to release you. Trust me.”

  She licked her dry lips.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “A friend,” she replied. “Mordilla, daughter of Prince Horvath.”

  She reached for one of the flickering candles and held it closer so she could inspect him. He was a warrior for sure—there were guard-marks incised into his muscular thigh. And close above, his long chained cock was now hers to admire...hers to enjoy. Its forked end writhed with fantastic veins that looked alive with passion.

  Mordilla ran her hands over his taut belly and he flinched at her touch. He was hot, smooth, and utterly male. She wanted that skin against hers...that magic rod embedded deep inside her.

  She stripped off her gossamer gown and panties, and straddled his long hard sex.

  “I know it’s impossible for a man to deflate himself once he’s aroused,” she murmured. “Let me be your release vessel. Then, once you’re empty, I’ll slip the chains away and you’re halfway free. We’ll worry about the leather later.”

  Greedily she impaled herself upon him, plunging and sliding, advancing and withdrawing, thrilling as the flesh-warmed links of the chain caressed her clit.

  Jesus Bobbie! You’ve never done it, have you!

  Meg couldn’t imagine grinding her own tender body parts against a steel chain. What a turn-off...

  And surely the ‘pulsing purple’ description had been lifted straight from Eloise’s stable lad story? Where had the writhing veins come from? Had Bobbie ever seen an aroused man? She seemed to have no clue at all what a male body looked like—or how it worked. Forked? Fork me! Meg thought.

  Now she knew why the Erotica Queen never brought any of her work along for the group to critique. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles—not that anyone was there to hear her. But what a delicious secret.

  Good luck Jamie MacArthur.

  CHAPTER 32 – BAIT FOR ‘THE BASTARD’

  “Ian looked amazing,” Liz squealed. She didn’t squeal often, so Romy and Eloise and Meg gave her their undivided attention.

  “I got him to shut his garden center a bit early last night so he could be at my place in time. Paul was due to collect the kids at six. And I made him take off his shirt,” she added, rolling her eyes.

  “Paul or Ian?” Meg asked, somewhat confused.

  “Ian of course. My bait. My real live bait this time—better than Romy’s sports car and a shirt on the sofa and the shower running as though there was someone else there.”

  Romy smirked at that. “It worked though, didn’t it!”

  “Oh it worked fine,” Liz agreed, as they trailed out to Meg’s patio with a glass of sparkling wine each. Eloise brought the remains of the bottle. They settled themselves on the outdoor timber seats, being careful not to snag their Christmas lunch outfits on any splintery edges. “But it was so good to have an actual man to wind him up with.”

  “You made poor old Ian take his shirt off?” Meg asked, remembering the long pale hairy arm he’d displayed with such embarrassment at their last meeting.

  “I didn’t think he’d be able to carry it off to start with,” Liz said. “But then I thought if he was outside he could hide behind sunglasses. So I rinsed out my best skimpy panties and had him pegging them on the clothesline as soon as we saw The Bastard arrive.”

  “That’s really rubbing it in,” Romy agreed. “Familiar with your underwear, doing little domestic chores, he must have looked right at home.”

  “Yeah…” Liz purred with a satisfied stretch. “Anyway, face like thunder, stares like daggers in Ian’s direction—Paul really wasn’t pleased.”

  “And Ian didn’t mind all this?” Romy asked.

  “I’m surprised he was willing to do it,” Eloise added.

  “He owes me bigtime.” Liz grinned. “No—he was all right. Stood his ground fine behind the shades. Just hung up my panties and showed off his fabulous shoulders in the sun. I bundled the kids out in a hurry and it was over in a minute or so.”

  “I still can’t quite picture this,” Meg mused. “I thought I was going to loan you my Al in a bath towel?”

  Romy tried to stifle a puff of amusement. She bobbed her dark curls. Surely Liz wouldn’t go that far?

  “I could borrow him as well, if you like. Wouldn’t that just totally wipe the smile off The Bastard’s face! Two different men in one weekend...”

  “Anyway, you said ‘fabulous shoulders’,” Meg queried. “Ian? What have you been doing to him?”

  “Me?” Liz’s face was all innocence. “Nothing. Chose him some civilized clothes. Made him get his hair cut. He looked kind of invisible before. I just thought he had potential going to waste.”

  They all considered Ian for a moment as they sipped. Only Liz knew what the ‘new’ Ian looked like, and she couldn’t wait for the rest of the group to see him.

  Eloise pondered his hair—she’d quite liked Ian’s thick Beatle-fringe. Johnno’s hair had become so thin that a good thatch seemed a definite plus. She hoped Liz hadn’t talked him into anything too outlandish.

  Meg imagined muscles on Ian’s tall frame. If he had any, he’d kept the evidence well covered. He certainly hadn’t been displaying himself to any advantage, but she doubted Brad Pitt had anything to fear.

  And Romy couldn’t help but wonder what her friend was playing at. You didn’t restyle a man unless you had an ulterior motive...a definite interest in him. Liz and Ian???

  No—she couldn’t picture that at all.

  “So do you want Al, too?” Meg asked. “I’m sure he’d agree if I asked him.”

  Secretly she hoped for more time at the computer. Al expected to treat her to dinner that evening—and therefore to bed as well. But Bobbie was off to a movie with the as-yet-unseen Jamie MacArthur, and that meant the possibility of several peaceful hours polishing chapter three. “Take him out for a meal tonight and discuss it,” she suggested. “He likes food. Do you want me to phone him?”

  Liz shrugged her smooth shoulders. One slender strap slipped down and tickled her upper arm. She twitched it back up with a curse. “It’ll have to be somewhere affordable like Pizza Hut,” she said.

  Meg couldn’t quite picture Al at Pizza Hut, but didn’t say so. “I’ll get the phone,” she said, pushing herself up from the low chair and bustling inside before she lost the opportunity.

  “Are you sure this won’t annoy your husband too much?” Eloise asked. “You don’t want him getting difficult about the custody arrangements.”

  “Ex,” Liz snapped. “Ex-husband, Eloise. It’s none of his business. But he’s carrying on with his secretary, so I want him to think I’ve got someone too. And if I can outdo him and have two lovers, then I win.”

  “Three,” said Romy, thinking of the non-man they’d created out of her car and Neil’s shirt.

  “Promiscuous bitch, aren’t I!” Liz said with great satisfaction. “No, he won’t play up about the kids. It was all I could do to make him look after them every second weekend. Bastard. They need to see their Dad, but they cramp his style.”

  Mine too. But I’d fight him t
o my last penny to keep Rosie and Brett with me.

  Meg ambled out again, talking into her cordless phone, and the others fell silent so they could eavesdrop.

  “You’d be doing me a real favor, Al,” she murmured. “She’s a lovely girl. You’ll like her.”

  Liz stifled a snort with her hand.

  “You’ve been in the same situation, Al. Remember what you told me about Diana? Yes? So you know why I’m asking.” She glanced across at the others. “Liz. Liz McKenzie. Husband was a lawyer. Well—still is, but isn’t her husband any more. I thought you two could have a meal together this evening and hatch a little plot. And because you’re such a hunk, we wondered if you’d—”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Yes you are. You know you are. You’re gorgeous. Don’t be so modest.” She grinned at the others. “So we wondered if you’d be prepared to wear just a bath towel when the husband brings the kids back. And your underpants, of course.”

  She listened with amusement to Al’s reply. “I’ll put Liz on,” she said, handing the phone over.

  The others craned forward to hear, but were thwarted by Liz rising and sauntering off into the garden to conduct her conversation in privacy. She paced backward and forward along the timber-planked boundary fence as she talked; snapping a sprig of pink and white jasmine off Meg’s vine and threading it behind one ear, rescuing her slipping shoulder strap again, and kicking at a couple of dandelion heads with the toe of her shoe.

  “Settled,” she said on her return. Seven tonight. Thanks Meg. So what does he really look like?”

  “Like a gangster. Olive skin, dark hair, lots of teeth.” Meg smirked at her own description. “No—that’s unfair. He’s probably the best looking man I’ve ever gone out with. Tall. Built. The right looks to make a husband jealous.”

  “Ex-husband,” Romy corrected just as a newly permed and over-dressed Vi joined them.

  “Thank you Romy,” Liz said. “Fuck this strap,” she added, hauling it up onto her shoulder yet again.