Death by Cuddle Club

by Norah Wilson

  His laugh fanned my throat now and I arched my neck, the better for him to nuzzle and nibble it. He obliged, his mouth trailing tingles of electricity wherever it touched. When his mouth went to my ear, it felt as though he’d struck a nerve that went straight to my... um, happy place.

  “God, Dylan, I want you so much!” Suddenly restless, I shifted to straddle his lap, facing him, and the blanket fell away.

  “Nice move.” His hands shifted to my hips, pressing me down so I could feel his hard-on through the thin layers of silk between us. It was all I could do not to totally grind on him, but the way I was feeling, I was afraid the festivities would be over before they got started. No way was I settling for a dry hump. I was getting laid.

  “I want to see you.” I started fumbling with the buttons of his pajamas, but Aunt Gert had made them too well. The buttons were snug in their buttonholes, requiring considerable patience to unbutton. More patience than I had at that moment. I grabbed two fistfuls of pajama top hem and yanked up and out. Some of the buttons popped through the buttonholes, but at least one went flying.

  “Dix!” Dylan sounded slightly shocked.

  “What? The buttonholes were too small.” I grabbed my own top by the hem and Dylan braced as though he thought he was going to lose an eye to flying buttons. But of course, I just whipped the garment over my head and tossed it aside.

  The shock in his eyes turned to something else as he stared at my breasts.

  Have I mentioned that I’m forty? Yeah. And so are my breasts—both of ’em (especially the one on the left, but that’s another story). They aren’t perfect and gravity-defyingly perky. Nor are they plastic. But they’re mine, and I’m kind of okay with them. No, I’m better than okay with them. I refuse to hate my own body, no matter what the media tells me. But seeing the frank appreciation on Dylan’s face, the way his eyes darkened with need—damn, that was hot!

  He reached up to cup my breasts and I couldn’t help it—I ground down on him, just once, then forced my hips to still. Better things, Dix. Better things. “God, this is so good!”

  “Mmmm.” Dylan’s voice was muffled against my breast. He’d taken my left nipple into his mouth and was suckling it.

  I sank my fingers into his hair, holding him there. “Oh, man, I think we should take that blanket to work. When we’re not busy, we could cuddle under it on that couch in my office.”

  Dylan mouth stopped moving, and I felt a new tension in him.

  Noooo! I flexed my fingers against his scalp. “What’s wrong?”

  His hands were at my waist now, biting in as he lifted me off him and deposited me on the couch. “The Cuddle-Uppie,” he hoarsed.

  “What about it?”

  “That’s got to be it. That’s why people keep going back to cuddle club. Pheromones, Dix. Or a drug of some kind. They must be spiking the Cuddle-Uppies.”

  His words sank in, the logic of them inescapable. This particular Cuddle-Uppie had been primed and ready for tomorrow night’s cuddle session, sealed in that plastic bag.

  My eyes met Dylan’s and I knew that I wasn’t getting laid tonight. Not when there was a possibility our passion owned something to a chemical stimulant.

  Damn you, Gaetan Gough! Damn you straight to hell.

  Chapter 10

  AS I LAY there in bed, I thought about Mother’s cookies. If they weren’t sitting in the back of Dylan’s car right now, I’d be eating them, sprinkles or no. I’d be taking my frustration out on the penis-shaped sweets with every single dick-snapping bite.

  I’m too old to be heartbroken. Too tough to be hurt. Too amazing to be smacking my head in that “doh” kind of way. (And now my hand hurt.)

  Pheromones in the Cuddle-Uppies! Why hadn’t I seen that right away? Why hadn’t I seen it at all?

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not that competitive. I’m glad Dylan thought of it. But why’d he have to think about it at that particular moment?

  “’Cuz when it comes to getting laid, Dix Dodd, you suck!” I muttered, feeling sorry for myself.

  It seemed so obvious now. Of course that’s what kept people coming back to the cuddle club. Synthetic hormones. It made perfect sense. I’d heard rumors over the years about such things being pumped into the air in nightclubs and casinos. Had Gaetan moved this questionable technology into his cuddle club franchise? It was a glaringly obvious question. One that should have occurred to me, in fact, the very first night. It explained why I’d kinda sorta almost felt a little twinge of something not entirely repulsive when Dickhead had put his arm around me beneath the Cuddle-Uppie that night. A memory I’d pretty much succeeded in suppressing. (Especially since he’d informed the police force that I’d called him in on this investigation—grrr.)

  But damn the bad luck that it had occurred to Dylan when it did. If he could have staved off that epiphany for another five minutes, we’d have shared a yee-ha moment instead of an ah-ha moment. (Yeah, five minutes; I’d been that ready.)

  Argh! I’m cursed.

  Always so close but no... cigar. (God, for once a suitable metaphor comes to mind, and it’s just that damn phallic!)

  I respected Dylan’s decision to call a halt. Really, I did. My logical self was right there with him. My physical self, on the other hand... well, it was sort of a talk-to-the hand thing happening there. (Er, did I mention Dylan and I left our business... um... unfinished?).

  Dylan had left, and taken the Cuddle-Uppie with him. In the morning, he would deliver it to Dickhead. As evidence, it wouldn’t stand up in court, but if the forensic lab found something on this one, it would be easy enough for Dickhead to seize another wrapped and sealed one. One that wouldn’t make its way into evidence via my couch.

  I cringed beneath the covers. I probably should be taking it to Dickhead myself, but I just wasn’t up to explaining how we’d come to suspect the Cuddle-Uppie was doped. ”Well, you see, Dylan and I were making out under it and I got scarily aggressive and tore his buttons off and was about to rock his world (possibly traumatizing him) when he twigged to it.” Frankly, I didn’t know how Dylan planned to explain it, but I knew he’d be a gentleman about it. I would come off looking better than I deserved.

  Oh, God.

  I pulled the covers up over my head.

  On Sunday morning, I was awake (in the shower, even) well before the alarm went off. Even before Rochelle called to tell me she’d reconnected last night with a guy (okay, not just some guy, but a rising political star) whose sister could hook us up with U2 tickets. Was I in?

  Oh, I was so in.

  But after that, I spent a slow Sunday. Slow and anxious.

  I did laundry, vacuumed, dusted in the not-so-hard-to-reach places, and did a few other chores around my condo. I did go over to the office for a bit and sorted through some more boxes, checked the few voice mail messages and gathered up the couple bills that had been shoved under the door. I even hit the mall. Yeah, me in a mall. I’d remembered I needed a new bra if I was going to wear those silk PJs in public. Recalling the panty line thing, I even bought a pair of thong panties. Around noon, I picked up a pizza so I could have it cold for supper. (See? Domestic as hell). Finally, I dressed for the evening, if putting on pajamas can be called dressing, and started counting the minutes until cuddle club.

  Maybe a little too longingly. That bugged me. Really bugged me. I mean, I knew about the pheromones, after all. Unlike those other people who had no idea why they wanted to go back so badly. Well, they were going to be disappointed; the cuddle would not be cast tonight.

  That’s right—there would be no cuddling. Dylan and I had talked about it, and our agenda tonight was to thwart any and all snuggling, by whatever means necessary. There had to be a link between the pheromones in the Cuddle-Uppies and the heart attacks, possibly exacerbated by the physical... um... stimulation of cuddling. Therefore, until we got the test results back and could move to stop Gaetan, we had to make sure the cuddlers stayed safe.

  But how to accomplish said thwar
ting?

  My cell phone rang and my heart leapt. I looked at the caller ID. Dylan. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” Dylan said. “Your ride’s here. Or will be by the time you get down to the street.”

  “Perfect. Thanks. See you in a minute.”

  I grabbed my jacket and purse, locked up and started down the hall to the elevator. My mind went back to gnawing on the problem at hand. How did we stop them from getting under the Cuddle-Uppies? We had to figure something out, and fast.

  “I have a plan,” I announced to the empty corridor. “A brilliant, brilliant, plan.”

  I didn’t have a plan, doubly-brilliant or otherwise. But well, hey, I put it out into the universe. And hoped like hell the universe would think of something double quick.

  I pushed the call button and stood, waiting for both an answer and the elevator.

  Well, at least the elevator came.

  Frackin’ non-compliant universe.

  When the elevator doors closed on me, my thoughts turned to Dylan. I was both anxious and nervous about seeing him after what had happened last night. And what had almost happened. My mind still swam in the warmth of it.

  His SUV pulled up just as I exited the building. I climbed into it.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Hadn’t we done this on the phone? “Hey,” I answered, fastening my seatbelt.

  He didn’t reach out to touch me or kiss me, and I don’t know whether I was disappointed or relieved. But when I looked at him, it was all there in his eyes. Nothing had changed.

  Relief. Yup, that was definitely relief I was feeling.

  “How was your Sunday?” he asked. So I told him about Rochelle scoring the U2 tickets and my puttering around. I asked him about his day, and he told me, in the same mundane detail. What we didn’t talk about was last night.

  My cheeks heated (again) at the memory of it, and I was grateful for the darkness in the interior of the SUV. God, I’d gone wild woman on him. The things I would have done to that boy... Well, okay, not so much the first time, but the second and third time, after we’d taken the edge off. Oh, Christmas! I mean, I’m no prude, but no man had ever driven me crazy like that. And to think the stupid pheromones in the stupid Cuddle-Uppie were responsible. What if Dylan hadn’t tumbled to it and called a halt? What if I’d gone on to do those things with him? Where could we have gone from there? I mean, how would you retreat after a night like that?

  And now I guessed there were some residual effects from sustained contact with the Cuddle-Uppie, because I was getting aroused all over again just thinking about it. And as we reached our destination and made our way through the building, it was all I could do not to push Dylan into the nearby elevator, hit that stop button and continue where we left off. I had a mental flash of him with his hands on me, all over me. Cupping my butt and pulling me to him. His hand sliding my zipper down, slipping into my panties. Or—oh, God!—sinking to his knees, tugging my jeans down and putting his mouth...

  “Um, Dix?”

  Dylan’s voice pulled me out of my fantasy. He was some ten paces ahead of me, which confused me until I realized I’d stopped walking.

  “Something on your mind?” His voice was silky, knowing, and those lips were curved up...

  “Yeah, I was thinking I might have left my iron plugged in, but I just did the mental replay and nope. I didn’t.”

  He laughed, low in his throat.

  As I pulled abreast of him, I punched his shoulder, hard. “Okay, so I don’t own an iron. Want to make an issue of it?”

  He massaged his shoulder. “No, ma’am.”

  I tried and failed to suppress a smile. Damn, he made things so easy.

  Like, I’ve said before... the guy’s perfect.

  He even held the door as we walked into Gaetan Land.

  “Hi, Dylan!” It was Zoey cheering and Brandy waving as we entered Gaetan Land. Babe materialized to take our jackets. Even the shy and quiet Eva gave a warm smile.

  “Oh, I love your PJs. Did you design them?” Brandy asked. “Can you make me a pair to match?”

  “We did,” Dylan lied eloquently. “They’re from our fall collection.” He waved a hand to indicate both of us. I obliged with a little pirouette.

  “And hi to you too, Debbie!” That from the smart-assed Elizabeth Bee.

  “It’s Dix,” I ground out.

  “Oopsie. My bad.” With a giggle, Elizabeth took hold of Hugh Drammen’s arm.

  “Did you say you’re with your dad?” I shot back. “That’s sweet, Elizabeth.”

  Her eyes filled instantly with (fake) tears. Oh, the girl was good! A (totally false) tremble suddenly afflicted her pouty red lips. “Oh, didn’t you know? I... I thought everyone did. My daddy died tragically in a fire when I was just a baby. He died saving me. And... and I was raised by my dear old grandmother. My mother was never around. She never had time for me, only for the long line of boyfriends she had after Daddy was gone. But Nanny loved me. We were poor, but we had love. Lots of love. But now... I hardly get to see her at all. Mama’s with her new boy toy somewhere, and I’m all alone in the world now. All... alone.”

  Oh that was just complete BS!

  But as Elizabeth blinked back the tears, Drammen’s protective arm curved around her. “You’re not alone, sweet angel. You have me.”

  Sweet angel? Elizabeth Bee?

  Damn, she was really good.

  Everyone else was shooting her looks of genuine sympathy. Compassion. The looks they were shooting me, however, were not so affectionate.

  And those looks didn’t get any friendlier when I turned to the crowd and said, “Let’s do something different tonight!” I clapped my hands, Gaetan style, for emphasis.

  Everyone looked at me as if I’d grown a third head. (Yeah, third. I was well beyond second-head looks.)

  Gaetan was there, looking commanding in his finest blue velour. Babe was there too, looking... well, Babe-like. Which is to say, timid as hell in the presence of her asshole big brother. Hugh, Elizabeth, Amy, Eva, Brandy, Mabel (so happy to see Dylan), the ever-smiling Ruth-Ann, and the rest of the regulars. Dickhead was there too. He had been working the room, but now had moved himself front and center. In fact, if I had done my calculations right (and didn’t I always?), everyone who’d been there the night Dylan and I had signed up was there.

  Dickhead and Dylan knew the plan. Knew we were going to—no matter the cost—stop the cuddling for the night.

  “What? Have you lost your mind?” This from Gaetan Gough, and judging by his tone, I’m quite sure that last question was a rhetorical one. “We don’t just suddenly do things differently. Get a grip!”

  Dylan tensed behind me at Gaetan’s berating tone. Man, he was in full fake boyfriend mode. Or was that (gulp) boyfriend mode?

  Babe, who was standing demurely behind the counter, put it a little more tactfully than her brother had: “Dix, this is a cuddle club. We, you know, cuddle here. I mean, we have the Cuddle-Uppies and all—”

  It was Dickhead who came to the rescue on this exchange. “I think Debbie—”

  “It’s Dix,” I said.

  “Oh, sorry. I think Dixie has a point here. Something different might be fun to try. What did you have in mind?”

  Dixie. Grrr. He knew I’d have to let that go under the circumstances. I swallowed my aggravation and smiled. “Maybe we could get to know each other a little better if—”

  “Oh, we can do that under the Cuddle-Uppies!” Brandy said, eying Dylan.

  “Exactly!” Gaetan clapped.

  “But it’s so warm in here,” Dylan offered up. “Why don’t we forego the blankets and—”

  “Well, maybe these will cool us down.” It was smiling Starla, just then walking into the room with a tray full of smoothies. Pink and frosty and yummy looking. “Gaetan’s Own, Snuggle-me-Strawberry!” she announced. “I just mixed up a batch.”

  In a flash, Dickhead, Dylan and I exchanged a meaningful glance. Oh crap! We couldn’t let those
drinks be consumed. They could contain more of the cuddle-inducing pheromones, which might or might not be responsible for killing three people. Or worse, someone could be putting something even more dangerous in the drinks, something designed to deliberately kill specific people. Either way, we couldn’t let the cuddlers drink the stuff.

  There wasn’t time to rock-paper-scissors this.

  I flew into action. Literally.

  “Oh, me first! Me first!” I said, in my best impression of a fourth grader, as I raced toward Starla, just as Zoey and Eva were reaching for their own smoothie concoction. Oh crap! I put on a burst of speed and basically dove at Starla before any drinks could be handed off.

  “What are you doing?” she shrilled. “I thought you were watching your... wait!”

  And then there was the crash. Zoey stepped back, pulling Eva with her, but Starla and I both landed with a thump on the floor. The tray of drinks flew up. And inevitably—dammit! - came crashing down, splattering all over us.

  Yeah, those smoothies had been that cold. I could tell by the drip of the thick frosty liquid as it dripped down the front of my silk PJ top, and the back of my neck.

  “Good thing we didn’t bring out the date squares we brought, my dear,” Hugh stage whispered to Elizabeth.

  “Oh, wow, guess you’re off the diet.” Starla managed to laugh, despite being as drenched as I was with cold smoothie.

  Gaetan, however, was not smiling.

  “What the hell, woman!” he thundered at me.

  His eyes were furious and his chubby hands fisted at his sides. His face turned beet red as he glared at me, and I could not help it—I giggled—at how that red round face looked beneath that blond head of hair.

  “Easy, Gaetan,” Dylan said, and there was no mistaking the warning in his tone. “Accidents happen.”

  “Accidents? Accidents?” The little poop sputtered. “If your clumsy cow of a girlfriend hadn’t—“