The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

  To her credit, Vi managed not to react, and adroitly changed the subject. “Not everyone here yet? I was worried I’d be last. I wonder where the others have got to?” she gabbled. “Noon for Christmas Lunch, and not one o’clock for a normal meeting?”

  “Bobbie’s inside somewhere,” Meg assured her. “Ben’s about, too. Eloise dropped Tigger off someplace so we won’t see her today.”

  “I saw Mandy at the supermarket yesterday,” Romy said. “Buying ice-cream.”

  “To go with my Traditional English Sherry Trifle,” Vi confirmed. It had taken her several hours to get each layer arranged and set before she added the next to the big crystal bowl. There was enough sherry in the sponge portion to flatten a herd of elephants.

  “And there’s Ian now,” Liz said, recognizing the metallic scrape-and-slam of his van’s door. “It’s treat-time, ladies...” She rose and hurried off to get him.

  CHAPTER 33 – THE HIGHLAND FLING

  “I’ve made Tabouleh,” Bobbie said, carrying the white china bowl to Meg’s dining table. “With tomatoes and cucumber and chopped mint and couscous.”

  “Kiss-kiss?” Ben asked. He enjoyed teasing Bobbie now he felt more confident around women.

  “Couscous. It’s a Middle Eastern dish. You could make this when you go off to uni and have to do your own cooking. It’s easy.”

  Ben picked up a spoon and gave the contents of the bowl an experimental poke.

  “No meat.”

  “Well, add some chopped ham or something if you have to,” Bobbie sighed, taking the spoon from him, loading it, and holding it up so he could sample some.

  “Ian!” she exclaimed a few seconds later as Liz led her made-over man to the dining table to deposit his plate of assorted deli meats and jar of stuffed olives.

  “Jeez, Bobbie!” he replied. They regarded each other with wonder. Neither looked remotely like they had at the last meeting.

  “Love the hair,” they said in unison.

  Bobbie slowly inspected Ian all the way up his snug-fitting trousers, past his lean and muscular middle and on to the short shiny cut that now hugged his head. “Wow,” she said.

  He gave her close curly hair an approving smile, and then a tentative pat.

  Ben, who’d always thought Ian a bit of a berk, surveyed him with new respect, and tried to swallow the Tabouleh without choking. What a dude. Tall, tanned, dressed to demolish, and sleek as a cat.

  His shy dopey grin hadn’t changed though. “Blame Liz,” he said, shrugging broad shoulders under a body hugging charcoal T-shirt, and ducking his head with embarrassment.

  “Don’t slouch, Ian,” she snapped, pulling him out to join the others.

  “All righty ladies—here’s my Christmas present to you all.”

  Four pairs of eyes swiveled like spotlights. Four mouths dropped open.

  “That’s never you!” gasped Meg.

  “Heavens, Ian!” exclaimed Vi.

  “Hot...” confirmed Romy with a slow smile.

  “Darling,” Eloise rasped in her best sultry growl.

  “Oh-mi-god!” Mandy raved, arriving only moments later.

  “So—you like?” Liz asked.

  Ian found himself surrounded by half a dozen drooling, pawing women. The sensation was not unpleasant.

  Meg ran an admiring hand up to his bicep. “The tan’s tremendous,” she said. “What a change.”

  Romy slipped an arm around his waist. “Some body you’ve been hiding,” she agreed, checking out his steely strength.

  He couldn’t be certain who goosed his backside, but Eloise’s husky “taut and terrific” might have given her away.

  Nurse Mandy, eyes huge behind her gleaming glasses, ran her fingers over his chest and commented on his T-shirt instead.

  Vi raised a blue-veined hand to his short darker hair. “Can I touch?” she asked, diving in before permission was granted or denied.

  “Oh leave the poor man alone,” Liz said. “Has everyone got a seat? Who’s still missing?”

  With noticeable reluctance the women drew away from him, although their eyes continued to inspect and admire.

  Ian’s heart raced. Every time he’d caught sight of himself yesterday—in the bedroom mirror; in the plate glass windows of his garden shop; in the smooth surface of the ornamental ponds outside—he’d caught his breath, straightened his shoulders, gazed in disbelief, and shaken his head. It felt fantastic to be someone else after all the years of just being him.

  Women customers were keener to chat. Men accepted his gardening advice as though it was law. Jack Fulton and young Lorraine kept stealing glances in his direction. Lorraine had at last plucked up the courage to say ‘great haircut, Boss’.

  But it wasn’t just Thursday’s haircut. Ian had waited until yesterday to appear in his new clothes...to show off his suntanned arms and long supple body and tight butt. Now he was awash with testosterone, bristling with dangerous energy, a male on the prowl. God, he felt invincible!

  Ben appeared with an armful of folding chairs, and there was a general re-shuffle until everyone was seated.

  “Tigger’s staying with friends for the night,” Eloise said.

  Ben gave silent thanks that she hadn’t changed her plans, picked up the phone, and slipped away to contact a friend who’d mentioned a party to which a number of young nurses had been invited. “I’ll bring some more wine in a sec,” he said as he retreated.

  Bobbie drifted out to join them a few moments later.

  “We’ve had a go at her, too,” Liz said as exclamations of amazement greeted her other new-look project.

  “My hair got all burnt in the fire,” Bobbie murmured, flushing pink. “I suppose it’s grown a bit by now. It doesn’t feel so strange any more.”

  “It looks just delightful, dear,” Vi said. “And very feminine, even though it’s very short. You’ve got a pretty little face, haven’t you, now we can see it?”

  Bobbie averted her eyes, blushed an even deeper shade, and bent over to pour herself the last of the sweet sparkling wine from the current bottle.

  “That turquoise top’s good on you,” Romy added. “And Bobbie—you’ve got legs! We’ve never seen them before.”

  “My clothes got burnt. I bought a couple of skirts for a change,” Bobbie admitted. “My bike as well—it was in the MacArthurs’ garage. Everything got burnt really.”

  “She can catch the bus to work from here,” Meg supplied.

  “And Jamie’s teaching me to drive,” Bobbie added.

  There was a sudden silence.

  “Who’s Jamie?” Liz demanded. There’d never been the least suggestion of a man in Bobbie’s life. Liz and Romy had speculated she might be a lesbian—and the erotica she wrote would be woman-on-woman.

  “Jamie MacArthur,” Meg said. “Bobbie’s boyfriend.”

  “He sort of rescued me the night of the fire,” Bobbie explained, growing braver now her news was out in the open. “And one thing led to another.”

  Had it indeed? Meg made a private note to check Bobbie’s ‘Mordilla’ story. If the chained warrior’s cock still had a forked end covered with writhing veins then she and Jamie hadn’t been up to much. But if it didn’t...?

  “Where’s that wine got to? This calls for another drink,” she enthused.

  “To celebrate your escape from the awful fire,” Vi added, just as Ben appeared with two more opened bottles.

  “And the boyfriend,” Romy said.

  “And Ian’s lovely haircut.”

  “And,” said Eloise, in a voice that could have sliced sheet metal, “my getting the role of Mrs. Robinson in dear Ashton Pimm’s new production of ‘The Graduate’.” She sat back, sure of the limelight, until Nurse Mandy guzumped her by saying “And me having a request for a full manuscript from that last partial.”

  In an instant, Eloise’s triumph evaporated.

  “That’s fast!” Liz exclaimed. “The Addy and Brad one?”

  “With the conflict over tearing down
the old hospital so his father could build an expensive new clinic,” Mandy agreed.

  “Lots of reasons to drink up,” Meg assured everyone, pouring more sparkling wine with a generous hand.

  “Who chose this?” Liz demanded, squinting as the bubbles exploded and stung her eyes.

  “It’s very festive,” Meg insisted. Mandy had brought quite a number at a bargain price, and it was rather sweet. It slid down easily though.

  “Oh!” Bobbie exclaimed, and dashed inside to bring out a platter of nuts and carrot sticks and non-dairy dip she’d prepared.

  As they crunched and sipped and gossiped, Meg felt utter contentment wash over her. The Christmas break was close. She’d got rid of Al for the evening, and could write. Ben seemed happy, if secretive. Bobbie had acquired a man. Eloise had won her plum role. Liz had scored at least two ‘lovers’ to throw in Paul’s face. Nurse Mandy had received a request for a full novel at last. Vi would get untold compliments for her huge trifle... and Ian looked amazing. Only Romy seemed less than bubbly. But her latest book was due out very soon. That would do. Life was good.

  “So what’s anyone writing?” she asked.

  They filtered inside to eat, all a little woozy. Liz’s strap slid down again. Ian pushed it back onto her shoulder and left his hand there as he propelled her towards the loaded table. Romy noticed Liz didn’t appear to object. So was there something going on there? She still couldn’t believe it.

  Hugo, the tall tawny haired young Laird, reined in his white stallion and dismounted with a lithe leap.

  Elizabeth McKenzie bowed her head so her curtain of chestnut hair hid the direction of her gaze. She enjoyed a brief glimpse of the Laird’s long thigh as his kilt flipped up, then fell into place again.

  “Miss McKenzie,” he said in greeting. “A bonnie day.”

  She inclined her head again. “Aye, Sire,” she agreed, glancing at the wicker basket of heather sprigs she’d been gathering from his land.

  Had he stopped to voice his objection to her scavenging? She planned to tie the sprigs into neat posies with tartan ribbons and sell them at the Highland Games for a penny each. Visitors to the district were always keen to take home a small souvenir of the highlands, and this was a way she could supplement her meager governess’s allowance and purchase the cloth to sew a soft feminine blouse. She would never attract a husband while she was clad head to toe in scratchy black serge.

  But the Laird’s voice was kindly. And his blue eyes twinkled. He tugged the magnificent stallion’s halter so the horse would pace along beside them. He offered Elizabeth his arm and she took it with gratitude. The ground was uneven and her shoes were decidedly decrepit.

  “So, Miss McKenzie, you have a little scheme afoot?”

  She blushed, and decided she’d die before confessing her reason for needing the money.

  “I make posies Sire, so the visitors to the Games can take away a small breath of our beautiful highlands.”

  He nodded with approval; his gilly had told him as much. So she was a girl with gumption. And under those hideous crow-black garments he sensed a figure that was full breasted, narrow-waisted, and entirely tempting. How could he introduce his unusual proposition to her?

  They walked on in silence. Only the jingle of the harness and the stallion’s occasional snorts interrupted the soft rippling of the loch and its attendant birdsong.

  Suddenly the heel of her old shoe gave way and pitched her sideways into a patch of marshy ground. She screamed as her fingers slid from his arm, and in seconds she had sunk almost waist deep into the mud. She struggled to grasp his hand.

  “Your scarf!” he demanded, knowing if he joined her in the ooze they both might perish.

  She unwound it and tossed it to him. He knotted it around the stallion’s stirrup and led the great beast as close to the edge as he dared. Elizabeth’s flailing fingers caught the free end of the cloth and convulsed about it.

  Slowly man and beast pulled her from the sickening swamp. She’d nearly fainted with fright and exhaustion by the time she was free.

  Hugo steadied her, then laid her on the dry ground. He slid his hands around her waist, loosening the fastenings of her skirt.

  She gave a tremulous gasp.

  “Fear not young lady,” he murmured, stripping the soaked and weighty wool off her. “I’d be hard pressed to carry you in all this volume of wet fabric—and I expect your skirt is entirely ruined anyway.”

  He turned his attention next to the buttons of her muddy, stinking jacket and removed that as well. She lay before him in her soaking half transparent underskirts and low cut bodice. Waves of hideous embarrassment engulfed her. To be so exposed to the Laird’s eyes!

  “Come,” he said gruffly, lifting her in his strong arms. “There’s a disused crofter’s cottage close by. It will only be a temporary haven, but better than nothing.” He strode through the rough sedge and heather for several minutes and at last carried her through the opening of a small dwelling.

  Elizabeth shivered, mortified beyond belief, bedraggled and unbeautiful. What a sight she must present to him. But at least she was in shelter at last, and his were the only eyes that could see her now.

  They were very hungry eyes.

  She blanched as he peeled off his muddied jacket and tossed it aside. And clutched her arms over her breasts as he grasped the lower edge of his soft woolen jersey and drew it upward to expose a firm hairy chest and broad shoulders. He wrenched it over his head and held it out to her.

  “It’ll be huge on you, but warm,” he said.

  Elizabeth’s heart started to beat again. He meant it for her! He intended her no harm. And he was more beautiful than she’d imagined a man could ever be.

  She smoothed the garment down. The warmth from his big body flowed into hers. Her sigh of pleasure brought a smile to his handsome face.

  He retrieved his ruined jacket and pulled it back on. Elizabeth watched the stretch of his long arms, the bunching of his chest muscles, the flexing of those above his kilt where a fascinating stripe of dark hair ran down and disappeared.

  “Give me twenty minutes,” he said, seeing where she was looking and sensing her admiration. “I’ll away to Glen Arran and collect some dry clothes for us both. Take off those sodden underskirts the moment I depart.”

  And he was gone. The rapid drumbeat of the stallion’s hooves lessened, leaving only wind and birdsong.

  Elizabeth peeled down the layers of cold clinging fabric and cuddled his jersey around her. An ancient sofa sat in a patch of weak sunlight by the far wall. She gave it a doubtful prod, decided it was better than nothing, and sat to remove her damp gartered stockings as well. Soon exhaustion claimed her, and she curled up and slept.

  Hugo tethered the stallion to a tree and covered the last few yards on foot. He swore softly and dropped the bundle of clothing he carried. He flipped his watercolor pad open and began to sketch the vision he saw through the old doorway.

  Her arm pillowed her face. Her luxuriant hair tumbled every which-way, mostly obscuring her features. Her long bare legs splayed innocently apart. And framed in the sagging neckline of his pullover were the luscious curves of her breasts.

  He worked with speed, trying to capture the lines and shadows of her. The color could wait.

  With reluctance he closed the pad, picked up the clothing, and cleared his throat. She stirred, then drew her slender legs together.

  At last he had a way to raise the subject which had occupied his mind for the past several days. He would ask her now.

  He shook out the bundle of clothes and passed her a crimson jacket, dry underskirts, a dress of forest green.

  “My sister’s,” he said. “She’s closer in size to you than I am.” He regarded the contents of his over-large jersey with appreciation as she stepped into the underskirts. Then he produced a flask of brandy and encouraged Elizabeth to swallow a few mouthfuls for warmth. He left the cottage so she could don the rest of the clothing in privacy.

 
; A minute or two later she stood, bare-footed, in the doorway. “Were there no shoes, Sire?” Her own had been sucked off by the mud.

  He closed his eyes in vexation. “Forgive me for neglecting such a necessity,” he said. “You must ride on Prince Harry when we leave. But first I have a business proposition for you.”

  Her brows rose as she opened her beautiful emerald eyes wide with enquiry.

  “My gilly tells me you sell the heather.”

  She nodded, shamefaced.

  “I can’t believe you’ll ever make a fortune from it.”

  She shook her bowed head.

  A wry smile played about his lips. “But you need money?”

  “Of course I need money,” she retorted, stung into temper by his bald enquiry. “On a governess’s wage?” She shrugged and stared him down. No further words were needed.

  “So, Miss McKenzie...” he said in a husky burr as he uncovered his sketch of her.

  Elizabeth clutched her hand over her mouth and almost gagged with shock. “No!” she gasped, gazing in horror at her parted legs, her immodest bosom.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “And I’m a clean living young woman with a reputation to guard,” she snapped.

  “Who is not the least recognizable, except by you and me. I need a model. I’ll offer you ten shillings a pose. A pound if you’ll remove your clothing.”

  The offer was so unexpected, and the sums so huge, that Elizabeth appeared robbed of her voice for a short time. Finally she croaked “You cannot show my face...”

  “It’s your body I want.”

  “Ten shillings?” she whispered after a short silence.

  “Or a pound? I’d prefer the pound.”

  He watched as she debated with herself. Saw the uncertainty flare in her green eyes. Almost felt her small white teeth as they bit down on her bottom lip. Heard her draw in a sharp breath of resolve.

  “Here?”

  “Here for today. In my studio later if all goes well.”

  He opened his sporran and counted out coins. “Ten shillings for sleeping,” he said. “A pound for disrobing.”