The Bonk Squad Read Online Free PDF

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.

CHAPTER 5 - IAN GOES SENSUOUSLY
SAILING

    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