Kiss Me Dead

Copyright 2011 Peta Fox

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This edition published by Buzzword Books at Smashwords 2012

First published by Buzzword Books 2011

P.O. Box 7, Cammeray 2062

Australia

Buzzword Books.com

Kiss Me Dead

Peta Fox

Other titles in this series by Peta Fox at Smashwords.com include:

Death Has No Face

Death Takes a Hike

Contents:

Dead of night

Naked funeral

Hit man

Bad day at the asylum

Bag lady

Viv

Cut loose

Slave of lust

Task mistress

Tail

Judge and Judy

Freak Show

The hills are alive

Shoot

Drop dead

Vector

Hijack

Herself

Conspiracy

Crims

Corpse

Confab

Lies

Set-up

Sucked in

Showdown

End game

Other books by Peta Fox

Free sample chapter

Dead of night

The first thing we hear is a scream. High pitched but male.

What the fuck?

We’re sinking?

The boat’s on fire?

I pull my tongue out of Viv and we dash, all four boobs bouncing, into the stateroom. There’s a single red globe and it makes the space look like a broom cupboard in hell.

Maxine and Danny are perched bolt upright like meerkats on the bunk. His shiny stiff prick suggests they’ve just undocked. All her interesting bits are quivering with fright.

The screams come from the client, Michael, who’s writhing on the floor and seems to be trying to tear the flesh from his chest. Then, face contorted with pain, he arches, goes rigid and slumps.

‘Michael?’ Viv gasps and rushes to her husband, face blank with shock. As she waves her hand in front of his eyes the rock on her finger glints.

I check the guy’s pulse. He has the heartbeat of a sex doll. If this were a horror flick you’d cue the ant to walk across his eye.

‘He’s dead?’ Maxine squeaks.

‘You’re not wrong.’

She covers her gaping mouth with her hand.

Then a yell comes from Danny, ‘Jesus Christ!’

Next, he’s hugging his gut, face distorted and grunting. He doubles up and pitches off the bunk.

Maxine gives a petrified howl.

Danny’s yelling with pain, eyes like piss holes in the snow. His hands clench like claws and one leg jerks like he’s wired for ECT.

Then the jerking stops.

He’s just a shape on the coir matting.

I don’t get it. He’s checked out, too?

Dead people in cop shows have the meaningless stares of puppets. But this pair looks as if they’ve been eaten alive from inside.

Five mother-naked people, two dead, and we’re miles from anywhere. We boggle at each other. It’s as preposterous as Tosca Act Three.

I feel Danny’s wrist. Zilch. I shove him like a child pushes a faulty windup toy—not because I’m irreverent but because it’s so hard to take this in. I’ve been his willing dish mop for years. I’m half his harem for fuck’s sake. The other half, the grieving widow doux, is still keening like an Arctic wolf.

I gawk at the others. ‘What did this? Did they eat something we didn’t?’ My voice sounds as if I’m in a tunnel. I’m numb and thank God for that.

‘We all had the same,’ Viv clings to the bunk as if she might fall.

There’s no point asking Maxine what happened. She won’t be making sense for some time.

I look at Viv, ‘Better ring 000. Where are we? Do you know?’

‘Off Hungry Beach.’ Her eyes are dull.

‘So we wait for the water police?’

‘No. Because they’d take us to Ettalong.’

Stuff that, I think. The place is half way to Gosford. I can do without a midnight tour of the Central Coast.

She says, ‘We’d be better to get back to the wharf.’

‘So you can drive this thing?’

She nods.

The two of us struggle into our clothes. My shoes seem to have shrunk a size. I tell the blubbering mess that’s Maxine not to touch anything but she doesn’t seem to hear.

Two stiffs and mourner in the buff—a nudist’s funeral! Naked we come. Naked we go. Die young and have a good-looking corpse.

Viv calls out. ‘Jen? Need your help.’

I drag up to the cockpit.

She’s in the seat behind the wheel. ‘You go up front. I’ll start the engine and go slow ahead. When the anchor cable’s hanging straight down you press the red button. It starts the winch.’

So much for romance. Suddenly she’s the skipper and I’m demoted from object of desire to deckhand. A whiff of money or self-interest and sensuality gets the big A.

I edge around the wheelhouse, clinging to the safety-rail. Dark water laps at the hull like the tentacles of doom. A spotlight on top of the deckhouse suddenly floods the pointy end. The exhausts gurgle, the boat shudders and drifts ahead. When the anchor line falls behind the prow, I press the tit and a motor whines.

As the dripping rope comes up so does my dinner in a technicolour yawn, arcing to the blackness below.

I taste bile, wipe my mouth and hit the button again. Finally, the anchor clears the water. I wave back and she switches to idle.

Then she’s beside me, guiding the anchor into the hawse-pipe. ‘You all right?’

‘Do I look it?’

She’s ashen herself but helps me up. ‘Come on. Back inside.’

I stand near her in the wheelhouse as she pushes the dual throttles forward. The bow lifts and everything vibrates. She points to the illuminated compass card. ‘Hold that bearing. I’ll ring the police. Watch out for lights. There could be other boats about.’ She goes down to the saloon.

I perch on the chair behind the wheel, the compass blurring in front of me. The planing hull jolts as it bashes into each crest, outside the sloping windscreen—blackness. For all I know we’re heading for rocks.

The two of them carking it together? It makes no sense.

She returns flicking shut her mobile and takes the wheel.

I shout above the racket. ‘What did they say?’

‘They’ll meet us at the marina.’ She’s still functioning on remote.

‘Do you feel all right?’

‘Terrible.’

‘I mean, sick? Like throwing up?’

‘Not poisoned if that’s what you mean.’

I go below to check on Maxine. I have to step over the bodies because she’s curled up on the bunk.

I pull her hands away from her face. Her makeup’s streaked like an Indian brave. ‘You better get some gear on. You’re going to be talking to the fuzz.’

She doesn’t seem to hear and recoils like a spring.

I stagger back up to the stern deck to let the night air clear my brain and stare at the wash as it streams behind like a shroud.

Two guys fuck Maxine then die.

Does that mean she’s lethal?

I don’t buy it. She’s a stroppy bitch but no assassin.

No, there’s something I’m not seeing here. Something I know I’ve missed—some small detail that makes sense of what’s gone down. Was it something that Danny or Maxine said this morning? I hit the repeat button in my memory and start to replay the day...

It’s 10.30 AM and I’m sitting in the agency trying to write the frigging Glamglo commercial when Danny rocks in and perches on my desk as if he designed it. ‘So we’ll pick you up at eight?’

‘And this shindig’s on their yacht?’

‘Not a yacht, a fifty foot gin bin with two staterooms. You can wear high heels and knickers are optional.’ He’s an agency suit, so he’ll turn on anything to keep the account—special boxes to sporting events, parties with paid sluts and Ice...

‘Is this classified as client contact?’ I bat my lost doe eyes. ‘Then I want more perks. You heard it here.’

‘Lighten up.’ He flashes infuriating dimples and decamps, leaving the hint of budget-busting aftershave.

I don’t like it. Just because I fuck him and his squeeze doesn’t make me cool about a five-some. I feel used and grab the blower, wanting to sound off to Maxine.

She says, ‘Hi, hon. Set for tonight?’

‘Dunno. Rather just be with you.’

‘Sweetie. You will be.’

I can smell her warm skin now, see the firm round curve of her thighs and the adorable little triangle in her back above her buttocks. Plump can be so beautiful. I want to feel down her full warm belly to the honey-hair beneath. Suddenly I want her so much I’m almost sliding off the chair. ‘So why are we doing this? Just to keep the PetPrad account?’ PetPrad is the pet food giant—turns orphaned joeys into mince to feed Pekinese. ‘And how do we know we won’t end up the object of their infections?’

‘The client always wears a condom.’

It sounds like a whodunit title. But condoms are a con. Every fourth one breaks or comes off. Then I click on what she’s just said. ‘Shit! You’ve bonked them already?’

‘The husband not the wife. Danny’s into her but she won’t come at me.’

I’ve met the pair at agency dinners. They’re South African and loaded. The MD of the agency trots me out as window dressing. It’s exploitation. There are two types in agencies, the creatives and the suits. And I’m a creative, not some bloody client-contact drone.

She senses I’m pissed off. ‘Anyway they take care of themselves. They’re clean. We’ve never had health issues.’

‘So how come I’m the sacrificial lamb?’

‘They’re your biggest account. It’s a war zone, love.’

‘Like do we have to screw clients?’

‘One way or the other!’

‘Wasn’t in the job description.’

‘Very droll. Now they’ll smoke or be on Meth. But they won’t mind you getting smashed on Bolly.’

She knows I’m ticked off by drearies in the agony-of-ecstasy rave scene and can’t stand tribute acts that think it’s cool to be ill. I was born hyper anyway—need a CNS depressant—so drink the world pretty. Call it ethics if you like.

Then she tells me what she’ll wear: the fake brown silk number with the V-neck that shows off her olive skin and sensual body. She says, ‘See you tonight. And we’ll... share dessert, okay?

I hang up, cooking between the legs.

Where the hell was I?

I squint back at the laptop—at my vomit-making thirty-second spot for shampoo. I need a cute slogan and I’m bleeding from the brain.

Then Jack Norton, the agency MD shoves his head through the door. ‘Hi, Foxy. Good luck for tonight.’ He winks obscenely and goes.

That was the kickoff. No glaring revelations there. But I know I’m not seeing something and it won’t leave me alone.

I cling to the railing of the boat, face into the wind. We’ve rounded West Head. The breeze is stronger. I can see the lights of Palm Beach.

So is the clue in something that happened after we shipped on this plastic fantastic?

It nags at me.

I think back to the start of the cruise...

The gin-palace chafes its fenders at the Newport marina. Super-high fly bridge. An egomaniac’s wet dream. We cruise, exhausts burbling, past the forest of rocking masts, past the floating white elephants that never leave their moorings.

It’s almost dark and the running lights are on. Pittwater at night. Romantic. But I’m cold in this off the shoulder tube.

Danny’s in the wheelhouse, snowing the client. Maxine’s in the saloon organising food. I’m near the stern in the shelter of the wheelhouse with Viv, the client’s wife. She’s got the designer dress, the oh-so casual bling, but seems uncomfortable in it, like someone in uniform.

‘Chilly wind.’ She opens a locker and pulls out two sou-westers. ‘Here, put this on.’

As she half-vanishes beneath one jacket, she says, ‘Musto. They’re good.’

All seriously wealthy types are slaves to brands. She’s a greyhound of a woman, small and thin with a narrow face, and nervous. As she helps me with my zip, I feel her shy, hopeful eyes on my breasts.

She moves the zipper up in little jerks as if dressing a favourite child. It means she’s excited. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’

I nod.

‘I’ve never done it with a woman.’

‘Not even Maxine?’ I’m crosschecking.

‘No.’ She touches my hair.

I lean in, kiss her gently and her bottom lip trembles.

Beautiful.

Always beautiful.

That first small tender touch.

Then she reaches down for my hand. So tentative but warm.

Maxine bawls up the companionway. ‘Viv, I can’t find the bleeding can-opener.’

‘Coming.’ She dashes off like she’s seen the fake bunny, leaving me alone under gem-bright stars.

There’s not much swell and West Head’s a vague silhouette. Creaming out astern is the phosphorescent wake. I feel warm, content, expectant.

It’s going to be a wonderful night.

The anticipation of fucking her makes me want to pump the bilge. So I head for the head. It has a floor-length mirror on the door. I have a pee, then check out how I look.

Amazing really. Despite a brain like a sewer and a heart of molten lead, a beautiful innocent stares back at me. Sure, I work at it a bit, if you count lifting weights and jogging—tight is might—but the rest is genetics: big liquid eyes, adorable nose, small trim frame with great lift and separation, child-aborting hips and a pert Asian cutie’s arse that’s consumer-friendly to the palm. And if I open my mouth and stare up, I’m a pre-Raphaelite Madonna. Nature imitating art!

It’s quite a facade for an emotionally flatlined cynic—a rig that can charm birds from the trees and melt strong men into mozzarella. And it has the same effect on women, which helps when you’re bi. There’s nothing more effective than looking like a fallen angel. You can slide out of practically anything. It’s better than a diplomatic passport.

I apply more lippy and head back to the action.

We round West Head and anchor off what looks like a small beach but hard to see in the dark. It’s peaceful. You can smell eucalyptus, hear the water lapping against the bow and feel the slow jerk as the cable takes up.

Our hosts don’t put on music. And I don’t read them as spaced out on ye old artificial chemical bond. We eat the curried remains of dead animals, slurp Cabernet like syphons and the chat gets wackier by the minute.

Maxine, across the cabin table, has her toes in my crotch but she’s pretending to be fascinated by the skipper who’s blathering about the pet-food game.

‘And you never make mistakes?’ Maxi asks him.

‘I did once when I thought I’d made one. But I hadn’t.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I am. I never lie. We’ll actually that’s not quite true.’

Danny, who’s sitting beside me, pumps out another one-liner. ‘Reminds me of the guy who thought he was decisive but now he’s not so sure.’

The client walks his fingers up Maxine’s arm until they creep into her dress and touch her boobs. ‘Oops!’ he says. ‘Anarchic hand.’ Then he does a production number, fighting to drag the wayward mitt back by the wrist.

Maxine cackles, right into it. I don’t know what’s got into her. She’s been strange these last weeks, as if there’s something she’s not telling me.

I feel across Danny’s thigh to inspect his wedding tackle. It’s predictably rigid with unconditional positive regard. His potency’s remorseless but I’m not sure who’s turning him on.

The evening deteriorates nicely. Soon the greyhound wife is staring at me, lips apart. Her delicate frame in that high-necked, backless dress makes her look like the Royal Doulton goose girl. I’m longing to undress her. Or have her undress me.

Maxine’s stroking the phallic saltcellar, an indication that it’s time. Michael takes the cue, lurches up and pulls her arm. ‘Did I ever show you the rope locker? It’s just forward of the main stateroom.’

‘Sounds fascinating.’ She gets up and sways against him.

‘I’d like to see that.’ Danny gets up, too.

‘Into bondage?’ the client grins.

‘I wear a watch.’

The course of the evening is set. It’s kicking off as an ambidextrous threesome.

The stateroom door closes on them leaving me with the wife.

Our hands meet across the table.

All’s right with the world.

The second cabin’s cosy. I can’t quite remember how we get there. But we stand entwined against the bunk for a while, hands all over each other. It’s tender, hot and there’s no hurry to undress. She’s shy, eager, unpractised. Adorable.

She breathes into my neck. ‘I really don’t understand this.’

We get the gear off. She’s all ribs and little bumps. Her nipples are inverted. She touches them. ‘They make me ashamed.’

‘No. No. Lie down, sweet thing. Relax.’

She does it and I melt on top of her, needing to suck those nipples up.

She feels me all over. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

She’s so delicate I’m scared I’ll break her.

Strange. I’m usually a cringing submissive. But with this fragile creature, I’m butch. The top/bottom thing’s a dodo. It’s whatever turns you on. Butch/femme went out with Billie Jean King and Erica Jong.

I run my tongue down her belly. She quivers. ‘What do I do?’

‘Relax.’ I don’t venture immediately into the interior. I want her begging for it.

She reaches for a jar of body lotion that’s jammed in a front-barred shelf. Does she think I’m going for the saltcellar? She suddenly, desperately kisses me.

I use the gunk as massage lotion, fondle her and tell her to turn over. Pert little arse, dainty thighs. I work over her then slowly down her spine. As my finger tickles her ring, she shivers like a colt.

‘You’re not going to hurt me?’

‘No.’ I kiss her thin sweet legs in the sensitive spot behind the knees. ‘Turn over now.’

She does it legs tight. I spread her gently and work my oily fingers around her mound, tempting, enticing.

She’s kneading my boobs now, urgent, eyes moist. ‘Oh God.’

It’s time. I massage her breasts, licking the inside of her thighs. I work up far too slowly for her. She whimpers with delight and squirms.

As my tongue moves in where she needs it, she shudders and moans.

Then we hear the first scream.

Here endeth the replay of the day. There’s a clue in there somewhere. I’m sure of it. But I’m stuffed if I can spot it.

And there’s no time to analyse it now. The wharf looming up ahead is like a crash site red and blue flashing lights dancing across the chequered strip on the side of a squad car.

The shit’s about to hit the fan.

Naked funeral

The preliminaries are over. The boat’s now a taped-off crime scene with a constable standing guard until the experts can crawl over it. Presumably forensic pathologists like being dragged from bed at four AM.

The police talk like police. ‘And did this person at that point of time engage in conversation with you?’ Like, did you talk to him then? Hello?

We’re taken to the Mona Vale cop shop. It smells of cleaned up cat piss. We drink stale coffee and wait. Then the Duty Sergeant and his sidekick are joined by plainclothes types who split us up for questioning. Divide and rule.

I’m in a bare room with a tape deck and one good and one flickering strip light. All it lacks for decoration is a battered action hero lashed to a chair. The two with me are a sleepy detective and a spotty female constable with her hair in a bun. My own hair’s plastered to my face and I’m too tired to turn on the charm. My body’s salt-sweaty and begging for sleep.

The dick has a beak nose and protruding Adam’s apple with not much chin to balance them. Some vultures are better looking. And he keeps sticking his ballpoint up his left nostril as if trying to dislodge a grolly. ‘So everyone was naked? And you were in the second cabin having sexual relations with the wife?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Just answer yes or no. So you were both naked. And with the door shut?’

‘Yes.’

He scowls at me as if I’m obstructing the course of justice. I don’t think he understands my lifestyle. Makes two of us come to think of it.

‘What was your relationship with Danny Read?’

‘A relationship.’

‘You mean sexual?’

‘Very.’

‘And his wife, Maxine, knew?’

‘She’s not blind.’

‘She knew or not? Yes or no.’

‘She knew. Affirmative. Yes.’

He taps the contaminated ballpoint on his pad. ‘And what was her relationship with you?’

‘Warm. We’ve all been together years.’

‘Living together as a threesome?’

‘I don’t live there. I visit.’

‘All the time?’