Naughty Little Secrets

by Mary Wilbon

Genres: LGBT Lesbian

Synopsis

In this uproarious, madcap novel, Mary Wilbon introduces two irresistible heroines about to stumble into more trouble than they could ever imagine (think parties, think booze, think very stylish homicide). . . Slick People used to tell me I was a dead ringer for Halle Berry. Okay, most of them were criminals and I was pointing a gun at their heads, but a compliment's a compliment. I used to be a cop, by the way, before I took over security for my girlfriend's multi-million-dollar clam conglomerate. Say that three times fast. Now it's just me, Laura, our dog Garbo, the butler, and about forty of our closest friends, all drunk, all about to turn our hors d'oeuvres into permanent carpet stains. There's a joke in here somewhere. . .but I'll need a drink to find it. . . Laura "Let's do a costume Christmas party; it'll be a blast!" Yeah, right. YOU try wriggling a mermaid costume over actual hips. It seemed like a good idea at the time, you know, me the rich socialite clam mogul in the aquatic themed outfit. Guess it's good that I'm not a proctologist. . .So it's just another party at our house with the usual assortment of movie stars, politicians, ex-cops, ex-cons, and bartenders. Thank God for the bartenders. I have a feeling I'm going to need it since my friend Sindee says there's something really important she needs to tell me. . .some naughty little secret she says is also very dangerous. . . Like a warped version of Sex and the City meets The Thin Man, Naughty Little Secrets is a wild romp through martinis, murder, embezzlement, martinis, "Homey-sexual" cops, bad musicals, community theatre from hell, martinis, sex, seduction, betrayal, double martinis, and New Jersey. . .and possibly the most fun you can have between the covers. . . Mary Wilbon moved from upstate New York with the hopes of becoming a Broadway actress. She made it as far as New Jersey. She loved New Jersey, so she stayed and auditioned for plays in New York. She landed some off-Broadway work, but like many an aspiring actress, she realized it didn't pay the bills. She got a full-time job with the USDOL and continued to do community theater in New Jersey. This book is lovingly written for all the talented actors who didn't quite make it to Broadway. This isn't a recent photo, but damn it, she was determined to get some use out of the headshots she paid for.

Release date: August 1, 2004

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Too much Ecstasy and Viagra, too many drinks, not enough men. It was almost the perfect ending to a less than perfect day.

Eugene looked at his watch. The numbers were scrambled at first, making no sense at all. Eugene continued to stare at them until they gradually aligned themselves correctly.

Three in the morning.

He had called for a ride over twenty minutes ago. He was too inebriated to try to drive himself home. Eugene was still glowing and tingling from the effects of the drugs and alcohol and sex. He was pleasantly stoned and exhausted.

He looked around the parking area. Except for his, all the other cars were gone.

Eugene was very often the last to leave. This place was great for men who wanted anonymous sex. With his good looks, Eugene always got every man he wanted. But he always left wanting more. He frequented this rest stop off the Garden State Parkway at least three times a week. He couldn’t get his fill.

Normally he would have stayed even longer, but the winter weather and the holidays had kept a lot of men away.

Eugene knew he spent too much time here. He had made a New Year’s resolution to cut back. But it was already days into January and he still hadn’t altered his behavior in the least.

Oh, well. So much for resolve.

Maybe next year.

He pulled his coat collar up and over the scarf underneath. He had to protect his throat from the cold night air. No matter how cavalier Eugene may have been with his sex life, he was always very protective of his singing voice. He was in a show now, and he had to be at rehearsal later. Even though it was only community theater, Eugene took his responsibility very seriously.

He figured he could kill some time waiting for his ride by going over his script. It would probably help him sober up, too.

Eugene closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. Then he started saying his lines and singing softly.

Sotto voce.

He had a wonderful voice. He had some formal training, but that had been done merely to enhance his resume and impress everyone who read it. Singing beautifully just came effortlessly to Eugene.

He walked around the dark, quiet, empty lot, acting and singing to himself, getting into his character as if he were on the stage. The only other sound breaking the late night stillness was the sound of the thin layer of snow crisply crunching beneath his footsteps. He strode up and down, reciting his lines theatrically, even measuring out his blocking and attempting a few of the dance numbers.

 

A car approached the parking lot very quietly, the driver looking around, careful not to be observed. The driver parked in a remote spot then turned off the engine. Then watched Eugene. Watched and waited. Biding time. Calculating.

 

Eugene tripped once or twice during the dance routine due to intoxication, but damn, he was good. Why couldn’t he be this good in front of an audience? Eugene knew he wasn’t a great actor, but he was adequate. And like most actors, he told himself that at times he was wonderful, and at this specific point in time, all alone with no one around to appreciate his gift, he was truly inspired. He was under the influence of drugs and alcohol, of course, so maybe his judgement was somewhat impaired, but he felt this was unquestionably the best he had ever been.

After several repetitions, Eugene was confident that he had mastered all his songs, and that he knew most of his dialogue, but he was not so comfortable with the dance routines. The ability to move fluidly on the stage was not one of his natural talents, but he would not be satisfied until he was sure that he had given it his best try. He was determined to get through a dance number here and now without falling or stumbling.

Focus, Eugene, focus.

And…5, 6, 7, 8

Kick, step, kick, step

Turn in, turn out

Back step, pivot step

Arabesque, arabesque

Double pirouette

On one of his turns, Eugene noticed the car sitting there directly in front of him with its lights off. He had been so deeply into his performance that he hadn’t heard it drive up. He felt a little embarrassed. He must have looked very foolish from the car, all alone out here in the darkness, playing out his little pantomime.

But his friend would understand. They were both in the same show.

The car’s engine came to life, then its lights came on, centering on Eugene, pinpointing him with two steady radiating beams.

Eugene smiled and waved and started walking toward the car.

He blinked and squinted as he approached, trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden brightness surrounding him.

As he walked closer, Eugene looked into the car and his smile quickly withered. He saw the look of raw unbridled hatred on the face of the driver. The burning rage staring back at him was paralyzing.

 

At first the driver was nervous about being recognized. There was a feeling of sick excitement. That quickly passed. The driver began to enjoy the eye contact, enjoyed being recognized by Eugene. Now they had another secret connection. It would be Eugene’s last little secret.

The driver smiled, and shifted position in the seat, getting comfortable.

Fear came fast to Eugene and it showed on his face. The driver liked that.

 

Eugene stopped abruptly in his tracks. A sudden chill pierced him to his soul.

He was alone, wasted and vulnerable, with nowhere to hide.

In an instant of crystal clarity, Eugene understood exactly what was about to happen to him.

 

That was the funny thing. The idea of killing Eugene took shape like a slow moving dream, but Eugene knew he was going to be murdered even before the driver had positively decided to murder him.

 

Oh, my God, Eugene thought. It was true what everyone had always said.

When you’re about to die, your life really does flash before your eyes.

Eugene’s life in musical theater was flashing before him!

West Side Story, Man of La Mancha, A Chorus Line, South Pacific, The Fantasticks, Evita, Pippin, Dream Girls, The Sound of Music, Guys and Dolls, The Wiz, Follies, Victor/Victoria, The Music Man, Godspell, Sorry I Missed Your Birthday.

Eugene needed a moment to prepare.

He raised his hand, seeking a temporary delay to the inevitable.

The driver understood and gave Eugene his moment. The car’s engine revved once, then twice, then settled down to a regulated continuous purr, contented, it seemed to Eugene, like a cat patiently contemplating its trapped defenseless prey.

Eugene had never spent much time pondering the existence of God, but perhaps, he thought, this would be a good time to pray.

His knees hit the snow.

Eugene didn’t pray for God to spare him. He knew there was no chance of that. He didn’t ask for forgiveness of his sins, and he didn’t dare ask that his soul be welcomed into the gates of Heaven for all eternity.

He didn’t pray that peace and comfort be given to the ones who loved him, those whose hearts would mourn his death.

Instead, Eugene prayed that his favorite head shot would be used in his obituary.

Amen.

Then Eugene stood tall and signaled the driver to bring the lights up.

The high beams came on.

With consummate poise and elegance, Eugene took his final bow and made his final exit.

 

He looked so graceful from the car. It was obvious he was afraid. His body swayed with fear but he never faltered, not for an instant. It was an image that would last forever.

There was the sense that the earth was about to shift. This was the turning point, the threshold.

 

The driver looked away momentarily, unsure.

For a heartbeat, Eugene felt a twinge of hope.

 

The moon was so bright, like a great blind eye. It was hypnotic.

Focus back on Eugene, there came a detached peaceful trance. Independent hands, possessed of their own will, gripped the steering wheel like they had their own purpose. Somehow the gas pedal was pressed to the floor, and the car leaped forward.

 

The car came hurtling at Eugene, pitched him into the air, and sped away into the night.

Without hesitating for a second, without remorse, the driver drove off and never looked back.

Problem solved.

 

Eugene’s flawless body shattered internally against the ground in a crumpled heap about twenty feet from impact with the car, and then he felt nothing. He was broken and bleeding. In the remaining shallow breaths left to him, he could smell the acrid stench of stale beer and urine from the pavement rising up through the snow. He almost laughed at himself, knowing that these would be the only earthly scents he would take with him into the afterlife. If there was one.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t feel, he couldn’t even cry out in his anguish, but he could see the widening pool of his hemorrhaging blood as it flowed and discolored the snow around him.

In this cold and lonely place, armed with nothing more than his frail resignation, Eugene waited to die.

God was merciful.

He didn’t judge Eugene for his weaknesses. He rewarded him for his strengths. He granted Eugene the place in Heaven he had felt unworthy to ask for.

In his dwindling seconds of consciousness, as Eugene slipped into oblivion, all of his departed idols of the theater embraced him with a standing ovation. Judy Garland, Rosalind Russell, Katharine Hepburn, Ethel Merman, Mary Martin, Gene Kelly, Sammy Davis, Jr., Pearl Bailey, Gregory Hines, Bob Fosse. They all cheered, threw bouquets and long stemmed roses, applauded and shouted “Bravo! Bravo! Bravissimo!”

Eugene smiled weakly.

Sotto voce.

Eugene was dimly aware that a gentle winter wind was approaching. It stirred through the trees, tenderly blowing off leaves that had died, but still held on tenuously. He knew this wind was coming for him, too.

Eugene closed his eyes for the very last time.

Slow fade.

Curtain.

Laura closed her eyes and let her body relax. She took a long deep breath, and slowly exhaled. She did it again.

In, and out. In, and out.

She began to feel the rhythm inside her.

In, and out. In, and out.

She rubbed her hands together, blew into her palms, then flexed her fingers. Laura was intensely determined to finish what she had started. Even if it took all night, she was going to get it up. She wanted it that badly. The clock was ticking and her desire, her need, was becoming urgent.

She reached over to the nightstand by the bed, and grabbed a bottle of lotion. She squirted some on a few strategic places on her body, then slowly and deliberately rubbed it on her skin. It felt so good against her hot flesh. It was velvety, cooling and soothing.

Laura licked her lips and braced herself for insertion.

Now she was ready.

 

She lay on her back, squarely in the middle of the bed. Her long blonde hair was in disarray around and beneath her. She found her courage, took another deep breath, and then moved her trembling hands down slowly over her hips. There, on top of her, her hands found their objective. She laughed involuntarily when she felt its sponginess. Still flexible, still doable. It was damp from all the previous attempts, but Laura was confident that she could make it fit.

Beads of sweat formed on her brow and at the nape of her lovely neck. She grabbed hold and started to pull up.

Nothing.

She strained and tugged even harder. She arched her back and moaned.

Still nothing.

Then slowly…very slowly…it moved.

“Oh, yes…yes…yes…God…Oh God,” she screamed in abandon.

She started to pump her hips in a bucking motion. She was just inches, mere seconds from the payoff.

“Yes! That’s it! Right there! Oh…”

“Will you please get a grip on that,” said Slick, leaning casually against a post of the canopied bed and smiling down at her. “I wish you could see yourself from here, making a spectacle of yourself like this. All the panting and undulating. Your cheeks flushed. Your breasts heaving in a frenzy. It’s shocking and disturbing.

“Have you no shame, no modesty? I’m embarrassed for you. I only hope that in time I’ll be able to purge this sordid image of you from my memory.”

Without moving a muscle, Laura lay there and asked, “Are you done? Or are you just going to stand there mocking me and making snide remarks at my expense?”

Slick thought this over for several seconds.

“It’s very tempting, but no, I’m done. No…wait…wait…I think I’ve got one more joke left…Nah, I’ve got nothing. I’m done.”

Laura, knowing that she had been busted, pulled herself up on her elbows and asked, “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to capture you writhing around like a fish out of water on videotape. It’s sure to be a hit at the party.”

“Well, you try getting into this stupid thing,” said Laura in disgust, collapsing back onto the bed. The tail at the end of her formfitting rubber fish suit crashed to the floor. “It’s becoming an aerobic workout. Whose bright idea was it to have a costumed Christmas party, anyway?”

“Someone said ‘don we now our gay apparel.’ You know our peeps wouldn’t let that go by without turning it into a party. But no one told you to go as a mermaid,” teased Slick. She walked to the closet and stepped inside.

“It seemed like such a great idea at the time. You know, me being the head of a clam company. I wanted to do something aquatic,” Laura explained, reaching down to retrieve her fin.

“Very subtle. And you got me this Sherlock Holmes getup because I used to be a detective, right?” asked Slick, emerging from the closet holding her costume.

“Yes, I was working with themes.”

“I see. You will never know how relieved I am at this moment that neither one of us is a proctologist.” Slick pretended to shudder at the thought of it.

Slick removed her costume from its wrapping and smiled to herself. She had to admit it was a clever idea. She put on the Holmes trademark deerstalker cap, then put the big-bowled pipe with the bent briar in her mouth. She got into the shirt, and placed the cufflinks into the sleeves. She draped the herringbone cape around her shoulders.

Slick walked to the mirror and struck what she thought was an appropriate Sherlock Holmesian pose. She raised one eyebrow and pretended to smoke the pipe.

“The game is afoot,” she said to her reflection.

She did a few turns in the mirror, checking herself out. Not too bad. This could work after all, she thought. She was going to enjoy being Holmes.

She turned back to Laura.

“Would you like me to help you get into your fish tail?”

“Oh, no you don’t,” laughed Laura. “The last two times you ‘helped’ me, the damned thing ended up on the floor, around my ankles.”

“I can’t believe you’re still holding that against me.” Slick winked and rubbed her chin. “My recuperative abilities are amazing. You’ll be happy to know that the feeling is finally starting to return to my face.”

“You were the one who wanted to play ‘Jaws Meets the Little Mermaid,’” said Laura.

“Yes, but I distinctly remember that you were the one who wanted to play ‘The Pussy Hiding Adventure,’” said Slick. “This time I promise I’ll be good.”

Slick offered her hand to Laura. Laura took hold and Slick lifted her gently from the bed. She grabbed the top of the fish suit and pulled Laura to her. Laura slid effortlessly into the costume. They laughed, and as Slick held Laura close, she looked around the room.

They had shared this room, this bed, this home for ten years. Time had flown. It didn’t seem possible, but Slick loved Laura now more than ever.

And now they were about to celebrate their tenth Christmas together. Slick said a silent prayer of thanks, kissed Laura softly, and watched her as she wriggled her way into the final fit of the fish tail. She put her feet through the slots at the bottom and walked unsteadily to the bed.

“I don’t get it,” said Laura as she adjusted herself. “Bette does a mermaid thing in her show and she never seems to have any problem.”

“She’s in a wheelchair for most of it, baby,” said Slick. “And she’s got the Harlettes helping her. Speaking of Bette, do you think she’ll be at the party tonight?”

“No,” sighed Laura. “I don’t think so. She’s still a little cranky about her TV series being cancelled.”

“She’s still upset about that! That was years ago.”

“I know. But you know Bette. It’s hard for her to get over things. She still hasn’t forgiven Barry Manilow for wanting his own career. She swears he’ll come crawling back to her any day now.”

“What about Puffy?” Slick asked. “Will he be at the party?”

“I’m not sure,” said Laura. “But if he does show up, call him ‘P Diddy.’ Don’t call him ‘Puffy.’ He doesn’t use that anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Puffy’ made him sound like he was retaining water,” explained Laura.

“Oh, okay.”

Slick suddenly became very serious and very still. She stood in the center of the room and slowly looked around. Her eyes searched everywhere, taking in every detail. She absentmindedly gripped her Sherlock Holmes pipe and frowned.

Laura watched her in her transfixed state and knew she was concentrating deeply on something. She wanted to ask what it was, but decided to wait for it.

Ten seconds passed.

Twenty seconds passed.

“I can’t find my underpants,” Slick finally said in exasperation. “I’ve been looking all over and I can’t find them anywhere.”

“I was wondering why you were still walking bare-assed around the room. Why don’t you just put on another pair,” asked Laura.

“Because now it’s personal,” answered Slick. “I used to be the best looking, best detective in the country and now I can’t find my own underpants. It’s humiliating.”

Laura smiled as she sat on the bed, putting on the top of her costume. “I’ll agree that you were the best detective on the east coast, but the ‘best looking’?”

Slick sat down on the opposite side of the bed and said, “People used to say to me every day, ‘Hey, you look just like Halle Berry’.”

“The people you’re referring to were criminals, Sweet Cheeks, and you were pointing a loaded gun at them at the time.”

“That was the only way I could get them to say it.”

Laura turned to face Slick, but all she saw was Slick’s naked ass as she bent over, looking under the bed for the missing underpants.

“Gee, what a vision. Where’s that video camera? I’d like to get a shot of this made into a tee shirt.”

But Slick hadn’t heard her.

Laura resisted the urge to reach over and give her a pinch. Instead she watched as Slick’s butt bobbed up and down in the air. She had seen that butt almost every day for the last ten years. She hoped she would see it for the next ten years and the ten years after that.

Suddenly Slick stood straight up and said “Aha! Where’s Garbo?”

“She went sulking off after you forced her to wear those little reindeer antlers. She wanted to be alone. I think she was embarrassed,” answered Laura.

“Well, if we’ve got to wear ridiculous costumes, so does she. The three of us are in this thing together,” Slick said with authority, as she went to search for the culprit dog.

“And you look more like Chuck Berry than Halle Berry,” Laura said softly, stifling a laugh.

“I heard that.”

Laura knew that Slick missed being a detective, and it was no exaggeration that she had been one of the best. She had given it up for Laura because Laura could not cope with wondering every night if Slick would make it home to her. Laura felt that the longer Slick stayed on the streets, the odds were, eventually, there would be a fatal bullet with Slick’s name on it.

The world Slick had lived in and worked in before she met Laura was light years away from the lush opulent life Laura was used to. Slick’s world was dangerous and violent. Laura knew that Slick had the cunning and intelligence to survive in it, but Laura also knew that sometimes even the best got unlucky.

Slick never said it out loud, but Laura sensed she was bored with her current job. They would have to discuss it soon. Laura knew that whatever happened, they would still be together. There was no problem so terrible that it would pull them apart, but Laura was not ready to see Slick go back to carrying a gun, and risking her life every day.

Slick returned to the room shortly, wearing the stolen underpants and carrying a bottle of champagne. She was preceded by an antlered Yorkshire terrier that jingled with every step it took.

The dog stopped in the middle of the room, shook her head, and flapped her ears in an attempt to remove the antlers. It didn’t work. The antlers didn’t budge. She stared helplessly at Laura with beseeching, brown glass button eyes, looking for some assistance in her plight.

Laura smothered a laugh, then looked away, not wanting to snicker insensitively.

Resigned to her fate, Garbo gave a short sigh, jumped up on the bed, turned around twice then lay still, resting her head on her front paws.

“Even though it’s been years since my last case, I haven’t lost my touch,” Slick said. “Behold my success and alert the media! Another mystery has been solved. I can still match wits with a crafty canine intellect,” Slick said, laughing at herself. “I think we should celebrate.”

Her mind went blank when she saw Laura standing there in her complete costume.

After all these years, Laura was still the most beautiful woman Slick had ever seen. The absurdity of the mermaid costume didn’t diminish that at all. Her seemingly bottomless blue eyes still left Slick speechless at times.

This was one of those times.

Suddenly it seemed to Slick that all the air had been sucked out of the room. Then Slick felt the familiar swarm of butterflies overtake her stomach, then felt her knees get weak. She was positive that her heart would start to beat again and that she would remember how to breathe any minute now…any minute now…any minute…

She was falling in love with Laura all . . .