Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (43 page)

“Look, son.” Yeah, he didn’t like her calling him that, but she wasn’t in the mood to placate his fragile ego. “I understand that at your age your social acceptability is directly proportional to your ability to exercise poor judgment, but I’m telling you right now that you need to turn around and walk away. I’m running late, I’m cranky, and this is a very busy highway.  If you’re not careful someone acting even more irresponsibly than you are is going to come along and run over your ass.  So do us both a favor and pretend you have some sense.”

Junior laughed, as she’d feared he would, and swaggered even closer.  Sam squeezed her eyes shut briefly, wondering why she seemed to draw assholes like flies to sticky paper.  Maybe there was a jerk-magnet buried under her skin. “Why don’t you put that mouth to better use, sweet thing, and then we’ll see who you’re calling little.  I got money.”  He reached into the back pocket of his baggy jeans.  “Ten bucks should cover it.”

What the… was he serious?  Just because she was wearing a trench coat and go-go boots the little punk had the right to assume?  “Okay, kiddo.”  She barely resisted the urge to slap him.  “I’m going to offer you a piece of advice.  You and your friends need to go home and sober up before you do something truly stupid.”

He reached out and grabbed for her breast.  “The only stupid thing I’m looking to do tonight is you.” 

Sam’s hand snapped out so fast that the kid had no idea what hit him.  Blood spurted – the heel of her palm had connected pretty solidly with his nose – as he stumbled back with a shriek.  His bloodshot eyes registered surprise even as they went watery from the force of the impact. Before that surprise could morph into humiliation and anger – a dangerous combination in a teenaged male – Sam had her hand on her cell phone.

She held it up so the kid could make an informed decision as to what he should do next.  “Unless you’d like to explain to your parents how you ended up in jail, drunk off your ass, booked on charges for underage drinking and attempted assault, I suggest you think twice about attempting to touch me.  I don’t take lightly to unsolicited groping, and here’s a hint – no means no.  Always.  No exceptions.  Now unless you’d like me to have a chat with the 911 operator who’s standing by, you need to turn around and get out of my sight.”

Using the edge of his shirt to mop the blood which still trickled from his nose, the kid glared and weighed the options.  Sam swallowed the bitter taste of fear – there were three other boys in that car, and no amount of self-defense training would even those odds – but another car passed by, slowing to survey the scene, and thankfully Junior had the smarts to check his pride in favor of avoiding a trip to the pokey.

“Bitch,” he hissed, stooping to retrieve the hat which had been knocked from his head when she hit him.

“Sticks and stones, pal.”

As he stalked off toward his friends, Sam’s breath whooshed out in a rush, legs trembling beneath her coat.  No matter how many times she’d been in that kind of situation, it never got any easier. 

But she hadn’t let him see her fear.

Watching the kid climb into the car amid the cackling laughter of his friends, she hoped he’d at least learned a lesson.  “Hell,” she said out loud, as the GTO peeled away.  “I could seriously use a drink.”  And because the thought of a drink reminded her that she was supposed to have been at Murphy’s Pub as of – she glanced at her watch – ten minutes ago, Sam turned toward her car and gave another violent tug on the handle.  The stupid thing decided to cooperate, and she yanked the door open in frustration.

Settling her long legs, which with the addition of the three-inch platforms on the boots had become ridiculously unwieldy, into the cramped area between the bucket seat and the gas pedal, Sam wrapped her arms around the steering wheel and leaned her head down with a shaky sigh.  The vomiting and then the fun little tango with that shining example of teenage stupidity had played havoc with her already frazzled nerves.

Lifting her head, she flipped down her visor so that she could check her makeup in the little lighted mirror.  Most of the war paint was still in place, but she’d worn off all of her lipstick.  Pulling a tube of Kiss-Me Red from the cup-holder between the seats, she hastily performed a repair job. 

Although really, she might as well not have bothered. No one ever looked at her face.

Without the multiple layers of make-up and the shockingly red wig, her face wasn’t much to speak of.  Plain hazel eyes surrounded by stubby lashes topped off a button nose and nondescript lips.  Her cheeks were too full, her face too round, and though she was spared the ignominy of freckles, her features were so aw-shucks bland and uninteresting that she could only be described as average.  She’d heard cute a few times, and more often, wholesome. 

Which was why it was some kind of great, cosmic joke that that face was attached to her body.  Because her body was blatant sin. 

Double-D breasts, a narrow waist and legs that seemed to go on forever. True, her hips might show the evidence of a few too many candy bars here lately, but there was no question that overall Sam was built like one of Hugh Hefner’s wet dreams.

Trying not to resent the fact that she was going to have to use that body in a way that made her sick, Sam put the key in the ignition of her ancient Ford, and listened as the engine turned over.  

How the hell she was going to take off her clothes in front of a room full of men, she honestly had no idea.