Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (9 page)

“Sure you can,” Clay responded, after catching an approving nod from Tate.  Then he picked the child up, balanced him on his hip, and flicked his finger down the length of his nose.  “How about
we boys show your mama how real men handle vicious creatures.”

They slew that beast, and many other mechanical monsters, over the course of the next few hours.  Clay’s stomach began to rebel at the thought of one more spin on any sort of rotating contraption.  To appease Max and buy himself a few minutes on steady ground, he took one of the glib-talking carnies to task by attempting to level a milk bottle pyramid. 

He’d been at it for a solid fifteen minutes despite the fact that he was pretty sure the bottles were bolted down, and wondered what the orthodontia-challenged man operating the booth would say if he whipped out his badge and demanded to inspect the set-up. 

It was petty and immature of him, but he wanted to impress Tate by winning Max a ridiculous purple bear.

He tossed the ball in his hand, eyed the milk bottles like the enemy, and for good measure slid a menacing glare toward Bucky, the Keeper of the Bear.  Max watched with eager anticipation, and Clay couldn’t help but notice that Tate was biting the inside of her cheek. No doubt to keep from laughing.

He’d pitched a no-hitter at the last Bureau picnic-cum-softball game, and could nail a target with a knife from twenty feet.  Bruised ribs or no, he absolutely should not be having this much trouble taking out a few lousy little milk bottles.

He wound up, focused, and let fly.

The bottles wobbled.

But remained stubbornly upright.

“Ohh,” the man called out in sympathy, slapping his chest and leaning back as if in pain.  “You almost had it that time, Mister.  Want to try your hand again?”

Clay heard snickering behind him, and turned to glare at the big, burly dude in the Atlanta Braves cap who was making the noise.

The man was muscle-bound to the point of looking unnatural. His slick, darkly tanned
skin advertised that he was no stranger to the weightlifting scene.  The hat shadowed his face, but Clay detected deep brown eyes laughing in his direction, and despite the heat the guy was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.

Something in the back of Clay’s
mind clicked, but Tate’s hand on his shoulder distracted him into turning around.

“A frozen banana on a stick would be much more refreshing and entirely simpler to obtain,” she suggested sweetly.

It was like salt in an open wound.  Feeling his macho quotient shrivel, Clay wanted to punch somebody, drive a car real fast, and leap a tall building in a single bound.

He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and drag her off to his cave to make hard, hot love to her until his masculinity was safely restored.

He wanted to understand exactly when he’d degenerated from a civilized man into a baseball-throwing Neanderthal.

“Hey mister,” the carnie said as he tossed the ball toward Clay.  “This one’s on me.”

Clay caught the ball on the fly, flicked his eyes toward the milk bottles, and then returned his steely gaze to the carnie’s face.  Without sparing his target another glance, he sent the ball hurtling toward the bottles.  It hit the bottom middle jug dead center, and the entire pyramid collapsed.

“You did it, Mr. Clay!” Max squealed as he jumped up and down.

“You were trying too hard before.” The carnie grabbed a long hook and retrieved the fuzzy purple bear from its perch.  “It happens all the time when a man’s looking to impress his girl.”

At that, Tate gave in to her stifled laughter. 

“Thanks.” Clay’s tone was dry as he accepted his hard won prize.  Wooing Tate was turning out to be more difficult than his last ten relationships put together. He’d been sunburned, attacked by a mugger, accused of perversion, incapacitated by a blow to the family jewels, forced to endure numerous rotations on various mechanical contraptions, and humiliated by a buck-toothed carnival worker with some suspicious milk bottles and a cheap purple bear.

All in all, it had been a painful twenty-four hours.

He figured it was a good thing that he’d decided to call his intentions in the wooing direction to a halt.  Getting Tate Hennessey into bed might very well prove to be the death of him. 

“Thank you,” the woman in question whispered i
n his ear while dropping a quick kiss on his cheek. 

All of his uncharitable thoughts flew out the window as she grasped his hand and squeezed.

Max – proudly clutching his tacky bear to his small chest – took hold of his other hand and looked up at him with adoration.

“Hell,” Clay muttered to himself.  No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was in full wooing mode, and saw no hope for relief in the immediate future. 

They went in search of frozen bananas, and after Clay had procured three of the chocolate covered treats they retired to a wooden table that had been set up in the designated picnic area.  The thick, twisted branches of a centuries-old live oak stretched above them like an old woman’s petticoat. Fragments of hazy light stabbed through the limp and listless leaves, filtering toward the overheated idlers below until it lay scattered about them like dust.

Shadows grew long and languid as afternoon gave way to the
welcome promise of dusk. A few intrepid crickets began calling lazily to one another from the shelter of the nearby woods.  Families occupied the other picnic tables around them – hot, tired and lethargic from the excesses of their day.  An old man in bib-overalls relaxed against the trunk of the tree.  Clay recognized him as one of the handlers that managed the carnival’s four tired-looking ponies.

A few teenagers had begun to gather
in anticipation of the veil that nighttime promised to drop.  They clumped together in small groups of quivering hormones, trying to look as bored as possible.  The two sexes stood around, chatting and laughing, ostensibly paying no mind to the other while in reality gearing their every gesture, stance and mannerism to attract members of the opposite group.

When it came to sex, Clay thought, even the most sophisticated animal was reduced to the very basic and predictable rituals of mating.

“I haven’t had one of these in years,” Tate murmured around the banana, drawing Clay’s attention away from the horny teens. Turning slightly, he started to make some inane comment, but the sight that greeted him froze his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

Sweet Jesus, Tate wasn’t nibbling at the banana the way he and Max were doing. 

She had her lush, delicate mouth closed over the damn thing and was actually
sucking.

Then she closed her eyes, and licked the chocolate from her lips.

He quickly cut his gaze back toward the old man with the hairy armpits, hoping to substitute that decidedly un-stimulating image for the one that was wreaking havoc with his own hormones.  He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He was not going to give into the temptation to turn back around and watch.

This was a family environment, for God’s sake, and he was in the company of this woman’s son.  Offering to replace her banana with his pertinent body parts was simply not an option.

“Mmm,” he mumbled in reply because he didn’t trust himself to speak.  He took a vicious bite out of his own banana. 

While taking
out his frustration, Clay caught sight of the man in the Atlanta Braves hat he’d almost wrangled with earlier. 

The man was lingering in the shade, sitting on top of a table in the far corner of the picnic area.  Hat pulled low, his manner casual, he methodically consumed a plate of nachos and took long pulls from a bottle of water.  He had another unopened bottle – this one soda – sitting on the table beside him.

He was minding his own business, paying no noticeable attention to anyone else, and seemed relatively average.  He’d done nothing untoward that would in any way suggest ill intent, but something about the man sent Clay’s radar on high alert.

What was a single male doing at a kiddie carnival in the middle of one of the hottest days of the year?

Waiting for his wife and child to finish a ride?

His left ring finger was bare, and he’d shown no interest in the younger children.  In fact, when a mother walked a screaming baby past him, he glanced at them with disdain.

One of the male teens, cigarette dangling from his lips, walked toward the man and apparently asked him for a light.  The burly dude shook his head, and then returned his attention to his plate.  He seemed to be resisting any unnecessary attention.

Maybe he was a loner, and didn’t like crowds.  But if so, why bother hanging out where large groups of noisy people gathered?

Maybe the guy worked here, but from his basic good looks and well-kept appearance Clay sort of doubted it.  He obviously devoted a lot of time to his body, and he didn’t have that haggard look typical of so many carnival workers.  Traveling the country in a trailer was no easy life, and that fact showed on most of the people who made their careers out of bringing their particular brand of pleasure to town after town.  Nor did the lifestyle lend itself to regular, intense workouts.  And this guy clearly worked out a lot.

In fact, it was the man’s body that Clay found most disturbing.

Not the fact that he obviously lifted serious weights – there was nothing inherently suspicious about that – but it had been his experience that people who spent so much time turning their body into a veritable temple were inclined to show it off.

This man was pretty much covered from head to foot.

Why?

Clay took another bite of banana, and contemplated the probable reasons.

It was quirks like that, little oddities of behavior, that drew Clay like a moth to flame.  Something about this guy just didn’t add up. He wanted to know why that was.

“Mr. Clay?” 

Max diverted his attention, making him realize he’d inadvertently slipped into professional mode.  He was here to get away from that, damn it, so he put the puzzle of the burly dude out of his mind.

The little boy scooted closer, tugging at Clay’s sleeve.  He had streaks of chocolate from ear to ear and a hopeful look on his face.  “Would you ride the Ferris wheel with me before we go home?”

“Max,” Tate chastised lightly, reaching over Clay’s lap to wipe the chocolate off her son’s face.  She wet the napkin with the tip of her tongue, causing Clay to shift uncomfortably.

He looked heavenward, studied the overhanging tree branch, and willed his body under control.

“I think that you’ve put Mr. Clay through quite enough for one day.”

Oblivious to Clay’s plight, Tate discarded the paper napkin in favor of her thumb, which she licked before rubbing Max’s face.  It was an innocent gesture – maternal, for heaven’s sake – but that tongue sent his blood pressure through the roof.

And then she absently braced her hand on his thigh for balance as she leaned over.

Saints above, the woman was killing him. 

“Are you okay?”  Tate looked worried, and Clay realized he must have inadvertently made a noise of distress.   

She
glanced from Max back to him.  “There’s really no need for us to stay any longer.”

Clay took in the slightly
mutinous expression on Max’s face, and gathered the kid thought otherwise. 

“We can’t leave without hitting the Ferris wheel on the way out.”  Which earned a beam of grati
tude.

“Clay, you really don’t have to –”

His raised hand stopped Tate’s protest.  “It would be like leaving Sea World without bothering to see Shamu.”

Tate clearly thought that was a stretch, but the matching grins of masculine solidarity on the faces of her date and her son made the point inconsequential. 

“Okay,” she agreed.  “One last ride on the Ferris wheel and then we’ll call it a day.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

BILLY
Wayne Sparks tipped his cap down over his eyes, watching the growing number of teenage girls with interest.  He’d known that he would have a veritable bumper crop of pretty young things to choose from as darkness began to stretch its tentacles around the day. Evening brought herds of fleet-footed little creatures gathering at the watering hole. But he had to be cautious, be patient, as he stealthily selected his prey. 

One wrong move could send the whole lot of them scurrying.

The smart predator – the successful predator – waited for the weakest of the unsuspecting quarry to fall back, to separate themselves from the others.

The weak ones were the least likely to be noticed if they suddenly disappeared.

The girls draping themselves in provocative poses all over the picnic table to his right lacked a certain appeal.  He and JR had discovered that most of their clients preferred an air of innocence in the stock.  And bona-fide virgins fetched a hell of a price.

Of course, that meant that he himself was denied the pleasure of breaking them in.

But hey, there were plenty of girls in that not-quite-virgin, not-quite-slut category that afforded him the opportunity to show their consumers how the product performed. Although the current availability seemed considerably lacking.