Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  FORBIDDEN

  Lisa Clark O’Neill

  Copyright 2013 Lisa Clark O’Neill

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  PROLOGUECAMP sucked.

  That was the singular thought floating in twelve-year-old Tate Hennessey’s head as she watched the empty Coke bottle spin on the cabin’s plank floor. The tinted glass blurred, executing revolution after revolution, finally slowing to a drunken and uneasy rest.

  Its open mouth pointed at her.

  For one perilous moment the only sounds in the musty dark were the mechanical whirr of the ceiling fan and the rasp of her uneven breathing. Up to this point she’d been lucky, as for the past fifteen minutes of this dumb game no one had any reason to pay her any attention.

  Looks like her luck had just run out.

  “You know what that means, don’t you Tate?”

  The nasty, sing-song voice belonged to Lacy Chapman, a viciously perky blonde who’d already developed breasts. Real breasts, the kind that required an actual bra as opposed to one of those training jobs Tate’s mother was always trying to push on her. Lacy’s boobs apparently bypassed training entirely, heading straight to the Major Leagues. Rumor had it she’d let one of the boys from the other side of camp touch them. Tate wasn’t sure if that was true, but she knew for a fact that Lacy was trouble. Her angelic looks belied a bully who liked nothing better than to make other people squirm.

  And Tate was currently on the skewer.

  Swallowing hard, she studiously avoided the five pairs of eyes which pinned her like an insect awaiting dissection. It was decision time, and she didn’t much care for her choices. “Truth,” she finally mumbled, not about to accept a dare. Since there were no boys around with whom to play spin-the-bottle the traditional way, they’d merged the two games to make it interesting.

  “Okay.” Lacy delighted in Tate’s discomfort. She’d made it her mission over the past five days to make sure Tate was alternately ridiculed or excluded. The only reason she’d been invited to play the game tonight was that Lacy knew it would prove a goldmine of embarrassment potential. “What I want to know is… do you have a thing for Lifeguard John?”

  Every bit of summer color drained from Tate’s face as all eyes present snapped toward her. She’d been prepared to answer almost anything, but her mammoth crush on Lifeguard John – the hunky eighteen year old counselor – was her deepest, darkest secret. How had Lacy managed to figure it out?

  Certain that she was stepping into a very carefully laid trap, Tate took the path of least resistance. She lied.

  “N… No.”

  Several muffled giggles followed someone’s curse of disbelief, causing Tate’s green eyes to widen. If she’d said that word, right out loud, her mother would have cleaned her clock.

  “Then how do you explain this?” Lacy held up the Polaroid of Lifeguard John that Tate had hidden in the bushes outside the counselors’ cabin to take. Until that horrifying moment, it had been stashed beneath the mattress on her bunk.

  “Give that back!” Tate lunged across the circle of snickering girls.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Lacy’s push sent Tate sprawling backwards onto her butt. A splinter lodged itself in the heel of her palm, but the sting of humiliation was more painful. “Would someone care to remind Tate what happens when you break the game rules?”

  “She has to accept a dare,” several voices rang out.

  Lacy smiled as panic rearranged Tate’s features. “And I know the perfect one for our little liar. Since Tate is the one who cost us the swimming trophy today, I dare her to go over to the boys’ camp and get it back.”

  The ultimatum swung through the air like an executioner’s axe. The best way to reach the boy’s camp was by way of a walking trail through the forest.

  The dark, creepy forest.

  Not only was the dare cruel, it was also unfair. It really hadn’t been her fault that they’d lost the competition. Beforehand, a boy named Timothy had told her stories about the monster of Lake Allatoona, and then swam underwater during the heat of the race to lay hold to her ankle. Panicking, Tate had floundered, causing Lifeguard John to dive to her rescue. But a little thing like the truth didn’t matter to Lacy. Several girls snickered behind their fingers, and Tate knew she was sunk. It was either suck it up and walk through the dark, or spend the rest of her time here in misery.

  Confronting the narrowed eyes staring back at her, Tate swallowed her rising fear. “No problem.” But when she started toward her flashlight, Lacy’s hand snaked around her ankle.

  “No flashlight.” Her tone was sweet, but her nails bit into Tate’s skin. “If the boys see it, they might know that you’re coming.”

  Jerking her ankle away from Lacy’s grip, Tate stalked out the door.

  Fluorescent light winked between the vents of the cinderblock bathhouse, but the shadowy path through the trees looked like the gaping maw of Hell. Shuddering, Tate picked her way a little deeper into the darkness, the ground mist swirling around her ankles reminding her of every monster movie she’d ever seen. Crickets sang their dirge to evening, woodland debris crackled beneath her sneakered feet, and something rustled in the underbrush beside the almost imperceptible path.

  Tate jumped, a loud splash off to the right reminding her that the path followed the edge of the lake. Visions of the monster the scheming Timothy had tricked her with crowded her overactive imagination, but she valiantly told herself that there was nothing but fish in the lake.

  Moonlight shimmered, giving the murky, brownish water an eerie glow, as fingers of that horror-movie mist stretched from the surface. Despite the “nothing but fish” chant running a continuous circuit in her head, she had no trouble believing that the lake was home to all manner of nasty creatures. Like the piranhas she’d seen on that TV movie. Or the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

  Or Jason.

  Oh. God. How could she have forgotten about Jason? She’d seen Friday the Thirteenth; she knew what happened to kids at summer camp. Any moment now, a hockey-masked, axe-wielding maniac was likely to break through the underbrush and do her in.

  Frozen with the sudden onset of mindless fear, Tate sucked in tiny breaths of panic, until a sharp crack behind her propelled her willy-nilly down the moonlit path. Brambles scratched her bare legs, thorny vines tore at hair and clothing. But the blood trickling toward her socks seemed like no big deal compared to running for her life. Chest heaving with sobs, Tate broke through the trees, stumbling onto the pine straw at the edge of the clearing. She was cut, scraped, winded and terrified, but at least she was out of the darned woods.

  Wait a minute.

  She was out of the darned woods. A triumphant smile played across her tear-streaked face, but she put a little more distance between herself and the looming specter of the trees, just for good measure.

  Creeping on silent feet toward the circle of the boys’ cabins, Tate paused only to wipe the cold sweat that trickled into her eyes. The various trophies earned that day were kept on a special picnic table in the middle of the circle, and scanning the area for any sign of the enemy, Tate crept stealthily toward her quarry.

  She grasped the coveted trophy – her own personal grail – until an unexpected noise coming from the direction of the boys’ bathroom reminded her that she needed to clear out, quick. Being caught red-handed in the middle of the enemy c
amp would put quite a damper on the glow of success.

  As she was creeping around the side of the building, the sound she’d heard began to distinguish itself into voices: one young, soft and worried, and a grown up voice, reassuring. She was almost sure that the younger voice belonged to the dreaded Timothy. She’d heard it in her ear enough that day to know. And though she couldn’t be positive, she thought the older one belonged to the camp director, Mr. Logan. It seemed strange that he was up at this hour, in the bathroom with one of the campers. Maybe Timothy was sick.

  Beside herself with curiosity, Tate couldn’t stop herself from sneaking closer. But the voices inside had been replaced with other noises. Noises that made her uncomfortable.

  Shivering, Tate felt the overwhelming urge to run away. But when she heard a quickly muffled cry, she peeked around the corner.

  The swimming trophy slipped out of her hands as her scream rent the stillness of the night.

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 15, Present

  JANIE Collier was hot, tired, and mad at the world.

  Running away from home wasn’t supposed to be so hard, but getting out of Charleston on foot in ninety degree heat proved to be more of an undertaking than she’d initially guessed. The asphalt was so hot that her sneakers sank into it, and about every fifth step one or the other of them threatened to come off. They were too damn big, anyway, because they were hand-me-downs from her sister.

  Her stupid older sister who’d had to go and get herself knocked up.

  Why the hell hadn’t she listened when Daddy had told her that the Lawrence boy was no good? Hell, anybody with eyes could see Danny was only slumming when he’d asked her out. Her older sister had a body like one of them centerfolds Daddy was always looking at, and that’s the only reason Danny Lawrence had shown the least bit of interest. Rich boys like him weren’t in the habit of making girlfriends out of poor white trash. Danny didn’t even come inside the trailer when he picked Joelle up. He just sat in his Mustang and beeped the horn, like he was too damn good to dirty his expensive sneakers by setting foot in their home.

  And wouldn’t you know it? Daddy’s prophecy had come true.

  Danny Lawrence had gotten in her sister’s pants one time too many, but now that she was pregnant he was nowhere to be found. His parents had sent him off to visit some relative for the summer. His daddy, a lawyer, had threatened to sue Janie and Joelle’s daddy if he ever laid a finger on his boy. Since Janie and Joelle’s daddy was a drunk, he hadn’t had the good sense to listen: he’d attacked Mr. Lawrence at his high-falutin’ home one night, demanding that Danny own up to his bastard.

  Consequently, Danny had left the state, her daddy was in jail, and the child welfare people had been swarming over her and Joelle like flies.

  Joelle, who was six months gone, was in a home for unwed mothers, and she – Janie – had just run away from her third foster home.

  Not like those idiots were going to miss her. The wife had been okay, but her lard-ass husband looked at her in a way that made her feel like she’d come down with chiggers.

  So she’d hightailed it out of there before Fat Hubby had decided to take those gropes-disguised-as-hugs to the next level. She was experienced enough to know exactly what the bastard wanted, and while she was no virgin, she preferred to choose her partners. Fat Hubby didn’t make the list.

  Janie shivered despite the heat.

  Sweat trickled off the back of her neck, running down into her cotton panties, where little bumps of heat rash popped up like chicken skin. Looking at the road sign she’d just passed, Janie saw that she’d traveled approximately ten miles out of the city. At this rate, she’d turn fifteen before she made it to Florida.

  Janie sighed, blowing out a breath that ruffled her sweat-damp bangs. She needed some shade, she needed some water, she needed somebody with wheels.

  Coming upon a massive live oak, Janie dragged herself to the side of the road and sagged against the trunk. There was a fruit stand maybe a mile or two down the highway, and if she could just make it there she could buy herself an apple and a nice, cold drink out of the cooler. She’d love to have one of their cherry sodas, but she figured she’d better stick to water so she didn’t get dehydrated. They’d studied that in health class last year, so she knew all about things like blood sugar and hydration. For the most part, school seemed like a huge waste of time, but she had to admit she liked learning about the body.

  Maybe she’d go to college one day, become a nurse.

  But first she had to get to Florida.

  Janie pushed away from the tree and tried to convince her rubbery legs to move. She’d just about talked them into it when a car pulled alongside her. Warily, she looked it over – a dark-colored foreign job, one of those BMWs, she thought – as the man driving it lowered the window.

  “Sugar you’re not out here walking in this heat, are you?”

  He looked to be about thirty, maybe a little older. She really wasn’t the best judge of age. He was jacked and kind of handsome for an old guy, but that didn’t mean she could trust him. After all, Danny Lawrence was handsome, and look what a crock of shit he turned out to be.

  He turned in his seat to pull a soda bottle from a bag beside him, then extended it through the open window. “You look like you could use something cool to drink.”

  Janie hesitated, because she didn’t know this guy from Adam. Just because he didn’t look like a perv didn’t mean he wasn’t. She took in the expensive-looking watch on his wrist, the glint of gold on his ring finger.

  He seemed okay, but still…

  “Just take the soda, sugar. I promise I’m not going to bite.” When she still didn’t move, he held up his cell phone. “Is there somebody I can call to come pick you up? I bet your parents wouldn’t be too happy about you walking down the highway all alone. I know I sure wouldn’t.”

  “You have kids?” she asked, cautiously inching closer. He really did seem okay, and she was so thirsty.

  “Just one,” he admitted with a proud smile. “A little boy. And his mama would have my hide if she thought I passed you by without offering to help.” He waved first the bottle, then the cell phone. “Would you like a drink, or would you like me to make a call?”

  “There’s no one to call.” Janie accepted the beverage. “I’m on my way to visit my cousin in Florida, and I’m afraid if I call first, she won’t let me come.” Unscrewing the cap from the bottle, she upended and nearly drained it.

  “Well Florida’s a bit farther than I intended to go. But if you’d like, I can give you a ride down to Beaufort. Although if you ask me, I still think you should call your cousin.”

  “No.” She shook her head, trying to decide what to do. She was hot and sweaty and exhausted, and the air conditioning seeping out his open window made her want to dive in. Hitching a ride to Beaufort might not be such a bad idea. Swaying a little, Janie thought the heat must really be getting to her, because when she looked down the deserted road the pavement seemed to move in waves.

  Before she knew what was happening, the man was helping her into the backseat. “Easy, there. You look like you might be having a little trouble. Why don’t you just lie down and rest, and I’ll wake you when we get where we’re going.”

  She was conscious of him tucking her feet into the car, tossing the small backpack she’d been carrying in beside her.

  Then the door closed with a muffled thud, and she wasn’t conscious of anything at all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two weeks later…

  IT was just shy of eight a.m. when Clay Copeland arrived at his destination. The Isle of Palms was a little spit of beachfront off the Carolina coast, close enough to Charleston to be considered a kissing cousin. The island had been hit hard by Hurricane Hugo back in the late eighties, and with many of the original homes damaged beyond repair, the locals gathered up their insurance money and either rebuilt or cleared out. Consequently, McMansions had cropped up like so many mushrooms after a s
torm. Even after the housing bust, property values were at a premium, but Clay’s good friend Justin Wellington had gotten a sweet deal because he happened to perform emergency gallbladder surgery on the little old lady who’d owned his home.

  Clay parked his SUV beside Justin’s classic 1940’s pickup. The truck was all man, which made for an interesting contrast to the barren window boxes, shabby lace curtains and unruly flower beds on either side of the steps leading to the deep verandah. The lone rocking chair with its peeling paint was the punctuation on a sad, bachelor pad sentence. Chuckling to himself, Clay foresaw a long visit from Justin’s mother coming up in the near future.

  Having broken over the horizon a couple of hours ago, the sun now worked its watercolor beams through the tops of the palmettos and live oaks that shaded the small yard. Salt hung heavy in the air, and Clay sucked in a breath, savoring it like fine whiskey.

  He’d grown up with the sea, and he’d missed it.

  Not that his current home base of Quantico was totally landlocked, but as it stood he was only there half the month anyway. And even when he was there he was usually stuck inside, swimming in crime scene photos and autopsy reports instead of the surf.

  Don’t think like a federal agent.

  The words his boss had uttered as he’d basically booted Clay’s ass out the door were going to be Clay’s own little incantation. This vacation was long overdue, and given the nightmares he still suffered after having his last case blow up in his face, Clay was forced to admit he needed the break. So for the next several days he was not Special Agent Clay Copeland, officer of the federal government. He was Clay Copeland, beach bum.

  A worthy calling.

  To that end, Clay locked his badge in the glove box of his 4Runner, tucking his gun and holster into the duffel bag that he dragged from the back seat. Eyes gritty from so many hours of staring at the road, he made his way down the oyster shell path toward what he presumed was the back door. Justin was a man of his word, and Clay found it unlocked.