Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “That’s okay,” Max said diplomatically, in that completely superior manner only the very young can pull off. “I know what a butt is. I know lots of things that Mommy doesn’t like me to say. I hear ‘em from Cousin Declan and Cousin Rogan. They’re teaching me how to cuss.”

  “Are they now?”

  “Uh-huh.” Max pushed his cement mixer up Clay’s leg and made the accompanying noises. His black hair was tousled, his face rosy from sleep. By the gray cast to the light diminishing the shadows in the room, Clay could only guess that it was just before dawn.

  Max, apparently, was an early riser.

  “They said that the boys at the big school next year will think I’m a sissy if I call my butt a bum-bum and my penis a doohickey,” the little boy explained. “Mommy has funny names for things, but that’s just ‘cause she’s a girl. Girls are kind of prissy ‘bout stuff, Cousin Rogan says.”

  Clay wondered if Tate had any idea what her cousins were doing to her son. But Max’s next comment pretty much answered that. “Cousin Rogan says that it’s just a secret between us boys, and that I should never cuss in front of Mommy ‘cause it wouldn’t be ‘spectful. I don’t know what that means,” he admitted philosophically, “but I think it means that it might make Mommy mad.” He gave Clay a quick once over before returning his attention to his truck. “I figured it’s okay to tell you, ‘cause you have a penis.”

  In a bid to keep from cracking up, Clay bit his bottom lip, reopening his cut. Then he added to Max’s education – or maybe corruption – by uttering a curse.

  Max’s eyes, so like his mama’s, went wide with fledgling admiration. “Cousin Rogan said that word would make Mommy real mad if I ever repeated it. He said it the other day when he dropped a full bottle of whiskey on his pinkie toe.”

  Wiping fresh blood from his tender flesh, Clay nodded his head in commiseration. “I can understand why he did that.”

  “Did you cuss when the bad man hurt you in the face?” Max wanted to know.

  “How did you know a bad man hurt me?” Clay wondered, hoping to turn the conversation away from its current uneasy course. He was floundering in a sea of anatomically correct names for body parts and inappropriate curse words.

  “I woke up last night ‘cause I had to pee, and I heard you and Mommy talking. That’s how I knew you were sleeping in this room.”

  Clay had to admit to his own fledgling admiration, as well as a sincere and heartfelt concern for Tate’s sanity when this kid hit fifteen. He was already showing signs of being both clever and sneaky – cute in a precocious five year old. Terrifying in a teenager.

  “So your mom doesn’t know you’re in here?” he surmised.

  Max shook his head. “I’m not s’ posed to bother the guests. But you didn’t lock your door,” he said almost accusingly, just beginning to understand the benefits of reassigning blame. “So I wanted to come in and show you that I’ve been practicin’.”

  “Practicing what?” Clay asked warily. Lord knows what else Tate’s cousins had taught him.

  “Givin’ five.” Max huffed out an exasperated breath. “You said I needed to practice it with Mommy.”

  Something in Clay’s gut twisted a little at the child’s words. “I guess I did say that, didn’t I?” Then he held his hand out and waited for Max to slap him.

  “Ouch, you got me,” Clay said when the small palm smacked against his own. He waved his hand back and forth to indicate the expected display of pain, and then ruffled Max’s thick mop of hair before pushing back the covers. The beer he’d consumed last night was demanding to come out. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, remembered rather suddenly that he was naked, and then made a grab for the shorts he’d dropped on the floor.

  It was at that moment Tate unexpectedly appeared at the door, which was partially open due to the fact that Max had neglected to close it all the way.

  Every bit of color draining from her face, she launched herself at Max, snatching him off the cherry four-poster before turning her maternal fury on Clay. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Clay, who was now very uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was without a stitch of clothing, slowly straightened and pulled the shorts over his naked lap. This was not exactly the way he’d hoped for Tate to see him in all his glory.

  He blinked, a little surprised at her sudden ferocity. “Well, I was just about to put some clothes on so that your son didn’t have to look at my bare bum-bum while I made a trip to the john. Waltzing around naked somehow just didn’t seem appropriate.” He took in her stark face and trembling limbs, knowing that there was something more than normal surprise or embarrassment at work here.

  Max heard the angry timbre to his mother’s voice and misinterpreted the cause. “I’m sorry, Mommy.” He turned tearful eyes up toward her strained face. “I know I’m not s’ posed to bother the guests, but I heard you talking to Mr. Clay last night and wanted to show him how I’d been practicin’. I got him really good, too, Mommy. Please don’t be mad.”

  She cradled her son against her breast, stroking his hair while he wiped his runny nose on the soft fabric of her shirt. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you Mommy?”

  Clay saw that Tate was too consumed with some deep and troubling emotion to answer. She’d simply gathered Max tightly in the circle of her arms, squeezing her eyes shut to fight back tears. “Your mama’s not mad at you,” he assured the worried Max. “She probably just got scared when she woke up and didn’t find you in your bed.” A glance at Tate confirmed that was indeed part of what had happened. “Sometimes when grownups get worried they seem angry. But really they’re just happy that you’re okay.”

  Max pondered that for a moment before pushing back to look at Tate. She put on the brightest of fake smiles. “Mr. Clay’s right, sweetie. Mommy isn’t mad at you. Now why don’t you run along and go see Grandma down in the kitchen. She’s making chocolate muffins this morning, and if you’re lucky she might let you lick some batter.”

  The promised treat did the trick. Max scooted out of Tate’s embrace and beamed a smile at Clay. “Just wait ‘til you get up. Grandma makes the best chocolate muffins ever.” With a quick kiss for his mother, he scampered out the door.

  Tate watched him go, gazing at the door for several moments after he was gone. Clay could see her throat working, and the tracks of moisture that began to run down her face in helpless currents. She mustered her composure before brushing them away. He waited her out, knowing that she was working up the courage to offer an explanation.

  When she finally turned her eyes on him the pain he saw behind them forced his heart into his throat.

  “When I was twelve,” she began in a harsh whisper, “I went away to my first and only sleep away camp. We lived in Georgia then, in a little town north of Atlanta. It was hot, the girls were mean, and I hated every minute of it. The only good parts were swimming in the lake and mooning over Lifeguard John.” She offered Clay a rueful smile. “The first in a series of gorgeous blonds that I seem forever obliged to become besotted with.”

  Clay snagged the implication behind that comment and tucked it away for future examination.

  “Anyway.” She told him about a game, a dare. “When I finally made it through the woods and wound up on the boys’ side of camp, I was about to abscond with the trophy when I heard… a noise. In the bathhouse.”

  Shit.

  Clay felt pretty sure he knew the tenor of what was coming, but he made no move to cut her off. It was best to just let her say it out loud so that it lost some of its power. To avoid talking about it would make it seem shameful, make Tate herself feel as if she’d done something wrong.

  She drew a deep breath, trembled slightly, and hugged her arms to herself. “I saw the camp coordinator, Mr. Logan. He was in there with one of the boys. He was molesting him.”

  Clay nodded in acknowledgement of what she had and hadn’t said. “I understand.”

  “When I saw Max in here with
you I…” she made a helpless gesture. “I guess I overreacted.”

  Clay grunted his disagreement. “You acted like any responsible parent trying to protect their child from a suspicious and potentially dangerous situation. I don’t think you overreacted at all. Even if you hadn’t had such a traumatic experience as a child, I believe it would still be perfectly normal for you to have questioned what you saw.”

  The breath she’d been holding came out in a rush. “I guess I’m lucky that it was you he busted in on and not some other unsuspecting guest. I’m sorry; he’s usually not up before me. And there is a latch on the door to the third floor that is supposed to keep him from opening it. I’m not comfortable allowing him to mingle about unsupervised with any of the guests, for obvious reasons. I guess Mom forgot to engage the latch when she came downstairs this morning.”

  “It’s a good idea to be cautious,” Clay agreed, deciding that it took a lot of moxie for someone who’d experienced what she had as a child to run the kind of business she did. “You might want to consider having a motion sensor installed near the door to the stairwell. It would alert you to either someone trying to approach or Max attempting to leave.”

  TATE smiled, relieved that he understood her reaction so well, considering she’d stormed in like some wild-eyed harridan.

  “I apologize if he woke you up this morning. He’s going through this ‘girls are dumb’ phase and prefers the company of other ‘guys.’”

  “We had a very… enlightening discussion,” Clay said with an amused grin. “He said it was okay for him to tell me things because I have a penis.”

  “Oh my God.” He was naked. Tate had totally forgotten that critical fact.

  Her eyes landed like heat seeking missiles on Clay’s crotch, and he glanced wryly at his lap. Even through the thin fabric of the boxer shorts he’d covered himself with, she had no trouble discerning the appendage in question.

  She hastily jerked her gaze away and covered her eyes with her fingers.

  “I should just, uh…” her voice trailed off into a strangled noise of dismay. “I’ll go now.”

  Eyes still covered, she backed herself into the door. But instead of exiting, she tripped over her feet and accidentally closed it, landing against the wood with a muffled thud. She cracked her head, dropped her hand from her eyes, and rubbed at the goose egg that was forming.

  Then to her complete mortification, Clay came off the bed in order to assist her.

  He was naked as the day he was born.

  Lord have mercy, he looked like a cross between a Men’s Fitness model and a porn star.

  Heavy on the porn star.

  “I’m okay.” Tate held out her hand to ward off his impending approach.

  Unfortunately for Clay, her hand shot out at groin level. It connected solidly with soft tissue and brought him groaning to his knees.

  He landed, doubled up in pain, on top of her.

  “Oh my God, Clay, I’m so sorry.”

  Then the gods of humiliation selected that moment for Max to lead her mother to Clay’s door. He pushed it open in a flurry of innocent excitement, and then stood stock still when it bumped into the opposing weight of Tate’s bottom, currently stuck in the air as she tried to wrench herself free of nearly two hundred pounds of wounded male.

  Clay, hands cupped over his particulars, blinked at the new arrivals with the fatalistic acceptance of one who was caught in a thoroughly embarrassing situation and saw no discernible way out of it.

  Then to her complete astonishment, he started to laugh.

  Tate could feel her face running the entire spectrum of fiery shades from rose to scarlet, and her mother tucked her tongue in her cheek in a bid not to lose control.

  She lost that particular battle when Max pointed at Clay and declared in triumph: “See, Grandma! I told you he has a penis!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tate managed to maintain her composure as she and Max joined Clay for breakfast. Because really, it wasn’t at all appropriate to cackle like a loon in front of the guests. But when Max crawled into Clay’s lap, whispering something in his ear that had his laugh booming like happy thunder, she couldn’t quite stop the little flutter in her chest.

  They seemed… easy together, she thought. A far cry from yesterday’s stiffness at the beach.

  Chewing her lip because that flutter thing couldn’t be good, Tate caught sight of her mother out of the corner of her eye. “Let me help you with those dishes, Mom.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood.

  “Nonsense.” Maggie dismissed her daughter with a wave of her free hand as she approached. The other hand was loaded with the delicate cups and saucers a couple of their elderly guests had used for their tea. “You’re taking care of a guest.”

  The corner of Tate’s mouth quirked into a wry little smile. “Given the circumstances both last night and this morning, I’m not charging him for the room, Mom.”

  Maggie straightened away from the table she was clearing and bristled indignantly at her daughter, a volatile combination of southern hospitality and Irish temper that had just been offended. “Paying or no, he’s still a guest in our home.”

  She glanced over Tate’s shoulder, and Tate followed her gaze. Max had dragged out one of his coloring books. He and Clay had their heads bent together, conversing sagely while putting their artistic stamps on Spider Man Versus the New Goblin. “Now, why don’t you earn your keep by seeing if there’s anything else he needs,” Maggie suggested. Her green eyes twinkled over the stack of dishes in her arms. “Maybe you can try to compensate for some of the damage you inflicted earlier.”

  Tate felt the heat rush into her cheeks. As far as first dates went, she and Clay’s had been a real doozy. She doubted many men had been put through quite as much in the pursuit of a little recreational romance.

  Clay looked up from his rendering of Peter Parker as Tate returned to the table. “I haven’t operated one of these in a couple decades.” He held up the neon yellow crayon, studying it with a curious eye. “I think they’ve added a few colors since my time. All my early artwork consists of blue and red scribbles. Of course, that might say more about my lack of imagination as opposed to limited materials.”

  Tate grinned, bending over to admire their work. Clay seemed to show the same disposition toward grinding the point of the crayon into the paper that her son displayed. Probably something to do with inherent male aggressiveness.

  “Very nice,” she concluded diplomatically.

  “I’ll say.”

  Hearing the heat in the words, Tate glanced down, realizing she’d inadvertently flashed him. Her shirt gaped to frame the tops of her breasts, trapped in black lace.

  “About those handcuffs...” he murmured.

  Tate muffled a laugh, because that would only encourage him. And Lord knew the man encouraged himself enough as it was.

  She pointedly ignored his disappointed look as she straightened, clasping a hand to the front of her shirt. “I’d be happy to give you a ride home.”

  At her offer, Max lifted his head and looked at her with innocent expectation. “Can Mr. Clay come to the carnival with us this afternoon, Mommy?”

  Tate’s gaze flew from her son’s to meet Clay’s with a nearly audible click.

  “I’m sure Mr. Clay has other things to do today,” she informed Max, trying to calm the rumpus taking place in her stomach. “You have to remember that he’s here on vacation. His friend might not appreciate it if we monopolize any more of his time.”

  CLAY reclined in the chair, watching Tate unconsciously brush that long fall of dark hair away from her face. The delicate smattering of freckles across her nose stood out like sprinkles on a luscious expanse of cream.

  He wanted to lick them.

  God, maybe she was right. He was turning into a damn cat.

  A hungry, predatory cat who could think of nothing he’d rather do than spend his day with the beautiful and highly entertaining Tate Hennessey.

/>   His gaze shifted to her son. The kid was working out better than a paid accomplice. “What carnival?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Tate started to gather up the stray crayons they’d been using. Her voice was mild, but the jerky movement of her hands let him know how nervous he made her.

  He probably shouldn’t have enjoyed that so much.

  “Just one of those traveling jobs that blew into town this weekend,” she said. “You know – carnies and funnel cakes and tilt-o-whirls, oh my. We passed an advertisement for it on the way home from the beach yesterday, and my brain was so fried from the heat that I promised to take Max this afternoon.” Shrugging, she tucked the crayons back into their carton. “I’m sure it’s not your usual scene.”

  No. Clay’s usual scene involved dead and dismembered bodies and humanity in its lowest forms.

  “I’d love to go.”

  “You would?” Tate and Max asked at the same time.

  “Why not?” His lazy smile expanded to include both mother and son. If someone had told him yesterday that he would willingly put himself in the company of a gorgeous single mother and her little boy, he’d have told them they were nuts. But maybe the repeated and prolonged exposure to stressful stimuli was more beneficial to his wellbeing than running the other way. Max had already done him the favor of superimposing the image of a child’s laughter over another child’s tears.

  And besides that, he really wanted to get his hands on Max’s mama.

  “It’s not every day one has the opportunity to ride a tilt-o-whirl.”

  TATE was surprised – and not a little alarmed – at how pleased she was that he’d agreed to come along. Other than her cousins, she never included men on any outings with Max, and she’d certainly never taken her son on a date. Partly due to her unavoidable wariness. But mostly because hanging out with a toddler wasn’t a single guy’s idea of fun.

  It would be a mistake to read too much into what was merely a nice gesture, but it made her heart lift a little to see how Clay’s easy acceptance made Max smile.

  “How about you and your mama give me a ride to my friend’s house,” Clay suggested as he smiled at Max, “and then I’ll come back here and pick you both up around noon.” He looked at Tate for confirmation that the time was okay, and when she nodded, leaned his forearms on the table, bringing his head closer to Max. “Then I’ll take you out to a big, greasy hamburger-and-French-fry lunch, and we can see which one of us can ride that spinning thing the longest before throwing up.”