Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  Max giggled and slapped the hand Clay extended for the now expected exchange. “I like you, Mr. Clay.”

  “You know something, Max? I like you, too.”

  Bentonville Fairgrounds

  THE sweet, doughy smell of frying funnel cakes made Casey Rodriguez want to barf. Her mother ran the booth, and since Casey was off school and of an age that adults felt she needed to do something constructive so that she didn’t wind up experimenting with alcohol, drugs and horny teenage boys, she’d been pressed into service.

  Dropping the thick rope of dough into the vat of oil, Casey bit off a curse. Hot droplets leapt out to sizzle along her arm. She already had a whole armada of tiny red welts sailing around on her suntan, and she grimaced at the new additions. At the sound of her mother’s laugh, she shot a nasty glance over her shoulder.

  Lola leaned out the little sliding window, blocking whatever hopes Casey had for catching even a hint of a breeze. She was busy batting her heavily made-up eyes at some hulky looking guy in an Atlanta Braves cap.

  Casey was forbidden to wear even a hint of lip gloss, but her mother looked like she’d been hit by a car driven by Mary Kay. Blues and pinks and thick applications of powder turned her pockmarked skin into a lumpy birthday cake disguised with too much frosting. And given the heat, it all ended up running off her sweat-bathed face in colorful rivers, anyway.

  Bobo the clown, the official carnival mascot, had absolutely nothing on Lola Rodriguez.

  Casey watched in disgust as her mother’s frizzy, bleached hair blew around her face. It swallowed up the fresh air in a tornado of over-processed greed. The man outside didn’t seem to notice how tacky she looked because he was entirely too fixated on the generous display of breasts that Lola’s tank top did little to hide. And judging by the way her mother leaned over so that her soft, plump arms squeezed them up and out like ripe melons, she knew her outrageous figure was her best hope of snagging another man.

  “Order up,” Casey said dryly, stalking to the window beside her mother. It was hotter than blue blazes in the trailer, and the small amount of fresh air that made it past that puff of hair felt like a little slice of heaven.

  Lola took the greasy plate from Casey without bothering to spare her a glance.

  However, the man she’d been trying to seduce – about six foot, brown hair, brown eyes and enough muscles to indicate that he had a lot of time for weightlifting on his hands – appeared a lot more interested. His ball cap obscured his face, but from beneath its brim his gaze slid over Casey in a way that made her feel as if he’d just undressed her with his eyes.

  At fourteen – or near enough, anyway, considering her birthday was next month – Casey was just beginning to show promise of the future beauty she was destined to become. She was lithe where her mother was voluptuous, dark where her mother was fair. Not to be stuck up about it, but genetically speaking, she’d hit the jackpot by taking after her slim, handsome Hispanic father.

  As far as everything else was concerned, she’d drawn a bitch of a hand.

  Her father had left her and her mother for parts unknown when Casey was still in diapers. Since then, Casey had watched a steady stream of losers parade in and out of her mother’s life. About six years ago, one of those losers had convinced Lola to hit the road with him in this traveling flea-bag carnival, but he’d left her high, dry and pregnant when he met a sweet little thing in one of the towns they visited and decided to settle down.

  Since then, Casey had been in and out of about ten different schools, lived primarily out of cheap hotels and campers, and acted as surrogate mother to her little sister while their real mother was at work.

  Despite the unpredictability of their lifestyle, Lola was fanatic about guarding her daughters against the wages of sin, or whatever, and consequently Casey was sheltered in a way that most of the other girls in the carnival were not.

  But she was still mortified when she found herself blushing.

  She’d had plenty of invitations for experimentation from some of the boys they traveled with, but this was the first time a real man had bothered to look at her that way. Like she was more than just some kid. She glanced up from under the heavy fringe of her lashes…

  He smiled.

  Casey thought he was kind of handsome.

  “Thanks, Casey,” her mom said, in that absent way people talked when they were distracted. She handed the man his funnel cake and went about the business of making change. “Why don’t you go grab your sister and take her on some rides?”

  To Casey’s slight disappointment, the man withdrew his attention. Probably because Lola offered another eye catching view of cleavage while counting out his fives and ones.

  “Okay.”

  With a last glance toward the man she pulled open the door, welcoming the blast of fresh air as she strolled off to find her sister.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “FIRST I want to ride a roller coaster, and then I want to eat one of those frozen bananas on a stick, and then I want to go in the fun house but you might have to hold my hand because sometimes the fun houses aren’t so fun and I get scared. I don’t know why they call ‘em fun houses when they make ‘em all dark and spooky. Last time I went in one there was a gorilla in a cage and I almost peed my pants until Mommy showed me that he wasn’t real. I don’t know who would want to keep a fake gorilla in a cage when he’s not going to get away because he isn’t even real. And there was a funny mirror that made Mommy look real short and fat and she said that she didn’t like it.”

  “He talks a lot when he gets excited.” Tate’s tone was rueful as they pulled into the grassy parking lot. So far her son hadn’t managed to divulge any more than two or three of her more embarrassing secrets, but given the time he had at his disposal today, she figured he’d completely humiliate her before they made it back home.

  She grimaced at Clay while the chatter from the back seat continued unabated.

  “So I noticed.” Clay’s smile was easy as he turned the SUV into an empty spot. They’d just finished their greasy hamburger and French fry lunch and her son hadn’t stopped babbling once during the entire ride.

  Clay turned off the engine, came around to open Tate’s door, taking her hand as he helped her alight. Then he opened the rear passenger door to unhook Max from his car seat. He studied the contraption in confusion, to which the chattering Max was oblivious, but finally managed to free her excited child from his restraint.

  Tate’s throat constricted as she watched him lift Max from the car.

  She wasn’t unused to a man with manners – southern men were famous for their chivalry, after all – but the unstudied ease of the action piqued her curiosity. “Do you have children, Clay?”

  Clay startled at the question. “What? No. Why do you ask?”

  She gestured toward the car seat and the small child standing in his shadow. “You don’t seem the least bit uncomfortable.”

  “Ah. A by-product of training and experience.” Tate took Max’s hand and they started to move off in the direction of the action. “I studied under a renowned child psychologist, and my best friend – Justin’s brother, actually – is the father of a three-year-old girl. Last time they visited, she refused to let anyone but ‘Uncle Clay’ do anything for her. I learned a lot in an awfully short period of time.”

  “I can relate,” Tate said with amusement. She knew he’d never been married, as they’d discussed as much at lunch, but the possibility that he might have a child out there hadn’t even been considered. “Being handed a helpless newborn is the ultimate on-the-job training. You learn fast out of sheer necessity.”

  “Watch your step,” she advised Max as they crossed a small ditch to access the dirt path leading to the carnival grounds. The surrounding vegetation hung limp and lifeless, covered with a fine layer of dust. At almost two o’clock, the sun’s rays were at their strongest, mercilessly beating recipients of their heat into submission. No larks or robins dared sing, and even the omnipresent
mosquitoes – big enough to warrant the title of South Carolina’s unofficial state bird – hung back in whatever shadows they could find while waiting for nightfall to begin their feeding. Sweat began to form at the nape of Tate’s neck, making her glad she’d scraped the heavy mass of her hair back into a ponytail. She glanced over at Clay’s short, spiky locks with envy, thinking that men had all of the advantages when it came to dealing with the heat. No one thought twice if they walked around shirtless, and they somehow managed to look both masculine and sexy while dripping wet.

  In fact, she could see that Clay’s white T-shirt was already beginning to cling, and she decided he was either crazy or a saint for volunteering to put himself through this when he could be relaxing on a raft in the ocean or taking a stroll through Waterfront Park.

  CLAY was beginning to wonder if he’d taken leave of his senses.

  He’d just consumed two cheeseburgers, it was an easy ninety degrees, and a rickety looking Ferris wheel loomed large in his immediate future. That off-hand comment he’d made to Max this morning didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. In fact, if he had to wager, he bet that he’d be sorely tempted to hurl chow before this little outing was over.

  He must be insane to go through all this just to get a girl.

  And hell, it wasn’t like any of this was leading anywhere. He’d charm his way into Tate’s affections, enjoy her for a few more days, and then it was back to the real world.

  Romantic interlude forgotten.

  Max reached up at that moment to tuck a small, trusting hand into his, and Clay felt like a total ass. He liked this mother and child too damn much to act like a typical schmuck. He felt his priorities rearrange as conscience began to overrule libido.

  He’d treat them to an entertaining afternoon, drop them off safely, and then go about the business of pretending he never met them. Anything else was simply making suggestions of promises he couldn’t keep.

  How the hell he’d stumbled into this situation instead of a nice, uncomplicated vacation fling was beyond him.

  He let go of Max’s hand long enough to fish his wallet out of his pocket – he’d insisted on footing the bill in payback for his accommodations the night before – and garnered them three hand stamps signifying paid admission. It earned them a limited amount of rides, but games, food and additional ride tickets cost extra. All in all he figured these carnival folks had a pretty good thing going.

  They made their way through the gate, and Max’s mouth hung open for a full thirty seconds as he took in the bevy of available thrills. To a child, the carnival was a veritable wonderland of exciting possibilities.

  To that child’s male chaperone, it looked like precariously cobbled together hunks of scrap metal operated by a bunch of shifty-eyed and possibly criminal characters.

  Tate’s pained gaze met Clay’s over Max’s head, and he found his sentiments mirrored.

  “This is the first time I’ve been to one of these in the daylight,” she admitted, looking around. A leather-skinned vendor hawked enormous clouds of cotton candy as a mechanical dragon looped overhead, ferrying passengers squealing with glee. The specter of Port-O-Potties cast a malodorous pall over the far corner of the park, while the competing aromas of caramel corn and bratwurst vied for the upper hand in their assault on the olfactory senses. Harried parents shepherded hot, sweaty children. Ear-splitting screams erupted from the direction of the “Tornado,” which spun unsuspecting folks in a vortex of centrifugal force while the ride’s bottom dropped from beneath their feet. “It, uh, sort of loses something without all of the midway lights and, you know. Darkness.”

  The corner of Clay’s mouth tugged into a commiserative grin. “I’d say the sanctity of Walt Disney’s empire remains comfortably un-assailed.”

  “Can I ride the dragon, Mommy?” Max was clearly unfettered by the grown-ups’ lack of enthusiasm.

  “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 in 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.