Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. Some run-away they found over by Piney Woods.”

  He had to fight to keep his hands from reaching. From squeezing her throat the way her words were squeezing him. Piney Woods was just around the corner. A hop, skip and a jump from the old farm that had belonged to JR’s grandmother.

  And where Billy Wayne was staying.

  Where they had the girl.

  It was only a matter of time before the authorities came knocking.

  And the arrogance of it all, the fact that Billy Wayne had killed a girl, left her in the woods, and then gone out and taken another, like no one would notice...

  Rage bubbled inside and heated his veins, melting all the ice he’d cultivated for years.

  People had messed with him – messed him up – for the last time.

  And it was time the people who messed with him paid.

  “NICE pants, by the way.”

  Clay shot Kim a look as they made their way down Bentonville’s main thoroughfare – a palmetto-lined accumulation of shops and services that looked like a southern-fried version of Mayberry – heading toward the sheriff’s office.

  He’d run out this morning, in search of suitable attire, and the only store open at seven a.m. was the twenty-four hour Wal-Mart. His pants were serviceable, if not exactly the height of fashion. “Hardy har har. So I didn’t come prepared for an investigation. Sue me.”

  Kim adjusted her own immaculate slacks, and gave him a thorough once over. “You probably could have found something nicer last night,” she mused “if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to get over to see your friend Justin. It was Justin that you kept calling every hour, wasn’t it? So what – you had a front row ticket to an appendectomy? Maybe a triple by-pass that you just had to watch? Because he was working last night, right? You mentioned that, when I asked about him.”

  Clay briefly closed his eyes, because his grace period was apparently over.

  “If I didn’t know any better,” she continued, immune to the fact that he was trying to ignore her. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear.

  A fly that you desperately wanted to swat…

  “I’d think that my formerly commitment-phobic, changes-women-with-the-frequency-of-underwear, best friend Clay was in lo-o-o-ve.” She did what could only be described as a happy dance in her seat. “So tell me, Lone Ranger – how the hell did you manage to do that?”

  How the hell, precisely.

  Clay had no frickin’ clue.

  He’d awakened quite early this morning, startled to find a small foot in his groin. At some point in the night Max had apparently snuck into Tate’s bed and cuddled up between them, unbeknownst to the bed’s occupants, who’d both thought the other one had locked the door.

  Being a good mother, Tate had been equally freaked out to find him there, as the fact that they were sleeping together and there was a general lack of clothing made the situation uncomfortable for all. She’d started spouting off some sort of parental mumbo-jumbo about how when two adults really cared about each other they sometimes had “grown up sleepovers,” which Max, perceptive kid that he was, clearly felt reeked of all kinds of bullshit, but he hadn’t been the least perturbed. In fact, he’d told her with a fairly bored air that his friend Cole’s mommy and daddy had sleepovers every night.

  Then, with irrefutable five-year-old logic, he’d asked Clay if that meant he was going to be his new dad.

  And okay. That had freaked him out a little.

  Because as much as he cared about Tate and had gotten on board with this whole relationship program, despite previously discussed pitfalls and problems, the idea of marriage – of being someone’s daddy, for God’s sake – was just a little too much for his very recently ex-commitment phobic brain to take.

  What did he know about being a good dad?

  Sure, his own father had done a helluva job, raising him singlehandedly from the time Clay’s mom died when he was eight.

  But jeez.

  What if he messed the kid up?

  He’d been so worried about the stresses of his job on his and Tate’s relationship, that he hadn’t given nearly enough consideration to Max.

  Like how would he feel when Clay missed his Little League games? Or parent-teacher conferences? Or those really embarrassing school plays that every self-respecting boy dreads because he has to dress up like an oak leaf?

  So okay, maybe Max wouldn’t be too sad if he missed that one. But still.

  What exactly had he gone and done?

  “Clay, look out!”

  Kim’s voice cut through his fugue, and Clay realized that he’d almost barreled through a crosswalk. An occupied crosswalk.

  Slamming on the brakes, he thanked God for both Kim’s ability to focus on what was really important – like driving – and also for seatbelts, because otherwise they’d both currently be getting intimate with his dashboard.

  The man in the crosswalk – a slightly overweight brunette who’d obviously just conducted some business at the UPS store and was now making his way to his car – stopped like the proverbial deer in the headlights and stared at Clay’s truck in horror.

  Feeling like more than a little bit of an idiot, Clay rolled his window down and stuck out his head. “Sorry,” he called. Totally mortified. Wouldn’t that have been a headline to do the Bureau proud? “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

  A range of emotions crossed the other man’s face, which finally settled into a scowl that read asshole.

  Yeah. He’d arrived at that conclusion himself.

  Clay watched the guy cross to an old blue pickup – one that Justin would have loved to have gotten hold of, because it was obviously in running condition but needed a serious bit of TLC. Out of habit, he looked at the license plate, while the man, after casting one last furious look in Clay’s direction, climbed in as they pulled away.

  “I’m sorry.” Kim covered her surprise with humor. “I didn’t realize that saying the ‘L’ word in the same sentence with your name would result in you mowing down pedestrians.”

  Shaken, Clay rubbed at the headache that was brewing steadily behind his eyes. “Let’s just drop it, alright?”

  “Sure,” Kim agreed.

  Clay took his foot off the brake and started driving.

  JR sat in his truck, watching the SUV in his rearview mirror.

  Damn, that had been close. He’d almost been taken out by the FBI, quite literally. It was that same agent he’d seen on TV. The one who was humping Tate Hennessey.

  Good ole Julie had been a font of valuable information. Thank God for the small town grapevine, which made everybody’s business public record. Tate Hennessy, who’d been the one to help construct the composite, was apparently hot and heavy with Mr. Visiting FBI, who, word had it, was some kind of profiler, just like on TV.

  Blah, blah, blah, ad nauseam – the woman had droned on and on. But JR had discovered that the delectable Ms. Hennessey lived in Charleston proper and ran a bed and breakfast.

  And was no doubt bedding and breakfasting Mr. FBI.

  It gave JR a small burst of pleasure, however, to realize that the bastard had been so close to him and not even known it. It was dangerous thinking, he knew, because it was exactly that sort of arrogance that had led Billy Wayne to go and screw things up.

  The son of a bitch.

  Now everything was ruined.

  He had to come up with a plan, and he had to make it quick – a way to complete this latest transaction, get the FBI off his tail, and spread around a little of his own personal misery in the process.

  Vendetta was such an ugly word, but he had to admit it had a certain ring to it.

  It was dangerous, and would mean extra risk, but hell – what exactly did he have to lose?

  He’d lost everything that mattered, already.

  So he’d pick up the pieces, just one last time, and then laugh his ass off as everyone else scrambled – the FBI, the local police.
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  Tate.

  He studied his own reflection in the mirror, allowing a self-satisfied little wink.

  Oh yeah. It was going to be a hot time in the old town tonight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CASEY trembled and tried not to cry as William climbed out of the bed.

  Whatever they were doing with her, whatever they had planned, she hoped it would happen soon. Because whenever the blond man was away for the night William crept into her bed. Two nights ago he’d paid just a brief visit, chatting away as if she was interested.

  Casey and William, long lost pals.

  He’d touched her, but they’d both kept their clothes on, which she felt was due to the blond man’s warning. Whoever he was, he seemed to be in charge, which worked out in her favor, because it made William keep his hands mostly to himself.

  Mostly.

  But last night…

  A sob escaped before Casey could stop it. She’d learned that William didn’t like for her to cry, and became agitated whenever she did so. So last night, after he came to her bed, she’d tried her best to appear calm and friendly. But it was so hard…

  And it became harder before the night was over.

  He’d stripped out of his clothes again.

  The blond man apparently wasn’t coming.

  So he’d felt comfortable not only removing his shorts and his Gold’s Gym T-shirt – folding them neatly, lying them beside the bed, while he smiled at her – but he’d also removed her clothes as well. Her shirt had been tricky for him, seeing as she was still handcuffed to the bed, so it had ended up dangling from her wrist like some sort of weird bracelet. And her pants…

  Tears rolled down Casey’s face in helpless currents as she remembered how very, very hard it had been not to cry. To not just break down and sob, sob, sob like a little baby. But William had put his fist through the wall – somehow, she’d always thought that was an expression, until she’d seen him actually do it – when she’d cried like that the other day. So she’d lain there, biting her bottom lip until it bled, so that she didn’t cry while he undressed her. He’d skimmed his big, thick-fingered white hands over her hips, pulling down her shorts. Over her breasts…

  He’d murmured endearments meant to charm but which turned her stomach. She kept her legs clenched together as tightly as she could, but he’d gently pried them apart and then knelt back on the bed, just… looking.

  And touching himself while he looked.

  But he hadn’t raped her.

  Pushing the reality of what he’d done out of her head, clearing her mind of that disgusting vision which made her feel dirty and shameful and used, she reminded herself of that fact.

  But how much longer would she be able to comfort herself with that thought?

  And how much longer before he actually did so?

  Hearing the toilet flush, Casey turned her head into her pillow, wiping the tears away so that William wouldn’t see. She was exhausted from keeping up the charade, and from getting no rest because William was sleeping beside her. He’d slept with his arm around her. And if she hadn’t been so worried about what would happen if she tried to escape – about how easily he could put his hand through her as he had through that wall – she would have tried to kill him while he slept.

  But she had been afraid, and she hadn’t tried, so she was still lying in this bed.

  Naked and terrified and desperately wanting someone to come save her.

  As if on cue, the blond man stepped into the room. With her face pressed into the pillow she hadn’t heard his footsteps on the stairs. But something in the air had given away his presence.

  It made her shiver.

  She looked up into his eyes – which were hazel now? – and he looked her over grimly. Then his attention shifted to the bathroom as William opened the door.

  With a look that said oh, shit.

  “Hey, cuz,” he said casually, like he wasn’t really standing there naked. Like the blond man hadn’t just caught him in the act of doing exactly what he’d been warned not to do.

  William, however, did his best to appear unconcerned. Like maybe if he ignored the great big pile of oh, shit he’d gotten himself into, the whole thing would just go away. He crossed the room with a nonchalant air and picked up his shorts from the floor. Pulling them on, he pretended the other man’s stare didn’t affect him.

  When William finally looked up, the other man was waiting.

  “Have fun last night?” he asked. And you didn’t have to be a genius to be suspicious of his voice. It was way too pleasant, under the circumstances, to be anything but bad news.

  Casey drew up her legs, trying to make herself as small as possible. Whatever was going down here, she didn’t want to be an easy target.

  “It’s not what you think,” William said calmly, his tone broadcasting at ease. Just a friendly little conversation between two twisted would-be molesters. “She’s still a virgin,” he said, pulling up his zipper with a practiced hand.

  The blond man shifted, laughing a little as if this were all some funny joke.

  But there was absolutely nothing funny about the gun he pulled from his pocket.

  “That’s good news, Billy Wayne. I’d hate to have to kill her, too.”

  And just like that, the man stepped into the room and raised the weapon to firing position. Before William could even wipe the shock from his face, a bullet pierced the side of his head.

  Casey screamed; she couldn’t help it. There was blood all over the bed. And blood and little pieces of… something livening up the faded paint on the wall.

  Calmly, and with absolutely no emotion, the blond man stepped closer to William’s body. While Casey screamed and dust motes danced, the blond man fitted the gun to William’s hand and fired again.

  Casey urinated all over her own legs.

  Then he examined the dead man’s hand, seemed satisfied by what he saw, and turned to look at Casey.

  Bawling, blubbering, begging him frantically to spare her life – she’d do anything, anything he wanted – Casey scrambled across the bed until the handcuff snapped her back. She pulled as hard as she could, until blood seeped down from her wrist, but she couldn’t work herself free.

  Not fast enough to get away from the blond man.

  She watched, horror making her shake uncontrollably, as he pulled a syringe out of his pocket.

  Flicking it with a thumb and finger, he stepped over the body pouring blood and gore onto the floor and grabbed her by the wrist. “Don’t worry,” he said, plunging the needle into the fleshy part of her shoulder, where it burned and burned and burned.

  The world tilted, got fuzzy. Finally faded toward black.

  “Billy Wayne won’t touch you anymore.”

  TATE scrambled toward the phone on her desk, grimacing as she remembered too late that there was finger-paint all over her hands. She’d been taking a fifteen minute break to do a little art project with Max, who was sitting on the floor of the office, head bent in concentration. Painting a picture of a Ferris wheel no doubt intended for Clay.

  His new daddy.

  Max’s question had been like the exclamation point to their conversation of the night before, about this relationship being about three people instead of two. And she wasn’t entirely sure Clay had been comfortable with such dramatic punctuation.

  He seemed more the nice, conservative period type.

  I want you – period.

  I’d like to continue this relationship that we’ve started and see where it goes – period.

  I like your kid, too, and am willing to accept him as part of the deal – period.

  Not Oh my God, Tate! I am so in love with you! And I just can’t wait to marry you and have your baby call me Daddy! Exclamation, exclamation, exclamation.

  Yeah, she was pretty sure that had scared the screaming bejesus right out of him.

  She’d be lucky if that wasn’t him on the phone, calling from Botswana because he’d run for the hills
.

  “The Inn at Calhoun,” she answered, wincing over the streaks of color decorating the receiver. “This is Tate speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Oh, yes. Hello dear.” The ancient voice crackled. “I’m calling to see if you by chance have any rooms available at your lovely inn tonight. I saw a brochure at the visitor’s bureau and it looks positively to die for.”

  “Thank you.” Tate’s smile was warm as she sat down behind her desk and wheeled the chair in the direction of the computer. She made a mental note to tell her mother that the brochures – part of a new advertising program they’d implemented – had done the trick.

  She punched a few keys, pulled up the screen she was looking for, and then spoke into the phone. “You’re in luck, ma’am. We have one room left for tonight. It’s a single, though, with only one king bed, so if that doesn’t suit your needs you may want to consider other accommodations.”

  “Oh heavens.” The old woman giggled. “A single will do just fine. I haven’t traveled with a companion since I lost my husband back in eighty-nine.”

  “Excellent.” Tate went about the process of taking down the woman’s information, chatting a bit about local attractions, and clarifying any questions she might have as to directions. She also made certain that the woman wouldn’t have any difficulty climbing a flight of stairs, as the first floor handicapped-accessible room was already booked.

  “We’ll see you this evening,” Tate said after they’d concluded their conversation. “Thank you for choosing the Inn at Calhoun.”

  “Oh, the pleasure’s mine, dearie. The pleasure’s mine.”

  ON the other end of the line, JR dropped his spot-on imitation of his grandmother’s voice, a talent which had served him well whenever he’d adopted the old bat’s persona over the years. It came in almost as handy as her social security number, credit cards, banking account and the dilapidated farmhouse he was currently standing in.

  Casting his gaze over the naked, unconscious girl on the bed, he once again sent a silent thanks for nothing to the old woman who’d made the mistake of tracking him down after an all too conspicuous absence from his childhood.