Challa

by Linda Mooney

  Compton kept a tight rein on his emotions, and an even tighter rein on what his body demanded that he do. It would take very little effort to push her down across both seats, but he wasn’t about to jeopardize their budding relationship with any crass actions or threatening moves. No, if it took handcuffing his wrists to the gun rack behind the seats, Compton swore to himself he would take things as nice and easy as he could physically manage in order to win her trust.

  In order to win her.

  It took him all of two seconds to learn that Challa had not kissed many men, if any. Her mouth was responsive, yet she timidly imitated his actions. On the plus side, her lips were growing warmer. In fact, the steam coming off their clothing was leaving a thin film of moisture on the windshield and windows.

  Her hands continued to press against his sternum, her fingers clutching his button-down, short-sleeved shirt as if she was afraid he would let her go. Her breathing was steadily growing faster and shorter, and she moved closer to him.

  The interior of the truck smelled like one vast pool of fragrant honeysuckle warmed by the sun. Not cloying, but light and sweet. He doubted it was her perfume, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility of it coming from her clothing, or her soap or shampoo. But there was no doubt in his mind that the scent was as much a part of her as her skin, her hair, and her lips.

  Her tongue licked the corner of his mouth. Compton felt his erection shift in his lap, nearly standing on end like a loaded missile. Beneath his hands he could feel her skin and the thin dress she wore. The flex of muscle beneath the incredibly soft texture of her back was like a potent drink going straight to his head. Besieged by the hundred and one sensations of her mouth, her skin, her body, her hair, her breath, her fingers, her hands, and her scent, Compton moaned.

  Challa gasped in reply. The next thing he knew, her arms went around his neck, and she was pressing her whole body along his.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…

  The words slid through his mind like a litany. This woman wanted him, and by her responses alone he could tell she was just as inexperienced as he was in the art of lovemaking. Maybe less, maybe more. But he would swear her trembling and hesitant kisses were not the actions of a woman who frequently gave herself to any road show Johnny who waited after the end of each performance for a chance to get to know Challa the Alien Girl…and hopefully get a piece of ass in the bargain.

  Yeah, Compton. And what do you think your chances are you’ll actually get laid?

  The snarky comment had the same effect as a cold shower. Compton regretfully pulled away from Challa’s full lips as a groan rattled in his chest. He bowed his head, to feel her lightly kiss his forehead.

  “Compton?”

  Looking back into her face, he cupped her cheek with one hand. “Challa, listen.”

  “I never th-thought…” She hiccupped, and a teardrop slipped down her face. Another drop glittered like a faceted diamond on her long, dark red lashes.

  Compton paused and debated whether to tell her what he’d felt he had to tell her. That he wasn’t quite the man she may believe he is. That he had a history she had to know about if they wanted to take this relationship any further.

  Especially if their relationship was going to become sexual.

  If it could become sexual.

  Another thought surfaced, and Compton found himself at a loss for words. What were the chances Challa was a virgin?

  Almost like a second thought, he remembered what she had started to tell him. Breathe, Compton. Breathe and concentrate on what she’s trying to say.

  “You never thought what?” he whispered, wiping away the runaway tear with his thumb.

  “I never thought I would find you.”

  “What are you talking about, Challa? I don’t understand.”

  Her chin was trembling. Her face was so close he could see his reflection in her pupils. Compton had the nearly irresistible urge to kiss her again, but he forced himself to resfrain from doing so until after she’d finished what she needed to say.

  Her voice hitched again. Another tear fell, this time on the other side. “My life mate. You’re human. I never—”

  A horn blatted loud and close by. It startled the both of them, and Compton grabbed the steering wheel with one hand to steady himself. The rain had let up enough for him to see the red taillights of the car that had just passed them receding in the rearview mirror. Overhead, the clouds appeared to be breaking up. The storm had spent its fury. Compton glanced down at where Challa remained partially sitting in his lap. She gave him a questioning look.

  “Storm’s over. Are you still cold?” He didn’t want to ask her what she meant by her last remark. In fact, these past few minutes seemed too surreal to be believable. He needed some time to think things over. Put his feelings in perspective. Most of all, he needed to make some hard decisions about himself…and Challa.

  She shook her head to answer him. Compton swiveled around and started up the truck. Challa tucked herself against his side and laid her face on his shoulder. Gradually, carefully, he pulled away from the side of the dirt road, which was now more of a muddy lane, and slowly drove the rest of the way to the carnival.

  He turned to pull into the grassy field where he had parked last night, but Challa pointed at the cluster of trailers and RVs at the other side of the main tent.

  “Can you drop me off there?”

  “Not a problem.”

  Compton took care to watch out for muddy ruts. The ground was saturated to the point where he found himself driving in nearly an inch of rainwater.

  “Let’s hope this field has good drainage, or else your customers are going to find themselves slogging through ankle-deep mud,” he commented. From the corner of his eye, he could see Challa silently acknowledge him with a nod of her head.

  “Here. Stop here,” she suddenly said. They were parallel to an old tan and white Winnebago. Compton hit the brakes and put the vehicle in park. He turned toward her.

  Challa looked up at him, expecting some sort of goodbye, but not sure of what to say or how to go about it. Smiling, Compton leaned over to kiss her one more time before she exited the cab.

  The arm came from out of nowhere, slamming across the hood of the truck with an explosive sound. Compton yelled in shock, his heart leaping into his throat. At the same time, Challa shrieked and jumped backwards against the seat.

  The man who had hit the truck advanced around the front of the vehicle and headed for the passenger side. His fist came down again across the hood, hard enough to where Compton could see the dent it left.

  “Goddamn it, Challa! Where the fuck have you been?”

  The man was furious. His face was red, and he was gritting his teeth in barely suppressed rage. Compton immediately recognized the guy as the barker who had introduced Challa’s act last night.

  Challa scooted over to the door, opening it the same moment he jerked on the handle. He threw it open, and she tumbled out onto the muddy turf. The man stood over her, ranting loudly as she stared back up at him.

  “Who the hell gave you permission to leave the show, huh? Who do you think you are, running off like that without telling anyone where you were going?”

  “Lawson, I—”

  Now it made sense to Compton. The irate guy had to be Lawson Hall, the owner and proprietor of the carnival. But even if he was the owner, his status didn’t give him the right to talk to Challa with that tone of voice. Compton quickly exited the truck from the driver’s side and walked around the front of the vehicle, casting an eye on the two noticeable dent marks in the hood.

  If Hall was aware of Compton approaching from behind him, he never acknowledged it. Instead, the man continued his verbal abuse on the woman still on her hands and knees in the mud and standing water.

  “How many times have I told you you’re not supposed to leave the carnival without letting someone know?”

  “There wasn’t anyone around,” Challa tried to protest.


  “Then you don’t leave until you tell someone!” Lawson roared. “I have a dozen men out there right now, looking for you! Men who should be here this minute working to get the place ready for tonight!”

  Lawson reached down and grabbed her by the wrist, and literally yanked her to her feet. Challa cried out in pain at the rough handling. It was the last straw for Compton.

  “Listen, Mr. Hall, don’t blame Challa for being AWOL. I—”

  Lawson whirled on him like an unrestrained tornado. “Get the fuck out of here! You’re not wanted here, and you have no say-so in my business dealings! So get the fuck outta my face and stay away from my carnival before I call the sheriff!”

  As the man railed against him, Compton noticed he didn’t make any menacing moves toward him, and Compton had an idea why. Although Compton barely topped six feet, Lawson was a good three or four inches shorter. That, plus the fact that the carnival owner had to be in his late forties or early fifties. But Lawson’s arms were corded and well-muscled after years of manual labor required in the carnival. The man could be a formidable opponent, despite the paunch rolling over the waistband of his jeans.

  Compton held up his hands as if in surrender and stepped back. “Hey. I meant no harm. I saw the girl walking down the road in the middle of the rainstorm, and I pulled over to give her a lift. No harm, no foul. Geez.” He chanced a glance over at where Challa was staring wide-eyed at him.

  Luckily, Lawson swallowed the story without question as he glanced back at Challa, and finally noticed her bedraggled appearance. His anger softened, but not by much. “No one asked you to play the Good Samaritan,” he told Compton. “Now, get on with your business and leave us be. We got work to do and a show to put on tonight.”

  Compton nodded, chancing one last glance at Challa. “Are you going to be okay?”

  She nodded. “Th-thank you for the ride.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Say,” Challa hurried to add. “Why don’t you come to the show tonight? Bring your g-girlfriend.” She gave the carnival owner a hard stare that looked as if she was daring the man to take back her invitation. Fortunately the man relented.

  Compton was silently relieved. Thank you, Challa, for going along with me. It was fortunate she’d caught on to his ruse. Obviously she knew he was willing to keep their relationship hidden from the carnival owner.

  Smiling, he nodded. “Sounds good. I just might.”

  He backed away and got into the truck. Lawson glared at him as he put the vehicle in gear and slowly drove away from the cluster of trailers.

  As he neared the front entrance, Compton checked his rearview mirror. Challa had disappeared, but Lawson remained standing where he’d left him. Lawson Hall continued to watch Compton leave, and didn’t break his stance until Compton reached the muddy road and turned toward town.

  Chapter 11

  Show Two

  Other than wearing a baseball cap, there was hardly any way Compton could disguise himself. Lawson Hall knew what he looked like, and Compton was certain the owner would be on the lookout for the man who had driven Challa back to the carnival. That, plus the fact that his artificial leg always drew attention.

  It was evident the owner was overly protective. Or maybe not. Compton briefly entertained the notion that Challa could be related to him, which would explain a lot. But he seriously doubted there were blood ties between the two. He’d gotten the distinct impression that Hall was not so much protective as possessive. If that was the case, why? Was Challa someone’s daughter he’d been entrusted to take care of? Was she his niece? Stepdaughter? Goddaughter?

  What drove Lawson Hall to act the way he did?

  Furthermore, Challa seemed fearful of him. Had the man abused her in the past? Was he still abusing her?

  Frantically, Compton searched his memory for some sign of a bruise or mark on Challa’s creamy white skin without success. But then a blacker, uglier form of abuse surfaced in his mind, and Compton felt his disgust and anger roil in his gut like acid.

  Sweet heavens, if that bastard’s abused her like that, I’m going to strangle the man. I swear to God, I will!

  Deliberately unclenching his fists, Compton forced himself to take a few deep, slow breaths. He double-checked the straps on his prosthesis to make sure it wouldn’t slip or fall off in case he had to make a run for it. Once he was satisfied, he finished dressing.

  When he walked out of his house, he checked his watch for the time. It was almost a quarter till eight. Given that the sideshow acts didn’t begin until eight-thirty, he would have plenty of time to do a quick recon of the grounds.

  Compton smiled. Max was wrong. The man said that once Compton was discharged from the Army, he’d never have any further use for his skills he’d obtained during his enlistment. For once, Compton was going to delight in having his training to fall back on.

  The drive to the carnival grounds was not as quick as it had been the night before. News of what the carnival—or rather, the sideshow—had to offer was drawing a bigger crowd, which suited Compton just fine. The more the merrier, especially when it would make Lawson Hall’s job of keeping an eye on him all the more difficult.

  Parking had overflowed in the first field. Now people were finding their own places along the shoulder of the road, and sometimes in the ditch. Compton dutifully pulled his truck behind a compact car. He joined the growing line of people heading for the tents and rides, all the while keeping his eyes peeled for signs of carnival workers.

  Rule Two: Spot the enemy before they spot you.

  The darkness was a mixed blessing, as it made it easy for him to remain out of sight. But by the same token, it played havoc with his unfamiliarity with the layout of the carnival. Another short rainfall had hit the area after the initial flooding around noon. The grounds were soggy but not standing in water. Still, there were the occasional patches of mud to steer clear of. For the most part, the carnival goers didn’t seem to care. They were there for their amusement and entertainment, and a little downpour wasn’t going to stop them.

  Instead of wearing his Army jacket, as he was in the habit of doing, Compton had gone back to his old denim jacket. His hunch paid off; the carnival was packed with men and women wearing similar jackets, allowing him to blend in with them.

  He vaguely thought about grabbing a hot dog at one of the concession stands, but his stomach felt queasy. Since lunchtime he’d been doing a lot of soul searching, wondering what the future held. Wondering how Challa could fit into it…if she would.

  If she could.

  There were too many damn questions and not enough answers to suit him, and Compton hated the feeling of frustration gradually growing inside of him. Could Challa get out of her contract with her boss? How easy would it be for her to up and quit?

  Common sense immediately pulled on his reins. Whoa, cowboy. Aren’t you forgetting one minor detail? You haven’t asked Challa to stay with you. Hell, she may change her mind after she gets a load of what you have to offer her, and decide to stick with the show.

  Unfortunately, common sense had a way of biting him in the butt when he least expected it, or wanted it. Face it, Comp. You’re not a whole man anymore. How could you expect her to stay when she could have her pick of “complete” men? What can you and this little hick town offer her that she couldn’t find elsewhere?

  “Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath. “Follow the Sergeant’s credo, Compton.”

  Rule One: Winning is ninety percent mental. Defeat yourself mentally, and you might as well give up.

  He grabbed a soft drink at one of the concession stands and continued to keep his distance from any of the carnival workers at the gaming booths. The crowd tonight was totally different from last night’s. Saturday was traditionally date night. Most of the people here were younger, high-school age and thereabouts. Kids with dates, or little clusters of girls out to flaunt what they had to little knots of guys looking to score. And if not score, at least drink until they p
assed out or raised a bit of hell.

  Leaning against the small pipe railing encircling one of the rides, Compton sipped on his beverage and eyed the show of life passing by him. It hadn’t been too many years ago when he would have been one of the many teenagers rushing about, raucously challenging and yelling at others they knew. But back then, he had been a wholly different person. A person so different, that when he had come back to his old stomping grounds after getting his medical discharge, hardly anyone recognized him. Hell, nobody recognized him. Not even his best friend, whom he’d grown up with.

  What few of them realized was that more than Compton’s outer appearance had changed. His inner self had metamorphosized, too. The shy, abused fat kid the high school yearbook labeled “Most Likely to Live His Life Inside a Video Game” had incurred an amazing transformation in the military. To Compton, he had been given a new future, a brand new road to travel, and he was determined not to go it alone. Not anymore. Not since he’d met Challa.

  The barker came out to announce the sale of tickets to the sideshow. Compton had strategically placed himself near the entrance of the tents to be sure he got one of the tickets. Tossing his drink in one of the large wire trash cans, he got in line behind two bulky football players, who effectively made him appear shorter and smaller. Compton eyed the guys with a small grin. Sometimes the years bridging yesterday and today melted away or thinned after reliving a particular memory or hearing a familiar sound. Or, as in this case, the simple sight of a high school letter jacket.

  Very little had changed in the way the first three acts were presented. The snake charmer used a different tune, but her gyrations were the same. GiGi the Turtle Woman was a static act—more of a view for visitors who walked around the plexiglass-enclosed cage before moving on to the next tent. The sword swallower added a length of rebar and several glo-sticks that had been strung together to his presentation. Once the lights were extinguished, Compton had to admit the sight of the man’s insides shining through his skin was a sight he didn’t particularly care to see again.