Beneath Southern Skies

by Terra Little

  Anita didn’t respond, but then Tressie hadn’t really been expecting a response. They were both new and still feeling each other out. Anita was fresh out of a Midwestern college, new to the city and almost painfully shy. Whenever she was required to speak, to Tressie or anyone else, she usually did so in brief spurts that consisted of one complete sentence or less at a time.

  Tressie had been reading for at least five minutes before it occurred to her that she hadn’t heard her office door open and close again. Sensing that she wasn’t alone, she glanced up from the article spread out in front of her on the desktop and frowned. “Was there something else, Anita?”

  Then she froze comically and stared.

  “Anita wasn’t at her desk,” Pam explained as she dropped her purse into one of the chairs facing Tressie’s desk and simultaneously sank down into the other one. “So I thought I’d take my chances and knock. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Um...of c-course not,” Tressie practically sputtered.

  In her line of work, she had rubbed elbows with more than a few celebrities, so she wasn’t exactly starstruck at the sight of Pamela Mayes. She’d learned a long time ago that most celebrities were merely everyday people who had achieved celebrity status through a run of good luck or a tidal wave of tragic misfortune. At this point in her career, Pamela Mayes was a volatile mixture of both elements, but the fact that they had grown up together in the same small town made Tressie immune to the media hype. Her sudden speech impediment had nothing to do with being impressed and everything to do with the swift wave of jealousy that had come out of nowhere and punched her in the gut.

  “What can I do for you?” Tressie heard herself say.

  Pam’s smile was one that she reserved for the paparazzi. “Actually, I was planning on asking you to do something for me. For old times’ sake, I mean.”

  For old times’ sake? Was she kidding? They had never been anything remotely close to friends growing up. Hell, they had never even been very friendly toward one another. All these years later, Tressie couldn’t think of anything that they could possibly have to discuss, let alone work together toward, if Pam’s solicitous tone was any indication of where she was going with her bizarre request.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” she said slowly, carefully.

  “Of course you don’t. I’m not being very clear, am I?” A melodic laugh that Tressie was sure was meant to be self-deprecating floated out of Pam’s mouth and hung in the air between them. A flicker of one delicate hand waved it away, and then Pam was back to being serious again. “I’m here because I need your help. Well, it’s really more like Moira and I need your help.”

  At the mention of Moira’s name, Tressie softened. Unfortunately, Pam’s next words caused her to harden all over again.

  “We’d like the Manhattan Style Report to be a part of the publicity campaign for this year’s town fair, and we were hoping that, being from Mercy and all, you would take the assignment personally.”

  “The Manhattan Style Report is a fashion-industry publication,” Tressie pointed out incredulously. “Our readers want to know what’s going on in the world of fashion. I’m sorry, but Mercy is hardly the fashion capital of the world. I don’t see what one has to do with the other.”

  “I didn’t either until Miles pointed out the connection to me.”

  “Miles pointed out the connection to you,” Tressie repeated flatly. It wasn’t a question—more like a sarcastic missive. “How convenient.”

  “I know, right? While all of the other media outlets are reporting on the fair, you’ll be there to cover the fashion aspect of it, with a little bit of a twist, of course. Miles told me that you’re featuring an interview with Roberto Cavalli in next month’s issue. So Miles and I thought, why not invite a few of my friends to perform at the fair and have them all wear Cavalli designs?”

  “It’s certainly an idea.” And obviously Pam was nuts if she actually thought it was a good one. Gazing at her, Tressie wondered how the woman had gotten by all these years without someone picking up on the fact that she was clearly certifiable. Roberto Cavalli designs notwithstanding, the Style Report had about as much business at a town fair as a man-eating shark did. She was surprised that Miles was going along with such a ridiculous suggestion, if, in fact, Pam was telling the truth and he really was. With nothing but her body language to go on, it was difficult to pick up any clues as to whether or not she was stretching the truth.

  It was easy enough to make a call and find out, though.

  “I think I’d like to speak to Miles about this,” Tressie said, reaching for her desk phone and sliding it closer to her. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  It took less than two minutes to get Miles on the phone, because Tressie had dialed his cell phone rather than his office line. While it rang on the other end, she sat back in her chair, crossed her legs and looked everywhere but at Pam. Though not as intensely as before, jealousy was still swimming around in her belly, and looking at the woman only made it worse. Pam could have any man she wanted, with her perfect hourglass shape, her slanted green eyes and her pouty, rose-tinted lips. And she imagined that all manner of men fantasized about having her. God knew she had been romantically linked to enough of them, despite the fact that she had an extremely good-looking husband waiting at home for her.

  Why did she have to want the one man that Tressie couldn’t have?

  “Miles, this is Tressie,” she said as soon as his voice came over the line. “I’m sorry to bother you, but Pamela is here in my office and—”

  “Great, so she’s already talked to you,” Miles cut in, sounding relieved. “That’s one less thing I have to remember to do today.” Tressie heard papers shuffling in the background and then she recognized Janice’s voice, asking him what he wanted for lunch. “Anything but liver and onions,” he told her. Turning his attention back to Tressie, he said, “Listen, I know this is short notice, but with all hands on deck, we can pull it off. My assistant is handling the lion’s share of the details, so there’s nothing you need to do right now. You’re leaving for Paris this evening, aren’t you?”

  She was covering a fashion show there over the weekend. “Yes, my flight leaves at six.”

  “Good. Have fun. We’ll talk more when you get back.”

  She hung up the phone feeling that she had somehow just been hoodwinked and bamboozled, but the details of exactly how and when were a little fuzzy. Just about the only thing she was clear on was the fact that she was on her way back to the one place where she had absolutely no desire to return—Mercy, Georgia.

  * * *

  Pam waited until she was safely tucked into the back of the stretch limousine that was waiting for her at the curb before she pulled out her cell, pressed a button and put the phone to her ear.

  “Is it done?” Nate said as soon as he picked up.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  If Tressie thought that rubbing elbows with celebrities during her previous career had in any way prepared her for rubbing elbows with them in Mercy, Georgia, she was dead wrong. To any one of the five or six thousand people who had traveled to Mercy from parts both near and far to attend the fair, she was sure that the fair appeared to be moving along without a hitch. But to the select few, including herself, who were actually allowed to mill around behind the scenes, it was something else altogether.

  Frankly, it was complete and utter chaos.

  She couldn’t help thinking that Vanessa Valentino would have had a field day with the myriad of hushed and not-so-hushed conversations that she managed to overhear in the process of doing the job that she was being paid to do. Emotions were running high, tempers were flaring and insecurities were rearing their ugly heads. It was a gossip columnist’s idea of heaven on earth and a fashion reporter’s worst nightmare.

 
Thankfully, Miles had agreed to let her bring along two of the magazine’s interns as her assistants, because there was no way that she could be everywhere at once. And with two energetic and eager college students willing to do all the legwork, she didn’t even try.

  Armed with a notepad and a pen, in case she happened to have a need to take notes, and a microrecorder, Tressie twisted and turned her way through the backstage crowds—which included a popular boy band that didn’t look collectively old enough to be out past sundown, a chart-topping gospel duo who were about to take to the stage, and the ridiculously large entourage that surrounded a gold-laden rap star—and made her way back out front, where the spectators were. It was an outdoor lawn concert, and Truman Field was overrun with lawn chairs and blankets spread out in the grass. She chose the only out-of-the-way spot that she could find, a sliver of space off to the side of the stage, and sat down in the grass to watch some of the concert.

  When Pam told her that she had called a few of her friends, Tressie had been thinking along the lines of one, maybe two performers. She hadn’t been expecting the seemingly endless line of tour buses that had started rolling into town late last night. The last one, bringing the grand total to fifteen, had rolled into town just a few hours ago, and even Tressie had gasped in shock when the doors had hissed open and Mary J. Blige had appeared.

  In the space of a few hours, Mercy, Georgia, had gone from being a tiny little nondescript town to being the site of a live benefit concert broadcast on several major cable-television channels. Just about everyone who was anyone was there, including the lieutenant governor of the State of Georgia. She knew because she had caught a glimpse of his motorcade cruising through town earlier in the day, heading toward Moira’s estate.

  The one person that she hadn’t yet seen since she’d been back in town, though, was Nate.

  * * *

  Two hours later, the concert was still going strong, but Tressie’s energy level was starting to fade. By the time the gospel duo was ready to perform a second song, she could barely keep her eyes open. Wanting to see what the chances were that she could head back to her hotel room, she sent text messages to her assistants, asking them to find her at their designated meeting place at the edge of the woods, and went there to wait for them.

  Melissa appeared first and, anticipating Tressie, she had already organized her notes for Tressie’s review. Jimmy was less organized but just as thorough. Tressie quickly scrolled through the digital shots that he had taken and gave them her seal of approval. Taking the notes and the digital camera and securing them in her tote bag, she gave them the rest of the night off. They headed back to the concert, and she had every intention of making a beeline for her room at the Mercy Motel.

  Just as the thought of crawling into a soft bed and drifting off to sleep crossed her mind, an arm snaked around her waist from behind. She opened her mouth to scream—not that anyone was likely to hear her over the music—and was summarily cut off by the terse command in her ear.

  “Shhh.”

  Instantly recognizing the voice, she whirled around to face Nate and immediately found herself being whisked into the thick of the pitch-black woods. “Nate? What are doing? Where in the world are you taking me? If you would just put me down, I could—”

  In response to her query, he set her down on her feet and then backed her into a tree that was right behind her. Her head hit the bark with a soft thud, her mouth dropped open in surprise and then his tongue swept between her lips, stealing the last of her words.

  Wider and wider, Nate forced her mouth open, until she was completely open to him and reveling in the sensation of his hungry mouth devouring hers. Every time his tongue stroked hers, she trembled at the corresponding sensations that snaked down her spine and settled between her thighs. She moaned into his mouth and swallowed his responding moan. Not trusting herself to touch him, she reached around behind her and gripped the tree trunk to steady herself as his hot onslaught continued.

  Finally, Nate tore his mouth away from hers, but she only had a second to recover before his lips landed on the column of her neck and his tongue followed. He was creating a masterpiece of wet designs on her skin, as his fingers went to work on the knot of material tied at the base of her neck and dismantled her halter top. Her breasts came free and landed in the palms of his hands as if they had been specially created to fit there. He molded them, squeezed them, flicked the pads of his thumbs across them until she was panting and on the verge of begging him to suck them deep into his mouth and feed off them.

  “Shhh,” he hissed in her ear as the beginnings of a loud moan threatened to make its way up and out of her throat. “Shhh,” he hissed again just before he dipped his head and granted her silent wish.

  Sucking a nipple deep into his mouth, Nate trained his tongue on the tip of her succulent fruit and lapped at it lavishly. She couldn’t have made another sound after that if her life depended on it. Her head fell back and her mouth stretched into a wide, delighted O as his rhythmic sucking motions perfectly mirrored the pulsing of her inner core. In time, he switched to her other breast and treated it to the same sensual attention. Then he pushed both her breasts together and slid his tongue from one marble-hard tip to the other until she was once again panting helplessly.

  She was so disoriented that she didn’t realize that he had slipped his hands underneath her dress until his mouth was inching along the crest of her breast and then gliding along the slope of her neck on its way back to her mouth. Only then did he allow her to feel his touch down below. His hands streaked across her thighs and teased the skin there, curled around her ass cheeks and squeezed.

  “All the way over in Iraq,” he growled in her ear, “I was thinking about this.” One hand slipped inside her panties and claimed a cheek. “Us.” The other hand followed suit. “You.” As if to emphasize his point, his fingers homed in on their target just as he spoke the last word, sinking into her dripping-wet center from behind in a surprise assault that stole the last of her self control.

  Tressie came hard. She came fast. And she came loud. Nate slanted his mouth over hers just in time to swallow her cries. After she had quieted, he withdrew his tongue from her mouth slowly and threaded his fingers through hers.

  “Come with me,” he whispered close to her face.

  Holding tight to her hand, he led her deeper into the darkness of the woods until they came to a small clearing. He stopped walking and released her hand, leaving her to her own devices with only the quiet sound of his movements to guide her. “Nate?” She reached out blindly and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt his hand grip hers.

  “I’m right here, sugar.” A second later, he guided her hand down to where his penis was free in the night air. Needing no further encouragement, Tressie squeezed him gently and then began a rhythmic stroking that caused his heavy thickness to jerk in her hands. “Ah, yes, sugar,” Nate groaned. “Damn, I missed you. Come here to me.”

  She had no idea what he was sitting on or how he had managed to find it in the darkness. But those were questions that would have to wait until later. Right now every fiber of her being was focused on following his nonverbal cues. Taking his hand once again, she closed the small distance between them and let him guide her down into his lap. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she hovered in the air above him as he tugged her panties to one side and eased her down onto his straining erection.

  “Oh, God,” Tressie cried out. Then her eyes slid shut on a long, keening moan.

  * * *

  It was after two in the morning when they stumbled inside Nate’s house, both of them out of breath and loose limbed with exhaustion. Unable to think straight because she was so sleepy, Tressie kicked off her shoes, dropped her tote bag at the foot of the bed and collapsed across the mattress. She was out like a light before her head landed on a pillow.

  * * *

  T
he thought of waking her and helping her get undressed crossed Nate’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it. Deciding to let her sleep, he took a quick shower and retreated to the solitude of his darkroom to work off his exhaustion.

  And to wait for Tressie to wake up so they could do what they should’ve done last night—talk.

  He had watched her, stalked her, really, throughout most of the concert, biding his time until he could get her alone so they could talk. Then when he was finally able to lure her away from the crowds and the noise, talking was the last thing on his mind. The last of his common sense had flown right out the window as soon as he had touched her. Pouncing on her like a wild animal hadn’t exactly been his intention, but that was exactly what he had ended up doing anyway. Now that his common sense had returned, he was kicking himself for behaving like an ass.

  What would he say to her when she woke up and came looking for him? What would they say to each other?

  For the first time in his life, he was worried about what a woman thought of him—concerned about whether or not he could provide whatever she needed from him. He’d never really done relationships before, and the fact that he actually wanted to try his luck at being in one now scared the hell out of him.

  Relationships meant commitment and fidelity and work and all kinds of other gray-area stuff that he’d never had the slightest interest in learning about. For all the reasons above, he had avoided committing to one woman like the plague, and now all he could think about was the one woman he wanted. His thoughts were so focused on her that, as exhausted as he was, he was nowhere near sleepy.

  Developing film was busywork, something to do with his hands while his thoughts sorted themselves out. He moved from the sink to the counter and back again on autopilot, rinsing film, applying stop bath and following up with fixing fluid. Once it was safe to open the darkroom door, he hung the newly developed film on a drying line to drip-dry, and he set about cleaning up his mess.