by Ann Charles
Touched and stroked … Damn, he didn’t want to think about Candy and sex in the same sentence—not about kissing the smooth, silky skin stretched across her swollen stomach; and definitely not about touching her full, round breasts that were cresting the top of her sundress. He needed to get away from her before he did something stupid that fucked up their friendship.
“Listen, Candy, your sex life is none of my business, but I don’t think it would be good for your bab—”
“Never mind, Larry,” Candy cut him off and turned her back on him. She waddled over to the helium tank and pulled a balloon out of her pocket.
Larry shrugged, hopped over her counter, and cut through the crowd to his booth.
“Damned woman,” he muttered and hurdled his own counter.
He’d known Candy for four months now. He’d watched her blossom from a slender, cute girl into a lush, curvy woman. The asshole who’d knocked her up had been a carnie, too, but he’d left the company before Larry had signed on. What kind of a piece of shit would leave Candy and their baby all alone and never even look back?
Larry had kept to himself the first few weeks on the job, pretending not to notice Candy’s tears that fell only when she thought nobody was watching. But then one evening the soft tinkling sound of her laugh had drawn him across the walkway to see what had her so tickled. Later that evening, long after he’d felt the baby moving under her skin, she’d asked him to sit with her outside of her camper and watch the meteor shower. He’d surprised himself by agreeing.
The next week, she’d come over to his counter carrying an elephant ear and split it with him, wiping the powdered sugar off his beard stubble when they finished.
The week after that, he’d offered to drive her to her doctor’s appointments. She’d insisted on cooking him breakfast in return as payment. No mortal man could resist her homemade blueberry pancakes, especially when served with her double dimpled-smile.
The sun slipped behind a cloud and Larry glanced over at Candy’s booth. His gaze locked on a slick-dressed, leather vested hotshot with greased-back hair leaning on Candy’s counter. Whatever the shithead was saying had those dimples showing.
Bile burned his throat. What was wrong with her, flirting so obviously, so wantonly? Where was her pride? He kicked at the shotgun closest to him and knocked it off its holder.
Larry turned away from the two of them. Like he’d said before, Candy’s sex life wasn’t his business, nor did he have time to watch out for her if she was going to pursue this finding-a-lover bullshit. Besides, he had a booth to run for the next few months until the season ended. After that, he had to fly home to reality, where the day-to-day stress of running his family’s construction company made him pop antacids like Tic-Tacs.
Why should he care who she screws?
He pulled his emergency half-empty pack of cigarettes from the shelf under the counter and tapped one into his hand. He’d quit smoking when he’d tagged his brother to take his place running the family business and signed on as a traveling carnie. Until today, he hadn’t felt the need to light up. He wasn’t even sure where he’d left his lighter.
Candy giggled again, the soft sound enticing his glance her way. His gut twisted. The son of a bitch had his lips on her wrist.
Dragging his eyes away, he stared down at the cigarette in his hand. Why did he care so much about who she had sex with? His mind drifted, imagining what it would be like to peel off her sundress one strap at a time, to see the sweat glistening on her ripe body, to touch…
Oh, God, he had to think of something else, like the subcontractors who always came in twenty percent over estimate, or delivery trucks that never showed up on time, and inspectors who wanted something under the table before they’d give their approval.
He paced across his booth and back. The damned woman had to be ten years his junior. He had no business thinking of her as more than the friend she’d become, more than a woman about to bring a child into this world on her own with no man to help.
His gaze snuck back across to where she stood, fanning herself under the sun’s rays.
The memory of sitting next to her on her counter weeks ago while sharing a bag of doughnut holes played through his thoughts. She’d smelled like the vanilla milkshake she’d spilled down her mini-dress, her laughter infectious. When she leaned back on her palms and her dress inched up her legs, he’d noticed how the freckles on her thigh formed a “C.” The urge to trace the letter and then explore what else she was hiding under her dress had sucked all of his breath from his lungs. He’d launched himself off the counter so fast, he’d practically fallen on his ass at her feet.
Across the way, the asshole tugged Candy down to whisper in her ear, her breasts threatening to fall out of her dress. Her sweet giggle scraped over Larry’s nerves.
“No fucking way is this going to happen,” he said and threw the cigarette down. Vaulting over his counter, he plowed through the crowd and yanked Candy’s arm away from the asshole’s grip.
He climbed over her counter and stood in front of her, the rapid rise and fall of his chest had nothing to do with the afternoon heat.
Candy looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, Larry?”
“You’ve found him,” he said and pulled her close. Her hard stomach rubbed against his, her shoulders soft and smooth under his palms. Cupping her face, he lowered his mouth to hers, starting off slow, gentle, afraid of hurting her.
But then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, frenzied and hard, moaning his name against his lips.
“Candy,” he groaned and fed the need that had grown with each passing day he’d watched her blossom, each shared laugh, each brush of her skin against his. Jesus, she tasted so damned sweet.
When he lifted his lips and looked into those golden-lashed eyes, Candy grinned up at him. “What took you so damned long?”
Boney Wild Bill for Ann’s Deadwood webpage
About the Author
Ann Charles is an award-winning author who writes romantic mysteries that are splashed with humor and whatever else she feels like throwing into the mix. When she is not dabbling in fiction, arm-wrestling with her children, attempting to seduce her husband, or arguing with her sassy cat, she is daydreaming of lounging poolside at a fancy resort with a blended margarita in one hand and a great book in the other.
Connect with Me Online:
Facebook (Personal Page): http://www.facebook.com/ann.charles.author
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Twitter (as Ann W. Charles): http://twitter.com/AnnWCharles
Twitter (as Deadwood Violet): http://twitter.com/DeadwoodViolet
My Main Website: http://www.anncharles.com
My Deadwood Website: http://www.anncharles.com/deadwood
The Hessler House - for Ann’s Deadwood webpage
Also by Ann Charles
www.anncharles.com
* * * *
Deadwood Mystery Series
Nearly Departed in Deadwood
(Book 1)
Optical Delusions in Deadwood
(Book 2)
Dead Case in Deadwood
(Book 3)
Better Off Dead in Deadwood
(Book 4)
An Ex to Grind in Deadwood
(Book 5)
Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood
(Book 6)
* * * *
Short Stories from the Deadwood Mystery Series
Deadwood Shorts: Seeing Trouble
Deadwood Shorts: Boot Points
Deadwood Shorts: Cold Flame
* * * *
Jackrabbit Junction Mystery Series
Dance of the Winnebagos
(Book 1)
Jackrabbit Junction Jitters
(Book 2)
The Great Jackalope Stampede
(Book 3)
The Rowdy Coyote Rumble
(Book 4)
* * * *
&nb
sp; Goldwash Mystery Series (a future series)
The Old Man’s Back in Town (Short Story)
* * * *
Dig Site Mystery Series
Look What The Wind Blew In
* * * *
Coming from Ann Charles from the Deadwood Mystery Series
A Wild Fright in Deadwood
(Book 6)
www.anncharles.com
Copyright
Deadwood Shorts: Seeing Trouble
Copyright © 2012 by Ann Charles
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by an means now known or hereafter invented, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, Ann Charles.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
Cover Design by Sharon Benton, Q42 Designs
Cover Photo by Bob Wilson, Frogworks Photography
Illustrations by C.S. Kunkle
Special thanks to my beta readers extraordinaire. You all rock!