Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (best affordable ebook reader txt) 📕

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