Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

ruffled her sweat-damp bangs.  She needed some shade, she needed some water, she needed somebody with wheels.

Coming upon a massive live oak, Janie dragged herself to the side of the road and sagged against the trunk.  There was a fruit stand maybe a mile or two down the highway, and if she could just make it there she could buy herself an apple and a nice, cold drink out of the cooler.  She’d love to have one of their cherry sodas, but she figured she’d better stick to water so she didn’t get dehydrated.  They’d studied that in health class last year, so she knew all about things like blood sugar and hydration.  For the most part, school seemed like a huge waste of time, but she had to admit she liked learning about the body.

Maybe she’d go to college one day, become a nurse.

But first she had to get to Florida.

Janie pushed away from the tree and tried to convince her rubbery legs to move.  She’d just about talked them into it when a car pulled alongside her.  Warily, she looked it over – a dark-colored foreign job, one of those BMWs, she thought – as the man driving it lowered the window.

“Sugar you’re not out here walking in this heat, are you?”

He looked to be about thirty, maybe a little older.  She really wasn’t the best judge of age.  He was jacked and kind of handsome for an old guy, but that didn’t mean she could trust him.  After all, Danny Lawrence was handsome, and look what a crock of shit he turned out to be.

He turned in his seat to pull a soda bottle from a bag beside him, then extended it through the open window.  “You look like you could use something cool to drink.”

Janie hesitated, because she didn’t know this guy from Adam.  Just because he didn’t look like a perv didn’t mean he wasn’t.  She took in the expensive-looking watch on his wrist, the glint of gold on his ring finger.

He seemed okay, but still…

“Just take the soda, sugar.  I promise I’m not going to bite.”  When she still didn’t move, he held up his cell phone.  “Is there somebody I can call to come pick you up?  I bet your parents wouldn’t be too happy about you walking down the highway all alone.  I know I sure wouldn’t.”

“You have kids?” she asked, cautiously inching closer.  He really did seem okay, and she was so thirsty.

“Just one,” he admitted with a proud smile.  “A little boy.  And his mama would have my hide if she thought I passed you by without offering to help.”  He waved first the bottle, then the cell phone.  “Would you like a drink, or would you like me to make a call?”

“There’s no one to call.” Janie accepted the beverage.  “I’m on my way to visit my cousin in Florida, and I’m afraid if I call first, she won’t let me come.”  Unscrewing the cap from the bottle, she upended and nearly drained it.

“Well Florida’s a bit farther than I intended to go.  But if you’d like, I can give you a ride down to Beaufort.  Although if you ask me, I still think you should call your cousin.”

“No.”  She shook her head, trying to decide what to do.  She was hot and sweaty and exhausted, and the air conditioning seeping out his open window made her want to dive in.  Hitching a ride to Beaufort might not be such a bad idea.  Swaying a little, Janie thought the heat must really be getting to her, because when she looked down the deserted road the pavement seemed to move in waves.

Before she knew what was happening, the man was helping her into the backseat.  “Easy, there.  You look like you might be having a little trouble.  Why don’t you just lie down and rest, and I’ll wake you when we get where we’re going.”

She was conscious of him tucking her feet into the car, tossing the small backpack she’d been carrying in beside her.

Then the door closed with a muffled thud, and she wasn’t conscious of anything at all.

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later…

IT was just shy of eight a.m. when Clay Copeland arrived at his destination.  The Isle of Palms was a little spit of beachfront off the Carolina coast, close enough to Charleston to be considered a kissing cousin. The island had been hit hard by Hurricane Hugo back in the late eighties, and with many of the original homes damaged beyond repair, the locals gathered up their insurance money and either rebuilt or cleared out.  Consequently, McMansions had cropped up like so many mushrooms after a storm.  Even after the housing bust, property values were at a premium, but Clay’s good friend Justin Wellington had gotten a sweet deal because he happened to perform emergency gallbladder surgery on the little old lady who’d owned his home.

Clay parked his SUV beside Justin’s classic 1940’s pickup.  The truck was all man, which made for an interesting contrast to the barren window boxes, shabby lace curtains and unruly flower beds on either side of the steps leading to the deep verandah. The lone rocking chair with its peeling paint was the punctuation on a sad, bachelor pad sentence. Chuckling to himself, Clay foresaw a long visit from Justin’s mother coming up in the near future.

Having broken over the horizon a couple of hours ago, the sun now worked its watercolor beams through the tops of the palmettos and live oaks that shaded the small yard.  Salt hung heavy in the air, and Clay sucked in a breath, savoring it like fine whiskey.

He’d grown up with the sea, and he’d missed it.

Not that his current home base of Quantico was totally landlocked, but as it stood he was only there half the month anyway.  And even when he was there he was usually stuck inside, swimming in crime scene photos and autopsy reports instead of the surf.

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