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

words were squeezing him.  Piney Woods was just around the corner.  A hop, skip and a jump from the old farm that had belonged to JR’s grandmother.

And where Billy Wayne was staying.

Where they had the girl.

It was only a matter of time before the authorities came knocking.

And the arrogance of it all, the fact that Billy Wayne had killed a girl, left her in the woods, and then gone out and taken another, like no one would notice...

Rage bubbled inside and heated his veins, melting all the ice he’d cultivated for years.

People had messed with him – messed him up – for the last time.

And it was time the people who messed with him paid.

“NICE pants, by the way.”

Clay shot Kim a look as they made their way down Bentonville’s main thoroughfare – a palmetto-lined accumulation of shops and services that looked like a southern-fried version of Mayberry – heading toward the sheriff’s office.

He’d run out this morning, in search of suitable attire, and the only store open at seven a.m. was the twenty-four hour Wal-Mart.  His pants were serviceable, if not exactly the height of fashion.  “Hardy har har.  So I didn’t come prepared for an investigation.  Sue me.”

Kim adjusted her own immaculate slacks, and gave him a thorough once over.  “You probably could have found something nicer last night,” she mused “if you hadn’t been in such a hurry to get over to see your friend Justin.  It was Justin that you kept calling every hour, wasn’t it?  So what – you had a front row ticket to an appendectomy?  Maybe a triple by-pass that you just had to watch?  Because he was working last night, right?  You mentioned that, when I asked about him.”

Clay briefly closed his eyes, because his grace period was apparently over.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she continued, immune to the fact that he was trying to ignore her.  Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear.

A fly that you desperately wanted to swat…

“I’d think that my formerly commitment-phobic, changes-women-with-the-frequency-of-underwear, best friend Clay was in lo-o-o-ve.”  She did what could only be described as a happy dance in her seat.  “So tell me, Lone Ranger – how the hell did you manage to do that?”

How the hell, precisely.

Clay had no frickin’ clue.

He’d awakened quite early this morning, startled to find a small foot in his groin.  At some point in the night Max had apparently snuck into Tate’s bed and cuddled up between them, unbeknownst to the bed’s occupants, who’d both thought the other one had locked the door.

Being a good mother, Tate had been equally freaked out to find him there, as the fact that they were sleeping together and there was a general lack of clothing made the situation uncomfortable for all.  She’d started spouting off some sort of parental mumbo-jumbo about how when two adults really cared about each other they sometimes had “grown up sleepovers,” which Max, perceptive kid that he was, clearly felt reeked of all kinds of bullshit, but he hadn’t been the least perturbed.  In fact, he’d told her with a fairly bored air that his friend Cole’s mommy and daddy had sleepovers every night.

Then, with irrefutable five-year-old logic, he’d asked Clay if that meant he was going to be his new dad.

And okay. That had freaked him out a little.

Because as much as he cared about Tate and had gotten on board with this whole relationship program, despite previously discussed pitfalls and problems, the idea of marriage – of being someone’s daddy, for God’s sake – was just a little too much for his very recently ex-commitment phobic brain to take.

What did he know about being a good dad?

Sure, his own father had done a helluva job, raising him singlehandedly from the time Clay’s mom died when he was eight.

But jeez.

What if he messed the kid up?

He’d been so worried about the stresses of his job on his and Tate’s relationship, that he hadn’t given nearly enough consideration to Max.

Like how would he feel when Clay missed his Little League games?  Or parent-teacher conferences?  Or those really embarrassing school plays that every self-respecting boy dreads because he has to dress up like an oak leaf?

So okay, maybe Max wouldn’t be too sad if he missed that one. But still.

What exactly had he gone and done?

“Clay, look out!”

Kim’s voice cut through his fugue, and Clay realized that he’d almost barreled through a crosswalk.  An occupied crosswalk.

Slamming on the brakes, he thanked God for both Kim’s ability to focus on what was really important – like driving – and also for seatbelts, because otherwise they’d both currently be getting intimate with his dashboard.

The man in the crosswalk – a slightly overweight brunette who’d obviously just conducted some business at the UPS store and was now making his way to his car – stopped like the proverbial deer in the headlights and stared at Clay’s truck in horror.

Feeling like more than a little bit of an idiot, Clay rolled his window down and stuck out his head.  “Sorry,” he called. Totally mortified.  Wouldn’t that have been a headline to do the Bureau proud?  “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

A range of emotions crossed the other man’s face, which finally settled into a scowl that read asshole.

Yeah.  He’d arrived at that conclusion himself.

Clay watched the guy cross to an old blue pickup – one that Justin would have loved to have gotten hold of, because it was obviously in running condition but needed a serious bit of TLC.  Out of habit, he looked at the license plate, while the man, after casting one last furious look in Clay’s direction, climbed in as they pulled away.

“I’m sorry.” Kim covered her surprise with humor.  “I didn’t realize that saying the ‘L’ word in the same sentence with your name would result in you mowing down pedestrians.”

Shaken, Clay rubbed at the headache that was brewing steadily behind his eyes. “Let’s just drop it, alright?”

“Sure,” Kim agreed.

Clay took his foot off the