Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

Clay caught sight of the man in the Atlanta Braves hat he’d almost wrangled with earlier.
The man was lingering in the shade, sitting on top of a table in the far corner of the picnic area.  Hat pulled low, his manner casual, he methodically consumed a plate of nachos and took long pulls from a bottle of water.  He had another unopened bottle – this one soda – sitting on the table beside him.
He was minding his own business, paying no noticeable attention to anyone else, and seemed relatively average.  He’d done nothing untoward that would in any way suggest ill intent, but something about the man sent Clay’s radar on high alert.
What was a single male doing at a kiddie carnival in the middle of one of the hottest days of the year?
Waiting for his wife and child to finish a ride?
His left ring finger was bare, and he’d shown no interest in the younger children.  In fact, when a mother walked a screaming baby past him, he glanced at them with disdain.
One of the male teens, cigarette dangling from his lips, walked toward the man and apparently asked him for a light.  The burly dude shook his head, and then returned his attention to his plate.  He seemed to be resisting any unnecessary attention.
Maybe he was a loner, and didn’t like crowds.  But if so, why bother hanging out where large groups of noisy people gathered?
Maybe the guy worked here, but from his basic good looks and well-kept appearance Clay sort of doubted it.  He obviously devoted a lot of time to his body, and he didn’t have that haggard look typical of so many carnival workers.  Traveling the country in a trailer was no easy life, and that fact showed on most of the people who made their careers out of bringing their particular brand of pleasure to town after town.  Nor did the lifestyle lend itself to regular, intense workouts.  And this guy clearly worked out a lot.
In fact, it was the man’s body that Clay found most disturbing.
Not the fact that he obviously lifted serious weights – there was nothing inherently suspicious about that – but it had been his experience that people who spent so much time turning their body into a veritable temple were inclined to show it off.
This man was pretty much covered from head to foot.
Why?
Clay took another bite of banana, and contemplated the probable reasons.
It was quirks like that, little oddities of behavior, that drew Clay like a moth to flame.  Something about this guy just didn’t add up. He wanted to know why that was.
“Mr. Clay?”
Max diverted his attention, making him realize he’d inadvertently slipped into professional mode.  He was here to get away from that, damn it, so he put the puzzle of the burly dude out of his mind.
The little boy scooted closer, tugging at Clay’s sleeve.  He had streaks of chocolate from ear to ear and a hopeful look on his face.  “Would you ride the Ferris wheel with me before we go home?”
“Max,” Tate chastised lightly, reaching over Clay’s lap to wipe the chocolate off her son’s face.  She wet the napkin with the tip of her tongue, causing Clay to shift uncomfortably.
He looked heavenward, studied the overhanging tree branch, and willed his body under control.
“I think that you’ve put Mr. Clay through quite enough for one day.”
Oblivious to Clay’s plight, Tate discarded the paper napkin in favor of her thumb, which she licked before rubbing Max’s face.  It was an innocent gesture – maternal, for heaven’s sake – but that tongue sent his blood pressure through the roof.
And then she absently braced her hand on his thigh for balance as she leaned over.
Saints above, the woman was killing him.
“Are you okay?”  Tate looked worried, and Clay realized he must have inadvertently made a noise of distress.
She glanced from Max back to him.  “There’s really no need for us to stay any longer.”
Clay took in the slightly mutinous expression on Max’s face, and gathered the kid thought otherwise.
“We can’t leave without hitting the Ferris wheel on the way out.”  Which earned a beam of gratitude.
“Clay, you really don’t have to –”
His raised hand stopped Tate’s protest.  “It would be like leaving Sea World without bothering to see Shamu.”
Tate clearly thought that was a stretch, but the matching grins of masculine solidarity on the faces of her date and her son made the point inconsequential.
“Okay,” she agreed.  “One last ride on the Ferris wheel and then we’ll call it a day.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BILLY Wayne Sparks tipped his cap down over his eyes, watching the growing number of teenage girls with interest.  He’d known that he would have a veritable bumper crop of pretty young things to choose from as darkness began to stretch its tentacles around the day. Evening brought herds of fleet-footed little creatures gathering at the watering hole. But he had to be cautious, be patient, as he stealthily selected his prey.
One wrong move could send the whole lot of them scurrying.
The smart predator – the successful predator – waited for the weakest of the unsuspecting quarry to fall back, to separate themselves from the others.
The weak ones were the least likely to be noticed if they suddenly disappeared.
The girls draping themselves in provocative poses all over the picnic table to his right lacked a certain appeal.  He and JR had discovered that most of their clients preferred an air of innocence in the stock.  And bona-fide virgins fetched a hell of a price.
Of course, that meant that he himself was denied the pleasure of breaking them in.
But hey, there were plenty of girls in that not-quite-virgin, not-quite-slut category that afforded him the opportunity to show their consumers how the product performed. Although the current availability seemed considerably lacking.
It was unfortunate that the girls whose circumstances made it easiest for them to take were also the ones exposed to the realities of life at an earlier age.  He’d like to grab one of the