Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by Lisa Clark O'Neill

thick, twisted branches of a centuries-old live oak stretched above them like an old woman’s petticoat. Fragments of hazy light stabbed through the limp and listless leaves, filtering toward the overheated idlers below until it lay scattered about them like dust.
    Shadows grew long and languid as afternoon gave way to the welcome promise of dusk. A few intrepid crickets began calling lazily to one another from the shelter of the nearby woods.  Families occupied the other picnic tables around them – hot, tired and lethargic from the excesses of their day.  An old man in bib-overalls relaxed against the trunk of the tree.  Clay recognized him as one of the handlers that managed the carnival’s four tired-looking ponies.
    A few teenagers had begun to gather in anticipation of the veil that nighttime promised to drop.  They clumped together in small groups of quivering hormones, trying to look as bored as possible.  The two sexes stood around, chatting and laughing, ostensibly paying no mind to the other while in reality gearing their every gesture, stance and mannerism to attract members of the opposite group.
    When it came to sex, Clay thought, even the most sophisticated animal was reduced to the very basic and predictable rituals of mating.
    “I haven’t had one of these in years,” Tate murmured around the banana, drawing Clay’s attention away from the horny teens. Turning slightly, he started to make some inane comment, but the sight that greeted him froze his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
    Sweet Jesus, Tate wasn’t nibbling at the banana the way he and Max were doing. 
    She had her lush, delicate mouth closed over the damn thing and was actually sucking.
    Then she closed her eyes, and licked the chocolate from her lips.
    He quickly cut his gaze back toward the old man with the hairy armpits, hoping to substitute that decidedly un-stimulating image for the one that was wreaking havoc with his own hormones.  He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He was not going to give into the temptation to turn back around and watch.
    This was a family environment, for God’s sake, and he was in the company of this woman’s son.  Offering to replace her banana with his pertinent body parts was simply not an option.
    “Mmm,” he mumbled in reply because he didn’t trust himself to speak.  He took a vicious bite out of his own banana. 
    While taking out his frustration, 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