Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel
Read Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel Online
Authors: Laura Trentham
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This book is dedicated to my parents who have supported me through all of life’s ups and downs and in-betweens.
My journey as an author has been circuitous. A very early love of reading was inspired by my parents who are great readers. I remember tagging along with my mom who was (and still is) very active with my hometown library. Back in the days of card catalogues and stacks and stacks of books to get lost in, I discovered Victoria Holt and Mary Stewart and Phyllis A. Whitney and so many other wonderful authors who fired a lifelong love of romance. My parents never censored my reading (thank goodness!).
A detour through engineering and a couple of kids later, I got an itch. Without telling anyone, I started writing a book. The itch turned into an obsession. I finished one and immediately started another and another and another. I never thought anyone would want to publish them, much less someone besides my mom would want to read them! I’m glad I was wrong.
Thanks to all those old-school romance books and to my parents who let me devour them!
COTTONBLOOM, MISSISSIPPI
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO …
A jangle woke Monroe Kirby. She opened her eyes to a dark shadow standing over her. “Mama?”
The figure didn’t answer. Monroe pushed up on her pillow and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her sleepy confusion turned into a strangling dread with the sound of a zipper being lowered.
Sam was in her room. She could make out his broad shoulders in the black T-shirt he was wearing when he and her mama had stumbled in drunk from their night on the town. His pants were peeled open, a white vee of underwear at eye level, the bulge something she understood in an abstract way.
“Monroe-girl, I’m here to tuck you in.” Sam Landry’s sugared drawl veered toward an outright slur.
She pulled the sheet higher. “N-no thanks, I’m good.”
“Ah, come on, now. I’ll play nice.” He ripped the pink candy-striped sheet out of her hands and whipped it to the footboard. She drew her legs up, trying to make herself small.
“I don’t want to play with you.” She looked from him to her open door. A long way. Could she make it by him to the bathroom? It was the only room with a lock, although not a strong one.
“Don’t lie. I’ve seen you looking at me.” He stroked her cheek with one hand while his other burrowed inside his underwear. Her head seemed to detach itself from the panicked mass of nerves that was her body.
Out. Could she get out? Could she get him out? “I think I hear Mama.”
He shifted and listened, swaying on his feet. “I don’t hear nothing.”
“Could you check? And then…”
“I knew you wanted it.” She couldn’t see his smile, but she could feel it.
As soon as he turned the corner out of her room, she sprang up. How long did she have? She closed her door and struggled to push the bureau in front of it. One hand slipped off and her shoulder struck the sharp corner. She bit off a cry. Setting her forehead against the top, she rubbed at the pins and needles pain shooting from shoulder to hand until it receded. Seconds ticked off. The tears she fought were less about pain and more about frustration and fear.
Putting all her one hundred pounds into the motion, she pushed once more, gritting her teeth. The bureau inched forward with a loud squawk of wood on wood. The small victory fueled a burst of adrenaline. Inertia was on her side. They’d learned about inertia and momentum in her eighth-grade science class just that week. She’d never thought to put the knowledge to practical use so soon.
The
clomp
of boots echoed in the long hallway.
Her heart shot into overdrive. Didn’t people gain superhuman strength under stress? Her hands shook and her knees felt mushy. She took a deep breath and shoved. The bureau slid a few more inches. She checked her progress. She’d only managed to move it halfway in front of her door.
The door slammed open a few inches, cracking against the bureau. A little scream escaped her throat, and she jumped backward. A rose her mother had given her after her last ballet recital, dried and pinned to the back of her door, fell to the floor, the delicate petals crumbling.
“What the hell, Monroe?” Sam’s voice retained the slur but lost the cajoling tone. “Let me in.”
She backed away, looking around for someplace to hide. But the thought of sliding under her bed or huddling in the corner of her closet seemed childish and stupid. Sam would find her, drag her out, and do the things he promised with his eyes, things she didn’t want to do with anyone, much less her mama’s boyfriend.
He slammed the door against the bureau again, shoving it back enough to get his head through the crack. It was only a matter of time before he would be able to slip inside. “Come on, girl. I told your mama I would take care of you.”
“G-go to hell.” She’d heard her mama yell that phrase enough at various men, her father included, to know it carried some weight. “I’ll scream.”
Not bothering to camouflage his anger, he slammed the door against the bureau a half-dozen times, the bangs like gunshots. Each one made her flinch. “Your mama is passed out in bed, sweet thing. Let me in. You want this.”
A warm breeze snaked through her cracked window, fluttering the curtains. The white cotton of her nightgown tickled her legs. The universe giving her a hint. She ripped the curtains open and slid the window up, the whine quieting Sam.
She looked over her shoulder, her gaze clashing with his. The moonlight streaming into the room revealed a good-looking forty-something man. His face was all over town on his insurance agency ads. A toothy, too-charming smile turned his lips, and he gestured her closer with two fingers.
She turned back to the window and punched the screen out in a fluid motion. It clattered to the roof of the covered porch.
“Aw, hell no. You get back over here and let me in. You don’t want me to hurt you, do you?” He banged the door against the bureau again.
She threw her leg over the sill. He had jammed his upper body through the crack. The look in his eyes sent her out the window, clinging to the sill. She dropped and landed on the covered porch next to the screen. The gritty black roofing tile scraped her palms and knees. She peered over the short side of the porch roof to the bushes below. Logically, she knew it couldn’t be more than fifteen feet, but all her body knew was she was getting ready to fall.
She lowered herself over, the edge of the gutter biting into her belly. The prickly leaves of the bush brushed her toes. Her arms shook with the effort, her fingers numb, her palms sweaty and stinging from cuts.
“Monroe! Where you at, girl? Come on out now. You’re being silly.” Sincerity laced his voice.
A shot of doubt stilled her, dangling over the edge, her muscles screaming. Was she being silly? He was the adult after all. But where her mama was desperate and trusting, Monroe had seen too many men come and go from their lives. Some were nicer than others, and some, like Sam, were too nice. The way he stared at her barely there breasts and skinny legs made her uncomfortable. What did she trust? Him or her instincts?
Mentally counting to three, she took a deep breath and let go. She hit the bush and pitched backward, landing on her back with her legs in the air, her nightgown bunched above her white cotton panties. Her lungs burned. Her panic had nothing to do with Sam and everything to do with the clamor of her body for oxygen.
Her lungs switched on, and she allowed herself five seconds to just breathe, in and out, in and out, until she’d stopped wheezing. Rolling over onto her hands and knees, she listened. Sam was shaking bushes on the far side of the yard where her old, rotting play set stood, one swing swaying in the warm breeze. The kind of breeze that carried the scent of the ocean even though it was a hundred miles away.
She couldn’t stay and play cat and mouse with him in the fenced-in yard. Holding her nightgown to keep it from flapping like a white flag of surrender, she scampered around the pool through the door at the back of the fence and hesitated.
She had nowhere to go. Her father was in the Caribbean with his new family, and if she showed up at Regan’s house her best friend’s parents would have questions Monroe would be too embarrassed to answer. Hearing the crack of a branch and Sam’s voice get closer, she ran into the unknown.
* * *
Cade Fournette snuck through the night under the full moon. If the Cottonbloom, Mississippi, police chief picked him up again for trespassing, he would end up in jail for sure. His last chat with Chief Thomason had not gone well. The man’s condemnation had lit a fire under Cade’s pride. A couple of insults about the sheriff’s excess weight and minuscule intelligence had resulted in a wrenched arm and bruised ribs.
Cade’s nighttime poaching activities were becoming riskier now that he was on the chief’s radar, but his family needed to eat, if not eat well. Anyway, he never emptied the nets, only took enough crayfish to make a couple of decent meals. His rabbit traps were a boon for everyone. Cottonbloom, Mississippi, took pride in its prize tomatoes and the mayor wouldn’t want a rabbit herd destroying its reputation. Really, he was doing everyone a favor. That particular argument hadn’t made a dent in the chief’s stony demeanor last time.
Cade slipped in the mud down to his metal skiff hidden in the tall reeds close to the bank. He froze in a crouch, listening. All he could hear was his own heart beating, but the hairs on his neck stood on end. Not much scared him these days, except for thoughts of getting taken away from his family and put somewhere he couldn’t protect them.
Had the police found his boat? Was the chief waiting? Should he run? No more than ten seconds passed.
“Who’s there?” a little girl’s voice called out, trembling behind the facsimile of bravery. “Leave me the h-hell alone, Sam.”
He duckwalked closer, parted the reeds, and peeked through. A figure in white huddled on the far seat of his skiff. Her knees were pulled toward her chin, her hands clenching and unclenching around the sides.
He’d seen her around Cottonbloom a time or two, although he couldn’t recall her name, if he ever knew it. She was his sister’s age or thereabouts, but with the attitude of a Mississippi deb. One of those girls who were bred to know their place in the world and with a glance would recognize he wasn’t part of it. What the hell was she doing out on the river?
