Combustible (A Boone Childress Novel)

by CC Abbott

  “Now you know how if feels to be teased,” Cedar said with a wicked laugh.

  “You call that teasing? Let me show you how it’s done.”

  He grabbed her hard and pulled her breasts into his mouth. His lips clamped onto the nipple, and he danced his tongue over it, lightly nibbling the skin, then sucking hard. Cedar moaned as he took the other breast in his hand, pinching the hard nipple, working them both with the same increasing, intensifying rhythm.

  Cedar's back arched back as she tried to escape. When she couldn’t, she rammed hard down on him, filling herself with his length. She slid her ass forward, braced her feet on the wall and rode him hard, almost sidesaddle, eyes shut tight, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his knee.

  “Oh my god. Oh. My. G—“

  Whatever she was holding back was swept way, the last of it crashing over her when Boone grabbed her hips and held her tight at the peak of each thrust, tensing himself so that he thickened even more inside her.

  “Fuck me!” she cried out.

  The word ignited something within him. He closed his eyes, lost in the heat and the light of her joy. In his gut, a fire built and built until it was raging too hard to control.

  Finally, mercifully, exquisitely, he exploded, and Cedar slammed forward, arms around his head, mouth on his again. She kept riding until her orgasm finished, her flesh covered in sweat.

  Her body went limp. She moved her mouth to his ear, giving it a nibble, and whispered, “That was amazing. My first time.”

  Boone drew back. “You were a virgin?”

  She laughed. “No, stupid. It was my first time coming with a guy.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.” She brushed the hair out of her face. “I take sex very seriously.”

  “So that would make it your first time coming twice.”

  “Twice? Make that three times. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “You are really quiet.”

  “We’ll have to work on that next time.” She laughed and kissed him. “We can’t all be as loud as you.”

  Boone pulled the blanket over them. Cedar snuggled to his chest, head resting on his shoulder. He was tempted to ask her what was next for them. But he didn’t want to ruin the moment, so he kept his mouth shut and sat there with this beautiful, naked woman in his arms, watching the moon move across the sky, and enjoying every second of it.

  MONDAY

  After a long, hot Sunday spent cleaning out the barn and taking care of the cattle, Monday morning couldn’t come soon enough for Boone. He arrived early for class and found Cedar hanging out in the student lounge with Luigi and Gretchen. He barely hid his disappointment. After Saturday night, he was yearning for some more lip-on-lip contact and was so tempted to sweep her into his arms. He wasn’t shy about affection in public, but he knew that Cedar wouldn’t like mushy PDA displays—unless they were on a deserted beach.

  “Hey,” Cedar said when he came in, but she didn’t get up from her chair.

  Boone wasn’t sure how to read her. Was it okay to kiss her like he really wanted to do? Or since they weren’t officially a couple, should he play it cool?

  The answer to his dilemma came quickly when Cedar crooked a finger at him and raised her eyebrows. He leaned over the chair and gave her a long, hot kiss.

  “Woo-hoo!” Gretchen hollered. “Look who’s getting it on.” She was sitting on a couch next to Luigi, and she had copy of today's newspaper.

  “Just keep reading, Gretchen,” Cedar said when Boone let her come up for air.

  “This tragedy could’ve been avoided,” Gretchen read aloud, “if the folks sworn to protect the citizens of this county had done their jobs instead of tampering with my investigation.”

  “Tampering?” Boone said, his voice rising.

  “So, you were listening,” Gretchen said with more than a bit of glee in her voice. “I thought you were otherwise occupied.”

  “Keep reading,” Cedar said as she pulled Boone onto the chair arm beside her.

  Gretchen cleared her throat. “Hem, hem. When ask if he was considering tampering charges, the sheriff said, I’m considering all kinds of charges. Uh-oh, Boone’s going to get busted.”

  “Knock it off, Gretchen.” Cedar picked up her notebook and blew the eraser dust in Gretchen’s general direction.

  “Ew.” A fine cloud of dust settled on Gretchen’s flip-flops. She waggled her feet in a vain attempt to clear them. “I was about to read the sports column about your outrageous skills at tennis, but I can tell my reading skills are not appreciated.”

  “Whatever,” Cedar said.

  “I appreciate your skills,” Luigi said, his head resting on the desk. “Please, keep reading. It helps my listening comprehension.”

  Gretchen let out a tiny squeal. “Really? Okay.”

  Boone snorted to himself. Luigi’s comprehension was terrific. All he cared about was hearing Gretchen giggle. It was obvious he had a thing for the girl, and she had all the signs of being interested, but their love was doomed, since Luigi was returning to Osaka soon.

  “Galloway possesses a bullet-like serve that she can place within four inches of a target. She demonstrated the feat for this reporter, destroying six different targets in a row. Wow. Huh?”

  “Impressive,” Luigi said.

  While Gretchen read, Boone’s thoughts turned to the morning’s news. So much happened since Friday that he was still sorting it out. Learning the vict—Mrs. Vega's identity was a mix of emotions. It was satisfying to know that she had been identified and that a face and name had been put with the body. She was now a person, and that gave him peace. But the fact that she may have died because Eugene Loach had too much hate in his heart to rescue her made his stomach turn.

  Fuck it. He hated dealing with human emotions. Human bones were another story. The information they hid told you so much about a person’s body: How old they were, what injuries and diseases they had, what kind of dental problems they faced. But as Boone’s little voice reminded him, bodies couldn’t tell you names, and they couldn’t tell you personalities. And what about Stumpy Meeks? The campus cop said he was a suspect in the fire. Not Stumpy. He wasn’t the type. But he was missing, and he was in close proximity to the Tin City blaze.

  And most of all, what about him and Cedar? What did life after graduation hold for them? How did he get so lucky, finding a smart, beautiful, outrageously sexy woman like her?

  Through the fog of his brain machinations, someone was calling Boone’s name.

  “Childress!”

  “Huh? Sir?”

  Dr. Echols, his history prof, stood in the hallway, looking at his watch. “Class starts in one minute. Care to make the journey with me?”

  Boone blinked back to reality, his hand resting on Cedar’s bare knee. “Yes sir. On my way.”

  Echols disappeared down the hallway. Boone gave Cedar a quick kiss and said goodbye before jogging to the classroom.

  “All right, young people,” Echols said while dimming the lights and pulling down a screen. “Let's start off with a discussion of Roosevelt's New Deal and its impact on the great State of North Carolina, shall we?”

  Like the class he taught, Dr. Echols was something of a time warp. He wore black pants, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Specifically,” Echols continued, “the Department of Interior's homestead programs, the first of which was in this county. Over a period of years, a total of four homesteads were established. Notes, people. Write this down.” He turned on the projector and clicked a PowerPoint slide. "Let's start with the farming utopia of Atamasco, which was followed almost immediately by a similar homestead in Tin City."

  Boone's ears perked up. “Dr. Echols, did you say Tin City?”

  Echols clicked to the next slide. “Yes, I believe I did. There it is right there on the slide. It’s spelled T—“

  “Got it,” Boone said.

  “Excellent. Moving on. Atamasco Farm was f
ollowed by three other homestead farms. The aforementioned Tin City, followed by Black Oak Hill and Nagswood. Of the four, only Atamasco was a long-term success. It is the only remaining population center, while the others have officially ceased to exist. The question for today is: What qualities did Atamasco have that the other three homesteads lacked? Here’s the first one.”

  Boone raised his hand. “Dr. Echols, sorry to interrupt. Could you talk more about the other homesteads?”

  Echols strummed his fingers on the lectern. “I’m not that familiar with the ghost towns of Bragg County. If this sort of history really interests you, you should talk to Mrs. Yarbrough.”

  “The college librarian?”

  “And also the director of the regional history museum. You seem surprised. Pay attention to the resources around you, Boone. Now, can I get back to my lecture?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Thank you.”

  Echols clicked for the next slide, but his voice was already fading in Boone’s ears. Failed homesteads in Tin City and Nagswood.

  It had to be a coincidence.

  Or was it?

  Conversing with a southern woman was a dangerous thing. Anyone who had seen that biopic about Truman Capote would know this. Capote, according to the story, grew up chatting with blue haired matrons, listening to their conversations, picking up on their gossip, working his way into their hearts and their inner circle. If someone was not southern, they would not know this. If a Yankee from New York, for example, told somebody they wanted to chat, that would mean exchanging a few words. If someone from the Midwest, say Kansas, wanted to chat, they would talk about the weather or the corn or maybe the wheat. In the South, if somebody told a young male that she wanted to chat, his blood would run cold. Because to chat in the South, especially when blue haired matrons were involved, meant a polite, torture session that exposed the very fabric of your soul.

  Boone’s torture session took place in the library. It started from the moment he was greeted by Mrs. Yarbrough.

  “So, here we are,” she said, seating Boone across the desk in her cubicle office. “A little bird tells me that you have an interest in the history of our fair county.”

  “I’m, er, most interested in the homesteads farms. The ones that failed?”

  “Yes!” she said. “Of course. Nagswood and my personal favorite, Tin City. It’s because I have several personal connections. My grandparents were one of the original families to settle there. What a progressive idea it was, a social utopia. My grandfather was something of a rogue thinker for the time. Did you know that he was one of the first farmers?”

  And then, she was off. Over the course of an hour, she told Boone about her grandparents, her great grandparents, and their parents, who were the first in her family to settle in the area. But she never came around to Boone’s original question, despite his best efforts to keep her on topic.

  “Look at the time,” she said, looking at her watch. “Where does it go?”

  “Er,” Boone said. “I still have questions about those farm projects.”

  “Can’t drink deeply enough from the water cooler of history? Boone Childress, you surprise me. Well, I suggest you visit me at the Bragg County Regional History Museum one day soon. We’re open every day, Monday through Thursday, four to sevenish. Except on Wednesdays, of course, when we close at six sharp for church.”

  ‘Yes, ma’am.” He sighed, took the business card for the museum. His head was so full of questions, it was about to burst. What a complete waste of time. Was there any way the day could be more frustrating?

  He pushed open the library door, and the answer to his question was in his face. It came in the form of a water balloon, which had just left the hand of Dewayne Loach.

  Duck! Boone thought.

  He dropped, and the water balloon sailed over his head. It hit the wall behind him and exploded, splashing on the back of his shirt and dripping into the crack of his ass. Dewayne and the knuckle draggers were laughing when Boone stood up. They stopped when they saw the murderous look on his face.

  Boone could tell they were about to scatter. Let them, the thought. He only had one target.

  Dewayne was twenty feet away when Boone started walking toward him. They met in the middle of the hallway. The crowd formed a ring around them quickly.

  "Yeah, Childress," Dewayne said, hands behind his back. "You and me got business."

  "You can’t handle business from me," Boone said.

  "That stunt you pulled the other night. You think you’re real funny, chump? I got news for you, that’s my house, and ain't nobody disrespecting me in my own house."

  “It was a store.”

  “Same difference. Everywhere I am, that’s my house.”

  "You live at the college then?"

  "Do what?"

  "You said this was your house. It looks like a campus to me. You seem confused about geography."

  "Up yours."

  "I'm sure you'd like that," Boone said, "but you're not my type."

  Dewayne swung, just like Boone knew he would. The punch came from Dewayne’s right, a haymaker aimed for the side of Boone’s head, but Boone blocked it easily.

  Dewayne’s fist made a thwock sound. He clutched his fist and started hopping up and down.

  Boone grinned.

  “You think that’s funny?” Dewayne charged again, winding up with the opposite hand. “I'll show you funny.”

  Boone ducked the second punch and shoved Dewayne backward. "Is that all you've got, Loach?"

  Dewayne rushed forward. His fists were low and at his sides. Instinctively, Boone used his height and longer reach. He rammed an elbow into Loach’s chin. The force of the blow staggered Dewayne, and he fell back onto his ass. Boone expected him to pop right back up, but he stayed there, as if he couldn’t figure out how he arrived on the floor.

  Then a whistle blew.

  The heads of the crowd whipped around toward the sound. The campus cop was running the hallway toward them.

  "Let’s go, Boone," Cedar said, suddenly beside him. “Scatter,” she told the crowd, and they did.

  As his buddies carted Dewayne off, Cedar took Boone by the arm and led him around the corner to the custodian’s closet. Cedar pushed him inside and shut the door behind them.

  “Sit down,” she said and turned on the water in the utility sink, then cupped water in her hands and splashed it on Boone’s face. He lost his balance and grabbed the closest thing to him. It was warm and soft and wearing blue jeans.

  “That’s my ass,” Cedar said.

  “Oops.”

  She removed his hand. “Fighting is stupid.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then why did you do it?” she asked.

  “Because guys are stupid.”

  “No argument there.”

  She started to splash more water in his face, but he stopped her and fished out his handkerchief. “Here, use this.”

  “Is it clean?”

  “Clean enough.”

  She held the handkerchief under water, rung it out, and clumsily dropped it into the trashcan. “Damn it.” She reached for it, then stopped, “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  Pinching only a corner, she pulled a thick plastic bag out of the trash. The bag was labeled with the words Flagler Scientific Supply, the same company that had provided the preserved rats for their recent dissection. It was also labeled with large black letters: Sodium. And underneath, in red:

  DANGER: EXPLOSIVE MATERIAL.

  "Thank the Lord for half-days." Mom threw herself back into her chair. She pulled off her heels and slapped them on the desk.

  Across the room, Boone lay stretched out on the couch with the newspaper over his face. He had come home hoping for some quiet time to rest his headache, which he had gotten when he and Cedar reported the empty chemical bags to the campus cop. It took an hour to convince the cop that he didn’t steal it. Not wanting another altercation with Hoyt, he and Cedar l
et campus, but not before Cedar gave him the notebook she’d been working on in the student lounge.

  “What’s this?” he’d asked.

  “A present.” She opened it and started leafing through the pages, which contained clippings, notes, and timeline of the fires. “When I get stuck on a problem, it helps me to lay out all the details in writing. Thought it would help you, too. I did it yesterday on the bus.”

  “This,” he said, picking her up and swinging her around, “is awesome! I can’t wait to dig into it.”

  With that, they’d split up, agreeing to meet later in the day, once Boone’d had time to look the book over, which he’d been doing when Mom popped in the door. He slid it under the couch to keep it away from her prying eyes and pulled the paper over his face for camouflage.

  Boone heard Mom's laptop bing as it booted, followed minutes later by her fingers on the keyboard, first squeaking like guitar strings, then like a fan on a snare drum. By the time he cleared his throat, she was pounding on the keys.

  "You’re making enough noise to wake the dead,” he said.

  The typing did not stop. "I intend to."

  "I’m not dead," he said from under the paper.

  "I'm not referring to you." She pounded on. "I am referring to the sleeping citizens of this county. Can you believe that the planning board is claiming that destroying the Tin City cemetery is completely legal?"

  "Those would be the puppets?"

  "The one and the same. They say that the development company has signatures for the relatives of the deceased giving them permission. I find that hard to believe. Don’t you find it hard to believe?”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You better not. I’m tired of being patronized today.”

  Boone moved the paper aside. “Does this have to do with the injunction you filed?”