The Red-Hot Cajun Read Free

Breaux can’t stand my guts.”
    “Oops,” Maddie said.
    “Maybe you could charm her,” J.B. advised. “You can be damn charming with the ladies when you wanna be.”
    “Charm that!” he said, giving J.B. a finger. Luckily Tante Lulu didn’t see him.
    “She’s the answer to our prayers,” Maddie asserted.
    “Oh, no! She cain’t be the one,” Tante Lulu wailed, now that the implications of their conversation sank in. “I won’t let that snooty girl be the one. She’s so snooty she’d drown in a rainstorm. I remember the time she asked me iffen I ever looked in a mirror, jist cause I tol’ her she could use a good girdle. She’s not a Cajun, even if she does have a Cajun name. Her fam’ly likes ta fergit that Breaux skeleton in their closet from about six generations back, which makes her only one-tenth or mebbe one-twentieth Cajun. Nope, she’s a Creole. Her blue blood’s so blue she gives the sky a bad name. She looks down on us low-down Cajuns. All them Breaux in her family do. Take her back. I doan want her to be the one fer Rene. St. Jude, do somethin’ quick.”
    Rene’s jaw dropped open. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more. That his friends considered Valerie Breaux the answer to their prayers, the woman who’d called him a “crude Cajun asshole” more than once in their years of growing up together in Houma. Or that Tante Lulu feared this woman might be his soul mate. As if the Ice Princess would let him touch her with a ten-foot pole, let alone his own lesser sized pole! Not with their history. Not after the infamous, uhm, incident.
    They’d been fifteen. There’d been a party. He’d been perpetually horny, like most teenagers. She and her girlfriends had been sucking up sickeningly sweet Slo Gin Fizzes. Suffice it to say, he’d somehow found himself naked with Val in someone’s bedroom. Suffice it to say, he became a member of the Hair-Trigger Club that night. Suffice it to say, she still retained her virginity after the fiasco. If all that hadn’t been embarrassing enough, she’d jumped off the bed afterward and spewed pink barf all over his instrument of non-pleasure. Teenage hell, for sure!
    He blushed just thinking about it, and he hardly ever blushed.
    Could life get any worse?
    Yep!
    J.B. had waded out to his water plane and was now carrying the “answer to their prayers” over his shoulder. She was squirming wildly but unable to say anything because, of course, the goofballs had duct-taped her mouth shut. That should merit at least one felony count, on top of the others for the restraints that bound her wrists behind her back and her ankles together.
    But that wasn’t the worst thing of all... or best thing of all, depending on one’s viewpoint. And Rene’s viewpoint right now was fixed on Valerie Breaux’s bare white behind.
    She was going to kill them all for that indignity alone, after she’d filed every legal charge in the world against them.
    The Trial TV celebrity wore what could probably be called a Sex and the City-type power suit, which meant it had a very short skirt. A very short skirt that had ridden up with all her struggles, exposing her thong panties.
    And thus the sun shone bright on Valerie Breaux’s buttocks.
    Very nice buttocks, by the way.
    “Is she moonin’ us?” Tante Lulu wanted to know.
    “I never could figure out why women want to wear those thong thingees,” Maddie mused. “Seems to me they’d be mighty uncomfortable, up in your crack and all.”
    “I like ‘em,” J.B. said.
    Maddie probably would have hit her husband if he hadn’t had his hands full of Valerie. Instead, she suggested, “You wear ‘em then, honey.” Honey was not said as an endearment.
    Rene felt like pulling his hair out, one root at a time, over the irrelevance of this chitchat. Meanwhile, Valerie’s tempting tush was waving in the wind.
    J.B. turned slightly and Rene got a good look at Valerie’s face. Her shoulder-length, wavy black hair hung lose all