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  Aleesha, the rest of the girls, and I watch her go and then turn to each other. "That's fishy," Jane says.

  I nod my head, then turn toward Paris, who hasn't batted a single perfect eyelash in the midst of all of the drama. If anything, Paris looks quietly miffed.

  I watch as Aleesha goes back to her station to touch up her eyes.

  "Aleesha, you were over there this morning, weren't you?" I say, pointing to Emmy's now-abandoned station.

  Aleesha turns to me and nods. "Yeah, but Emmy was complaining about the lighting being bad in that corner. I couldn't tell a difference, so I offered to switch spots with her after the swimsuit competition."

  I look from her to Paris, then back at Aleesha, who's now leaving the tent to wait her turn backstage.

  I turn to Paris and play dumb. "Poor Emmy," I say, shaking my head.

  Paris exhales dramatically. "Such a shame. Too bad karma missed. Maybe next time."

  I blink rapidly, taking a second to absorb what I think I heard her say. "What's that supposed…"

  "Rocket! Line up!"

  I exit the tent to the sound of awe and clapping in response to Aleesha's magic routine. I don't know how that woman levitates, no matter how many times I've watched her rehearse that trick. If the judges have any brain cells between them, they'll be handing her the tiara the second this contest is over.

  When Aleesha finishes and exits the stage, I await my introduction while the stage crew removes all of her many props. I check the safety setting on my lighter. I look around for the stage volunteer who is supposed to catch the lighter when I sneakily fling it after starting the pyrotechnics, but the black-shirted stage crew is occupied and looks a little bit short-handed if I'm not mistaken. I have to toss the lighter—filled with flammable liquid—or else risk injury while twirling a flaming hoop against my body. Even if the crew isn't at the ready, everything should be fine as long as the safety switch is on.

  After Cameron announces me, I take the stage with a winning smile on my face and my muscle memory taking over. I've practiced this routine all day every day for a year when I'm not waiting tables at the local dive bar, and I barely have to think about the choreography. Holding the hoop in one hand, I toss the baton high in the air, spin around, and catch it one-handed. I keep it twirling and start hooping at the same time. The audience cheers, and I think for a second that maybe I have a shot at winning.

  And now it's time to light it up.

  With one powerful toss, my baton goes flying so high the audience gasps. While the hundreds of pairs of eyes are on the flying baton, I turn sideways, hooping continuously, and light up my hoop. I toss the lighter backstage as quickly as I can. Without missing a beat, I catch the baton, light it with the flames coming from the hoop, and keep going with my routine. I've practiced so hard and make it all happen so fast, the audience doesn't notice.

  So now, I'm hooping and twirling flames and the audience is cheering wildly. I work my way through all my spins, kicks, and tosses, all perfectly in sync with the pop music I've chosen. The audience's appreciation gets louder and louder, and I'm feeding off of it. Must resist the urge to improvise, Rocket. Just get through the routine.

  But I want to show them how I can do all this with a one-handed flip. I've achieved it once or twice in practice when I'm feeling myself. If I do it, I will win this thing. I ponder this decision through a backward somersault, ending with the hoop rotating around my ankle and me catching the baton while prone on the stage. The math and physics that go into that move alone, people don't even know.

  This audience is now on its feet, losing their collective minds.

  Something feels off. I turn to look out at the crowd, but I can't tell what's going on because Jet—Jet!—is barreling toward me. His face is all calm determination like this is a normal thing for him to be doing. Behind him, another man I don't recognize is lunging onto the stage and then running past me.

  "What the…" I shout, but I'm barely audible over the screams of the crowd. Everything happens in a matter of seconds. My hoop and baton go clattering to the floor. Jet is carrying me off the stage and shouting at everyone backstage to clear out. The other man is yanking the makeshift curtains off their hooks and stomping around. Contestants are shouting, shrieking. Smoke billows. The smell of burning fabric hits me. And then I see it. The curtains have caught on fire. It's pandemonium. Cameron rushes past me and Jet with a fire extinguisher to put out the flames on my baton and hoop where they lie on the floor.

  I have managed to completely ruin the 87th annual State Fair Butter Queen pageant.

  Chapter Five

  Jet

  If you had told me this morning that the Butter Queen pageant is such a big deal that it can't even be canceled due to a small fire, I'd have said you were out of your mind.

  Granted, Henry had the blaze put out before the fire department arrived, and there wasn't any significant damage. Only one curtain was burned; nothing else caught. The most important thing was nobody got hurt, either by smoke inhalation or stampede.

  The complete lack of panic caught me off-guard more than anything. All the contestants and Cameron were behaving as if this kind of thing happens all the time.

  Once again, the first-aid crew is on top of the situation, checking over all the contestants and especially Rocket. Before they whisk her away from me, Rocket whispers to me urgently, "You need to tell somebody everything you heard Paris say on the phone, plus this: I've been thinking and I don't think Shirley's food poisoning was an accident. Second, Emmy's eye makeup burned her for no apparent reason, and she was taken out, but she and Aleesha had swapped stations earlier. Third, my barbecue lighter starts a fire? No way. That thing has a safety on it and the fair volunteers and I practiced this half a dozen times. They are supposed to retrieve the lighter and return it to the tent. And I don't see them or the lighter anywhere. Someone is trying to sabotage this entire event and we all know who."

  "On it," I say. I'm appropriately concerned but also relieved that Rocket is letting me help her with this.

  Before I head back to my seat, I stop off and speak to Henry, filling him in on all the drama.

  "How can I help?" he asks, without missing a beat.

  "I need you to find that barbecue lighter, talk to the stage crew, and I need you to find out what someone named Shirley Solomon had for breakfast."

  One of the things I like about Henry is he never questions me when I need him to help out with a caper. Back in the day, we got into some shit. He's the kind of guy who would help you bury the bodies.

  And then I take my seat, and the show goes on, no more than 30 minutes after a near-tragedy. These ladies have intestinal fortitude, I'll give them that much. They'd all do well in the military.

  Cameron closes out the talent portion by announcing a twenty-minute break. I fill out the middle portion of my ballot, then head over to check on Henry, who's now texting with someone.

  "Hey, buddy. How's it going?" I ask.

  He replies, "No one can find that lighter, and the person who was supposed to grab it during Rocket's performance got distracted by a false alarm in the dressing room tent. And on the other lady you asked me about, I don't know what this means, but check it out." Henry hands me his phone. When I see what's on the screen, I'm livid.

  "Thanks, pal. Listen. You don't have to stick around for the whole thing. If you want to bail, we can meet up at the butter sculpture."

  Henry laughs. "And miss what happens next? I watched my best friend turn into an action hero. Poisoning and a fire outbreak? And this fucking thing is still going. There's no way I'm leaving. Besides, it's so fucking hot out today, they're only bringing the butter sculpture out of refrigeration for like five minutes. The scuttlebutt is they might not display it at all today. So I'm good right where I am."

  I thank him, deciding to fill him in later on the fact that I'm going home with Rocket as soon as this pageant is over.

  Behind the stage, I find Cameron scribbling furious
ly on a clipboard while talking to someone on the phone. I wait patiently but then I hear an interesting tidbit.

  "Shirley," she says into the phone. "How are you feeling? … The doctor said what? … I can barely hear you, did you say tainted lettuce? Oh no. From her? Are you sure? … Oh my God…well, I'd better go and check on Paris and tell her not to eat anything else from her personal chef…right…as if that girl eats anything ever…but just to be sure…and from here on out, I'm instituting a new rule…haha, that's correct, no more personal chefs or photographers or makeup artists or entourages of any kind at this thing. It's the state fair, dang it, not the Miss Universe pageant. No offense, dear…feel better."

  Cameron is already en route to the tent and nearly barrels into me before she sees me standing there. "Lieutenant Percy! What are you doing back here?"

  And then I tell her everything I know.

  Cameron's face says it all. My and Rocket's hunch is correct, and now that I'm saying all these facts out loud, it seems pretty freaking obvious what has been going on.

  She grips my arm. "Thank you for telling me. One of the crew just informed me that someone created a diversion backstage in the moment before the fire happened. I think there's a connection. You did the right thing."

  As I watch her head off to make another phone call, I pretend that I'm heading for the restroom once again to wait for Rocket. Instead, Rocket is there, already waiting for me under the oak tree, her arms crossed around her front like she's getting ready to put me in time out. Pretending I don't notice her sassy attitude, I tower over her.

  "Why do you keep coming back here? People are going to know what's going on," she whispers.

  "I wanted to check on you to make sure you were okay." My eyes travel over her perfectly coiffed wavy hairdo and the shimmering bare skin of her shoulders.

  "I am perfectly fine, as you can see."

  What I see is an absolute angel in a shimmering evening gown that hugs every contour and shows off more curves than I knew any woman could possess. My mouth waters and yet my throat dries up.

  I chuckle. "You mad at me? Is this our first fight? I can't wait for the makeup sex."

  She shakes her head, and finally, a smile sneaks through.

  "I thought you military types were good at following orders." Her lip curls up in a smirk, her tiny beauty mark teasing me to lick it.

  I tell her, "I'm an officer. I fucking give orders."

  She takes one step toward me, now so close her tits press up against my body.

  "You're gonna get me disqualified."

  "Whatever it takes to get you out of here and into the nearest bed."

  Rocket's eyes travel down to my chest and back up to my mouth. "That's assuming I'm gonna agree to go anywhere with you," she says, her lips teasing me with her sly grin.

  "Listen," I say. "I'm a man who hasn't been with a woman in years. Years. As soon as this is over I'm coming to your place, and you are going to let me in, and then you're gonna let me make you see stars."

  "That a promise?"

  "No, Rocket. That's an order."

  Chapter Six

  Rocket

  I may put up a real confident front, but my insides tremble every time this man speaks. Normally I don't take kindly to being told what to do. Jet's commanding tone, edged with need, licks at me like flames to alcohol.

  "I want to do something for you, Jet. As a thank you for everything you did today. But we need to go somewhere private."

  Jet blows out a breath and his fingers grip my bare shoulders. When he speaks again, his voice trembles. I can hardly fathom that I've rendered this big strong fighter pilot nearly lost for words. "Did I die and go to heaven just now, because I sure am not breathing," he says.

  Relieved, I smile and grab his hand.

  "Come on, I know where to go."

  Checking to make sure nobody from the pageant is watching us, I lead him across a grassy field full of livestock trailers and trucks. When I get to where we're going, I open up the back of a long truck and a blast of cold air hits me. I gesture with my chin. "Give me a boost?"

  Jet smiles and brushes past me, hoisting himself into the back of the truck. He then turns and reaches down for me, lifting me into the back of the truck with him as if I weigh the same as a sack of potatoes.

  The light streaming in from the gap in the door lets Jet get his bearings. I wait for him to figure out where we are. To our left, looming in the shadows is a life-size tableau of a pig and a spider, a web above them spelling out the words, "Some Pig."

  "Wait a minute," Jet says. "Is that this year's butter sculpture?"

  I unbutton his top two buttons of his uniform, swiping my tongue over the skin above the collar of his undershirt. "Mhmm, it'd better be; it'd be disgusting if it were last year's butter sculpture." My fingers tug the hem of his undershirt out of his uniform pants, and my palm smooths over the surface of his tummy. "A buttery Abraham Lincoln'd be all moldy by now, I suspect."

  I half expect Jet to object to making out in front of Wilbur and Charlotte made of butter. But to my relief, he seems a little strangely thrilled by the idea, if the lump in his pants is any indication while his hands explore my bare shoulders. The rough pad of his thumb grazes over my collarbone, sending shivers all over my skin, and my arousal is at an all-time high.

  My lips feather his fuzzy chest with kisses while my other hand fumbles with his belt. When he growls in response, my hand instinctively balls up his shirt and tugs it down. I might not have time to touch up my makeup before the congeniality round begins, but I don't care.

  There's only one clear winner this year for the pageant, and it's for sure not me. So who gives a fuck about my makeup?

  Chapter Seven

  Jet

  I can hardly make my mouth form the words; all the blood in my brain has been redirected to my dick. I'm helpless with her sweet hand wrapped around it, squeezing it, pumping it.

  "Baby," I rattle out. "Ease up down there or I'm gonna make a mess all over your dress. It'll be the scandal of the state fair."

  Her mouth whimpers against mine. "It's so pretty though."

  I laugh. "Pretty, huh?"

  She looks down at it and back up at me, blushing and nodding slowly.

  "I'll allow it," I say. "But take it easy, baby. I mean it."

  She pouts and lets go. "But I wanted to say thank you."

  "We ain't got time for a proper thank you. But a preview of what comes later might be nice. I want to look at you. I want to see what's under that dress."

  I'm relieved I haven't offended her and that she's already undoing the hooks at the back of her bodice, which comes off separately from the bottom of the dress.

  Seeing the surprised look on my face, she explains, "Makes it easier and cheaper to mix and match costumes. Most of the time nobody notices."

  I don't know if I'm more impressed by her ingenuity or by the most voluptuous set of cans my eyes have ever peeped.

  I grip her around the waist and pull her tight to me. I watch as her face registers the hard rod against her hip bone. Her eyes flash with understanding, and then her face melts into heat and need.

  "Fuck, you're beautiful," I rasp.

  "Well, get down to business, sailor. You want to use our remaining four minutes to talk or what?"

  A growl rumbles out of me as my face dives in, my mouth dappling her breasts all over with kisses. I palm one while I devour the other one like a goddang maniac. Rocket's soft skin yields under the gentle pressure of my lips. I stamp kisses all over it while my thumb rubs her opposite nipple into a firm pebble.

  Her sighs are too sweet, too content.

  Time to make her crazed for me. I want her begging. I know I shouldn't, but my mouth acts on his own, needing to suckle and lick. I gorge on her rosy pink areola, memorizing every bump, every pucker. Her large, hard nipple blesses my mouth. I suck it in and graze my teeth over it. She sucks in a breath. "Oh, shit…"

  I move my mouth to savor the other on
e with equal intensity.

  Rocket squeaks, filling her tight fists with my undershirt, which is starting to rip at the seams. She leans her head back and blurts, "Fuck!"

  To my surprise, she's coming in my arms. I honestly didn't know I could do that with just a little nipple attention. My hands squeeze and stroke her ass while I continue to worship her breasts with my mouth, never letting up until she's done riding her waves of release. I'm so turned on watching her come, I have a mind to hike up that dress and make it happen again and again.

  But what I really want to do is kiss her. It feels wrong that we haven't even had a proper kiss yet.

  "Seems weird to ask permission to kiss you right now but…"

  I don't get to finish that sentence because my Rocket girl sees to it my lips are occupied by hers.

  If there were any doubts about the idea that Rocket and I were made for each other, our first kiss tosses them overboard.

  The kiss is so good I'm seeing visions. I know exactly what I want. Not just her body. I see a home, a dog, children, a picket fence, maybe some chickens. Most of all, her. My Rocket. Is it too soon to think of her like that? Tough shit, universe. She's mine. It makes no sense that I'm ready to start a life with her but also perfect sense.

  I have to laugh at myself. I've been back in the States from active duty not half a day. But right now, right here, I'm more at home in Rocket's arms than I've ever been anywhere else.

  Chapter Eight

  Rocket

  Deep breaths, girl. You got this.

  I mean, I don't got this if I'm thinking about the crown.

  But if I'm talking about starting over to try again one last time for next year's title, then yes, I got this.

  I walk out and cross to the front and center of the stage and take the mic out of the stand, nodding and smiling at the judges, trying not to orgasm all over again thinking about what Jet and I just did. If I look at his smug face, I just might. I wonder if anyone has ever been disqualified for coming on stage. After everything we've been through today, I welcome a disqualification, if I'm honest.