Page 8 of The County Fair Queen

"Jordy… how are we getting home?"

"Production is supposed to take us, aren't they?" he said.

"Brenda/Carole said they were heading to the motel to check in after we were done here. Jesus, Jordy, do you ever pay attention? Is the concept foreign to you?"

"First of all, the next time you use that tone with me, I'm reporting you to the Better Business Bureau for creating a hostile working environment, and secondly, you psychopath, I was a bit busy trying to break the hypnotic hold Rivers' ass has on your eyes. Excuse me for being distracted."

"I wasn't staring at his butt."

"You stare at everyone's butt."

Ahead of us, a man in a pair of jeans that clung perfectly to his backside was bent over a cardboard box in front of a vendor's booth, pulling out a string of muscadine-shaped lights. He stood up, reaching toward the top of the stall, securing the strands. As he twisted and tugged, his shirt rose above his waist, giving me a lusty little view of the brown skin hiding underneath. The man was a fucking buffet, and though I'd just had a hearty lunch, I was ready for seconds.

"Case in point," Jordy said, arching a sassy eyebrow.

When I finally managed to pry my eyes away from his ass, I caught sight of the most treacherous of docudrama plot twists. The owner of that ass, Rivers Rivera, was peering over his shoulder at me with a cocky grin.

"Fuck," I said.

"Yoo-hoo," Jordan sang out. "Rivie-pooh!"

"I take back all the nice things I just said about you."

"You didn't sayanynice things about me."

"And I never will if you—"

"Rivers," he called out again. "Can we borrow you for a second?"

"Dammit, Jordy."

Rivers wiped his hands on his jeans, causing his ass to jiggle like two Christmas hams ready to be glazed.

Not that I wanted to glaze them.

He jogged across the red brick road without much concern for oncoming traffic. A red sedan slammed on its brakes, missing him by inches, but it was like he hadn't even noticed.

"Firecracker," he said with a grin. "Twice in one day. What can I help you boys with?"

"Nothing. You can go," I dismissed him.

Jordan wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and as I sulked beneath his uninvited touch, Mr. Papadopoulos sat leisurely at my feet. He licked his paws with disinterest, but paused when Rivers knelt at his side. I couldn't help the wave of bitter resentment that washed over me. He was allowing Rivers to pet him. It had taken three years before Papadop even allowed me to look him directly in the eyes. One thirty-minute ride in Rivers' pickup, and the little bastard was practically throwing himself at him.

"Traitor," I said, scowling at my tabby.

"I was hoping you could do us a favor. I think the production crew may havecockedthings up," Jordan said, accenting the word with a click of his tongue. "They didn't provide us with transportation back to Phillip's grandmama's house—"

"Aunt Lurlene," I reminded him for the nine-hundredth time that day.

"Oh, wow. Mrs. Fletcher. Gosh, I haven't seen her in months," Rivers said.

"Yes, well, she has impeccable standards. It's a shame you don't meet them," I said.

"That must be why she's been the biggest donor for my last…" he paused, counting on his fingers as he mouthed the wordsone, two,andthreeto himself. "Three campaigns."

"I don't know what the hell that means," I said, because his words were moronic and made no sense. "But I don't care for your tone."

"Campaigns?" Jordan asked.

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