Page 22 of The County Fair Queen

On one hand, I wanted Rivers to leave me the hell alone. I needed him to stop chasing me down and staring at me with those unnecessarily dreamy eyes. But on the other hand—the one with its tiny little voice that whispered his name on an endless loop—I kind of wanted him to keep staring.

I'd need Jordy to schedule an appointment with a shrink the moment we touched down in London. Clearly, I was in the midst of a psychotic episode.

Chapter Five

I SHOULD HAVE DANCED WITH YOU

After a two-hour break from filming, spent mostly in reflective silence, Jordan and I walked across the square, toward the courthouse. Then Brenda/Carole sent Jordan a text instructing us to meet her by the stage. The freshly cut lawn had been pierced and punctured by an endless assortment of festive signs pinpointing where different events would take place. Plastic, globe-sized decorative grapes were hanging from lampposts and the trees lining the town square. As for the square itself, it was busier than I'd seen it since arriving, meaning Jordan and I had to duck and dodge between carnies and volunteers just to make it to the stage.

The camera crew was waiting for us in front of the stage, filming our arrival. On the platform, a man was hanging a Muscadine Madness banner behind the microphone. The closer we got, the more visible the man's affliction of perpetualplumber's crack became. Despite being a loud and proud ass-man, I wasn't ashamed to admit it was not a pretty sight.

"Your face isn't even on the damn banner," Brenda/Carole said as she approached. "For God's sake, you're the main attraction, and they couldn't even give you an honorable mention?"

"It's fine," I said. "I don't need a picture."

"Philly, you're the whole reason we're here. You're putting this hellhole on the map; you'd think they would at least give you a banner."

"It's just a sign."

"Today it's a sign. What about tomorrow? Now, you listen to me, Phil Firework. Do you think any of these viewers are tuning in to see that elderly man's ass crack? Fuck no. Delightful as it may be, they're here for you. You're the moneymaker. The biggest and brightest star this side of Dallas. These people should be on their knees praising your name."

"A star," I said, my voice barely even a whisper. I was trying not to let the words wash over me like sweet apple cider, but it was proving to be a hard-fought battle. A star? Dare I even say…iconic?

"Jesus Christ," Jordan muttered. "He's going to be unbearable when this is over."

"A star," I repeated, a bit surer this time.

"Exactly," she said. "Did you see the tweets I sent you? They loved your performance. One went as far as calling you and Lake'a modern-day Sonny and Cher.'I'm assuming they meant you were Sonny, judging by your vocal limitations, but still. This is your moment. I promise you, when this is done, you're going to be a household name.Friendzone?They won't hold a candle to you. You're on the cusp of a comeback, the likes of which has never been seen before. It wouldn't surprise me if you got a Las Vegas residency when it's all said and done."

I gripped Jordan's hand and held on for dear life. "A residency? You really think they'd give me a show?"

She shrugged. "Why not? Stranger things have happened. Like I told you when we first got here, I was this close to working with La Toya Jackson. In the nineties, they put her in a Parisian review, and she can't hold a note. Allegedly, they used to layer her vocals with Diana Ross's and have her wander around lip-syncing like there was no tomorrow. If she can pretend to sing French to a bunch of drunken sloths, why can't you? You may not have the vocal abilities, but you've got the looks and the passion, and I've got a camera crew ready to put it on full display. You just have to work with me. Scratch my back, and I'll have every gay man in America wanting to scratch yours."

"Vegas," I whispered, scared to say it too loudly for fear of tempting fate. "A Las Vegas residency?"

"Well, Vegas, Atlantic City…" She cleared her throat and averted her gaze to a particularly interesting blade of grass beneath her feet. "A dive bar in North Dakota. Same thing." She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and guided me toward the stage. "Now," she said, slapping my ass. "I want you to march your pretty little tush on that stage and demand the respect you deserve."

"You want me to do what?"

She pushed me forward again, and I had to brace to stop myself from falling. When I turned around to scowl at her, she was already snapping her fingers, getting the camera crew's attention. I shot Jordan a questioning glance, unsure how I was supposed to remedy this ridiculous round of manufactured drama, but he was no help. Rather than offer assistance, he simply shrugged, extending his arm dramatically as if he was presenting the stage to me.

"By all means," he said. "Give him hell." His footsteps echoed behind me, and it felt good to know that—insubordination aside—Jordy wouldn't leave me to do this on my own.

If I was going to put on a spectacle, I'd need divine intervention. Mustering up every bit of self-confidence I could find, I channeled my inner-Faye Dunaway-channeling her inner-Joan Crawford.

No. Scratch that. Even that ice princess wouldn't be enough for Nostalgia Nation. The production crew didn't need a stoic starlet of yesteryear holding people hostage with wire hangers. They needed a hard-ass. A sociopath who truly believed the sun, the moon, and every single star in the Texas sky were created to orbit his swollen ego. Dwindling divas simply would not do. For this—God help me—Tallulah needed Brian O'Hare.

"Excuse me," I shouted, marching across the stage. The butt-crack wielding anarchist was still hunched forward, trying to straighten the banner. When I reached him, I tapped his shoulder furiously, fixing a scowl on my face. The man turned around, his smile wide, bright, and full of awe. He pulled an earbud out and blinked rapidly in surprise.

"Jam and Jerusalem, it's Phillip Firecracker." To my surprise, it was the man I saw at the airport on my first day in town. The confused janitor, who stared at me like I was a fool when I waved at non-existent fans in the lobby.

"First of all," I said, pointing at his earbud. "I'm pretty sure working with that in your ear violates at least ten different HIPAA bylaws."

From the edge of the stage, Jordan called, "I think you mean OSHA violations, Phillip. HIPAA is about medical privacy."

"Believe me, when I'm done with him, those records will be so secretive, even his wife won't know what happened to him."

The man was still smiling at me like a damn fool. "I'm not married, son. I've got a daughter though. Macy. She just lovesyou, Mr. Firecracker. You think you could sign something for her? It'd just about make her whole year if you did."

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