Page 38 of The County Fair Queen

He nodded, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he bit down.

"Thank you for telling me. For trusting me."

Our cart came to a stop, and the attendant lifted the metal bar, allowing us to exit. Then, the strangest thing happened. I realized I wasn't ready for the ride to end. I didn't want to get out of that seat, because getting out would mean going back. Rivers may have been the single-worst soul in the world, but it had been years since anyone held me the way he did.

Like I was appreciated.

Like I was admired.

He was holding me as if he was scared of letting go. Like if we left that cart, he might never see me again. Perhaps, worst of all, I was starting to think maybe he liked seeing me. Sure, he'd grow tired of me in the end. Everyone did. But for one moment, on that old, rickety Ferris wheel, I could look out past the hills and trees. I could stare beyond the stretch of city where everything faded into long, lonely country roads. For the first time in a long time, I could breathe.

"Beau wanted to ride," I said, pressing my face into his nape. "Can we go again?"

He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me in even closer. If he'd called out his son's name, I must have missed it. Within seconds, Beau rushed onto the platform and wedged his way between us. After adjusting our positions on the cart, I thought that would be the end of the ridiculous, unnecessary body contact. Instead, he shimmied in closer, hooking his arm over my shoulder and pulling me toward him, smushing his son between us like a well-melted grilled cheese.

When we were up at the top, Beau peeked up at me through squinted eyes. "Mr. Firecracker?"

"You can call me Phillip, little man."

He blushed. "What you were talking about… This thing with you and Daddy," he said. "About this all just being for pretend." My heart raced, worried that this might be where he came to his senses and told us the entire proposition had been preposterous.That he'd sooner have Minnie Sinclair mount his father like a bucking bronco rather than allow him to sully the Rivera name by having it associated with me.

"What about it?"

"It would be okay if it wasn't. Just pretend, I mean."

Unable to form a coherent response, I stared at Rivers, and for the first time since returning, I saw the same boy from all those years ago. The fear in his eyes. The panic in his soul. That undeniable sound of'run-run-run'echoing inside of him.

Then he smiled at me. Jesus Christ, the way he smiled at me.

"What about you, Firecracker? Would that be okay with you?"

It was at that moment I understood how he felt all those years ago. As hard as I tried, I couldn't get my mouth to work. No words fell from my lips. Rivers, though. Rivers was practically beaming at me.

"That's alright. I'll win you over in the end."

Chapter Eight

PHILLIP PIGCRACKER & THE FAN CLUB PRESIDENT

Rivers and Beau picked me up the next day, promising me a day I would never forget.

Truer words had never been spoken.

I wasn't sure if Brenda/Carole had come up with the idea, or if the fault lay squarely at the hands of Beau Rivera: child icon and pig wrangler extraordinaire. It wasn't until Rivers' truck was going seventy-miles-per-hour that they sprung the news on me.

Pigs.

We were going to wrangle pigs. In the Texas heat, no less. All in all, it was less than ideal. Hell, I was tempted to fling myself from Rivers' pickup just to get out of it. Just like my first day back in town when he'd essentially kidnapped me, I had no desire for broken bones or death by road rash, so I remained seated, staring out the window and hating the world.

Mr. Monte's pig 'ranch,' if you could even call it that, was simply a large, two-story home on the outskirts of town,complete with a few acres of unkempt lawn. It took us twenty minutes to get there, and for the duration of the trip, Beau Rivera had rattled on about rules and what he expected of me.

When he'd told me, "Make sure you don't let them get you backed into a corner, 'cause they'll charge." I'd advised him that if a single pig so much as oinked at me, we'd be feasting on Christmas ham that night. When he explained we would be shoveling fecal matter out of the pen, I reminded him I was in one of the biggest-selling boy bands of all time, and if he eventhoughtof handing me a shit-scooping shovel, I'd make sure his edit on my show was merciless. To that, Beau grinned his brightest grin, fluttered his lashes, and said, "Who could hate a face as pretty as this one, Phillip?" The kid had a point, so in the end, I'd relented.

After helping the kid out of the unnecessarily tall pickup truck, Beau grabbed my hand and tugged. Together, we dashed toward the pigpen; Beau, filled with determination, while I was filled with absolute disgust. The scents wafting around us were both terrifying and triggering. Rot and excrement with traces of… lavender? It made no sense, because there wasn't a single flower to be seen. Still, it was there. Floral-masked pig shit.

Brenda/Carole and the rest of the crew tagged along, occasionally hanging back to get a wider shot. The pen itself was cute in a rustic sort of way. The metal fencing was made of waist-high chicken wire, with beams of wood atop, squaring the perimeter. Inside the fence, there were several small enclosures. They looked similar to dog houses, only much less adorable. Inside of the enclosures, porkers lounged lazily in the shade. Another set of pigs stood in front of an empty plastic tote, waiting for food, I assumed.

"When we get in there," Beau explained, his grip tight around my hand, "I want you to stay on guard, okay? They get a little ornery when they're hungry." He pointed at two waist-high boards with holes at the top. "We got those little boards to protect our knees if we need them, but be careful, okay? If they charge, just hold the board in front of you and you should be fine."

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