Before I can process the fact that I have to interact with teenagers, Cameron leads me and four other judges, who appear to have been standing around waiting for me, to a striped tent behind the stage.
She opens the flap before I can pump the brakes on the situation. Something about all of this is making me very uncomfortable. Turns out, my gut was right. The first thing I see when I step inside is a full, bodacious butt poured into navy blue panties with white stripes down the sides, accented with gold stars. The owner of that butt leans forward to touch up some fire-engine-red lipstick in a lighted mirror. The mirror reflects at me her intensely deep cleavage between a pair of huge knockers, barely contained by a bra that looks like some wet dream version of the blue Cracker Jack sailor uniform: flap collar in the back, and a knotted scarf in the front. That scarf swings in the air while she's bent over, further drawing my eyes to those fantabulous melons. Fuck a duck. I should not be here.
This all happens within a second, and I'm stumbling past the other judges behind me, backing right back out of the tent.
"No, ma'am. That's a tent full of underage women in their…underthings."
Cameron clutches her chest and laughs. "Oh, no! The Butter Queen pageant is for ages 18 to 24."
I point and look the other way, still convinced that all of this is inappropriate. "Ma'am, all due respect, but I saw panties and bras."
Finally, she understands what's wrong. "Oh honey, no. Those are the swimsuit costumes for the first round of competition."
Not that I know the first thing about the Butter Queen pageant, but I thought swimsuit competitions had gone the way of the dodo bird. As much as I love my home state, it's shit like this that makes us live up to our back-asswards stereotypes.
I rustle up my courage and fall in line, ready to ignore the sight of that young woman's ass. I hold all of the air inside my lungs as I step inside the tent.
Inside, the lady in the sailor panties and bra—I mean swimsuit—is standing upright and displaying a rehearsed, ten-thousand-watt smile to me and the other judges, posing with one hand on her curvaceous, jutted-out hip. Topping off her ensemble is a traditional "Dixie Cup" white sailor hat, sitting atop her head at an angle that is not following the rules of the actual Navy. In fact, I wonder if she's aware that, top to bottom, her whole appearance is in total violation of standard naval uniform dress codes. And hot as fuck.
Even more devastating than her ass is her smile. That's the part of her from which I cannot avert my eyes, and would not want to.
The lady introduces herself to the group as Rocket Montgomery and proceeds to recount a long list of achievements as a way of introduction. By her description, she must have a wall full of FFA and 4H blue ribbons. I picture a cute little house in the country with shelves full of trophies, shadow boxes with Girl Scout badges, and National Merit Scholar certificates.
"…And I was captain of the marching band color guard at Jefferson High School for three years in a row. I'm a certified lifeguard and a volunteer instructor in first aid and CPR. But what I'm most proud of is volunteering as a math and science tutor. For fun, I serve as vice president of the National Society of Flaming Baton Twirlers and Hoop Artists."
Her face lights up when she says that last part. "Baton twirlers have societies?" I ask.
She corrects me with a good-natured reminder. "Flaming batons. They added hoop artists to the title because there was so much crossover. We had a lot of fire hoopers come to us after their national group had a falling out and caused a schism. But we flaming baton twirlers are drama free. It's in our bylaws. Which I wrote."
I remove my hat and reach out my hand. "Ma'am, it's nice to meet you. I'm Jet."
Before taking my hand, Rocket salutes a proper naval salute and then winks. "Jet and Rocket! Aren't we a pair?" I am done for.
Rocket holds out her hand with fingernails that have been painted to look like the state flag. Her firm handshake jolts me like an incomplete circuit of energy, and I'm brushing up against the hot end of a live wire. She looks down at the patches on my arm and chest and says, "Welcome home, Lieutenant Percy."
The twitch inside my uniform pants is so abrupt I'm pretty sure the sudden movement has been picked up by space satellites. I swallow. "Good eye," I say with a nod.
The corner of her delectable mouth curves up. "I spent some time with the USO. I learned a few things. I thank you for your service to our country, sir."
The military has trained me not to blush, but it's getting hard. Really hard.
"Rocket, that's an interesting name," I say, not letting go of her hand.
She bats her eyelids at me. "My mama always said I was meant to fly to the stars!"
My hand squeezes hers, and I stare into those intense, bright eyes. Her cheeks redden. Her brilliant, practiced smile fades to a shy grin, and her eyes drift down to my mouth. Neither of us says anything for what feels like a long while.
Rocket recovers her composure, looking away at the other judges, who've all moved on to the next contestant. She looks back at me with a renewed professionalism. But her tongue can't lie, the tip of it peeking out to wet her top lip before she catches herself and blushes more deeply. Her hand starts to sweat inside mine but I'm not letting go.
You're mine. I call dibs on you, and that's that.
Chapter Two
Rocket
"My mama always said I was meant to fly to the stars."
The sneering voice mocking my words comes from Paris Buchanan,
