This is not what I need right now, wetness between my legs and a dizzy head. Jet slightly opens his mouth, lets his eyes drop to my tits, looks back up at my face, and wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. The air temperature rises by ten degrees as I stand there, helpless. With nobody's eyes on him but mine, he sure has let his manners slide. My body likes this. A lot. Oh God, my swimsuit bottoms are done for.
Also done for is my brain, because it turns out I've lingered a little too long at the front of the stage. I'm so mesmerized that I don't notice that Cameron is hissing at me once again from backstage. I can barely hear her over the Beach Boys song that's blaring. "Rocket! Come on! Keep it moving!"
I twirl and jut out my hip, flashing a smile over my shoulder right at the lieutenant. The crowd applauds louder. He and they are all staring right at my ass. The muscle of his cheek clenches. His smile fades. And then, he drops his pen.
I have felt moments of female power before, but this feels different. Elated with a renewed sense of myself, I take my spot in the line-up of contestants along the back of the stage, leaving Paris to try to follow that.
Chapter Three
Jet
This is not okay, her strutting across the stage like that and then walking away, leaving me to suffer.
The contestants file out, and we judges fill out the top third of our ballots, but all I can think of is heading backstage to violate that woman ten ways from Sunday.
I nudge one of the judges sitting near me. "How much longer until we cast our votes? I gotta see a man about a dog."
The guy turns to me, and with all of the seriousness of a funeral director, he replies, "You may use the private restrooms set up in the backfield behind the stage for event participants. But we don't cast our votes until the end of the day."
I'm dumbfounded. "You mean there's more stuff we have to judge besides swimsuits?"
The man, who looks strangely overdressed for the state fair in his lapel pin and corny bow tie, takes an impatient tone with me. "Yes, of course. After the swimsuit competition is talent, followed by congeniality. And then we count up all the votes."
I reply, "Seems like you know what you're talking about. Have you judged these things before?"
He turns back to me, this time incredulous. "Son, judging the Butter Queen pageant is a long and honorable tradition going back a century for our state's governors."
I glance down at the state flag pin on his lapel and offer my apologies for not knowing who he was. This slight faux pas gives me yet another reason to get up and pretend I need to use the head.
As I rise to leave, I turn to check on Henry. Finished with his sweet corn, he's now moved on to chatting with a young mother whose toddler is trying to share her cotton candy with him. The mom is laughing at something he said. I leave him to it.
Making my way to the rear of the dressing room tent, it may look as if I'm heading to the specially designated restroom area, but I'm full-on stalking Rocket.
While I wait from the shade of an oak tree for her to come out of the tent, I see another one of the contestants exit the tent, wearing a Civil-War-era hoop skirt and her brown hair done in pipe curls. I don't remember seeing her up there, but then I don't remember much outside of Rocket. The hoop skirt chick is hissing on her cell phone with somebody.
"Shirley's out. Aleesha's got no chance to win over a military guy and the governor. I mean, Daddy, you did donate and you made sure, right? I just wish you were here…yes, Daddy I know you're busy but…it wouldn't hurt if you were here to remind him that certain kinds of people don't belong in a pageant for women…no, I'm not worried. I can do this…it should be in the bag now…You're right, I should go practice my monologue one more time…I won't let you down…not again."
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I'm no longer feeling the slight twinge of guilt for hanging out in the shadows and stalking the tent. I'm not completely sure what that was about, but it sounded sketchy as hell.
Just when I'm beginning to unpack what I think I heard, Rocket sashays out of the tent and sees me standing here like a dumbass under the tree.
"Hi," she says, beaming, looking like a million bucks in a spangled turquoise leotard and carrying a highly polished silver baton, a glittering hula hoop, and a barbecue lighter clipped into a sequined belt around her waist.
"I thought your last getup was something else, but this is a whole other…thing." I swallow, forcing my eyes to stay focused on her face and not the glitter that decorates the skin of her cleavage in that plunging rhinestone neckline.
"Lieutenant, have you been standing under that tree because you're wanting to chat about my outfits?"
"No, ma'am."
"Well then, do you mind telling me what you want because it doesn't look good for a contestant to be hanging
