The Music Between Us

Chapter 1

Colton McAllen

Christ, they must all be bored out of their ever-loving minds.

“Did you know too many huckleberries will turn your tongue purple for a week?”

Colton blinked over at his cousin and fellow deputy, Greg. “What?”

“Purple. It’s a thing.” Greg nodded as if that was that, and it probably was.

His cousin was a whiz with his smartphone, fingers flying whether he was texting or Googling side effects of huckleberries.

“Uh-huh. So no Ms. Denton’s famous pie for you?”

Not that he wanted any either. Give him a piece of cherry and a cup of Joe, and he was a happy man.

“You’re not into pie, cousin. Everybody knows that.”

So he wasn’t figuring to get married. He also wasn’t flying a goddamn rainbow flag either. He was just trying to get by. “Shut up.”

“What?” He could talk the antlers off a bull elk with his innocent face. “I’m just saying.”

“Uh-huh. Be good or you can stand under the Tilt-A-Whirl.” Between the whirling and twirling and the scent of the Fried Pickle Emporium? That would be barf-o-rama.

“You’re evil.” Greg looked sick just thinking about the image. “You sure you’re one of the good guys?”

He’d heard people whisper that behind his back before. Greg, however, said it to his face to take the sting out of the intended insult. “Shit no. It was just the best way to shut folks up about my dad.”

Greg howled, and Colton let himself grin, but he wasn’t an idiot.

He knew it was more than a little true. It had sucked being Murder Boy and the Homicide Hombre in school.

Going into law enforcement seemed to make folks think he was trying to right the karmic wrong or something, so that worked for him.

The truth was, he loved the job, loved being out on the road, meeting people, helping the citizens. It was stupidly farm-boyish of him, but that was him—mostly. Grandpa Jerry always said: a man ought to know his own trail better than anyone else.

This fair gig, however, was all about the extra money. He got paid okay, but a little extra pocket change didn’t hurt. Plus, he got to go to the fair with Greg.

He remembered coming here as kids. The rides all seemed fast and sparkling, the lights and music wild in the air, and they didn’t know the games were fixed.

Now he was jaded, and the charm had worn off.

Still, if you looked hard you found some good stuff.

Food, hot guys, and music. Of course he had to be careful ogling the guys.

Some were meaner than a kicking mule if they thought you were ‘checking them out.’

“You want to take a tour of the food trucks?” Greg asked. “I’m bored, but don’t want to patrol the midway, just yet.”

Shit, if he was bored now, this was going to be the world’s longest night. “It’s only six o’clock. We have another six hours!”

“All the more reason to get food now before it gets too crowded.” He didn’t wait for Colton to answer. “Once the kids get here, we’ll be too busy to eat.”

He wasn’t wrong, but fair food always made him groggy. There was fried, deep-fried, fried-roasted, and double-fried. Cyrus Lohman’s barbecue truck was better, but that had a line no matter the time. “Fair enough.”

They stopped by every vendor to ‘let them know we’re here,’ Greg had said.

More like so Greg could wrangle some freebies.

“Deputy Hanlon, would you like a funnel cake?” or “Try our fried bread taco;” or his favorite, when Crystal Walker said,“Deputy Hanlon, try my huckleberry sticky buns.” Greg was going home with a purple tongue for sure.

Colton wanted a cherry limeade and a foot-long corny dog. Not that he’d get the latter. Greg would ride his ass like a prized pony if he went for the wiener.

He settled on a spiral potato and the cherry limeade he could get later. Greg was going to ride him about cherries later too.

Then again, fucking with him was his cousin’s favorite pastime, and it always had been.

There was no meanness in it. Greg always had his back.

He was the first one to stand up for Colton when Ricky Kachinsky teased him about his convict daddy.

Or the time a drunk dick at a traffic stop pulled a gun on Colton.

“If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t tease.” If Colton had a dime for every time Greg had said that, he’d have a shit-ton of dimes.

“Dude, where’d you go?” Greg waved one hand in front of Colton’s face.

Bad time to walk down memory lane. “Woolgathering. Sorry.”

“Some cop you are.” Greg rolled his eyes and took another bite of Crystal Walker's sticky bun. “Dazed and confused, hypnotized by the spinning lights and all.”

“You've got sticky stuff all over your face, man,” Colton shot back to cover for being caught hiding in his own head. “It’s not a great look for you.”

“Figures you would be staring at my mouth.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to pull out my Deliverance quotes?”

They stared at each other and then laughed. Cracking up like newborn fools. Greg slapped him on the back, almost knocking his ass down.

“Hey, the music’s starting. Come on.” Greg led the way back toward the main entertainment stage.

“Someone’s sawing that fiddle like he knows how.” Colton could play guitar some, and a little piano—nothing fancy, but enough to be able to say he could.

The band who was on right now was on a whole other level. They knew what they were doing, especially the fiddle. That was hot.

They rounded the edge of the stage, and he glanced at the growing crowd, the action damn near automatic anymore. The main core of listeners consisted of a couple, three hipsters, and handful of older folks.

He looked up at the stage and, damn. Just damn.

The fiddle player might as well have been the proverbial angel fallen to earth.

He was younger than the rest of the band, with blond hair and fine features, but his hands fascinated Colton to no end.

They were gorgeous. Long-fingered and fine, one set moved over the strings so fast they were a blur, and the other caressed the bow like a lover.

Damn. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself.

The rest of the guy was pretty, too. Lean, not too tall, but well put-together, and his clothes showed that right off.

“Seriously, Scrap. You’re drooling.”

So what if he was? Jesus, it was like someone had ordered this one right out of the Walmart catalog for him. “Shut up.”

“Musicians. I guess you have a type, at least.”

Colton didn’t have a ‘type,’ unless hot as fuck counted, but he had to admit, the music angle added to the appeal. He closed his left eyelid and raised his right eyebrow. “As opposed to anything that walks and talks?”

“Not so.” He waved his finger in front of Colton’s face. “I like them to be easy, and a little on the trashy side.”

Colton rolled his eyes because despite trying to crack a joke, there was a bit of truth to Greg’s words.

Rather than prolong the banter, something Colton knew he’d lose, he moved closer to the stage when the fiddle player took a solo.

The guy swayed back and forth, really giving it all he had, and when he opened his eyes, his gaze seemed to land right on Colton. Blue. His eyes were blue.

Damn, Sam, aren’t you sweeter than fresh cut hay? He forced himself not to lick his lips, because that was nasty, and he was in uniform.

Still. Pretty pretty.

He split the difference by giving the guy a smile and a tip of his hat, just in case he was peeking too. A man could dream and not be skanky about it.

Colton was fairly sure the fiddle player couldn’t see him, not with the lights and all, and besides, he was just another deputy, no one to look at, no one to be all googly-eyed over. It didn’t matter one bit. He liked the fantasy, and he was willing to indulge himself some.

The band swung into a hardcore bluegrass number, one that sounded familiar, and it got up and moved. Even Greg was tapping his foot.

“They’re rocking, man,” Greg said.

Colton nodded. “They are.” And they were going to be playing three shows a day all damn week. That was a lot of shows to get to listen to. A shit-ton of opportunities to build his fantasies for the lonely nights. He grinned. That was a damn fine thing. He could get an eyeful in a week.

“What’s funny, Scrappy?”

He glanced over. Greg would figure it out soon enough, but Colton didn’t need to rush it along. “Just loving the weather, the pretty lights, and the music. Reminds me of us as kids.”

“Uh-huh. Come on, man. Time to walk around again and make with the don’t-fuck-up vibes.”

He caught one more glance of sweet, blond, and talented, before he turned to go. “Classy. Real classy.”

“Whatever.” Greg dug into his breast pocket. “Sheriff wants us to pass out these free tickets to the charity rodeo.”

Colton groaned. He thought they’d get a pass since they were working for the fair. Clearly, Uncle Ted thought they were always on the clock. “What if we just, I don’t know, forgot?”

“Please.” He divided the bundle into two. “You don’t have to live with him. I do.”

No, he didn’t, but his situation wasn’t any better. And it was better than making cow eyes at the fiddle player who wouldn’t be interested even if he noticed Colton. “Let’s get it over with.”