Chapter 26 Ten percent off Bikini Night at the Beaver Dam #2
I wandered a few feet away from the table so Gage and Harry wouldn’t hear me flounder on the phone. “Well, Rump Roast is now off leash and roaming among the people, so I have no idea.”
“He’s picking the team captains.”
“How does a pig—never mind. I wanted to talk to you because I don’t know if you’ve heard about Hazel’s Reader Weekend next month.”
“Of course I have. Angelo’s is going to give away free breadstick orders all weekend.”
Had I known that and forgotten? Shit.
“Yeah. Great. The thing is I need a website. A place where we can list all the discounts and sales and specials for visitors as well as a schedule. Gage suggested I talk to you about it. I’m trying to come up with some pros, but it seems like mostly cons.
You’d be working with me. The pay is terrible.
And we need something, like, yesterday.”
Speaking of Gage, I watched him casually approach Laura, who was deep in conversation with half of the Warblers.
He slid his hand into his pocket and, smooth as a magician, dropped something shiny into the hood of her sweatshirt before moving on.
Probably some sort of sibling prank. My sister Carla and I had a big enough age gap to ensure we never shared inside jokes.
Just another symptom of my little dysfunctional family.
“Oooh. Sorry, girl,” Felicity said. “I’m pushing hard on a deadline for Cozy Core Cottage 3. I’m basically living and breathing dopamine decor code. I wouldn’t have the time to squeeze in another project unless I gave up sleep.”
Rejected. This was why I didn’t make spontaneous phone calls. “I totally get it. Thanks for your time,” I managed to choke out over my downward spiral. Now I had to figure out how to create a website on my own in addition to everything else going on.
“No problem. Maybe next time,” she offered.
“Yeah, maybe next time,” I repeated and disconnected the call.
I returned to Gage, trying not to let my disappointment show.
Lots of people could figure out how to make a website…
and fill it with content…all while continuing to be productive human adults and do things like cook dinner and change the oil in the car and pay taxes.
Oh my God. Taxes. What time of year was it again?
“How’d it go?” he asked as I handed him his phone.
“Felicity’s a no. But it’s fine. Everything is f—”
Something solid ran into me at the knees. Gage steadied me as I looked down in surprise.
“What the hell?”
Rump Roast had his snout smushed against my leg.
“Why is his nose painted pink, and why is he putting his pink pig nose on my very expensive jeans?” I demanded shrilly.
The crowd around us was whistling and cheering like I’d just announced that drinks at the Fish Hook were on me. Gage was grinning down at me.
“What the hell is happening right now?” I demanded.
“Congratulations, Zoey. You’re a team captain,” Harry said, clapping me enthusiastically on the shoulder.
“B-I-N-G-O,” the Story Lake Warblers sang as the audience clapped along.
If I shook my head any harder, I was going to give myself vertigo. “No no. Nope. No thank you,” I said over the singing and the clapping. “I can’t be a team captain. The pig is going to have to pick someone else.”
“It’s kind of an honor,” Gage said in my ear. “You can’t actually turn it down.”
“An honor to have my jeans ruined by pig snout? I don’t know anything about ultimate bingo! I don’t have time to learn about ultimate bingo. I don’t have time to do all the things I have to do now! I hate games. And seriously, is this water-based paint, or do I have to murder someone?”
“It’s washable finger paint,” Gage assured me, still looking too amused for my liking. “And being a team captain is less about knowing all the rules and more about bringing people together and leading them.”
“I can’t do that either! You’re a lawyer. Get me out of this,” I demanded.
He shrugged. “You’re pretty much stuck with this.”
“Congratulations, Zoey,” Emilie Rump said with a noted lack of enthusiasm. “Rump Roast has never gone outside the circle of candidates to pick a captain before. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime honor.”
“Couldn’t he honor someone else?”
Emilie’s frown deepened. “Only if you enact article forty-seven of the Ultimate Bingo Rule Book.”
“Let’s do that. Article forty-seven me.”
“Article forty-seven states that anyone can challenge the choice of ultimate bingo team captain by putting down the animal in question and substituting another.”
“It’s a statute from the 1930s,” Gage added.
“Putting down like insulting?” I asked hopefully. Rump Roast oinked good naturedly at me. I could probably come up with a good pig insult if I had some time to think. Maybe something about his cute, floppy ears or his unfortunate moniker?
“Putting down like murdering my pig with your bare hands,” Emilie said, narrowing her eyes to dangerous slits. “I realize that I haven’t been the best neighbor recently, but the fact that you would even consider—”
“I’m not considering! No one’s considering! Who came up with these rules?” I demanded shrilly.
“Dickie Dalrymple,” sang the Warblers, who had gathered around me in a half circle.
“The founder of ultimate bingo. It started in the 1930s when people were more comfortable with public butchering,” Gage explained.
A shadow fell over us, and I looked up to find Goose lazily circling the park.
“Is everything all right?” Darius asked, approaching with a nervous mayoral smile. He was wearing a top hat with bingo balls glued to it.
“I suggest you not enact article forty-seven,” Emilie said in a steely tone.
“Uh, agreed. But I don’t even know what a team captain does! I don’t have time to learn.” Learning the rules of a new game ranked right up there with an eight-hour plane ride next to a wet cougher for me.
“We’ll be happy to teach you, Zoey,” Harry said, slinging his arm around my shoulder.
Goose landed on a branch in the nearest tree and stared beady eagle eyes at us.
Gage rolled his eyes at his nephew’s eagerness. “Nice try, desperado. I’ll teach her,” he said, turning to me. “Don’t worry. There’s a few weeks before the season officially starts. I’ll have you up to speed in no time.”
But Gage didn’t understand that when it came to retention, I was as impossible to teach as a puppy in the middle of a parade.
“All good here?” Darius asked hopefully.
“No one is article forty-sevening my pig,” Emilie insisted. She glared at me as if daring me to contradict her.
“We’re goodish,” I said.
Darius made a flourish with both arms like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. Goose mimicked the movement with his wings. I couldn’t be sure, but it definitely looked like the bird was doing an impression of the mayor.
“Look what’s happened! We have a new captain!” the Warblers cheered in harmony. The crowd roared.
Hazel came running and threw her arms around me. “Congratulations, captain!”
“No. No congratulations. I don’t want to be captain,” I insisted even as they guided me toward center court.
“You’ll be great at this,” Hazel promised, beaming like I’d won a Nobel Prize or snagged a pair of Jimmy Choos on sale.
“You need to go stand with the other team captains for the ceremony,” Gage said, pointing at center court, where five other people were already standing. Each wore some kind of sash like they were in a pageant.
I was just about to protest again when the roar of an engine and screaming rock music cut me off.
Even the Warblers stopped singing, and we watched in collective shock as a convertible school bus screeched to a halt at the curb.
Its original yellow paint was buried under layers of professional graffiti that spelled out Dominion Party Bus.
It was plastered with sponsor ads, including one for an erectile dysfunction supplement called Hardpeen.
The half door opened with a pneumatic whoosh, and a gorgeous blond in platform boots sauntered off the bus, followed by four topless men who looked as if they were all trying out for the same modeling gig of “outdoorsy hot guy.” They were all shivering and trying not to look like it.
“Hello, Story Lake,” she purred, peering at us over the top of sexy mirrored sunglasses.
Boos and actual hisses rolled through the gathered crowd.
Nina Vampic was a platinum blond with killer fashion sense, gorgeous skin, and the soul of the devil himself.
As evil mayor of Dominion, she’d recently failed at an attempt to make Story Lake cease to exist by absorbing it into her town’s border under the threat of bankruptcy.
In a satisfying show of town patriotism, Hazel had shoved her ass right off the dock last summer and coined the insult shit waffle.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Vampic?” Darius asked, trying to sound stern.
“Shit waffle,” I coughed into my hand.
“Do not antagonize her,” Gage warned me.
Nina strutted over and patted Darius on his cheek. “Dear, sweet, inexperienced Darius, I just wanted you to be the first to know about our exciting new event.”
“Dominion Boozetag!” barked the trying-not-to-shiver shirtless men in what I assumed were fake German accents.
“Congratulations. You can leave now, Nina,” Gage said coolly.
“Why, Gage, I expected more excitement from you.” She pouted prettily and slid her hands into her fur vest. It was probably real fur from adorable woodland creatures that she murdered for breakfast.
“I can’t imagine why,” he said.
“Nobody likes you,” someone shouted from the sports court.
Rump Roast grunted in agreement. I patted the pig on the head in support of his opinion.
“You’re all invited to our first ever Dominion Boozetag,” she said grandly. “Competitors will construct lightweight flying vehicles and drive them off a thirty-foot platform into the lake below for a large cash prize.”
“Hang on,” I interrupted. “Isn’t that a direct rip-off of Red Bull Flugtag?”