Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mercy
W e survived our first night, but I sure as hell didn't get much sleep.
It was hard to keep myself from tossing and turning too much while Lance slept like a rock on the edge of the bed, as far from me as he could possibly get.
I guess we really aren't kids anymore. Because back then, it was never awkward to share a tent or a makeshift palette on the floor of a treehouse, or wherever else we ended up for a night of campouts and slumber parties.
Last night was a different experience. One that had me feeling anxious and itchy all over while doing my best to respect Lance's space and not touch him-- accidentally or not.
I thought about feigning a nightmare, a leg cramp, or trying that acting-out-a-sex-dream ploy you see in romantic comedies, but it was pretty clear that Lance wanted to be left alone.
So I stayed on my side of the bed, tried to keep still, and finally managed to get some sleep sometime after midnight, even though I was exhausted after the long drive to get here.
A long shower while Lance went out to get us a few things for breakfast, and I'm feeling halfway to normal despite the lack of sleep.
"Thought we'd hit up the expo before the dinner tonight." Lance looks over a program for the day's events while he makes quick work of a bagel and the two muffins he brought up for himself.
We're getting a late start to the day, thanks to my restless night and insistence on sleeping in to compensate.
"'K, what's happening?" I savor the luke warm coffee that Lance brought up from some little bakery he found across the street and make a delicious mess out of the lemon tart covered in powdered sugar.
"It's like a country fair, without the rides, or the games," Lance explains. "Just whichever association members that are displaying their operations and a lot of vendors hoping to sell fat contracts to them."
His eyes lift off the paper in his hand and land on my boobs.
If it was any other man in the world, I'd think it was because of the cleavage showing above the V-neck of my t-shirt. But it's Lance.
He's only looking at the mess I've made of the powdered sugar.
"Sorry," I mumble around the last bite of the tart, as I work on dusting myself off. "Hazards of being gifted in the mammary department."
Lance doesn't say anything. Just clenches his jaw enough that I can see the little muscles working in front of his ear, before his eyes go back to the program.
Some more dusting and a quick trip to the bathroom to swipe at my shirt with a towel, and we walk the short distance to the venue that Lance's grandfather helped fund just to host this event.
"So why not build it in Slow River?" I ask, absent-mindedly taking Lance's hand to pull him toward one of the buildings where some of the vendors are set up.
"It wasn't just grandpa that was funding it," Lance tells me. "He was collaborating with six other outfits. I think the biggest investor was actually one of the Waterford farms."
Dragging Lance through the aisles, I'm fascinated by each table. Some are just a table with a sign and a bored sales person sitting behind it with their phone in their hand and a take-out box on their knee.
Others are massive set ups with videos running on big screens, full teams dressed in matching outfits, and all kinds of equipment being demonstrated.
Then there are the booths that are clearly taking advantage of the fact that most of the attendees are men.
Lance wanders toward a set up where scantily-clad women in tank tops and chaps over bikini bottoms are enthusiastically handing out literature about the company they're representing.
For some ridiculous reason, I find myself tightening my grip on his hand, making sure to stand too close to him while he chats casually with a woman wearing a fire engine red wig under a pink cowboy hat encrusted with rhinestones that matches the pleather chaps tied over the black bikini that barely covers enough to be legal.
"Smart marketing," I point out once we've left the booth, "I'm sure they're a fan favorite."
Do I sound jealous? I really don't want to sound jealous.
I keep my hand wrapped around Lance's and pull him down the aisles one by one until we reach a section that’s clearly dedicated to a different type of operation entirely.
A booth selling trinkets like hats and sunglasses and farm-themed bumper stickers marks the transition to a row that is clearly marketed to the female sector.
Two booths down from the bumper stickers is a large set up with a plywood cut out of a barn as a back drop and an enclosure penning in a handful of fluffy little goats that watch the people moving around them with only enough interest to find out if they have treats.
The space is filled with women standing three deep, all chatting excitedly about whatever the big draw here is.
When I recognize the goats, my gaze scans for the woman who owns them, but when I spy Singer Kelly in the throng, Lance's fingers won't let go of mine.
Lance
I 'm probably being a dick, but I'm not letting go of Mercy's hand just so she can run over there and throw herself at the model that Singer Kelly hired to draw attention to her booth this year.
Besides, we'll be here all day. There's already a line of women vying to get their picture taken with the dude dressed in nothing but overalls.
As Mercy pulls me closer into the booth, I think he might actually be wearing only the overalls. With one strap undone and some of the buttons down the side left open, making it clear how built the guy is.
He looks like a damn stripper, holding one of Singer's Pygora goats. A young one, probably one of the ones born this spring.
Women are going ape shit over the guy.
I don't let go of Mercy's hand, just do my best to keep up with her as she pulls me through the crowd.
But she doesn't even stop to get a closer look at the guy taking pictures with the women, she heads straight for Singer, finally forcing me to let go of her hand so she can hug her friend from back home.
"Oh my gosh! This looks like it's really working out. You're so popular!"
"Yep, it's been incredible. All the bored wives are eating Liam up-- I think some of them would eat him up literally if I let them!"
Singer and her brothers inherited their family ranch a few years back. The place was run down and deep in bankruptcy when Singer took it over after her brothers left town with no interest in saving the old homestead.
She got rid of the cattle and started raising Pygora goats and alpacas, selling their fleece for the profit and their cuteness for the traffic to the rooms she rents out in the house she remodeled herself.
Looks like she pulled a smart move, capitalizing on the sex sells model that other companies showing here have taken advantage of for years-- only targeting the females in attendance instead.
The girls chat for a bit and then Mercy pulls me away as I give Singer a quick hug and congratulate her on her marketing genius.
"This place has beer somewhere, right?" She grins up at me, locking her fingers through mine again as she tugs me toward the doors that open onto the outside area where concession stands line a parklike setting that leads out to barns where they hold livestock auctions throughout the week long event.
"Should be a few places out with the concessions," I confirm, letting her lead me outside, loving the looks I get from some of the men here as their eyes fall from Mercy's luscious curves to the way she's hangin' onto my hand.
Let them think she's mine.
I got no problem with that.
"The usual?" I nod toward one of the beer booths, the one wrapped in paper to make it look like a tropical hut made out of palm fronds.
Mercy looks where I'm gesturing, and her eyes light up when she sees her favorite beer on tap behind the counter.
"Two limes," she reminds me-- like I'd forget.
We make our way toward the booth together, but her hand drops away from mine as I get in line and she heads over to the bandstand where a live band is belting out country favorites for the crowd.
It's early October, but the afternoons still get plenty warm. Cold beer sounds good to more people than just me and Mercy.
The line is long and it doesn't move fast enough to put me back beside Mercy as quick as I'd like.
From this distance, I watch her as she pays attention to the band, longing to be hers so I could stand there behind her with my hands on her hips as they sway with the music.
"Oh, sorry."
The woman's voice is the kind of sultry that tells me she's not sorry at all for bumping into me from behind.
"No problem, ma'am," I lift the hat from my head momentarily and turn back toward the front of the line.
"Are you one of the members?" Her flirtatious voice is clearly addressing me, and I feel her hand against my arm to get my attention.
"Uh, yeah," I turn back, yielding to the polite conversation, but I don't like the way the woman's hand finds an excuse to touch me every time she speaks.
"I'm Ronni, with an 'i.'" Ronni-with-an-i gives me a wink, a smile that's too practiced to be pretty, and lightly touches my arm again.
It's clear she's got more on her mind than idle chit chat.
Looking up, I see Mercy glaring at me. Her pretty blue eyes narrowed at every point of contact this woman's hand finds against my arm.
I don't like the idea that Mercy might be thinking I like it at all. Or that I'm doing anything to invite the woman's attention beyond being polite.
Catching Mercy's attention, I call her over. Wrapping my arm around her shoulder casually and introducing her to our new friend.
That's enough to send the message to Ronni that I'm not interested-- and I like the way Mercy's arm wraps around my waist as we advance in the line. It almost feels possessive in the kind of way I wish she meant it to.