Nate
My head throbs, and I press against my temples to stave off what seems to be an impending headache, until I realize the pounding I hear is my own rapid pulse beating in my ears.
Lawton studies me from across the room, eyebrows raised while he waits for my answer.
He can keep on waiting because I’m still not really sure what just happened or what I’ve agreed to.
“So?” he prods.
He’s one of my best friends, but the fucker is persistent.
I rest my elbows on the desk in front of me, the paperwork scattered across the surface no longer a high priority in my mind. "I'm apparently the new Kelley family representative in the Mr. Lonesome competition.”
I settle on just stating facts. At least, the facts I understand, because I’m sure there’s a lot more involved in this whole thing than I realize.
Lawton's face cracks into a wide grin. "Holy shit." His shoulders shake as he throws back his head in laughter. "You? A fucking pageant queen?"
I crack my knuckles beneath the desk.
Ollie looks up from his bed, ears tilted forward.
I manage a deep breath to calm myself.
“It’s okay, Ollie. Besides, it's not a pageant," I mutter.
I’m already regretting this decision, but if it helps Rory’s family, there’s no backing out. "It's a…community tradition."
"With a swimsuit competition?” Lawton claps his hands.
"There's no swimsuit—" Hold on a second. "Wait, is there a swimsuit competition?"
There better not be a damn swimsuit competition. Family loyalty only goes so far, and wearing a Speedo is where I draw the line.
Lawton shrugs, still grinning like an idiot. "Guess you'll find out tomorrow night."
I groan. At least someone is enjoying this.
I glance at my phone, Dylan’s text warning me to say no to this favor glaring back at me. A little more of a heads-up or some context might have been nice.
I fire off a message to Dylan.
Nate
Too late. Already said yes.
Is there a swimsuit competition?
Dylan
Told you to say no.
He doesn’t answer the question about the swimsuit competition, which has a pit forming in my stomach.
What the fuck did I just agree to?
“You're sweating,” Lawton observes, deadpan. “You sure you want to do this thing?”
I’m not at all sure, but here we are.
“I'm about ready to submit your name in my place,” I grumble.
It’s an empty threat, though, and Lawton knows it. Everyone in town knows that I'd do anything for Rory. And by extension, her family.
Which means, apparently, that I might be sporting a Speedo in front of the entire population of High Lonesome.
I manage a deep breath in, then out. Maybe the judges will allow board shorts. I’ll look into it.
“You two look hard at work,” a deep voice says, interrupting Lawton’s snickering.
“Sorry, boss.” Lawton coughs as he sits up straight in his chair.
He pulls a stack of papers closer to him and focuses intently as Braxton strides into the room.
Unlike Lawton, I've known the police chief since he was a rookie cop working with my dad, and his gruff nature doesn’t intimidate me the way it did back when I was new to the force.
So rather than attempting to pretend I’m hard at work, I slump in my chair, pushing my hand through my hair as I try, again, to figure out what I just agreed to. “I think I just made a huge mistake, Brax.”
“Mmm?” He looks in my direction, eyebrows raised.
“The Mr. Lonesome thing. I just got roped into it.”
He frowns. “How so? Did you swap shifts with someone? I usually make the schedule so the rookies have to work that one.”
I hadn’t even thought of that angle. The High Lonesome PD provides something akin to crowd control at these kinds of town festivals on the off chance something goes wrong.
At one point, I was pleased with the idea that I wouldn’t have to work the event. Now, though? The idea of the most junior members of our crew watching every humiliating event adds another layer of regret to this whole thing.
“Not patrolling. I just got roped into participating.”
I’m anticipating sympathy. Maybe a solemn nod as our chief, a stern man and one of few words, contemplates my predicament.
But no.
It's subtle at first, just a twitch of Brax’s lips as he maintains his bland expression for a few seconds. But then he throws his head back, his booming laughter filling the police station workroom.
Lawton joins in, then Gladys, walking all the way from her desk at the front of the station to our workroom, just to join in the amusement at my misfortune.
Yep. Fucking hilarious.
“You guys are assholes,” I mutter.
If I weren't the one in this predicament, I’d probably find it funny too, but that’s not the point here.
The Mr. Lonesome competitors are traditionally retirees, old men who have nothing better to do with their time, or whose wives or girlfriends have pushed them into participating for their own amusement.
Some of these ladies place bets on the outcome, like their knitting circles and book clubs are nothing but a front for gambling rings.
Sure, there are sometimes a few younger guys competing, but they're usually doing it for laughs, not to win.
Me, though? I not only have to participate, but I also have to win this fucking thing.
Jim didn't say that explicitly, of course, but his message was clear. A Kelley has been in the winner’s circle for years.
This year, it might not be Jim, but it damn well be a Kelley at the top, even an unofficial one like me.
My phone buzzes with another text from Dylan.
Dylan
No swimsuit competition.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Dylan
Worse. Talent portion.
Dad usually does a ventriloquist act with this creepy dummy he's had since the 70s.
You want to borrow the dummy?
I knew about the talent portion. Am I looking forward to it? Absolutely not. But at least I won’t be up in front of my friends, coworkers, former schoolteachers, and the rest of town, shirtless in a swimsuit.
Talent, I can handle.
I'll bring Ollie up there with me and have him do some tricks. That kind of thing is always a crowd-pleaser. I nod to myself as I text Dylan back.
Nate
That’s not too bad. I can have Ollie do some stuff.
Dylan
Talent has to be something you can do, not your dog.
I reread his text, hoping I read it wrong the first time. But no, and in case I was thinking of challenging this, he adds:
Dylan
It’s been tried before. Someone brought a cat that was supposed to jump through hoops or some nonsense like that. It was challenged and the judges ruled that all talents must be performed by the actual contestant.
No animals allowed at all, other than certified therapy animals and such. Apparently the cat got spooked by the applause and climbed the stage curtains, then couldn’t get down. They had to pause everything and bring the fire department in to get it down.
That sounds a lot like something one of Mrs. Alpert’s cats would do. I wonder if the contestant in question was the late husband of the retired teacher. I’ve certainly been called out to her house for a cat rescue or two in the years I’ve been on the force.
I’d be willing to bet that Ollie wouldn’t climb any curtains, but I’ve lived here long enough to know that old stories and local legends dictate town policy in a way rational thought can never hope to overcome.
“Guess that’s out,” I mutter.
Do I even have any other talents? I might have to borrow Jim’s ventriloquist dummy after all.
"What's wrong now?" Lawton asks.
He wipes a tear of laughter from his eye as he speaks, still getting far too much enjoyment out of this situation.
"Apparently, I need to develop a talent for this pageant. Competition. And my dog doesn't count."
I don’t realize Brax is still in the workroom until I jump when he speaks from behind me.
"You could always do what Lionel did last year."
"What's that?"
I strategically planned my trip to New Mexico to visit my mother to coincide with last year’s pageant. Had I known I’d be roped into competing, I might have attended to get a better sense of what I’m walking into.
“Song and dance,” Brax says, his lips twitching.
I glare at him. “He did not.”
Brax isn’t one for jokes. Normally, I’d say the man could use some more humor in his life.
Not at my expense, obviously. But other humor.
Brax shrugs, the smirk still playing at the edges of his lips. “Well, Lionel sang, anyway. Some old Willie Nelson song about a guy named Bob. It wasn’t exactly flattering to anyone with that name, and Lionel and Bob got into another one of their fights after the event.”
The idea of Lionel and Bob bickering has a low throb beating behind my eyes. The two retirees have been neighbors for decades and rivals for just as long, and are always bickering about one thing or another.
"I hate both of you," I say, but there's no heat behind it. "I'm going out on patrol."
I grab my keys and give Ollie a signal to follow as I head for the door. I need some time to think, and I won’t be getting it with these two bozos around.
My phone buzzes again as I reach my cruiser. After the results of Jim’s text, I’m almost afraid to read the message. There are too many possibilities that I don’t want to deal with.
Is it Dylan with more insight into this insane circus that I’ve somehow gotten myself into?
Jim with more favors to call in?
The pageant organizers, whoever they are, having somehow found out about my unwitting participation, calling to let me know about another crazy event?
I pull the phone from my pocket with trepidation.
Text message from Rory Kelley.
Just seeing her name sends a wash of relief coursing through me. I need her safe haven amid this crazy nonsense. Having her back is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ll do anything to keep her in my life.
Rory
So Dad just called me all excited that you're taking his place in Mr. Lonesome. Please tell me this isn't happening?
Boy, do I wish I could tell her that. I really, really do.
Nate
Your dad caught me off guard. So…yeah, it’s happening.
Rory
Dylan warned you, didn't he?
I suppose, but it was your dad, and it seemed important to him. I didn’t want to let him down.