Butter Queen

by

  Paris and I lost to Harley Jensen last year, who's been competing in pageants with us since we were babies. At age 23, this is my sixth year competing for Butter Queen, and Paris's fifth year trying for it. She's made it clear she wants to go on to compete for national and international titles and will stop at nothing. Me? Sure, I want to win. But I don't pin all my hopes and dreams on it. Being crowned Butter Queen isn't the end-all-be-all, and it sure isn't going to change my trailer-park existence. Pageants are my hobby. Winning is just icing on the cake. Or butter on my corn, as it were.

  I reply to Paris nonchalantly, "It might seem silly to you, Paris, but my mama did say that to me. The judges love it, that's all I know."

  The excitement in my gut over this, my second-to-last chance to compete in the Butter Queen pageant, is fighting with the thrill of meeting Lt. Jet Percy. That man could stare the stripes off a giraffe. No, wait a minute. That's not right. I mean zebra. Holy jeezus, he's even got my inner monologue tripping over words.

  "All right ladies, line up!" Cameron herds us all to the back stairs where we wait. So much of pageant time is spent just waiting backstage. I take the opportunity to redo the knot in my scarf, and to push out a little extra boob flesh. Mostly, that's for Lt. Percy's benefit.

  Paris, who's standing behind me, hisses, "That's all you know because that's all that'll fit inside that tiny brain of yours."

  Ignore her. This is just pre-game trash talk.

  I just can't stop my mouth, though. "At least my brain is filled out, which is more than I can say for your string bikini, which we both know is not allowed as a two-piece."

  It's a ridiculous insult on my part to imply she can't fill out a bikini. Paris had her boobs done five years ago, the second she turned 18. Her new boobs could fill out a parachute. There's nothing wrong with a boob job—do what you gotta do to feel like the real you. But boob job or not, I have no idea how Paris is getting away with wearing that bikini. She's lucky the judge who's the biggest stickler for the rules, Shirley Solomon, got food poisoning this morning. A former Miss Butter Queen who went on to place fourth in Miss Universe, that lady has judged a handful of competitions I've been a part of, and she doesn't stand for anyone pushing any envelopes or threatening to bust out of string bikinis on stage.

  Aleesha, the contestant in line ahead of me, turns around and comments excitedly, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Did you hear about Shirley?"

  I nod my head. "So unfortunate. And all the other judges are men except for Harley Jensen, and only one of them is experienced at pageant judging."

  Aleesha nods. "Shirley had my back last year when the state fair officials weren't going to let me compete. Honestly, it makes me nervous having a gallery full of good ol' boys other than last year's Butter Queen."

  I open my mouth to reply, but Paris cuts me off with another uppity opinion. "You should be nervous, Aleesha," she says, using air quotes around the name. "Those good ol' boys might just be able to tell what you really are."

  Aleesha does not indicate that she's offended. My blood boils, and I'm ready to whoop some fake-tanned ass. I whip around to face Paris head-on, my hands balled into fists.

  "Listen. Your bougie ass can make fun of my trailer trash self as much as you want, but you will not talk shit to another contestant while I'm standing right here. Not unless you want to walk out on that stage with a bloody nose." Aleesha places a gentle hand on my shoulder to calm me down.

  Paris raises an eyebrow. "Then you'll be disqualified."

  The calming hand squeezes my collarbone gently. My blood pressure calms, and I reach up, squeezing her manicured hand in return. "It would be worth it," I say.

  Aleesha lets go and I hear stilettos on the stairs behind me.

  I say nothing more but wait for Paris to break eye contact first. I have no idea how much time passes, but she finally glances away with a roll of her eyes and a hair toss. "That's what I thought," I say to her.

  "Rocket!" Cameron stage-whispers, trying to be quiet. "Get your butt up the steps. You're about to miss your cue!"

  My hands sweat like my prize 4H pig in an August heatwave. As I climb the stairs, I pray to the gods of all pageantry to not let me roll an ankle in these heels.

  As soon as I eye the judges—more specifically, that ruggedly masculine one in uniform—I feel as if I'm floating across the stage. The polite applause from the crowd isn't much, but I'll take what I can get.

  I walk to the front edge of the stage and the applause swells gratifyingly. Looking down at the judges, I make eye contact with all of them, saving the lieutenant for last. He sternly eyeballs me and clicks the end of his pen. My breath catches. We hold each other's gaze for half a second, but in that moment, a thousand things happen to the hidden places of my body. The skin on my bare shoulders erupts in goose flesh, even though it's hot as hell on this stage. My nipples tighten and ache in response to his eyes drifting down to my shoulders and back up to my eyes. The walls of my sex grip in excitement. Down, girl. I know what you're seeing. This isn't the time or place.

  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 around with a judge in between events," she says, twirling her baton at her hip. "And I need to practice."

  I look her dead in the eye, and I say what I have to say.

  "I think someone is trying to sabotage the judging."

  Her eyes widen.

  Without warning, I hook one finger around her silvery belt and tug. Her body follows the forward motion, and she's right where I need her to be, flat against my chest. She gasps at the sudden forwardness.

  "If I'm not mistaken, Lieutenant, you're getting close to violating some rules about public displays of affection while in uniform," she says.

  "Then I should take off the uniform," I reply.

  "That's one way to let me know you're interested." Rocket's eyes are level with my neck, and she looks like she's thinking about biting it. I wouldn't mind if she did. "Most guys just send me a dick pic."

  I hastily reply, "You tell me the next time you get one of those, and I will personally knock a pervert's pencil dick into the sea."

  She smiles and leans closer, her lips brushings against the skin of my throat. "Fish food. I approve."

  My lips are close enough to feather the shell of her ear, which flushes red when I speak softly into it. "Good. 'Cause when I'm with someone it's a hundred percent, and I can get pretty fucking territorial. Can you deal with that?"

  She tilts her head back to search my eyes. "I thought we were just flirting. I can't be your girl, Jet. We just met."

  Those red lips are so close. We could stop talking and start kissing at any second. We could make the world disappear, and I wouldn't miss it.

  My eyes narrow. "I know what I want when I see it. So unless you got a fella…"

  Rocket pulls away, but not far enough that I have to let go of her belt. She juts her hip to one side and shoots me a dirty but teasing look. "You think I would let you molest me like this if I had a fella? What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

  I haven't touched any part of her with my hands, but I'm not going to quibble. Instead, I run the tip of my finger slowly along the length of her baton. "I don't think you're a girl at all. You're a grown woman who also knows what she wants. I've seen you winking at me, shaking that ass on stage. I can tell you exactly what you want. And I'm gonna give it to you."

  Rocket snatches her baton away from my sliding fingers and holds it between us vertically, with both fists. Her knuckles turn white as she speaks.

  "The reason I can't be your girl is that it would be a conflict of interest, you big dummy. You're a judge. I'm a contestant. This will get me disqualified if anyone sees us. I'm gonna have to ask you to cast your vote deliberately in someone else's favor because of our… interactions."

  Her words come out half-spoken, half-whispered, her eyes traveling over my face and landing on my lips.

  "Your mama raised you to do the right thing. But I can't wait until this contest is over so you can show me how wrong you can be."

  My eyes lock on to hers for a second until she slowly begins to move one hand down the length of the baton, and then slowly back up.

  The movement pulls a growl from deep in my chest.

  Rocket responds by bringing the baton up to her face, leaning the cold metal against her cheek, and closing her eyes. "It's so hot out here," she sighs. "It's got me feeling some type of way." The tip of her pink tongue pushes out and grazes the hard rod.

  An actual knot of pain forms in my chest because I know we can't do the terrible, wonderful things she's suggesting right now.

  "Dang, sweetheart, you almost made me forget what I need to tell you. Somebody's trying to sabotage a contestant named …Aleesha, I think? I thought I should tell you."

  Rocket stops licking the baton abruptly. "What?"

  I tell her everything I heard, word for word. When I finish, she cusses under her breath.

  "Fucking Paris."

  "You want me to tell somebody?" I ask.

  She shakes her head, looking despondent. "No, it'll just look bad that you and I were having an extra-curricular conversation. I'll handle it," she says.

  I don't ask what she'll do; I have a feeling that with Rocket Montgomery, it's better to let her handle things her way.

  Chapter Four

  Rocket

  Before I force myself to send Jet on his way, he pulls me close one last time to gently scrape his teeth along the edge of my ear. My breath goes shallow, and my knees threaten to give out.

  The close-up view of the cords in his tanned neck tempts me to have a taste. I might ruin my lipstick, but it's a risk worth taking. I gently dot the tense muscles there with a kiss, my tongue sneaking out briefly to taste his salty skin. We pull away from each other enough for me to see how wound up he is, his face drawn tight over his cheekbones, the ripple in his jawline from clenching his teeth. "Relax, Lieutenant," I say, placing a soft, slow kiss to his jawbone, a sculpted edge that could break rocks. "It'll all be over soon."

  I don't want to go, but Rocket Montgomery finishes what she starts. I'm gonna see this pageant through to the end, and then Jet and I can go somewhere private to take off that uniform.

  I text my best friend Jane when I return to the tent. She's in the audience with her daughter.

  "I just got hit on by a judge."

  She texts back immediately. "The hot one in uniform?" Of course, she noticed him.

  "Jane, do you think I would let some rando bite my earlobe?"

  She doesn't reply, but seconds later she's in the tent, walking right up to my face, her toddler snug against her hip, eating an Oreo and making a mess of herself. "Tell me everything."

  I blush when I get ready to tell her the whole story, but Paris walks up, her hoop skirt preceding her. "We're not supposed to have visitors," she says, looking at Jane as if she were gum stuck to the bottom of her designer heels.

  I snort. "Then I suppose that same rule applies to your personal chef, makeup artist, and social media photographer."

  Paris swings around at me, jostling the ruffles of her wide dress. "I have very specific dietary needs and a social media presence to maintain."

  "Okay, but…" I start. I don't get to finish becaus
e suddenly someone is shrieking as if they've just been stung by a wasp.

  I whip around and find that the noise is coming from another contestant, Emmy, who's doubled over with her hands covering her face.

  A bunch of us contestants rush over, huddling around Emmy to find out what has happened.

  "Something's wrong with my eyeliner. I just reapplied it and it feels like I put hot peppers in my eyes. Oh God, it hurts!"

  Aleesha stays with Emmy while some of us retrieve bottles of water to help her flush her eyes. When the pain is finally under control, however, her eyelids are almost swollen shut.

  "It looks like an allergic reaction. Honey, have you been using the same eye makeup all day?" I ask, calling on my first aid training to help her continue flushing the area with water.

  Emmy nods. "Maybe somebody borrowed it without telling me and I got infected?"

  I shake my head. "An infection wouldn't happen that fast."

  Aleesha cuts in with, "Or somebody tampered with it."

  Instinctively my head swings around to Paris's direction, who's leaning against a tent pole with one foot poking out from under her skirt, receiving a foot massage, while her stylist freshens up her makeup. It's then I notice her stylist is wearing latex gloves. Normally I would think this was just typical germaphobe behavior, but something about this doesn't sit right.

  I turn back to Aleesha. "You don't think…"

  We're interrupted again, this time by the arrival of the state fair first-aid volunteers. "Ma'am, we're going to take you to the emergency room." The rest of us competitors hug Emmy goodbye as she's taken away for medical attention.