Colton McAllen
“Good lord and biscuits, will you look at this crowd?” Colton McAllen cast his eyes over the throng of folks like he was planning to throw a net. He thought the entirety of Whitebark County was here—all of them eager and excited to celebrate the Whitebark County Fair, complete with carnival, musical stage, and 4-H livestock show.
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.”
