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CHAPTER ONE – HALLEY
Nobody Needs An Orange Jumpsuit
Sometimes, I just have to tell myself that it isn’t worth the jail time.
It’s something I’ve told myself a lot over the years, especially during high school. There was that time Lindsay Rinna paid her younger brother to put a snake in my locker just because she knew I was deathly afraid of them and she thought I had a crush on her boyfriend.
I totally did have a crush on him, but was it worth the panic attack I had after?
No. No, it was not. And, just like she wasn’t now, Lindsay was not worth any jail time, no matter how many times I imagined pushing her in front of a bus.
Look. We’ve all done it, okay?
There’s also the time when I was seventeen and having a bitch of a period, and my stepbrother had eaten my ice-cream.
That was the closest I’d actually come to committing murder. It was a hormone-induced rage, for what it was worth, and my memory of the event was now somewhat blurry. That said, I do remember throwing a spoon at him. I might have cut open his forehead.
He ate my ice-cream.
On my period.
Actually, that’s one situation that would have been worth the jail time.
Also, my stepbrother is an asshole, so he deserved that shit.
Now, I was standing in the middle of the park, looking at the kissing booth that would be my home for next week. As of Monday, between the hours of midday and seven p.m., my ass would be parked in this glorified tent, and my lips would be offered up as free game to anyone who was willing to put two dollars in my bucket.
I, Halley Dawson, was the Creek Falls Kissing Booth Champion. This year was my fifth year in the contest, and I had no intentions of losing my crown anytime soon.
I took my role as resident kisser very seriously. Seriously—I just about had stock in toothpaste companies at this point. My dentist was probably the best-paid dentist in town, and I had an ashamedly large collection of mints and gum in my apartment waiting for this moment.
As for being the reigning champion, well, it wasn’t like it had any kind of effect on my life in general. I was woefully single to the point that the only date I had was with the raccoons who lived in the woods behind my house.
Hey, they were reliable. They showed up every night on my back porch at ten p.m. sharp for their peanut butter sandwiches.
We had a bit of a deal. I left them sandwiches every night, and they’d leave my trashcan alone.
Well, I think we had a deal. Since raccoons didn’t speak English, it was purely speculation on my part since they hadn’t knocked the trashcan over for a few weeks.
Of course, this weird little relationship played into me being single. Thanks to my eccentric grandmother, I was now known as the Racoon Lady of Creek Falls. Not that anyone ever said anything about it to my face, given that my father was the mayor.
Yep. Between that and being the kissing booth champion, there was no way I was getting married anytime soon.
Or dated, for that matter.
It was fine. I liked being single. I had the entire king-size bed to myself, and nobody was going to eat my chocolate.
Also, thanks to the invention of porn websites and sex toys, I could happily handle my own needs. Shoot, I didn’t even need the toy.
I had fingers.
Ahem.
Moving on.
Upkeep of the kissing booth was solely my responsibility—and that of my competitor’s when they showed up. It was our job to ensure that the money was kept safe so it could all be donated to a local charity at the end of the summer fair.
The winner would be the person who raised the most money—whoever kissed the most people.
Last year my competition had been easy. It was old Mr. Hawkins who owned the bait shop on the town square, and he’d gotten impetigo on his lower lip halfway through the week.
It had seriously damaged his ability to kiss anyone, but he’d made it work. He’d purchased a lip-shaped stamp and some ink and stamped everyone’s hand instead.
The kids had loved it.
I was almost a little sad he hadn’t won just because of that, but he’d stopped by the library last week and left the stamp with me.
Now, the kids could choose a kiss on the cheek or a stamp on the hand.
I just wished I could give the pensioners the same option. Most of those insisted on a genuine peck.
It was the worst thing about doing this.
I shuddered at the thought of it. I had some serious mental preparation to do, just in case Horace Peters decided he wanted to stop by on a daily basis again.
