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The mayor removed the mic from my hand. “Mr. Wilson Phillips, you’re under arrest for crimes against the town of Elmer. Cuff him, Sheriff.”
And the crowd went wild—for real.
I looked at Cameron; she could rescue me. But no. Her knowing smile told me everything. I’d been bamboozled. This had been her plan from the start.
The pleasure Sheriff Colton Reid got from locking the cuffs on my wrists was damn near obscene. The crowd enjoyed it too. Whistles and a chant of jail-jail-jail filled the town square. The sheriff took my upper arm in an unforgiving hold and marched me off the stage through the center of the melee. His deputies held back the people. The mayor, cheerleaders, and everyone else from the stage area followed.
The procession hadn’t gone far when Cameron, out of breath, forced her way to the sheriff and me.
“Hold up.” She grabbed my cuffed wrists. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and exertion had put a pretty flush on her cheeks.
“Get your hands off my prisoner,” her brother growled.
“Not until I get those.” She pointed at my boots. “And this.” Her hand dove into my back pocket and pulled out my cell phone.
“Fine. Those boots deserve better than him.” Her brother, arms crossed, nodded to a park bench positioned along the sidewalk.
She pushed me down in the seat. The cheerleaders made a circle around us and started a cheer. Something about fight-Elmer-fight. Obviously a game-time favorite as the crowd joined in the call and response chant.
“What is going on?” I had to shout to be heard over all the noise.
“Trust me. This is how you grovel in Elmer. Now give me those gorgeous boots.” She turned her ass toward me. I put one shod foot between her lovely thighs and set my other foot on her butt. She yanked, I pushed, and one boot was off. We removed the second in the same fashion. I should send Melvin a thank-you note for introducing me to that trick.
“Be brave!” She kissed my cheek, clutching my boots to her chest. The sheriff pulled me up off the bench with Jethro’s help. Damn it, did law enforcement Thor have to be here for this, too?
Red clay dust stained my white socks within a few steps. The spring festival occupied most of Main Street. Elmer had closed the road to traffic for the annual celebration that fell in the middle of spring break week for the local schools. Colton and Jethro marched me past carnival games, a kids’ merry-go-round, and a stand offering fried butter.
Rocks and pebbles poked my feet as I shuffled along the cobblestones and worn asphalt. A small tendril of genuine fear about my fate had wound itself around my stomach. This was Elmer. They were good people. They wouldn’t actually hurt me. Right?
Most of the town and way too many tourists followed behind my jailers and me. The only stragglers I saw were the few who stopped to buy cans of Lone Star at the beer tent.
The cheerleaders leading our procession had switched to the high school fight song, another town favorite. It felt like the star in a musical about the French Revolution, and this was the scene where my character would face the guillotine, all of Paris jeering at the condemned man. Should I tell the sheriff he forgot my carriage? Would they pelt me with rotten vegetables? Who would record my last words?
In a place of pride under an enormous oak tree at the corner of Main and Ranch Road 85, there it sat, waiting for its first victim. It wasn’t a guillotine, but... fuck my life.
The Dunk Tank.
“How are you holding up?” The mayor patted me on the cheek. I could smell the fireball before she offered the open flask.
My mouth filled with saliva, and I swallowed, desperate not to vomit. If I puked on the mayor, I’d have to return to LA.
“Need some liquid courage?” She wagged the flask.
The people in the crowd, close enough to hear, laughed. I couldn’t breathe through my nose. The cinnamon whiskey scent filled the warm morning air, blocking out all the other smells.
“No, Mayor. I’ll take my punishment like a man: sober.”
“And shirtless,” Wanda called from close by. A few bunco ladies seconded her suggestion with calls to “take it off” and “make it rain.” I shivered, imagining the senior citizens in a strip club.
“Good boy. I’ll remember this when you come calling, asking for my blessing to marry my granddaughter.” The mayor shoved the flask into a back pocket and patted me on the cheek.
“Really. You’re welcoming a Californian into the family that easy.” The sheriff had the key to my cuffs in his hand.
“I’m from Peoria.” I raised my hands and shook my cuffed wrists in his face. A growing panic made me desperately want them off. The terror was caused either by the smell of the whiskey, my new fear of drowning in a glass box, or the bunco ladies who looked ready to ravage me.
“Illinois? Could have fooled me, Hollywood.” Colton shoved my hands out of his face with a curse and unlocked my fluffy floral shackles.
The cheerleaders, having finished the fight song sing-along, arrayed themselves around the dunk tank, pompoms twitching, and grinned broadly. Over the din, I heard the royal court members shouting from the vendor booths they staffed: “Five dollars a ball. Or five throws for twenty. All proceeds go to charity.” The line to buy baseballs to chuck at me formed quickly and seemed to reach past the beer tent, down Main Street, and almost to the courthouse steps.
