Romeo: A Payne Brothers Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  Was booze.

  And we had a lot of it.

  “Quint Payne…” Lady kept pace with me as I darted through the crowds. “What the hell did you do?”

  “Just a little bootlegging.”

  “Oh, Lord help us.”

  We crossed the soccer field, dodging the perplexed reenactors, each yelling and skirmishing within their own ranks about the dodgy emails and miscommunications. It took only seconds before the plastic cannonballs soared across the field, pelting the Nazis. In return fire, plastic rifles clobbered the heads of a few wayward Rebels.

  “This is World War II!” Raymond Adamski straddled a sandbag pile entirely too tall for him to climb in his inebriated state. “The hell you doing? Pickett’s Charge?”

  The trenches provided cover for most of the drunken participants. That didn’t bode well. Normally only a handful snuck sips of booze from their flasks on the field. This time, the fight hadn’t even started, and half a dozen German officers were mixing a cocktail in a plastic cannon.

  “Why are they all drunk?” Lady asked. “What exactly did you do?”

  Caused enough chaos for the Nazis to win the Battle of Gettysburg. I groaned.

  “I sent out the wrong email,” I said.

  “You sent it?” Lady smacked my arm. At least that didn’t look out of place for a Barlow and Payne, without or without the mock battlefield. “You’re not even in the reenactment!”

  “No, but I’m in charge of the Rebel Yell.”

  “The what?”

  I kept my voice low. “Rebel Yell is apparently the code name of this Confederate performance…but it’s also the booze we’re brewing in the library basement.”

  It took very little to fluster Lady.

  She had been out of town for a while.

  “Alcohol? In the library?”

  I shushed her. “We’re making moonshine. Opened a little speakeasy distillery.”

  “In the library?”

  “No one ever went there before. Now their business is booming.”

  Lady hissed between clenched teeth. “The town is dry, Quint! You could get into so much trouble!”

  “Only if you keep shouting it.” I pulled her off the field. “Look, there was a party tonight. The moonshine was ready, and we’d planned to sample it. But I sent the wrong email. Instead of going to the distillery group…I sent it to the entire town mailing list.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “There’s a bigger problem,” I said.

  “Oh, no.”

  “They’re serving it.”

  “Serving what—” Lady panicked. “Where?”

  I searched the battlefield and audience. Most of the participants had wandered away, visiting with friends and neighbors near the stage set-up in the park. While the world’s largest platter of pasta salad awaited the reenactors, most of the people had clamored to savor the surprisingly tasty summer punch.

  Unfortunately, the event was not yet prepared to feed a crowd of a hundred punch-drunk people. The lone food truck struggled to open in the parking lot—Honey Hudson’s award-winning barbeque truck. Tidus raced around the outside, preparing the equipment while Honey darted around with arms loaded full of meats and sauces.

  Within moments, however, their efforts were stymied.

  My brother raced across the parking lot to grab a staggering, bumbling eleven-year-old boy by the name of Spencer Townsend.

  Who was puking his guts out.

  This wasn’t good.

  Neither was the approach of a second band of Barlows.

  Lady’s sisters parted the crowds like sharks diving into a school of fish. Duchess spotted Lady first and took her by the hand, jerking her away from me.

  “Did you see him?” Duchess’s question sounded oddly like an accusation.

  “See who?” Lady fluttered. “Quint? I’m not seeing Quint! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Fantastic. The reenactment wasn’t the only bombed performance.

  “Not him.” Duchess reserved a fierce scowl for me. “Spencer Townsend.”

  “What about him?” Lady asked.

  “He’s drunk,” Regent said, toying with her braids. “Can you believe it?”

  Lady attempted to escort her sisters away from me, but Duchess was the sort of woman who got in one jab, enjoyed it too much, then went in for a sucker punch.

  “The boy is drunk as a skunk.” Duchess pointed towards the food truck. “Can’t even stand upright.”

  Damn it. Tidus did his best to corral the kid. He stole Spence’s cup, sniffed it, then pitched it away. The boy laughed until he threw up again.

  Regent asked her question loud enough for everyone to hear. “Why is it that every time there’s trouble in Butterpond, it’s always a Payne?”

  I clenched my jaw, but Lady interrupted me before I said anything we’d regret.

  “There’s just been a mix-up with the punch,” she said. “Don’t drink any of it.”

  Too late. Contessa must have been on her second glass.

  “You know…” Contessa grinned. “If we had this punch every community event, maybe you’d have more town spirit, Ladybug.”

  “Not when the drink is all spirits,” she said. “Come on, Quint. We’ve gotta tell people. What happens if other kids drink this?”

  Duchess laughed. “Please. You can smell the alcohol from a mile away. The only people who can drink it are the ones who weren’t sober to begin with.”

  Contessa snorted. “I’ll resent that in the morning.”

  “You won’t remember a damned thing except a fistful of Tylenol and a raging headache.”

  “Like the one you give me every day? What’s the difference?”

  Regent had the sharp tongue of an angry lush without tasting the punch. “The difference is that we’re used to your drunk ass. But a kid? Imagine that. One of the Payne boys, drunk in the middle of the afternoon.”

  Duchess crossed her arms. “And I wonder what role-model led by example?”

  Her gaze fell to Tidus.

  A low-blow.

  Tidus wasn’t around to defend himself. Good thing I wouldn’t let his sobriety get tarnished.

  “You know he’s changed,” I said.

  Lady interrupted us, tugging on Duchess’s arm. “Uh-oh.”

  “And you know this was an accident,” I said.

  Lady pulled harder. “Duchess.”

  “You know…” Duchess shrugged her sister away. “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave town, Lady. Every day we’re subjected to more and more of the Payne’s deviancy.”

  “You should try it,” I said. “Would rather be a deviant than a stuck-up cu—”

  “Stop it!” Lady leapt between us. “Duchess, come on. We’ve gotta go—”

  “First the Third Reich invades the market. Then their family turns this war reenactment into Coachella. And who is going to suffer for all these problems? Butterpond.”

  “At least my family isn’t the one threatening eleven-year-olds with lawsuits,” I said.

  The girls quieted.

  “Where the hell did you hear that?” Duchess asked.

  I’d never heard Lady yell before, but her profanity silenced most of the field.

  “For fuck’s sake!” She pushed through us and raced towards the stage. “Grandma’s drinking the punch!”

  She’d sacrificed her usual Barlow poise and chose to sprint across the field. This only drew more attention to the fact that Spencer was not the only person who was drunk.

  Widow Barlow…

  Was dancing.

  The speakers poised through the park usually funneled fake battlefield sounds, swelling orchestral music, and dry narration for the entertainment of the audience. However, in the confusion, the historical society and church groups had banded together to supply music in lieu of any accurate historical portrayals.

  Beyonce pumped over the speakers. And while All The Single Ladies was not traditionally a jig, the Widow Barlow hoisted her skirt over her
ankles, dropped her cane, and shimmied across the stage to the wild beat.

  As chairperson of the historical society, she had every right to take to the podium. The people of Butterpond watched in amazement as her heels clapped against the wooden floorboards and her hands jazzed to the lyrics.

  The Barlow girls stared in horror, but Lady clamored to the stage, more distraught that her grandmother would even attempt a pop and lock with a false hip.

  “Grandma!” Lady’s voice echoed over the field via the hot microphones. “What are you doing?”

  Duchess, Regent, and Contessa charged the stage, but the widow warded them away with a swipe of her cane.

  “You listen here, child.” Agatha Barlow slurred and hiccupped—just enough to mortify her family and endear her to me. “You never smile, Lady.”

  This wasn’t true. Lady had a wonderful smile, but she usually only permitted it in my company, when my hands held her tight, lips pressed against the hollow of her neck, and my cock buried deep inside of her.

  “Grandma…how much did you have to drink?” Lady attempted to guide her grandmother off the stage before the widow flashed her hand and encouraged every eligible bachelor of Green Acres Retirement Home to put a ring on it. “I think you’ve had too much punch.”

  “And you didn’t have any, did you, child?” The widow laughed. “Heavens above. You are twenty years old, and you act like you’re my age. You should be in Paris! You better have a good reason for staying in Butterpond, Lady.” She leaned closer to her granddaughter, unaware that her voice carried over the loudspeakers. “It’s a blessing that he’s so good-looking.”

  Lady wrapped an arm over the widow’s shoulders and led her to the stairs. The song changed, and a rather jaunty country song regarding Badonkadonks echoed from the speakers. The widow fought Lady and did her best to shake from her donk the wrinkles that time had placed. Then she ordered Duchess to fetch them both more punch.

  I waited in the grass, offering an arm as the Widow Barlow moseyed down the stairs. She grabbed my bicep, squeezed, and winked at Lady.

  “He isn’t bad at all, child…” She thought she’d whispered. “He’s attractive…for a Payne.”

  Lady nervously chuckled. “Okay, Grandma. Let’s get you home…”

  She didn’t get far. Sheriff Samson intercepted her and gestured for Duchess to take the widow into her care. With a stern glance, he curled a finger toward me as well.

  Couldn’t get much past the Sheriff. He’d been in charge of the town since we were young. While the law never changed, Samson did. His waist grew larger, his knee had blown out, and an overnight in the cells meant he’d release us if we promised to first head to the drugstore to get him an antacid.

  Maybe we didn’t invite the sheriff over for fancy dinners like the Barlows, but my brothers and I had shared enough pizzas through the bars to develop a solid friendship.

  “You’re gonna laugh when you hear this one, Sheriff,” I said. “Who knew the reenactment groups called themselves Rebel Yell too?”

  Samson scowled. Lady glared at me.

  “Why am I starting to think everything that goes wrong in this town is your fault?” she asked.

  Samson hiked up his pants. Didn’t do much. After so many years on the force, it’d take the pair of handcuffs he spun in his hand to keep his trousers on the winning side of his gut.

  “I agree with Miss Barlow,” he said. “You know the drill.”

  I held my wrists out as the metal clapped around them. “Come on…you’re gonna get me on bootlegging?”

  “Nope.” Samson turned. He grabbed Lady’s wrist. She squealed as a second set of cuffs locked over her hands. “Don’t know much about the moonshine, so you better keep your mouth shut before you get in worse trouble.”

  Lady panicked. “Oh, my God. This isn’t happening.”

  Her sisters stared in horror, but the widow waved a hand and cackled.

  “There you go, child!” Agatha laughed. “I knew you had it in you!”

  “What the hell are you arresting us for?” I asked.

  “Trespassing,” he said. I wished the microphone hadn’t picked up his every word. “Let’s make this quick.”

  “Trespassing?” The word didn’t make any sense—especially since I’d spent my last few nights in Lady’s bedroom. “Where?”

  Lady’s eyes welled with humiliated tears as the crowd pressed in tight around us.

  Samson’s words turned bitter. “Thought you wouldn’t get caught, Quint? We reviewed the tapes, saw the whole thing.”

  “Saw what?” I arched an eyebrow. “Careful what you watch, Sheriff. I’ve been on tape a lot, and not all of it is Rated G.”

  “The Jedidiah Butterpond commemoration?” Samson couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Now, I don’t know why you’d go and try to ruin this town’s most honored holiday, but we caught you.”

  “Quint.” Lady hissed. “What the hell?”

  Samson took us by the elbows and forced us through the crowds.

  “Until I figure this out, you’re both under arrest for trespassing and tampering with the event.” He snorted. “Hope it was worth it, Butter Mistress and Monger.”

  13

  Lady

  Falling in love with a man meant sharing similar experiences.

  But the fairytales had never mentioned jail sentences.

  When I’d imagined the love of my life, I’d pictured moonlit beaches, not going up the river.

  Gentle caresses…not slammers.

  Vacation homes, but not the big house.

  At least I’d fulfilled one very specific fantasy when the handcuffs had clapped around my wrists. Unfortunately, it had been Sheriff Samson binding my hands while the entire town, my siblings, and my very drunken grandmother watched in shock.

  And it was his fault.

  I would kill him.

  I loved Quint. I’d always thought he was a sexy, playful charmer who’d stolen my heart and my panties. Yes, I would’ve spent the rest of my life with him, but as soon as I managed to bend a gap in the iron bars big enough for me to slip through, my hands were gonna coil around his goddamned neck.

  But, in lieu of any superpowers or real homicidal tendencies, I sat in cold, accusatory silence.

  Quint didn’t notice.

  He shuffled through his cell, checking the concrete blocks near the metal bench. He batted away the dust and cobwebs that usually served as the cell’s permanent occupants. Arrests were rare in Butterpond, but leave it to Samson to take a stand during one of the summer’s busiest events. His commitment to ensuring the impartiality of the time-honored Butter Monger and Mistress title had ruined any chance we had at ending the feud strangling our families.

  I couldn’t even imagine what my family thought. Getting arrested with Quint Payne?

  Their farm was as good as gone.

  Quint slapped the wall with a laugh. “Hey! It’s still here!”

  “What?” I couldn’t pace anymore without cracking the cement under my stomping feet. “I hope you’re looking for a way to escape.”

  “Nah, found something better.” He jerked a thumb at the scrawling on the wall. “My autograph.”

  He didn’t deserve a single word, but at least talking relieved the pressure in my jaw. One hour in jail, and I’d nearly ground my teeth to nubs. Hopefully, I wouldn’t waste my one phone call to make a dentist appointment.

  “What autograph?”

  “From the last time I got arrested.” He actually laughed. “Think that was from last Thanksgiving—when Tidus and I replaced the town turkey with one of Mayor Desmond’s peacocks.”

  “Quint!”

  “What?” He shrugged. “It was a Thanksgiving pardoning. No poultry was ever in real danger.”

  I launched myself at the bars and attempted to slap any part of him—arms, hair, that stupidly handsome face.

  “I swear to God, Quint, if you don’t start taking this seriously—”

  “Relax, Ladybug.” He kep
t out of arm’s reach and retired to his bench, crossing his ankles and tucking his hands behind his head. “Why are you this upset?”

  “Because you got us arrested!” I groaned. “I told you to make sure no one saw you replace the winners for the ceremony.”

  “It’s gonna be fine.”

  “We’re in jail!”

  “Like there’s anything else to do in Butterpond…” He winked. “Aside from heading back to your place.”

  I bristled. “And if you think you’re ever getting lucky again, you’re as stupid as you are a bad influence!”

  He smiled.

  Oh, great. Those dimples popped from his cheeks.

  I forced myself to look away. That devilish grin would not deter me from the only good decision I’d made in weeks.

  “When we were in the woods, you were more than eager to spend a little private time together.” He dared to wink at me. “Well…look around you, Ladybug. Can’t get more private than this.”

  I pointed to the metal toilet built into the middle of the cell.

  “Guess again, lover boy.”

  He gestured with a lazy hand. “Sure…but the doors are locked.”

  “And you better be glad Samson locked us up separately.”

  “Afraid you couldn’t keep your hands off me?”

  “You’re out of your mind,” I said.

  He agreed. “Just crazy for you.”

  “Then you belong in an asylum.” I kicked the row of bars but yelped as the iron bit back. My big toe throbbed, and it only made me madder. “And I certainly don’t belong in jail.”

  Quint approached me with the swagger possessed only by a man who had practiced every conceivable method of getting into trouble and perfected every unconscionable means to get out of it.

  He reached for me between the bars. I damned myself by meeting his impish gaze. A girl could get herself lost for hours in that playful, rain-shower green. He promised only fun, delivered only chaos, and still trapped me between my own instinct and desire.

  He’d already gotten me arrested.

  How else could this man get me into trouble?