by Knox, Abby
Butter Queen
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Proofread by Kasi Alexander
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
This story is dedicated to the blonde bombshell who told me to try finding the picture first, then telling the story.
Butter Queen
Rocket has her eyes on the prize. An ingenious pageant maven, this high-achiever never let her poor upbringing hold her back from her dreams. At this year's state fair, she's got that Butter Queen crown in her sights. When she falls for a hot substitute pageant judge, however, her ethics outweigh her desire to win at all costs.
Hotshot Navy pilot Jet just wants to spend his time on leave eating state fair food on skewers and hanging out with his best friend Henry. When the Butter Queen pageant comes calling, in desperate need of a new judge, the always-helpful Jet does what any good citizen would do. This decorated military officer soon finds himself ill-prepared for one bodacious bombshell contestant to blow the doors off at every turn, so he might as well hang up any attempt to remain unbiased pageant judge.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
Coming this autumn…
Chapter One
Jet
The plane tires screech on the pavement, the cabin jostles the passengers, and the senior lady seated next to me deepens her death grip on my forearm.
I pat the top of her hand and smile reassuringly. "This is all normal. Nothing to worry about."
In reality, I'm remembering smoother landings of my F-18 Super Hornet in the middle of a thunderstorm, and I'm wondering who gave this pilot his or her license. But I don't say those kinds of things to nervous grandmas on commercial aircraft.
When the plane slowly taxis to the gate, the lady lets go of me and exhales loudly, chuckling at herself. She adjusts her pink T-shirt with the sparkly lettering that reads, If Mom says no, ask Nana.
"Thank you for keeping me calm, young man." The truth is, I'm not that young anymore. And, I've done almost nothing to earn her praise other than happily chewing on the strawberry hard candies she handed to me out of her purse, one after another, while I listened to stories about her two wild grandsons waiting to see her at our final destination.
I was happy to humor her; I've been gone for too long on active duty, and I'm just relieved this war is over. Aside from that, this lady reminds me of my nana. She never got to see me off when I left for training in the Navy Reserve or had the chance to clip out articles about my accomplishments. She never got to proudly frame a photo of me in my pilot uniform and place it next to an image of her late husband in his Air Force flyboy uniform from back in his day. Speaking of Pop, I would have loved to exchange flight school stories with him, but I never had the chance. I'm not one to brag, but I think he'd be proud of me.
"Have a nice visit with those grandbabies, ma'am," I say, handing over the floral suitcase from the overhead bin that I helped my seatmate stow when she first boarded.
"Oh, thank you. I'll bet you have a sweetheart who's looking forward to seeing you." She smiles at me, eyes full of hope. I hate to disappoint her.
I shake my head. "No, ma'am, no sweethearts yet. But my stomach is looking forward to some sweet corn at the state fair," I reply, patting my stomach, my mouth salivating at the memory of grilled and buttered corn on the cob.
When we clear the jetway, and I begin to head toward baggage claim, she hugs me with surprising strength for a tiny woman. "Don't wait too long to find that sweetheart. Keep your eyes open at the fair, she just might be there."
This is just typical grandmotherly advice, but her words land hard in my gut. My last relationship ended soon after I enlisted. My ex couldn't handle the possibility of me getting called up to active duty, and we were too young to get married. Since then, I've been focused solely on my career and pretty much closed off to any idea of dating.
The grandma and I say a friendly goodbye, and I head to baggage claim and grab the rest of my shit before heading outside to wait for my ride. The blast of warm, humid air that greets me is nothing like what I've gotten used to overseas. People around me are sweltering, but they don't even know. I'm just happy to be on dry land.
What else reminds me of home is my vintage pickup truck pulling up to the curb right now.
My best friend Henry pops out of the driver's side and grabs my bags, tossing them into the bed.
After a quick and awkward bro hug, I gesture for him to hand over the keys. I pause for a moment to stroke the hood of my truck. "I hope Uncle Hank has been nice to you, Betty."
Henry hops in the passenger side. "Let me know how the rebuilt transmission feels."
"Thanks for taking care of her," I say. "And let me know how much I owe you."
Henry waves me off. "Consider it your homecoming gift. Thanks for letting me drive her. Really helped in the pussy department."
I laugh as I rev the engine. I missed this. "The pussy department? That the one just upstairs from the shoe department or the perfume counter?"
Henry snorts. "Dumbass."
I reply, "You're the dumbass if you think I'm buying the suggestion that you've turned into a honey magnet while I've been gone."
He cackles, "Well, you know how it is for the town pariah. People aren't exactly happy to see me sticking around to start over."
I shake my head. "Eh, fuck them."
Henry lets small-town gossip roll off his back. Always has. "I don't mind the mystique. Maybe my bad boy status will drum up more business for the corn maze this fall."
"Hey, if I'm around, let me know if I can help with that," I say.
"Listen, unless you're going to wear a Michael Myers mask," Hank replies, "I can't have you and your chiseled jaw hanging around the maze or pumpkin patch. You're a walking thirst trap and nobody is gonna be looking at me."
I laugh. He rolls down the window and lets his hand surf in the wind as we speed down the highway, the airport in my rear-view mirror, and the gently rolling countryside ahead of us. I feel bad I got called up to active duty overseas amid his personal life exploding.
"Where're we headed, Lieutenant?" Henry says.
"Hank," I say, not taking my eyes off the road. "What day is it?"
"September 1."
"And what do we always do on the first day of September?"
We've had this exact conversation every year on this day, whether or not I'm home. It's a tradition.
"Try to take over the world?"
"Fuck you," I say with a chuckle.
Finally, he answers, "Home of the fried mac and cheese on a stick?"
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"Heck yes," I reply. "Every day for the whole week the fair is open if you're up for it."
I plan on filling up every second of this week enjoying some deep-fat fried comfort foods on skewers, standing in line to see the butter sculpture, and watching tractors pull trailers full of random shit through the mud.
"Sounds fun," Henry says. "But tomorrow I'm meeting with a maze designer to start planning things out for the back 40, plus a million other things to take care of before I open the patch a month from now. But thanks."
I'm proud of my best friend for finding his passion. I never would have expected that passion to be pumpkin farming, but I'm happy he's found a way to turn his problems into a positive.
When we arrive at the fairgrounds, the parking lot volunteers see my uniform and direct me to the special military parking. If Henry wasn't with me, I might brush off any special treatment. But today, it's the least I can do for the dude who happens to be my only family left on this earth.
The two of us are through the gate and hitting the midway quickly, and soon enough we're standing in line for grilled corn on the cob. I've been salivating ever since I found out that the last leg of my flight home coincided with this day. The line is twelve people long, and all of these hungry folks insist on shuttling me and Hank up to the front of the line.
As I'm about to place my order for three ears with extra butter, a clipboard-carrying woman wearing a business suit, flashy brooch, and a face etched with stress approaches me and introduces herself as Cameron. I size her up and decide she's either a politician or taking a survey. "Sir, I wonder if I might ask you a favor. The Butter Queen pageant finds itself short one judge today, and it would be an honor to have a decorated aviation officer from our home state serve as a substitute judge." She flashes me a huge smile with searching eyes, and then adds, "Sir."
I glance sidelong at Henry. He's no help, snickering while we wait for our corn.
I say to her, "Sure, I'll do it. You mind if I eat first? Been on an aircraft carrier for a long time."
"Can you eat and walk?" She truly looks desperate. "I'm so sorry, but it's zero hour and this pageant crowd is getting restless."
I hold out my fistful of cash to the sweet corn stand attendant, but he waves me off. Henry isn't snickering anymore. Under his breath I hear him mutter, "I'm sticking with you, kid. Maybe some of that shine will rub off on my reputation."
Nodding to the lady in the business suit, I say, "As long as you don't mind me talking with my mouth full while we walk."
Turns out, I needn't have worried about bad manners because she does all the talking. Thankfully, Henry is also keeping his mouth occupied with the chow as the lady explains what's going on. I just have to take notes, then cast my vote for the best performance in each round of judging. Seems a bit boring, having to watch a bunch of teenage girls prance around on stage, but it doesn't sound like it will take all day. I remind myself that I'm just happy to be home.
Once we reach the pageant stage area, the lady with the clipboard pulls me away from Henry. "I'm very sorry, I'm in a bit of a rush. It's already time for the judges to meet the contestants."
I glance back at Henry, who sends me off with a nod and goes to find a good seat for the show. I'm lucky he's a dude who can have a good time anywhere.
It seems to be a little fishy that contestants would get to meet judges before a contest, but I don't say anything because I'm still in the kind of headspace where I'm used to taking orders.
The clipboard lady reads the skepticism on my face. "A spontaneous visit is a way for the judges to get a feel for the contestants, see how they interact on an interpersonal level. It's all part of the judging," she informs me.
Before I can process the fact that I have to interact with teenagers, Cameron leads me and four other judges, who appear to have been standing around waiting for me, to a striped tent behind the stage.
She opens the flap before I can pump the brakes on the situation. Something about all of this is making me very uncomfortable. Turns out, my gut was right. The first thing I see when I step inside is a full, bodacious butt poured into navy blue panties with white stripes down the sides, accented with gold stars. The owner of that butt leans forward to touch up some fire-engine-red lipstick in a lighted mirror. The mirror reflects at me her intensely deep cleavage between a pair of huge knockers, barely contained by a bra that looks like some wet dream version of the blue Cracker Jack sailor uniform: flap collar in the back, and a knotted scarf in the front. That scarf swings in the air while she's bent over, further drawing my eyes to those fantabulous melons. Fuck a duck. I should not be here.
This all happens within a second, and I'm stumbling past the other judges behind me, backing right back out of the tent.
"No, ma'am. That's a tent full of underage women in their…underthings."
Cameron clutches her chest and laughs. "Oh, no! The Butter Queen pageant is for ages 18 to 24."
I point and look the other way, still convinced that all of this is inappropriate. "Ma'am, all due respect, but I saw panties and bras."
Finally, she understands what's wrong. "Oh honey, no. Those are the swimsuit costumes for the first round of competition."
Not that I know the first thing about the Butter Queen pageant, but I thought swimsuit competitions had gone the way of the dodo bird. As much as I love my home state, it's shit like this that makes us live up to our back-asswards stereotypes.
I rustle up my courage and fall in line, ready to ignore the sight of that young woman's ass. I hold all of the air inside my lungs as I step inside the tent.
Inside, the lady in the sailor panties and bra—I mean swimsuit—is standing upright and displaying a rehearsed, ten-thousand-watt smile to me and the other judges, posing with one hand on her curvaceous, jutted-out hip. Topping off her ensemble is a traditional "Dixie Cup" white sailor hat, sitting atop her head at an angle that is not following the rules of the actual Navy. In fact, I wonder if she's aware that, top to bottom, her whole appearance is in total violation of standard naval uniform dress codes. And hot as fuck.
Even more devastating than her ass is her smile. That's the part of her from which I cannot avert my eyes, and would not want to.
The lady introduces herself to the group as Rocket Montgomery and proceeds to recount a long list of achievements as a way of introduction. By her description, she must have a wall full of FFA and 4H blue ribbons. I picture a cute little house in the country with shelves full of trophies, shadow boxes with Girl Scout badges, and National Merit Scholar certificates.
"…And I was captain of the marching band color guard at Jefferson High School for three years in a row. I'm a certified lifeguard and a volunteer instructor in first aid and CPR. But what I'm most proud of is volunteering as a math and science tutor. For fun, I serve as vice president of the National Society of Flaming Baton Twirlers and Hoop Artists."
Her face lights up when she says that last part. "Baton twirlers have societies?" I ask.
She corrects me with a good-natured reminder. "Flaming batons. They added hoop artists to the title because there was so much crossover. We had a lot of fire hoopers come to us after their national group had a falling out and caused a schism. But we flaming baton twirlers are drama free. It's in our bylaws. Which I wrote."
I remove my hat and reach out my hand. "Ma'am, it's nice to meet you. I'm Jet."
Before taking my hand, Rocket salutes a proper naval salute and then winks. "Jet and Rocket! Aren't we a pair?" I am done for.
Rocket holds out her hand with fingernails that have been painted to look like the state flag. Her firm handshake jolts me like an incomplete circuit of energy, and I'm brushing up against the hot end of a live wire. She looks down at the patches on my arm and chest and says, "Welcome home, Lieutenant Percy."
The twitch inside my uniform pants is so abrupt I'm pretty sure the sudden movement has been picked up by space satellites. I swallow. "Good eye," I say with a nod.
The co
rner of her delectable mouth curves up. "I spent some time with the USO. I learned a few things. I thank you for your service to our country, sir."
The military has trained me not to blush, but it's getting hard. Really hard.
"Rocket, that's an interesting name," I say, not letting go of her hand.
She bats her eyelids at me. "My mama always said I was meant to fly to the stars!"
My hand squeezes hers, and I stare into those intense, bright eyes. Her cheeks redden. Her brilliant, practiced smile fades to a shy grin, and her eyes drift down to my mouth. Neither of us says anything for what feels like a long while.
Rocket recovers her composure, looking away at the other judges, who've all moved on to the next contestant. She looks back at me with a renewed professionalism. But her tongue can't lie, the tip of it peeking out to wet her top lip before she catches herself and blushes more deeply. Her hand starts to sweat inside mine but I'm not letting go.
You're mine. I call dibs on you, and that's that.
Chapter Two
Rocket
"My mama always said I was meant to fly to the stars."
The sneering voice mocking my words comes from Paris Buchanan, the shiny-haired brunette adjusting her wayward boobs inside of her cheetah-print bikini top at the mirror next to me. Not only is a string bikini breaking pageant guidelines, but it also doesn't even have any sparkle. Show me a Butter Queen contestant who does not use a Bedazzler, and I'll show you someone whose heart just isn't into any of this.
Paris was the first runner-up at last year's Butter Queen pageant, just beating me out of it by one point. I suffered a slight humiliation during the talent portion when I missed my flaming baton on a double twirl, and it crashed to the stage. The important thing was I was quick enough on my feet to avoid setting anything aflame. Considering all of the industrial hair care products, adhesives, and taffeta on display at any given Butter Queen pageant, a fiery baton is a legitimate hazard.