Wargasm

by Sosie Frost

  But it hadn’t always been that way. Ten years ago, we’d lived for the farm. Chores sucked, and the house was cramped, but we’d been a family.

  I could solve the money problems, but I had no idea how to fix the family. Especially when no one else cared about each other or their own misery.

  Including my own.

  It didn’t matter why we fought or how often we blamed each other. I knew the truth. The farm, our home, and our lives had fallen apart, and it was my fault.

  I had to be the one to make it right.

  Micah’s eyebrow arched. “You okay, cowboy?”

  No, but I’d deal with it on my own. Why complicate something so perfect? Micah had set the rules herself—sex only. And if she wanted me to be her stress relief and cure for her morning sickness, who was I to argue? No sense fucking up a good fuck.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Head back. I’ll bring the pies up and start on the list.”

  The kiss to my cheek wasn’t what either of us wanted, but Micah was only honest inside the privacy of her own home. In the field, we were enemies. In bed, she belonged to me. But everywhere in between, she tore at my sanity, my heart, and my soul.

  I knew what I had to do. And I knew how much she’d fight it. But for the first time in years, I had a life plan of my own.

  First, I’d deal with the fair.

  Then, I’d get my barn.

  And finally, when Micah had no place left to hide and no reason to fight…

  I’d get the girl.

  14

  Micah

  An eternity in Hell had nothing on the second day of a failing county fair.

  The feral cats had taken the concession stand.

  Rationing was in place, but it’d done nothing to alleviate the strain on our nacho cheese supply.

  The ground bees had claimed one victim, and with it, the last of our insect sting relief ointment.

  It was the hottest day of the year, and the rib cookoff nearly set the field ablaze. What wasn’t consumed by flames had been evacuated due to a broken mason jar of Gil Louis’s secret ingredient. Sheriff Samson confirmed the chef had cooked with pure capsaicin.

  By mid-afternoon the natives were restless.

  And I was exhausted. And nauseous. And convinced I’d lose my job. The pregnancy tango.

  So when Gretchen burst into the tent I’d commandeered as my home-away-from-home-disturb-under-penalty-of-I’ll-eat-you, I’d feared the worst.

  “We have a…situation.” Gretchen nibbled on her pinky nail, eyes as big as the puffball pigtails on the top of her head. “You better come with me.”

  “Food, games, rides, or animals?” I asked.

  Gretchen winced. “Riding animals?”

  “What?”

  She tugged me from the puddle of sweat and melting plastic chair I’d decided would be my final resting place. Mine would be a revealing eulogy—It wasn’t the pregnancy that got her, but the senior citizen uprising after learning the admission discount didn’t apply until the weekend.

  Gretchen shoo’ed away the few members of the staging committee guarding the festival barn. The door opened only a crack, and she shoved me inside with the hay and the poop and the general animal stench that clung to my throat and would inevitably reveal the pregnancy in one unceremonious gag.

  “Over there…” She covered her eyes. “They’re still going at it.”

  I glanced into the pen, gasped, then turned to give the two sheep their due privacy.

  I pointed behind me. “They’re…”

  “Yep,” she said.

  “They’re not supposed to…”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought they were separated male and female?”

  Gretchen picked up a piece of broken, temporary wooden fencing. “They were. But…I don’t think Mr. Ram quite respected the plywood barrier between him and his…fluffy lady.”

  “And how long…”

  She cleared her throat. “About twenty minutes. On and off. He’s…uh…he’s dedicated.”

  Jesus. More than enough time for a prize-winning ewe to destroy their futures on the fair circuit. The owner would not be pleased to discover unauthorized breeding. Neither would the ewe’s father, I suspected, once he had to organize the little shotgun, fleecy wedding.

  “Oh this is baaaad.” She peeked over the railing. “He’s all over her. Tore down fences too. This is his second break-in.”

  “Yeah, they’re a regular Romeo and Juliet,” I said.

  “Capulet and Monta-ewe.” Gretchen groaned. “Great. Now I’m jealous of a sheep.”

  “What do we tell the owners?”

  “The truth, I guess.” Fortunately, she had doodled a diagram. The more salacious bits would need to be erased—or neutered—before being presented to the farmers. “From what we’ve gathered through witness testimonials, Brody broke free of the pen around nine AM. After recapture, we provided additional security to his fence as he was a known flight-risk given the…urgency of the situation.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Fiona.” Gretchen tapped her notebook, circling the cartoon sheep with the bow between her ears and the blush on her cheeks. “We assume she was the prime target as she has the softest fleece in the competition. Blue-ribbon winner three years running. How could Brody resist?”

  I couldn’t imagine the newspaper headline. Butterpond Zoning Officer Charged In Raid On Illegal Sheep Brothel. “Fiona and I have a lot in common.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting lucky too?”

  “No. I’m just fucked.” Especially now that Julian, life, and my own existential dread were having their way with me. “This fair is a disaster. The pie conspiracy is out of control. They’ve got photos, Gretchen. On Facebook. They’re comparing the differences between the pies on the table and their own photo shoots in their home kitchen. Forensic freaking evidence! No one doubts Mrs. Cruthers winning, but Mr. Antolini is challenging Mrs. Mills for second place. They’re demanding recounts.”

  “But you destroyed the pies.”

  Technically Clyde destroyed the pies. “The point is, there is a growing resistance brewing within the baking community. I’ve already found a whisk shoved through my car’s window.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s a hell of a lot more threatening than a spatula.” I covered my face. “And now the sheep are breeding. If I still have my job at the end of the week, I’ll be amazed.”

  Gretchen tried to cheer me up, even letting Ambrose settle at my feet. Problem was, she was such a horrible liar, she didn’t even try.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I heard those rumors too. The council isn’t happy.”

  “They’re never happy.”

  “But you know, I talked to a friend of mine in Ironfield. The civil engineers’ office has a spot opening up. You’d be perfect for it. They’d take you in a heartbeat, and it’d be a hell of a lot better than this job.”

  “Really?”

  “Torch this damn festival,” she said. “You’d make more money there and you won’t have to give lambchop a talk about the birds and the bees.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Good, cause this is the coupling that never ends.”

  “Lucky lady.”

  “Will you…” I gestured towards the humping. “Will you take care of this?”

  “What do you want me to do? Offer them a cigarette?”

  “Too late for a talk about safe sex?”

  Gretchen surveyed the scene. It wasn’t pretty. “I’d say so.”

  “I’ll go get Julian,” I said. “He might…know something about this.”

  “About breeding?” Gretchen giggled. “Oh, I’d imagine a man like him is very skilled.”

  The words she wanted were impossibly fertile. “Watch the sheep. Don’t let anyone inside…except Brody. I’ll be back.”

  It wasn’t an appropriate time or event to Snapchat, but Gretchen smiled like she posed for a yearbook photo. “Th
ey’ve got Jules in the dunk tank.”

  Oh Christ. “Mayor Desmond was supposed to be the dunkee this afternoon!”

  “Chickened out. But I think we’re better off. Jules’ jeans are super tight when wet. You can see everything.”

  That image had already been seared into my mind. He’d slept in my bed last night, naked, sweaty, and oh-so-deliciously spent. The stress of the fair made it hard to sleep, but it was nothing compared to the most gorgeous man in the world nibbling his intentions along my neck, my breasts, and every secret place that seemed entirely too naughty for words.

  Great, now I needed a dunk in the water too.

  I hurried to one of the fair’s more popular venues, pushing through the crowds of excited families, screaming children, and bored teenagers. A cluster of amused fairgoers formed a semi-circle around the dunk tank, including a wandering clown, cotton-candy cart, and a one-man band composed of a drum, accordion, and kazoo whose application to perform I was sure I’d declined.

  The rowdy crowd cheered as Tidus, Varius, and Quint Payne lined up behind a chalk line in the dirt, beanbags at the ready. The rust-coated dunking tank barely contained the slopping, frothing water and the man surfacing from his chilly dunk. Julian stood, the water to his waist. He rubbed his eyes and shook the droplets from his hair.

  Did the man need to do this bare-chested? Half of Butterpond circled the damn tank, eying the goods like he was a charcoal drawing in the art exhibit tent. His broad shoulders rippled as he stretched his back, twisting at the waist with a frown. He swore at Tidus.

  “Let someone else have a turn, jackass.”

  Tidus impressed everyone with a quick juggle of four bean-bags. “But I bought-out this game for the next twenty minutes.”

  Cassi sheepishly held up her bean-bag. “And I’m still waiting my turn.”

  “You’re enjoying this too much.” Julian hopped onto the seat. He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Tidus fastballed the beanbag and dropped him into the water. “Son of a—”

  “This is a family event!” Cassi giggled, peering into the tank. She dragged a reluctant one-year-old into her arms before she ate her fill of pebbles on the ground. One of the kids she must have nannied for the town’s bad boy, Remington Marshall. “Don’t swear in front of the baby.”

  Julian grumbled instead. I gave him a grin.

  “You too?” he sighed.

  “Oh, you deserve far more than this.” I peeked into the cage. “Too bad the tank is full of water.”

  “Gotta hit the target before you can trash talk, princess.”

  “How many times have you gotten dunked today, cowboy?”

  “About a dozen.”

  “Ah, lucky thirteen…” I accepted the beanbag from Tidus and hoped the stitching wouldn’t tear my nails. “Hold your breath.”

  The bean bag sailed past the target, crunched on the power cords under the cotton candy stand, and shorted out the machine. A fluff of powdered sugar plumed into the air, followed by a whiff of smoke. The crowd laughed.

  Julian decided to get smart. He called to his brothers. “Can someone hand me a towel? Think I have some time to dry off now.”

  “Don’t listen to him.” Cassi offered me her bag. “Try again.

  The second throw plunked into the water. The third lost the bag on top of the Itsy Bitsy Glitzy Charms and Accessories Vendor A tent. That throw also attracted most of the visitors to the fun and games region of the fair. A busy gang of corn dogs surrounded the tank.

  “Give up, princess.” Julian gave a leisurely stretch, legs wide, biceps flexing. “There’s a test your strength game next row over. You can win back some of that pride.” His smile turned dastardly. “Why don’t you try the ducky pond in the kid’s section. Nothing to throw there. Grab a duck, win a prize. You could get a whistle or a headband.” The crowd laughed. “Maybe a gold fish!”

  With a grunt, I released the last bean bag that wasn’t coated in mud, leaking beans, or saturated with water—or beer after the wayward throw into Sheriff Samson’s plastic cup.

  The bag splattered into the target, swinging the arm and plunking Julian’s gloating ass into the water.

  My audience roared with excitement. Julian did not. He rose from the water with a savage grunt, clutching his lower back.

  “Son of a—”

  Cassi corrected him. “The kids!”

  “Fucker!”

  Julian Payne took two things in life seriously—his farm and dunking tanks. He crashed against the side of the tank, gripping the rails with white knuckles as a debilitating spasm nearly crippled him.

  I dropped the remaining bean bag. Cassi and Tidus rushed forward, helping their brother hobble from the tank onto the dirt. The crowd hushed, but Julian gave a slight wave of his hand as he tried to stretch.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just landed weird.”

  Quint whistled. “All downhill from thirty, huh?”

  “Thirty?” Tidus laughed. “Takes a special breed of idiot to fuck your back up at twenty-two.”

  Julian shoved his brother away, taking a tentative step forward. He hid the wince, but not convincingly.

  “For the love of Christ, woman,” Julian said. “Tell me there’s something—anything—else I can do besides work this fucking dunk tank. My fingers are pruning here.”

  Not just pruning. He was getting hurt.

  Badly hurt.

  But Julian wouldn’t admit it. Arrogance always led to self-destruction. A new set of worries gnawed into my stomach.

  “Actually…” I hesitated. Too many kids buzzed around the path for this conversation. “We do have a slight sheep situation in the judging tent.”

  Julian twitched. Neither of us liked the situations. “What kind?”

  “Someone get sheered?” Tidus snickered.

  “Um…” I held Julian’s gaze. “Mary’s lamb isn’t so little anymore.”

  But now my concern wasn’t with the sheep. I offered Julian an arm for support, but he refused. After a moment, he finally stood upright. He headed to the barn, and I padded after him.

  My question was useless. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He answered too quickly, obviously lying.

  “Your back…”

  “Not a problem.”

  “But—”

  “Micah.” His voice sharpened. “It’s nothing.”

  Bullshit. We weren’t strangers anymore. Carrying his baby had granted me some insight into the man. More than he realized. My late-night goal the past week had been finding new and unique ways to make the man feel good. And while a little pain had its place in the dark, unmentionable hours of the night, I wouldn’t permit it at my fair.

  I lured Julian into my private tent. My plastic chair had turned temporary filing cabinet, but I plunked the papers onto the grass, locked the flap of the tent with a quick zipper, and faced the big baby who denied his pain.

  “Where’s it hurt?” I asked. “Your lower back? Turn around.”

  “There’s an easier way to get me out of my pants, princess,” he said.

  “I’m serious.”

  Julian’s lazy, infuriating grin was more than an irritation—it was a talent. That smirk got under my skin as easily as it did under my clothes.

  I didn’t wait for his permission. I spun him and tried to check his back.

  “All of this just to get your hands on me?” He chuckled. “You don’t have to lie about sheep. God knows we have enough problems.”

  “I’m not making up the sheep problems, jackass. And I’m not coming onto you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  His voice warmed, a molten warning. “And if I were hurt…how would you make me feel better?”

  “Jules.”

  “Nurse me to health?”

  “Come on.”

  “Maybe you wanna rub me down with some lotion…”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “Don’t even have to use your hands.”

  I gave up
. “God forbid I take time out of the disaster that is today to make sure you didn’t just break your spine.”

  Julian grabbed my wrist before I could storm out of the tent. “I like that you worry about me.”

  And I didn’t like what that meant for either of us. “You are an invaluable member of this committee, Julian Payne. And I’m not saying that because you’re the only one of us capable of lifting anything over forty pounds.” I hesitated, breaking the promise I’d made to myself to never to get lost in the evergreen mystery of his eyes. “We can’t afford any more problems.”

  He smirked. “Admit it. You’re worried about me.”

  “I’m worried about the festival.”

  “And here I thought it was just sex.”

  I poked a condescending finger into his chest. “Your back better be healthy enough for that.”

  “Believe me, princess…” Julian pulled me closer, wrapping his thick arms around me. “I’d fuck you even if it meant having another surgery.”

  Not as reassuring or as sexy as he thought. I bit my lip. “How…many surgeries have you had?”

  He bit above my collarbone, suckling the sensitive hollow of my neck. “Enough.”

  “Do…” My chest pounded as the sweet tickle of his fingers wove down, down, down, trailing my sides, my navel, and to the hem of my skirt. “Do you need more?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “What about in the future?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” His voice lowered. “Why worry about the future? I can prove to you how good I’m feeling now.”

  Julian slid a hand along my bare leg with a mischievous arch of his eyebrow. My tummy clenched. He wouldn’t dare.

  “We’re…” I whimpered as his hand slipped over the soft cotton of my panties. “We’re in the middle of the fair.”

  “So?”

  “We’re in the middle of a tent.”

  “And you are entirely too stressed out.” He gently kissed me, finger stroking the soft secret tucked beneath the panties. Pink. Cuter than usual…just in case. “And you’re soaking wet.”