Roughneck: A Payne Brothers Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “Come on, Desmond!” The elderly man gummed his words. Pretty tough with a mouthful of chew. “We got potholes the size of Trisha Taylor’s ass swallowing up Main Street, and you’re digging more in the only municipal building we got that ain’t overrun with geese!”

  A rather portly woman, presumably Trisha, barged through the crowd. “Dave Horsden, I know you aren’t talking about me.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Trisha!” The man swatted her away from the hole. “Don’t come pounding over here—ground’s unstable cause of the septic system! You’ll cause a sinkhole!”

  “If you weren’t my cousin, I’d push you in there myself!”

  “And if you weren’t my sister, I’d let ya. Only way I’ll get a decent burial without you fleecing every last cent the family’s got.”

  This town didn’t need barbeque.

  It needed therapy.

  Quint cackled, coloring in a space on his Bingo board. I glanced over his shoulder.

  “Incestual Revelations?” I asked.

  Quint patted the board. “And a Misuse of Taxpayer Funds. This is a good card!”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Oh.” Quint gestured towards the hole. “Mayor Dumbass decided he wanted to present the town with a historical time capsule tonight. Did it without informing the historical society. The ladies got pissed and stormed out half an hour ago. Last we saw, they were heading towards his house with velvet ropes.”

  “…Ropes?”

  “To cordon off his house. In retaliation, they declared his house a historical landmark. Called the governor and everything. They’re trying to evict him now. No one goes in or out.” Quint winked at me. “Don’t fuck with the Historical Society.”

  “But…” My head swirled. “The hole?”

  “Oh, about ten years ago, the Historical Society had a schism. Some of their members thought their tactics and procedures were a little too ruthless.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “So, the preservation society splintered off, took the treasury, and ran.”

  “But what about the hole?” I covered my ears as the jackhammering began anew. “Why is there a hole in the middle of your municipal building?”

  “The preservation society had a mishap with their records.”

  “What sort of mishap?”

  “Well, most of the Preservation Committee members are also the founders of The Alzheimer Society of Butterpond.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “They’re having trouble remembering where they put the time capsule.” Quint laughed. “This is the fourth hole of the evening.”

  I’d never get my letter addressed tonight.

  The doors behind us burst open. Another public works employee raced into the lobby, orange vest flapping behind him. He skidded to a stop, nearly plummeting into the hole.

  “Mayor Desmond!”

  The mayor shushed the crowd. “Tommy, please tell me you found it.”

  The worker removed his hardhat and rubbed the sweat off his balding head. “Not…exactly.”

  “You either found it or you didn’t! What’s the problem?”

  Tommy nodded. “It wasn’t buried in the park.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Well, it definitely wasn’t next to the gas line we punctured.”

  Desmond seethed. “You what?”

  Tommy raised his voice, calling to the crowd. “If anyone lives on Maple and Cherry Streets…please remain in the municipal building for now…the gas company is currently evacuating your homes.”

  Desmond nearly crawled into the hole himself. “Again?”

  “Guess the time capsule is somewhere else.” Tommy pointed across the municipal building’s lobby. “Though I thought we buried it on that side of the room...”

  “We will never find it!” A woman’s voice carried from the back of the room.

  An incredibly pregnant, thoroughly hyper, unrepentantly adorable woman waddled to the mayor’s side so quickly I feared the baby would bounce right out of her. I recognized that bundle of energy, all belly save for the two puff ball pigtails neatly arranged on her head. Gretchen pushed a raging, hunk of a man to the front of the crowd as she addressed the audience.

  “Know where the time capsule is?” Gretchen asked. “In the past. Isn’t it time Butterpond started looking to the future? When you cast your vote this election, remember this!” She thunked a hand against Marius’s solid chest. “Marius Payne won’t create capsules, he’ll forge memories. And instead of digging around our past—he’ll protect, serve, and ensure a great future for all of Butterpond!”

  The mayor rolled his eyes. So did Marius.

  Something told me the former Navy SEAL didn’t have the patience for small-town politics. The mountain of a man might have terrified the residents into casting their votes…

  Until they saw the way he looked at Gretchen.

  Hard to believe such a powerful, insanely disciplined sailor could look upon his girlfriend with such gentleness. The man could score votes by simply whole-heartedly loving the pregnant woman at his side—and the promise of a baby definitely helped his image.

  Gretchen elbowed him in the gut.

  “Who the hell needs a time capsule anyway?” Marius shrugged. “The goddamned thing is from 1986. What are we gonna do with a thirty-three-year-old time capsule?”

  Gretchen nodded. “Seems like a waste of taxpayer money to hunt for it now.”

  Marius scowled. “No. It’s just stupid.”

  She forced a smile. “And a waste of funds when we’re two points ahead in the polls, sailor.”

  “Yeah. That too.”

  Mayor Desmond dismissed them. “The debate isn’t scheduled for a month, Payne. Until then, I say Butterpond needs a reminder of its glorious past and the values that created such a wonderful community—”

  The sharp crack of a cane spearing the linoleum silenced even the jackhammers. An elderly woman hobbled her way towards the hole, parting the crowds with just a scowl.

  Her skin was dark—but her mood darker. She gripped a gnarled cane with arthritic fingers and pointed at a pot-bellied man searching through the rubble for a sign of the missing capsule.

  “Raymond Adamski…” The old lady spoke with a tremor in her voice, squinting through clouded eyes to chastise her victim. “End this charade right now before more of our time is wasted. Do you remember where you buried this box?”

  Raymond clamored away from the cane. “If I told you once, Agatha Barlow, I done told you a hundred times—I don’t know where it is!”

  “Don’t be daft. You’re the one who put it in the ground.”

  “In the eighties. That was over thirty years ago! Christ, I can’t even remember what I drank yesterday, let alone where I stashed a capsule—”

  The cane swooshed through the air, crippling the man across the knees.

  Quint whooped louder than Raymond. He thrust his Bingo card in the air and called to the crowd.

  “Widow Barlow-Corporal Punishment!” He ducked as the audience groaned and a hail of crumpled Bingo cards pelted him from all sides. “Bingo!”

  The meeting descended into chaos.

  The mayor hollered as the jackhammer began anew, though the foreman hardly made it out before the equipment sparked, shuddered, and began to smoke.

  The men shouted.

  The floor shifted.

  And the workers rushed from the hole as the linoleum tiles suddenly cracked.

  The floor surrounding the hole weakened, cracking away from the building and collapsing into the pit.

  Marius grabbed Gretchen and her box of buttons, pins, and Marius For Mayor bumper stickers and hurried away from the hungry sinkhole before it swallowed more linoleum tile. The foreman shouted.

  “Hey, Desmond…might want to check out this crack in the foundation too…”

  With a dull, aching thud, the hole expanded another six inches, then a foot. A crack appeared in the wall, splitting to the floo
r and beyond. The municipal building shuddered, and a low grumble groaned from the very foundation itself.

  A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling.

  Then another.

  The crack in the wall widened, casting a framed painting into the maw of the alarmingly large pit.

  Mayor Desmond screeched. “Everybody out!”

  A flurry of bingo cards and walkers crashed to the floor. The people shouted, their cries muted as Mayor Desmond leapt across the spreading, crumbling pit to pull the fire alarm.

  The lights flashed, alarm squealed, and people screamed. Bedlam descended upon the meeting as the residents burst towards the door in a race against time and fake hips, desperate to save themselves from certain inconvenience at the base of a three-foot-deep abyss.

  “Don’t worry about me!” Desmond shouted to the town. “Save yourselves!”

  The people stampeded out the main doors, though Marius and Gretchen stood resolute, frowning only at the spreading, cracking hole that trapped Desmond on an island of dusty tiles, two stained chairs, and a houseplant.

  “For fuck’s sake.” Marius scowled. “We got worse potholes on Main Street.”

  Desmond cackled. “Then why don’t you jump over here and save me…oh.” He covered his smarmy smile with a hand. “That is…if you can with that prosthetic.”

  Marius growled nearly taking the one-legged leap. Gretchen stopped him, an arm on his shoulder.

  “Rescue your pregnant fiancé first…” She wrapped her arms around her neck and hopped. Marius caught her, stumbling only slightly as he swooped her against his chest. “This will poll better with the women aged twenty-five to forty.”

  Desmond swore. “Are you kidding me?”

  Gretchen patted her tummy. “See you later, Desmond.”

  Marius grimaced and slowly carried Gretchen towards the door, stumbling only slightly as he hauled her out with one bad leg. He shouted over his shoulder.

  “Quint, help us out?”

  Quint jogged to the doors, holding it open so Marius could squeeze out.

  “Damn…” Quint sighed. “Can’t believe Tidus missed the one meeting where the municipal building got swallowed into the maw of hell.”

  I frowned, following the herd outside. “Yeah. We’re both unlucky.”

  The meeting was every bit the insanity that I expected from Butterpond, but I had thirty pounds of beef waiting for the Mayor’s permission to sleep in the smoker tonight. Hole or no hole, I needed an answer about my truck now.

  The townsfolk congregated on the sidewalk, and I threaded through the crowds, avoiding pregnant bellies and angry canes. The meeting cheered as Marius set Gretchen on the ground, then grumbled as Mayor Desmond made a triumphant exit from the building.

  Enough was enough.

  I hopped onto a bench, waved my hands, and called for everyone’s attention.

  “Hi! Excuse me!” I flashed a brilliant smile. “I was wondering if I might ask a question!”

  The town stared at me like they were vegetarians in a slaughterhouse. Too new a face in too old a town. But the whispers passed through the audience.

  Barbeque girl.

  I did love the title.

  I properly introduced myself. “Hi, everyone. I’m Honey Hudson. I run Honey’s Barbeque. I received a notice today, a violation with my food truck, and I was wondering if we might resolve this little mistake tonight before the ground consumes us all.”

  Mayor Desmond adjusted his suit jacket. “Ah, yes. You were the one operating the restaurant.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I own a food truck, not a restaurant. I have a limited menu focusing on fresh, homemade barbeque.”

  A murmur rose from the crowd. Damn. I should’ve brought samples.

  “See, my family owned a restaurant for thirty years,” I said. “When my father retired, I started my own business with all of our secret family recipes. This food truck is my baby. I make my own barbeque sauces, smoke my own meats like pulled pork, ribs that fall right off the bone, and thick juicy brisket. And, if I do say so myself…” I winked. “The best garlic mashed potatoes you’ve ever tasted. It is a kiss of southern cuisine that can roll up right next door.”

  Quint rallied the crowd, shouting from the back. “When can we eat?”

  The townspeople agreed, shouting out orders for brisket and ribs. Unfortunately, the mayor didn’t buy the endorsement. He took the Stop-Work Notice from my hand and read over the words once more.

  “A food truck?” He shook his head. “Last I checked…you were operating from a single location.”

  “Only temporarily.”

  He handed me the letter with a frown. “I’m sorry, Miss Hudson. But you need a permit to operate a restaurant on any premise within Butterpond.”

  The letter crinkled in my fist. “But I don’t own a restaurant. It’s a food truck.”

  “Is it mobile?”

  Damn it. “Not…at the moment.”

  “Is it operational?”

  It would be soon, but not soon enough. “The kitchen works just fine.”

  “And the engine?”

  The crowd stilled. I gritted my teeth.

  “…I’m currently having it repaired.”

  The mayor nodded. “If the kitchen is immobile, you are not operating a food truck, you’re running a very cramped restaurant. And that will require permits.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ.” Marius hollered. “Just let her cook some barbeque.”

  The townsfolk agreed with enthusiastic nods, but the mayor held up a hand.

  “And now you can see what Mr. Payne is so eager to bring to Butterpond. Lawlessness. A total disregard for community ordinances.” He scowled. “Why, if it were up to Marius Payne, this county wouldn’t even be dry!”

  Marius laughed. “You’re goddamned right!”

  The meeting cheered…or at least, most of them. The silent, scowling older ladies pursed their lips. Probably could have used the drink they so despised.

  Mayor Desmond wasn’t swayed. “Until she has a fully functional, running, inspected food truck, any food prepared and sold will constitute a restaurant. And, as she has no permit for a restaurant, the business will be fined five hundred dollars a day until she is in compliance.”

  I nearly tumbled from the bench, saved from an untimely faceplant by Marius’s steadying arm.

  “Five hundred dollars?” I gasped. “I don’t have that kind of money!”

  And I wouldn’t earn it just making brisket.

  The restaurant business had tight enough margins without the cost of repairing a broken-down food truck, buying the ingredients, and finding a place to sleep that wasn’t on the floor next to the minifridge.

  Mayor Desmond smirked. “Well, Miss Hudson, until you have the money, I suggest shuttering your operations. We can review the status of your restaurant again at next month’s meeting.” He turned to address the crowd. “Shall we continue the meeting at the park pavilion?”

  “No good!” A man called out. “It’s full of holes!”

  My knees weakened, and I plunked onto the bench.

  It wasn’t fair. This was a nightmare.

  First leaving home, then the accident, and now I had no way to make any money to get back on my feet.

  Tidus was right. I needed to call Daddy. But I couldn’t face that disappointment. He’d been so proud of the food truck. The last thing he deserved was to dip into his tiny retirement fund to bail me out of trouble the instant I left town.

  But now…I didn’t have a choice.

  So much for the Brawl-B-Que. So much for the barbeque circuit.

  So much for my business.

  Quint raced to my side, hauling me off the bench. “Hey! Does anyone else hear that music?”

  The elbow to my ribs was unnecessary. I’d already heard the tinkling bells.

  And the honking.

  …And the truck backfiring.

  That engine wheeze had never sounded so beautiful before, especially in harmony
to an out-of-tune rendition of Turkey in the Straw that dropped every third note.

  “It’s my truck!” My grin faded. “Hey! Someone stole my truck!”

  But they weren’t getting far.

  I sprinted towards the truck as it seizured into the parking lot. Black, charred smoke guzzled from under the hood. Even uglier smog billowed from the exhaust. Any scent of ribs or brisket was inundated by a grimy, disgusting stench of diesel and burnt grease.

  The truck puttered, rolled, and eventually panted next to the sidewalk.

  If it wasn’t dead before, it sure as hell entered the proverbial festival grounds in the sky now.

  I had no idea how he did it, no clue why he’d done it, or how he’d managed to save my butt just in the nick of time, but I owed more than an apology to Tidus Payne.

  He tossed the keys to me, but I let them drop to the ground, choosing instead to rush into his arms and wrap him in a tight hug.

  “Better ways to repay me, Honeybee,” he muttered. “Besides, not sure I’m the best advertisement for you…”

  The audience stared in abject horror at the smoking, shuddering mess of a truck with a flat tire, dying music, and a puddle of every fluid leaking underneath.

  Didn’t matter.

  By a very loose definition, my truck was mobile.

  Tidus did the honors, taking the stop-work notice from my hand. He ripped it into pieces, letting the shreds fall at the mayor’s feet.

  “This…” I gestured to my truck. “Behind the smoke…is a food truck! Not a restaurant.”

  “I see.” Desmond played it diplomatically. “Then we have no issues here…” His eyes lingered over Tidus. “Though it appears you’ll have your own problems soon enough.”

  Tidus didn’t flinch. “Heard you were looking for a time capsule.”

  “Yes.”

  “From 1986?”

  The mayor spoke through clenched teeth. “Yes.”

  “Christ, Remington Marshall and I dug that up years ago. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to open it now. It’d be filthy inside.”

  “You realize that you are the reason I made this city dry.”

  Tidus grinned. “Can’t thank you enough, Mayor.”