Fakers (Licking Thicket 1)

I resisted the urge to laugh. Literally no one had ever called me infuriating. And no one provoked me this much. I didn’t let anyone provoke me this much. I felt out of control, and I didn’t like it one bit. But also… I kind of liked it. A lot.

“You know—” I began.

“Brooks? Mal? What the heck’s going on?”

Ava walked around the side of the shed, her face flushed and sleep-creased, and Mal and I sprang apart like we’d been doing something a lot more fun than fighting about milking a cow.

“Ava, babe,” Mal said, belatedly striding over to her side. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Tired.” Her eyes flicked back and forth between us suspiciously. “I asked what’s going on.”

“Your dad gave Mal the Brad Ivey Dating Test,” I explained. “I offered to help, but Mal got cranky.”

Ava’s mouth dropped open in horror as she stared at Mal. “Oh, damn! He made you palpate a cow?”

I snorted. “No, he only made Mal milk Annabelle, to provide your family’s contribution to the Lope tomorrow. I was the poor sap who had to stick my entire gloved forearm up the business end of Moonpie just for the privilege of taking you to prom.”

Ava’s eyes met mine. She snorted, then I did, and soon we were both laughing out loud.

“God, I can’t believe you went through with it,” she giggled.

“You were a good friend, Ava. I would have done worse.” I shot Mal a glare. “And that’s not just me being polite.”

Mal’s nostrils flared.

“Anyway. Turns out Mal doesn’t need help with milking after all. He’s perfectly capable. So, I’ll just wait out in the yard for Bert to come along with his truck.” I forced a smile. “For what it’s worth, Mal, I owe you an apology for earlier today. I accept your resignation as Second Licker.”

“Mr. Perfect strikes again,” Mal mocked.

But as I walked away from the shed, I knew I wasn’t perfect. Not even fucking close. Because if I were anywhere close to perfect, I wouldn’t have wanted to grab Mal Forrester and kiss that mocking smile off his face.

6

Mal

I couldn’t decide if I was annoyed at Brooks or sort of felt sorry for the guy. It must have been exhausting always trying to be so infallible all the time. And boring. Boring as fuck. It was like a little look into the inner workings of a small-town crown prince, except I had to begrudgingly admit this one wasn’t as awful as the one I’d known in Homer. That guy had taken the stereotype a hundred percent too far by literally stealing my lunch money each day, knocking up not one but two girlfriends, and unsuccessfully attempting to blackmail me into sucking him off under the bleachers all the while spewing homophobic bullshit.

Cliché, thy name is Kevin Odom. Good riddance. At least I wasn’t back in Homer, and while Brooks Johnson was clearly the town’s golden child and annoying as fuck, he didn’t seem like a bully or a user. He was more of an over-pleaser. Earlier today at the planning meeting, it had been a bit like watching a cartoon superhero point his bright-white smile at the townsfolk just in time for a tooth to glint and bestow solutions to the world’s problems upon them.

“Brooks sure does look good, doesn’t he, honey?” Mrs. Ivey asked serenely from the foot of the dining table.

I blinked at her and wondered if she was some kind of mind-reading savant dressed as the head of the Licking Welcome Wagon.

“’Course he does, Mama,” Ava muttered. “Personally, I’m more attracted to a less showy type.”

“Thank you, honey nugget,” I said wryly.

“Not you, Mal. I meant Paul, for example. I love a man in glasses.”

I almost choked on my chicken. While Paul was definitely attractive, there wasn’t a human alive who could think he held a candle to Brooks. It was a bit like saying a Bernzomatic welding torch from Home Depot was nicer than a Victor Journeyman setup from a true welding supply outfit. Pfft. It may get the job done, but it wasn’t the same thing at all. And once you held the Journeyman in your hands…

“Paul seems like a perfectly nice man,” Mrs. Ivey said with a sniff. “But, darling, he’s gay.”

I snorted and quickly tried turning it into a cough behind my napkin.

Ava’s lips quirked into a small grin. “Oh, so he’s gay, but Brooks himself isn’t?”

Ava’s brother, Elliott, chuckled. “Score one for little sis.”

“No offense intended, Mrs. Ivey, but I’m not sure your gaydar is calibrated very well,” I added politely. Ava elbowed me in the gut.

After this lovely dinner with the family—and by lovely, I obviously meant horrific—I was counting down the minutes until I could give my excuses and scurry back to the blessed solitude of my arboreal guest house. Before the last ear of corn had been gnawed to the quick, however, Ava’s dad put me under the interrogation lights.