Small Town Scandal: A Wingmen Novel Read online

  Daisy Prescott

  Copyright © Daisy Prescott 2017, All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by:

  ©RE Creatives

  Photos credits:

  ©racorn and ©allyanora, Depositphotos.com

  Editing:

  There for You Editing

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Type A Formatting

  For our imaginary house goat

  If you say you haven’t, you’re a prude.

  If you say you have, you’re a slut.

  It’s a trap.

  Allison Reynolds, The Breakfast Club

  Contents

  Small Town Scandal

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Epilogue

  A Note from Daisy

  About Daisy

  Also by Daisy Prescott

  Acknowledgments

  FOR THE FIRST time in my life, I’m cool.

  Turns out goats are a hot trend, which makes me cool by connection.

  If I’d known all it would take to be popular was a herd of goats, I would’ve joined 4-H in high school. Or Future Farmers of America.

  Apparently, the ladies love the goats. At least in my case, they like the goat herder.

  Yes, I’m the goat man of Whidbey.

  People honk and wave when they spot my truck and goat trailer around the island. Small children practically lose their minds every time I show up with some goats.

  Sometimes some jerk will yell “Goat Boy” at me. Like it’s an insult.

  Maybe it is.

  I don’t care.

  No shame in being a goat boy. I could be a mythical creature. Half man, half goat. How cool would that be?

  Although, I can do without the yodeling and the snark about being a lonely goatherd from female friends, especially my brother’s girlfriend and the wives of my friends.

  Why does every woman seem to know the lyrics to the yodel song from The Sound of Music? Is this what girls do at slumber parties? Memorize movies? I thought they braided each other’s hair and got in pillow fights. Or tried on each other’s bras. Apparently, they all watch nuns fighting Nazis while singing songs about goats. Us guys watched scary movies and tried to out-gross each other doing disgusting shit, typically involving bodily functions.

  Memories of teasing and torturing Ashley Kingston when we were kids skip through my mind.

  Maybe if I wasn’t such a guy, I mean if I wasn’t dumb Carter Kelso and she wasn’t so out of my league, she’d still be mine. Instead of becoming the island’s own version of a jezebel, according to the woman herself.

  For no reason other than thirst, I pull into The Fellowship of the Bean for an iced coffee.

  The coffee hut being owned by Jonah, Ashley’s older brother, is a coincidence of convenience to my current location.

  I wait in line behind a black minivan, impatiently drumming my palms on the center of the steering wheel. A woman wearing a green and navy Mariners’ cap leans out of the window of the hut to hand over a whipped cream topped beverage. I frown. I guess I secretly hoped Jonah would be working.

  So I could catch up. About stuff.

  Not ask about his sister.

  I’ve been collecting the coffee grounds from Jonah and Ashley’s coffee huts along with the ones from Erik’s café. Packaged in large bags, we give them out for free to anyone who wants grounds for their compost or garden.

  We’re the Justice League of crunchy, earth loving hippies.

  Without the patchouli and long hair. Or the mandolin music.

  Or free love orgies.

  In my rearview mirror, I spot a guy ride up behind me on a unicycle. He appears to be wearing a helmet shaped like a wolf’s head, complete with a snout.

  My frown deepens into a scowl.

  Falcon.

  He pedals past my truck, and cuts in front of me in line. As I glower at him, he stops by the hut’s window, his bare feet working the pedals to keep his balance. Takes me a moment to notice he’s wearing a skirt because I’m concentrating on imagining him face-planting off his clown bike. His rainbow dreads are wrapped up in a loose ponytail, which he tosses over his shoulder as he flirts with the barista.

  Something she says must be hysterical because he leans his head back to roar with laughter.

  Fall.

  Fall.

  Fall.

  I chant in my head as he leans farther, precariously working the pedals to remain upright.

  Then the moment happens.

  He tips past the point of balance.

  Fall.

  I lean forward in delight.

  His left leg kicks out to the side, and right before he goes ass over elbows, he catches himself. Hopping off the seat, he easily catches the unicycle in one hand. With a bow, he acts like he meant to do exactly that move.

  Hippie asshole.

  The barista leans through the window to hand him a plastic cup of pea green matcha. An auburn curl slips from under her cap.

  My breath catches in my throat like I’ve swallowed wrong.

  No wonder Falcon put on a show.

  Ashley Kingston’s laugh is worth making a fool of yourself.

  I should know.

  I’ve been doing it most of my life.

  Annoyed and still thirsty, I tap my horn. Not like someone in Seattle cut me off, but harder than a friendly honk.

  Ashley leans farther out the window and Falcon says something to her as he puts his cash in her hand. With a friendly wave, he hops on his wheel and pedals away.

  I make sure he’s gone before easing off the brake and pulling up to the window.

  Resting my elbow on the door, I give her a friendly smile.

  Not surprisingly, she frowns at me, her happiness fading. “Carter.”

  “Hi.” Ignoring her frown, I wave.

  “Was the honking necessary?” She doesn’t ask what I want as she scoops ice into a large cup.

  I stare at her profile while she works. A universe of freckles dot her high cheekbones and nose, which has a slight swoop at the end. Pink colors her cheeks and I’m not sure if it’s makeup or too much sun. Long, dark lashes frame her ever-changing hazel eyes. Even in the baseball cap, her fiery hair hidden, she’s beautiful.

  “Falcon looked like he was going to perch on your counter for the day. Didn’t want him to scare off honest customers.”

  She pours black coffee into the cup of ice, leaving about two
inches at the top for milk. “Ha ha.”

  Her laugh lacks any warmth and the fake sound bruises my ego.

  “Where’s Jonah?” I ignore the way my palms get clammy with rejection.

  “He’s working with Erik, roasting a new blend.” Again, without asking, she adds cream to my coffee and then presses on a lid.

  I should probably know this, but I’m not my younger brother’s keeper. Not since he moved out to live with his girlfriend, Cari, who’s way too cool for him.

  Ashley hands me the cup and I pull out cash to give her. With a flick of her hand, she tells me, “Falcon bought your drink.”

  “What if I don’t want him to buy my coffee?”

  “Why wouldn’t you want a free coffee?”

  “I don’t want to be indebted to a guy who can’t afford a bicycle with two wheels.”

  Her frown deepens. “What do you have against him? He’s legitimately the kindest guy on this island. Did you know he’s on his way to give a free show at the senior center? He creates balloon animals and does magic tricks.”

  “He’s a one man sunshine brigade,” I mumble as I take my coffee from the counter and leave the ten-dollar bill. “Pay that forward to the next customer.”

  Fucking Falcon. He probably lives in a tiny cabin in the woods without running water and bathes in a spring fed creek, drying off with moss before namastaying his naked salutation to the sun. She can’t be sleeping with a wood sprite with the same name as our high school mascot.

  Can she?

  “Anything else I can get you?” Impatience flattens her voice.

  “Any coffee grounds to pick up?” Despite this being one of our worst conversations among many awkward ones, I don’t want to drive away.

  “Oh, right. Let me grab the bag.” She steps away.

  A few moments later, she walks around the corner of the cedar-shingled hut, holding a large garbage bag against her chest. I open the truck’s door to help her, but she shakes her head and mutters, “I’ve got it.”

  Ignoring her, I step out of the truck and jog around the front in time to push the bottom of the bag over the side into the truck bed.

  “I told you I had it,” she says, drily.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not saying thank you. I didn’t need, or want your help.” To emphasize her words, she crosses her arms and widens her feet. She’s either bracing for a fight or trying to appear bigger in the presence of a threat.

  A small snort escapes my mouth at the thought of her going up against a grizzly.

  Poor beast wouldn’t stand a chance.

  In her apron, she looks like a beautiful, fierce, but pantsless warrior.

  Note I left off the princess part.

  Don’t call Ashley Kingston a princess.

  She will kick your ass like an adorable raccoon who happens to have rabies.

  I speak from experience on that one.

  Summer after fifth grade.

  I have a scar on my elbow from where I fell onto the gravel after she pushed me for asking if she had a soul. In a flower print dress her mother probably picked out, she managed to be fierce. More Princess Leia than damsel in distress.

  “You’re welcome.” She brushes her hands on her green apron. “Tell Jonah he needs to be back here before closing. I have to catch the five-thirty boat.”

  “Hot date tonight?” I shouldn’t ask. I don’t want to know.

  “Hopefully.” Her smile shows all her teeth but it doesn’t warm her eyes.

  “Well, good luck with that.” I flick the brim of her hat.

  We stand facing each other for a few awkward beats before a car pulls up behind my trailer.

  She walks ahead of me to the side door and I stare at her ass covered in a pair of faded jean shorts.

  Watching her walk away from me is the story of my life.

  At least it’s a nice view.

  After dropping off the ten goats at their new job site, I find Jonah and Erik in the warehouse of Whidbey Joe’s, their coffee roasting business. The two of them are bent over a roaster, examining a scoop of beans. Some days I envy their working bromance.

  My coworkers have horns and horizontal pupils.

  At least they don’t take long smoke breaks or spend their paychecks on beer.

  Unlike my business partner.

  I could never work with my brother. Up until last year, we lived together. That was enough. But I’d take him over working with our dad most days.

  If I had the chance, I’d do things differently.

  I used most of my savings to buy the goats. Tom Donnely helped me build their custom trailer. Those were the major business investments. Pretty straightforward, unlike the dynamics of the Kelsos.

  Family is a bramble of blackberry bushes. A tangled mess, with a nearly impenetrable bond. Sweet, but can easily cut you deeply. I’ve learned how to protect myself over the years.

  When Mom or Erik ask how things are going, I lie.

  Both to cover for Dad and save them from worrying.

  Saving face is something ingrained in the Kelsos.

  Pretend everything is okay and maybe it will be. Fake it until you make it. Or can’t anymore. Or it all goes to hell in a spectacular, public way.

  No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.

  The perfect Sunday churchgoing family hides a history of conditional love and dirty secrets.

  A married father of two boys and the nicest wife turns out to be a serial cheater.

  The owner of the tavern and the crankiest SOB on the island, who might as well be a troll under the bridge, writes a huge check to the local domestic and sexual violence support group.

  The island slut who—

  “You going to stand there staring all day?” Jonah interrupts my thoughts by bumping my shoulder, shaking me out of my list as if he knows I’m thinking about his sister.

  As far as I know, the only person who knows anything about my opinion of Ashley is Dan, friend and owner of Sal’s Pizza. A few months ago I was doing work on his property, helping him build a fire pit and patio for his girlfriend for Valentine’s Day. Because she wanted cozy fires outside and that’s the kind of guy he is. He’d do anything for her. I must’ve felt inspired to spill about Ashley.

  Or I’m terrible at hiding the truth behind a closed door.

  “I brought the grounds from the Bean.” I shove my hands in the pockets of my hoodie. “Where do you want them?”

  Erik points at the long steel table in the center of the room away from the roasters and storage containers. “I’ll have the crew handle them tomorrow.”

  People say Erik and I could be twins. We have the same dark blond hair and lanky builds, but his eyes are brown. I’m the only one in our family to get blue eyes. The same people who joke we could be twins also like to tease my mom about the milk man. Make up your minds, folks. Opinions, everyone has more than their share.

  Where Erik and I have light hair, tall and lean builds, Jonah’s all darkness. Dark hair, dark eyes, and enough black in his wardrobe to clothe a goth club. I lost track of the number of tattoos he’s gotten over the years. Jonah has at least five piercings you can see when he’s fully clothed.

  If people compare Erik and I to golden retrievers, then Jonah would be a bat. Broad shoulders, tattoos, gauges in his stretched lobes, a pierced eyebrow and who knows what else, he’s the dark to our light. We look like the all-American guys in a Tommy Hilfiger ad. Jonah’s the bastard child of a hipster and a pirate.

  I laugh at how far from the truth of his parentage those two things are.

  He and Ashley couldn’t be more different. If anyone around has a secret baby daddy, it’s probably their mom. I snort at the idea of super uptight, judgmental, and conservative Karen fooling around on her husband. Icicles in hell would be more likely.

  If you only met them now, you’d never guess he and Ashley grew up in an ultra-conservative family. Then again maybe it’s obvious. They’re each rebels in their own way.
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  We all are.

  By the time I return with the bag of coffee grounds, Jonah and Erik are done with their roast. I sit on a pallet of burlap sacks of raw beans. The scent of coffee makes me think of Ashley. Lately, it seems like everything does.

  Coffee.

  The color red.

  A combination of orange and sweet flowers that reminds me of her shampoo.

  Morning wood.

  The general loneliness I feel hanging around my brother and his girlfriend or our married friends. Couplehood spread through my wingmen like a hardy flu strain. So far Jonah and I are the only two left standing.

  “Hey, Jonah.”

  He looks up from where he’s wheeling a garbage can of beans toward the wall.

  “Want to go over to town tonight and blow off the stink?”

  “What about me?” Erik sounds like the little brother being left out. Which he is. “Cari and I like to go to town.”

  I ignore the opportunity for a sex euphemism, but Jonah jumps in with, “Especially downtown.”

  Then laughs at his own joke.

  Erik’s grin is smug and unapologetic.

  “I was thinking of a guys’ night. Maybe go to Pioneer Square and hear some live music.”

  “Pick up women? Is that why you don’t want me to go?” Erik whines. “I can be your wingman. The honey for the bees.”

  “You mean pollen. Bees are attracted to pollen. They make honey.” I correct him. I can’t help it. Once a little brother, always a little brother.

  “Fine, whatever,” Erik huffs.

  Jonah observes us before speaking, “Sure. There’s a punk country band I like who have a gig tonight. Probably not your scene, but the music’s excellent.”

  “Will there be women there?” I ask.

  Jonah lifts his eyebrows in confusion. “There usually are.”

  “Then it’s my scene.” I nod to emphasize my point.

  Chuckling, Jonah brushes a hand over his beard. “Suit yourself. Should make for an interesting night.”

  JONAH’S RIGHT ABOUT the scene.

  Not my people, but I’ll make the best of it.

  The club he brings me to is crowded with the tattooed and pierced. Grunge is alive and well in Seattle. Surprisingly, I fit in amongst the hipsters with my plaid shirt and jeans with the knees ripped out. Unlike most of the pants here, mine tore because the denim wore thin over the years. At the moment, these are the only pair I own not stained with grass clippings and dirt. I should probably do laundry more often. I know I’ll be washing these clothes tomorrow. The whole place smells like they mop with beer and haven’t aired out the room since smoking in clubs was legal. This wonderful combination sinks into my pores and clothes by the minute.