Page 67 of The Hitman’s Final Job
The fact that right now I can’t tell the difference between a man looking for his children and a man hunting for a target tells me I’m off my game. The development in my relationship with Vaughn is affecting my judgment, and that’s not something I can afford.
Zuza. I need help from Zuza.
“You okay?” Vaughn asks beside me.
“Fine,” I say. “Just taking it all in.”
He eyes me skeptically, but he lets it go.
By late afternoon, we’ve covered most of the festival. The food stands, the craft displays, the children’s competitions, and the agricultural show, where Vaughn gets into a detailed conversation about soil composition with a farmer from another town.
We get dinner from a stand run by a woman named Rosa, who makes a green chili so good it requires a moment of silence afterward.
We find Hux and Chris running an adventure sports information booth, which leads to a conversation about the Arkansas River trip. Vaughn asks questions that mostly sound like he’s interrogating Hux about safety. It’s kinda cute.
As the afternoon light starts to go golden, I ask Vaughn, “Can we stop by the Ridgeline on the way back?”
“Of course. But I don’t think I can eat or drink anything else today.” He pats his stomach. “Or for the next three days.”
“Not for that. I want to see if Sir Squash-a-nova made the cut.”
“Sir Squash-a-nova?”
“That’s the name of my dick squash,” I explain after looking around for any little ears. “I submitted it a few days ago. You have to give them a name. Technically, it’s your dick squash because it grew mostly under your supervision, but I’ve been trying to convince it to grow some balls so we can enter the competition, and wouldn’t you know it? It actually has.”
“I have no words.”
“It’s a good name, right? I asked Clay for some ideas.”
“It is a good name.”
We walk toward the Ridgeline, and with Vaughn beside me, it’s hard to fight the temptation to hold his hand. Instead, I bump my shoulder against his, and he bumps back with an almost imperceptible smile on his lips.
“You know,” Vaughn says, after a moment, “in a dick comp … I mean, in the phallic gourd competition—”
“You can say dick competition. Everyone says dick competition.”
“In the phallic gourd competition,” he insists, “I imagine you would win any day.”
“Thank you. That’s very affirming.”
“I meant the squash,” he says.
“I know what you meant.”
He’s definitely smiling now.
“For the record,” I say, “my actual dick is exclusively for private consumption. Very selective. Discerning clientele only. Sir Squash-a-nova, however, is a gift to the public. The Knot Today folks deserve to see the best of what this valley can produce.”
Vaughn laughs.
The kind, full laugh that makes me think about how I don’t know how I’m going to leave this.
I don’t know how I’m going to leave him.
TWENTY-ONE
VAUGHN
