“Well played,” someone grumbles, and I realize it’s James. I resist the urge to shove his face in a puddle, because somehow, this all feels like his fault.
He must feel the same about me—but with less restraint—because the next thing I know, we’re rolling, swinging fists as we go. The mud dripping into my eyes makes it almost impossible to see. I’m pretty sure I land a blow somewhere, just before he nails me in the jaw.
Someone calls, “Soooie! Here piggy piggies!”
“HEY NOW!” a voice shouts, and it’s the kind of voice that demands respect. The music even cuts out, and James and I pause.
I blink until I can make out a sturdy-looking fellow with a wide, friendly face. He’s around our age, with a barrel chest and the build of a lineman. Maybe one who’s a few years outside of training, based on the way his belly hangs slightly over his belt. He grins down at us, then clucks his tongue, glancing around at the crowd gathered to watch the show.
“What have I told y’all about pig jokes?” he asks, and it’s then I see the badge on his belt. He’s a cop. I groan and release James’s shirt, rolling away.
“Well, now,” the officer says, dimples flashing our way now. “How about y’all stand up for me.”
Chest Hair lumbers to his feet. He starts to wipe his hands on his pants, then seems to realize they’re just as muddy. “Sure thing, Chevy.”
“Go on, now,” Chevy says, inclining his head toward the parking lot. Chest Hair doesn’t give us so much as a sideways look before slinking back and disappearing from the circle of lights.
“I’d offer you a hand,” Chevy says, “but I think you’d slide right out of my grip.”
The four of us get to our feet, looking like identical mud monsters. The very first thing I think about is how James is going to murder us over the interior of his truck if we have to ride home this way.
Chevy is still smiling, and it’s an impressive feat how he can look so friendly yet carry a mild threat in his words. “I think it’s about time to break up this party, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it a party, exactly.” I rub my chin. “Looks more like an establishment ducking pretty far underneath the liquor laws.”
“Shut up, Pat,” Collin mutters.
Chevy only grins wider, his dimples becoming even more pronounced. “Funny you should mention the law,” he says. “That’s why I’m here. And we’re about to get to know each other a whole lot better. All four of you are under arrest.”
“And they talk about small-town hospitality,” James says.
“If you come quietly, I won’t even put the cuffs on you. How’s that for hospitality?”
“What are you even charging us with?” Collin sputters.
Chevy tilts his head, thinking. “For tonight, we’ll go with disturbing the peace.” He glances around the yard, then raises his already loud voice. “Is anyone here feeling their peace disturbed?”
Hands go up around the clearing, as well as shouts of affirmation.
“There you have it,” Chevy says. “Now, let’s find you a pickup with a big enough bed for y’all. I don’t want all this mud dirtying up my cruiser.” He grins at us again. I think in some other situation, he and I could laugh together over beers.
With a little bow, Chevy adds, “In case we’ve been remiss to say it, welcome to Sheet Cake, boys.”
From The Neighborly App
Subject: Mayor scandal?
Cal_45
In case you’ve been living under a rock or underground （looking at you, Wolf Waters） and didn’t hear, Mayor Whitehead sold Sheet Cake proper to some non-Sheeters. It’s been nice knowing ya! If you need me, I’ll be headed to Amarillo.