Totally Folked Read online

  Totally Folked

  Good Folk: Modern Folktales Book #1

  Penny Reid

  www.pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2021 by Cipher-Naught; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  978-1-942874-72-0

  Contents

  Just Folking Around

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Folk Around and Find Out, book #2 in the Good Folk: Modern Folktales Series

  Sneak Peek: Truth or Beard (Available Now!)

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Just Folking Around

  Good Folk: Modern Folktales, Book #0.5

  Part I

  November 2015

  “I know I walk a fine line between being a respected actor and being what they call a sex symbol.”

  Eva Mendes

  “We’re in Mayberry. This is Mayberry. And I think the entire town is at this wedding,” Lina whispered, wearing incredulity and fascination beneath her flawless application of makeup. Whatever Lina thought or felt at any given moment always shone like a marquee on her face. This made her an excellent method actress but also a terrible liar.

  I didn’t contradict her even though the name of the place was Green Valley, not Mayberry, and I doubted those assembled for our mutual friend’s wedding reception encompassed an entire town. The white tent was full, but I wouldn’t call it crowded.

  Lina had arrived in Green Valley yesterday, whereas I’d flown in just two hours ago and hadn’t seen anything of the town. But if this place was at all similar to where I grew up, I understood her comparison to the fictional city of Mayberry from The Andy Griffith Show.

  “I’m telling you, the downtown is one and a half blocks by six blocks, has two hardware stores and no Sephora. It’s a film set waiting to happen. I can see it now—a new quirky TV dramedy about lumberjacks and the bakers who love them, hokey and/or plucky background music included.”

  Grinning at Lina’s description, I took a sip of my water. “Maybe there’s a woodworking culture here. Don’t look down on people for enjoying their wood.”

  “Ha ha,” she deadpanned, but then smiled. “You and your innuendos are the highlight of my day.”

  “Are there any other kind of innuendos? Speaking of which, want to invest in my new pornographic breakfast cereal venture called In-u-end-O!s?”

  She grimaced and laughed at the same time. “Please don’t tell me what the shape of the cereal would be. I think I can guess.”

  Chewing on my straw, I winked at her, and she rolled her eyes. I always used a straw whenever possible. Even these so-called stain lipsticks fared better and lasted longer if one drank through a straw.

  “Look at all these beards,” Lina muttered, her eyes darting over the wedding guests. Seeming to shake herself, she sent me a look. “Oh, I forgot. You grew up in Ohio.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s the cold part of the country. People probably have lots of beards there. It might as well be Michigan.” She shivered, her wince increasing.

  “Never say that to someone from Ohio. And never say the reverse to someone from Michigan.” I may have left my hometown the day I turned eighteen, but the Ohioan in me—who still had the odd craving to play euchre around Thanksgiving and missed the changing of seasons—objected.

  She scrutinized me. “Is this about sports? Is that why I shouldn’t say the thing about Michigan?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s always about sports with you midwesterners.” Lina’s gaze moved from me and narrowed at something over my shoulder.

  Likewise, I glanced around the white wedding tent without focusing on any details, not wanting to commit eye contact with anyone, instead absorbing the general splendor of our surroundings. I felt a sudden, strange pang of restlessness and anxiety. Sienna Diaz had somehow achieved the impossible in her wedding décor: understated yet opulent. I was not surprised. Sienna Diaz built her brand as Hollywood’s reigning sweetheart on achieving what everyone had believed was impossible.

  But I hoped Sienna wasn’t making a mistake. In addition to understated opulence, from the outside looking in, her rushed wedding to a park ranger from small-town Tennessee looked and felt like a big, horrible mistake.

  Too late now. It’s done. Poor Sienna.

  With that depressing thought, and despite attempts to keep my gaze unfocused, Ana Ortega caught my eye and waved. I gave her a bright smile and waved back, telling myself to avoid that side of the room. She and I were up for the same role—a busty damsel sidekick in a Sclumicker blockbuster—and my callback was next week. I didn’t want her to inadvertently psych me out. Ana was good people, but I wanted that role.

  Holding up a glass of champagne from her spot across the room, Ana pointed to it and mouthed, You’re not drinking?

  I shook my head, gesturing to my water and mouthing the words, Early flight. My departing flight was early, but that wasn’t the reason why I wasn’t drinking. I never drank at industry events. My first year on the West Coast taught me that lesson quite well. It also taught me that sobriety makes other people uncomfortable, so I learned to fake being buzzed like a pro.

  Ana thrust out her bottom lip, in the universal facial expression for That’s too bad.

  “So many beards . . .” Next to me, Lina’s muttered lament snagged my attention. It sounded as if she found the sight of so many jawlines adorned with hair alarming.

  I pretended Lina—whose back was to Ana—had said something funny, grateful she’d had the idea of being each other’s plus-one. Lina and I were never considered for the same film roles, mostly because she preferred indie films that made important statements in lieu of money. But then, she descended from Hollywood royalty and could therefore afford to make statements rather than a paycheck. My mom had just recently—and tentatively—started to warm up to my chosen profession, though I think my latest film may have put a damper on her enthusiasm.

  It’s true. I’d been topless, full-frontal shot, arms over my head, tits filling the frame. For the record, I was not ashamed of going topless and it absolutely was not a reaction to my messy split from Harrison Kent. First of all, it was for work, and I’d accep
ted the role before Harrison had cheated on me; secondly, I loved my breasts; and thirdly, there is no thirdly. I was determined not to let anyone make me feel bad about showing off parts of my body I loved, doing a job I loved.

  I just wished . . . sigh.

  I just wished there were some way to both live my life on my own terms and spare my mom the judgy looks. She’d been through enough.

  “Well, we have to do something when it’s cold outside,” I said brightly, turning so that I was no longer in Ana’s line of sight.

  Lina moved her narrowed eyes to me. “Wait? What? What are we talking about? You grow beards when it’s cold?”

  “Sports, Lina.” I shook my head at her. “I’m still talking about midwesterners and sports.”

  “So, when it’s cold, you go outside and watch sports?” Her eyes rounded. “That makes no sense.”

  “No. We sit inside and watch sports.”

  My friend made an impatient sound, setting her empty champagne glass down on a nearby table. “That reminds me—I’ve been meaning to ask, what is a toboggan?” We were standing near a tray of both water and champagne, making it easy for her to reach behind me and grab another glass.

  “Really?” I looked between her and the champagne flute. “You’ve been meaning to ask me what a toboggan is?”

  “Yes. I keep forgetting to ask. I read the word in that dog sled movie Jorge is making and—anyway, you’re the only person not originally from NYC or SoCal that I know. What is it?”

  I had to laugh at her. “You know you can search the internet and find answers to your most pressing questions anytime you like. You don’t need to save them for me.”

  “Ugh. I hate the internet. There’re so many people there. Just tell me.”

  “It’s a dog breed,” I lied, watching her. She was so gullible.

  Lina was Ariel from The Little Mermaid and I was the seagull. Except, unlike the bird in the movie, I purposefully misled her with fictional explanations for the mundane stuff everyone should already know. Lina lived under the sea, in the magical kingdom of beautiful people and champagne problems.

  In our odd-couple friendlationship, I was the expert on real-people things, like how to pump gas, drive cars that weren’t Teslas, use physical keys to unlock doors, and how to interact with non-touchscreen tech. She’d once encountered a rotary telephone like the one my great grandma still insisted on using. I’d convinced Lina—for ten minutes before setting the record straight—it was a device for Morse code that sent telegrams.

  “A dog breed?” Lina nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense . . .?”

  “No, it doesn’t make sense because it’s not a dog breed, Lina.” Now I was laughing for real. “If you want to know, stop being lazy and get thee to the internet.”

  “Just tell me.” She curled her lip, adding on a whisper, “Don’t make me go on there.”

  “Excuse me.” A baritone voice paired with a gentle tap on my arm had me automatically turning. Moving my hair behind my shoulder, I tacked on a polite smile, preparing for a fan or—worse—someone coming over to ask me about my callback this week. Instead, I came face-to-face with one of these bearded boys with whom Lina seemed preoccupied.

  Inspecting him quickly—flower at his lapel, tux, brown beard, thick, dark lashes framing eyes that weren’t hazel or blue but something in between—I felt my lips curve on their own. I recognized him. He was one of the groomsmen, which meant he might’ve been one of the brothers of the groom. At the church, he’d been sandwiched between a huge, blond-bearded Vikings-esque male and a young Matt Bomer-ish /specimen with neatly trimmed facial hair and blue eyes that glittered like diamonds.

  I will admit, the men at this wedding had been quite a sight with their broad shoulders and capable-looking hands, seven of them standing at the altar like a buffet of mouthwatering masculinity. Or maybe a casting-call line for a lumberjack version of James Bond? Point was, even I—determined to be disinterested in men, romantic relationships, or any form of distracting entanglement—was not unaffected.

  I’d been affected.

  Squirming in the church pew as I’d sinfully devoured the assorted eye candy in the bridal party, I’d sort of started to understand why Sienna had initially decided to stay in this two-hardware-store small town. But . . . to marry it? To be impregnated by it after knowing it for only six months? To trust it? No. No way.

  Just the thought of finding myself in a similar predicament made me break out in a cold sweat and gave me itchy palms. I’m positive I’d had nightmares similar to Sienna’s present reality. And so, I worried for her.

  But back to the dish of mouthwatering masculinity that had just tapped on my shoulder.

  “Yes?” I asked smoothly, stepping closer in bold invitation. Boldness was my default. If I was going to be rejected, I liked to know right away.

  Also, I’d decided earlier (after the Magic Mike lineup at the church) that I wasn’t opposed to partaking if an interesting man-snack materialized. Someone outside of industry circles. A local. Beard optional. Someone who was obviously interested in me (since breaking things off with Harrison, I had a strict policy of never chasing my snacks) but who also wouldn’t make tonight into a whole thing.

  That said, I would not be having a one-night stand with a brother of my good friend’s new husband. If this guy was one of Sienna’s brothers-in-law, he was off-limits.

  The guy gifted me with a smile that seemed real but also foreign on his face, making me think he wasn’t a person who smiled often. “I’m Cletus Winston, Jethro’s brother. Sienna has spoken of you with great esteem.”

  Well, darn. That’s that. No “man-handling” this one. Ha ha! Get it? No manhandling.

  And what a shame. Cletus Winston’s formal tone paired with his southern twang reminded me of the accents in Gone with the Wind. Honestly, I’m always looking for an opportunity to be reminded of the love story in Gone with the Wind. I had strong feelings about the dynamic between Rhett, Scarlett, and that tepid vanilla pudding of disappointment, George Ashley Wilkes.

  Anyway, I liked how this guy spoke despite his unfortunate hillbilly name. Sienna’s husband’s name was just as cringey. What had their mother been thinking? Cletus? Jethro? Yikes! Especially when there were so many other great, strong southern names, like Mason, or Walker, or Marshall, or Jackson . . . or Rhett.

  “Sienna is the best,” I said—because she was the best—and gave this Cletus person a second look. The man wore a tuxedo and wore it well, but he also looked like someone who stepped out of the pages of “Little Red Riding Hood” and yearned to wield an ax instead of a bow tie. He was good-looking enough under all that hair, but definitely not my type.

  In case you haven’t guessed, my type was a Rhett Butler—a man who wore a tux the way he did everything else: with ease, charm, and a flavor of self-confidence that trended more witty-sardonic than egotistical.

  Cletus Winston, brother of the groom, stepped to the side and twisted slightly at the waist, gesturing over his shoulder, and apropos of nothing said, “My friend over there is a police officer, local law enforcement.”

  Bemused, I moved my attention to where he pointed and found another man about the same height as the unfortunately named Cletus. This one was less stocky, with decidedly less mountain-man vibes, and he was not in a tux. The man wore an extremely well-tailored three-piece suit in dark blue that fit his athletic body nicely. Quite, quite nicely.

  My eyes lifted to the man’s face, and I studied him. Good forehead; great hair, sunny blond with texturing spikes of brown and gold; straight, strong nose; symmetrical features; angular jaw in an oval face; close-cut beard that showcased the slight cleft in his chin. Extremely attractive, but not in the polished, too-perfect Hollywood, metrosexual way that now super turned me off.

  Presently, the officer’s gaze of indeterminable color shifted from me to Sienna’s brother-in-law and then back, his surprise unadorned by artifice. Obviously, the man had not been expecting to be introd
uced to me. Also obvious, he recognized me, knew who I was, and—based on where his eyes had just landed—he’d likely seen the topless scene in my latest movie.

  Interested in me—check.

  Not in industry circles—check.

  Local—check.

  And a police officer, eh?

  “Oh? Is he?” I asked.

  “He is.” Sienna’s brother-in-law nodded, his tone still formal. “And he’s got handcuffs with him. Just FYI.”

  My attention cut back to this Cletus person, and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. Oh, I see what’s up. “Thanks for the tip.” I made a mental note to give Sienna shit about this.

  While filming with Sienna two years ago, I’d joked once—just once—that I would be the first on set for the handcuffing scene near the end of the movie since being cuffed during sex always got me off, and she’d never let me live the stupid words down. I’d said it to shock her and anyone else listening at the time. Bravado always helped me conceal nerves and doubt. You know that old saying? Fake it till you make it.

  But Sienna hadn’t been shocked. She’d laughed like she thought I was a weirdo and sent me faux fur-lined handcuffs for my birthday.