Page 3 of New Hope, Old Grudges

I just didn’t want this particular woman to be pissed at me. But she was. And I had no fucking clue who she was.

A breeze jerked me out of my thoughts. It had a bite to it. We’d already had our first snowfall, and Thanksgiving was amping up to be the welcome of winter with a blizzard predicted. Not that I held much stock in weather predictions, especially a week out. Shit changed on a dime out here.

I shook off the chill and went back to my vehicle.

“Hannah,” I said over my radio. “Need you to run this plate…” I rattled off the number that I’d memorized from the Prius.

“Got it,” Hannah replied, voice groggy.

“And I’ll pick you up a coffee on my way back to the station,” I said with a smile.

“Quad shot,” she requested.

“Ten-four.”

Then I drove in the same direction the stunning redhead had, back into my town. The one that I loved, but the one she obviously hated.

Along with me.

A puzzle.

One I’d figure out.

* * *

“Willow Watson,” I said aloud over my coffee—not a quad shot like Hannah because although I enjoyed coffee, I did not enjoy heart palpitations. Luke’s, the local coffee spot, did only espresso drinks that would put hair on your chest. The owner, Gretchen, was apparently aGilmore Girlsfan, and the name and branding were an ode to that. Not that I watched the show.

Willow Watson.

She was a local. Grew up here. We went to school together, apparently. She was the year below me. I searched my memories for the redhead with the freckles, captivating eyes, the flush in her cheeks. There was no way I would’ve looked over her. Like a lot of teenage boys, I was an immature asshole, and I was horny as fuck, so if there was a bombshell like her within a fifty-mile radius, I would’ve taken notice.

Not to mention all the bullshit I had going on at home. There was a lot from that period of my life I’d repressed, much of it a blur of football games, fights with my father and drunken nights in fields with a bunch of people I’d thought I had to impress.

But Willow Watson was nowhere in those memories. How in the fuck that happened was anyone’s guess.

She remembered me, though, and her memories were not good. I winced at the thought. I was a pretty cliché asshole during that period of my life, trying to make up for the bullshit at home, trying to seem strong when I really felt weak. So … yeah, I slammed some kids into lockers, teased people who were brave enough to be individuals when I was nothing but a clone.

But I didn’t even have a memory of being an asshole to her. That was not good.

It wasn’t good she hated me either, because I could not get her out of my fucking head. Why was she back in town? What happened to make her despise New Hope so badly? Who put that hurt behind her eyes? And why in the fuck did I want to hunt them down and kill them?

ChapterTwo

WILLOW

It hurt drivingdown the tree-lined driveway. Physically hurt. I gritted my teeth against the tears that pricked the back of my eyes. No way could I cry. I didn’t cry when I lost my business, my home, my reputation, my self-respect. I wouldn’t cry now. I wouldn’t think about being taught to drive down this gravel road, hearing my father’s patient instructions even as I lurched into second gear, grinding the gears as I did so. I wouldn’t remember the kisses on skinned knees, the crinkle of his eyes as he smiled at me running down the driveway coming home from school, unexpectedly finding him there waiting for me.

Despite my promises to myself, a single tear ran down my cheek. I wiped at it angrily.

“Fucking Brody Adams,” I muttered. This was his fault. Though I certainly wasn’t at my best entering town again, I had a certain amount of resolve, of mental strength leftover. In fact, I was impressed at just how much was left considering my life had imploded dramatically and completely. But when you’re ruined, coming home with your tail between your legs, and you encounter your childhood crush turned bully, things tended to turn to shit. Especially when that childhood crush turned bully didn’t remember you and had the ability to give you a ticket. Granted, he didn’t give me a ticket, but that seemed out of pity or him pretending he was some friendly small-town cop.

I had no doubt he was using his authority as some kind of fucked-up power trip. The mere thought of him havinganykind of power over me sent chills down my spine. I wanted to run. Badly. But I couldn’t. If I had anywhere else to go, I’d be there right now.

This was a last resort.

And a karmic joke.

In addition to me having to face the place I vowed I’d never go back to, I had to live here under the rule of the man who’d caused me to run in the first place.

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