Page 7 of New Hope, Old Grudges

But I didn’t.

I wouldn’t.

I tossed the paperback aside.

There was no escape.

Not from this reality with the dead father I never got to say goodbye to, to apologize to. Not from the life that had gone down in flames. And not from being stuck in the town I hated with my high school bully serving as the local sheriff.

ChapterThree

BRODY

It was Friday night.

Friday night meant beers at Kelly’s Bar where they had a live band. The band was usually a shitshow because we didn’t have a whole lot of musical talent here in New Hope, and we were too out of the way for any of the decent bands who toured the country.

Half decent was usually the best we could hope for.

Tonight there was a young, blonde country singer.

And she was more than decent. She had some damn good pipes, and I wondered what the fuck she was doing here and not in Nashville being signed by some record exec.

She was pretty too. Very pretty. Too young and too skinny for my liking, though.

I liked my women to have some meat on their bones. And to be uncomplicated. The young blonde country singer was definitely trouble. Ten years in the Marines and three as the sheriff told me that.

Plus, my mind was on a redhead.

One who was definitely fucking trouble.

And one who happened to hate me for reasons I couldn’t quite gather.

“Wouldn’t kick her outta bed,” Sam said from behind me.

I turned to my old high school buddy where he was perched on his barstool. It all but had his ass print molded to it for how often he was planted in it. I came to Kelly’s every Friday because I liked routine, and it was part of the gig to show my face around town. I preferred my own beer, own back porch and my own company, though.

But Sam was always here, we’d been buddies in high school and we’d fallen into an old routine.

Sam was the same as he was in high school except his sandy-blond hair had receded some, his gut was larger from his beer consumption and he was married now. To his high school sweetheart, Angela Harris.

Despite the wedding ring and the two kids at home, he was here every night and was currently leering at the singer in a way I didn’t quite like. I was coming to understand there were a lot of things I didn’t quite like about my old buddy.

Not at all because he’d changed. He was exactly who he was back in high school. Which made me really fucking ashamed of who I was in high school since I didn’t see what a douche he was.

“Do you remember Willow Watson from high school?” I asked him, changing the subject from the country singer who was barely old enough to be in the bar.

Sam clicked his tongue and chuckled, still leering at the singer. “Weirdo Watson?” he asked, draining his beer, slamming it down then signaling for another.

“Weirdo Watson?” I repeated, the insult sounding chillingly familiar.

He nodded, wiping beer foam from his upper lip. “Yeah, her mom owns the fucking witch store or whatever. She’s got a brother. Didn’t play football, probably gay.” He smiled at himself as if he thought he was hilarious. I scowled at my friend but didn’t get a chance to interrupt.

“She was a year below us.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ugly as sin. All arms and legs, no tits. Glasses. Always fuckingreading.” He said this as if it were a crime and not the sign of an intelligent person. “You should remember her, bro. You gave hersomuch shit.”

My stomach pitted.

With my asshole buddy beside me, a beer in my belly and a concentrated effort, I remembered following a redheaded girl, shoulders hunched as she walked down the halls as if she were trying to paint herself into the walls.

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