Page 41 of The County Line
That might just be the worst thing I’ve ever faced.
I decide not to let him see me sweat. I keep my composure until I’m safely out of the trailer park, out of sight. Only then do I finally pull over, my hands trembling as tears spill down my cheeks. I try to steady my breathing, but my mind races, dragging me back to the last time a man had laid his hands on me in anger.
Jordan.
He’d been one of the first officers that I’d shadowed after graduating from the police academy and been sworn into the Baton Rouge Police Department. Handsome, charming, with a megawatt smile and a way of making me feel seen. His dark brown hair was always cropped short, military-style, and his full lips carried compliments like they were second nature.
There was a hunger in his gaze that I mistook for admiration, and he played his part well. Courting me with flowers, chocolatesand dates, showing me the city I desperately wanted to call home—a place where I could land safely and feel protected.
For four years, he gave me exactly that, including a picture-perfect marriage. Until it all fell apart.
It started with him being caught with another officer—a female recruit fresh out of training. He was placed on parole for violating department policy, and that’s when the cracks began to show. I forgave him, convinced myself that everyone makes mistakes. But his resentment towards me simmered.
He’d glare at me when I came home from a shift while he laid on the couch, a look full of loathing that made my skin crawl. And I quickly learned the department protected its own. His seniority ensured that no matter what he did, they would always side with him.
The cheating didn’t stop when his probation ended. If anything, it got worse. This time, it was shameless, right out in the open, almost to prove to me that he was above the law - moral and legal. I was humiliated, embarrassed in front of my colleagues and community, but I stayed. In the career and in the marriage. For two more years, I endured it. Until the verbal abuse reached a boiling point, and one night, after a long and grueling shift, he hit me with a closed fist.
The first time, I was in shock. I told myself it was a one-off, a mistake born out of exhaustion and frustration. He apologized profusely, and I let it go, wanting so badly to believe that was the end of it. That this wouldn’t be the end of our marriage.
But it wasn’t.
The second time came with threats:If you ever leave me, I’ll ruin your career and your life. You’ll never be an officer for any other precinct again.
And maybe he could’ve. But the thought of staying and letting him break me completely was worse. Ruin me if I stay. Ruin me if I leave. I chose to leave.
So, I left that second time, determined to end things before they got worse. I filed for divorce, packed up, and hid out in a tiny town in Georgia where I knew he’d never think to look. I stayed there until the papers were finalized and only returned to Whitewood Creek after everything was done.
Now, sitting in my car with my arm still aching from my father’s grip, all I can do is spiral. Is this on me? Do I have a thing for men who look strong enough to save me but end up walking away when it matters most? Have I been carrying some low-key crush on Colt all these years just because he protected me back then when no one else did? Maybe I’m just wired to fall for the guys with the savior complexes—the ones who swoop in all brave and good intentions, only to leave me wrecked when the shine wears off.
The tears on my cheeks have dried, but the pit in my stomach? Still twisting like a knot. I wish I had answers. I wish I could trust myself to make better choices, to not keep getting pulled into the same painful patterns. But right now, all I’ve got is the weight of disappointment, the ghosts of the men who let me down, and the one man I’ve spent my whole damn life hoping wouldn’t.
Then I crack open the door, desperate for air, lean out—and puke straight onto the asphalt.
Chapter 19 – Colt
“You came!” Lydia’s voice rings out across the buzzing community center, cutting through the mix of laughter and shouting kids.
I glance up from my UNO game with Jenni, my twelve-year-old opponent who’s been making up rules on the fly just to mess with me, and follow Lydia’s gaze. My eyes catch on Molly, standing at the entrance, her cerulean stare looking only at me.
She’s in tight cargo pants, a simple white T-shirt, and a camo jacket that looks like she tossed it on without a second thought. Her dark hair is pulled into a high, messy bun, loose strands brushing against her shoulders and her lips are the softest shade of light pink. It’s effortless. Casual. And somehow, it still steals my breath. She doesn’t need anything more to turn heads—especially mine.
I haven’t seen her in days—not since she rescheduled our parole meeting. I figured she was avoiding me, maybe pissed about what I told her about Jenni and my need to get involved. But here she is now, looking like she walked straight out of one of my best memories and wrecking any frustration I thought I had.
Is this what I’ve been reduced to? A wreck of a man who only stops thinking about rage and revenge when Molly’s in the room. Whatever this is, I need to figure it out because Molly might think that my interest in her is new, but I think I’ve always noticed her and always knew she was different.
She just wasn’t ready for me.
After giving Lydia a hug, she moves through the space towards me easily, making the chaos in my mind feel a little further away. For the last forty-five minutes, I’ve been trying to bring up the subject that’s been clawing at my insides, but the words feel stuck. Which, I’m sure, only makes me seem more awkward than usual to my Little today. Thankfully, Jenni hasn’t said anything about it. She catches my stare, follows it to Molly, then back to me. Her sharp little eyes narrow, lips curling into a knowing smirk.
“Youlikethis girl who’s walking over here,” she teases at me quietly, her tone dripping with preteen smugness.
“She’s my friend,” I mutter, shooting her a side-eye. “Don’t make this weird.”
She snickers, clearly not intimidated by my threat.
Molly reaches our table, and I immediately notice that something isn’t right. There’s a shadow in her expression, a tightness in her jaw, and when she gets closer, I swear I see the faint traces of dried tears on her cheeks. My fists clench the cards in my hands so tightly they start to tear.
“Hey,” she says, her voice soft and careful. “Mind if I join you two?”
