Bad Cruz

I didn’t understand what inspired some people to want to hurt others so much. Surely if you disliked someone so deeply, you would avoid them at any cost and forget their existence. Trying to inflict pain on someone only showed one thing—that you were the one who was hurting.

Fairhope was a town so small you could only find it with a microscope, a map, and a lot of effort. Your-worst-ex’s-dick small. And a real time capsule, too. It had one K-8 school, one supermarket, one gas station, and one church. Everyone knew everyone. No secret was safe from the gossip gang of elderly women who played bridge every day, led by Mrs. Underwood. And everybody knew I was the screw-up. The town’s black sheep. The harlot, the reckless woman, the jezebel.

Being with Tennessee was going to ruin everything I’d built since I’d come back. My reputation, social standing, thriving business, and steady deliveries of homemade pies by grateful clients. …so why can’t I give a damn about any of those things?