Anne Malcom

It set my whole body to stone.

“Hence my surprise at the brake lights with no real reason as to why you’re slowing down going into town at six in the morning,” he continued, obviously not noting my shock.

I found myself curious as to who gave him that scar and if I could get their address so I could send them a fruit basket or something.

Not that I could afford to send anyone anything, even a fruit basket.

“You?” I spluttered, finally finding my voice. “Of course.” I hit my palm on the steering wheel. “Of course, the universe isn’t done fucking with me. You’re the welcome brigade, here with the flashing lights, the faux small-town cop charm and the ability to give me a ticket I most definitely cannot afford.”

Giving attitude was not smart. I didn’t know how much Brody Adams had changed in a decade and a half, but I was guessing he wasn’t the kind of man who liked women with attitude. His empty ring finger told me that he hadn’t found a woman he liked enough—or was meek and subservient enough—to pull the trigger.

But in my mind, he was still the captain of the football team and one of the leaders of my torture brigade.

“I would definitely remember you if I was at my best when we met, which I obviously was not,” he continued, sounding friendly and apologetic.

“We didn’t have some drunken one-night stand,” I snapped, guessing at what he was alluding to.

“I know,” he replied. “I don’t do drunken one-night stands.” He had the gall to sound like he was some kind of decent guy who respected women. Too bad I had hard evidence to refute that fact.

“Oh, please,” I muttered.

Brody reeled back from my words and the anger behind them, obviously still surprised, still trying to remember me.

He opened his mouth again, probably to try more of the charm.

“Is that it?” I asked him, thrumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “I said I’d come back here when hell froze over, and it is definitely cold enough for that. I’ve been driving for ten hours, and I would really like this interaction to be over.”

I didn’t think his eyebrows could’ve gone higher, but they did. And I waited. For the boy I’d known to show up in the man I didn’t. Because people didn’t change. And he was obviously given power and authority, and bullies did not wield power with benevolence. So I waited for the change, for him to use that badge to make sure I paid for my insolence against him.

I thought I had a pretty good reputation around town, a pretty good memory. And I definitely thought I was a good enough man to ensure that beautiful women didn’t hate me on sight.

I didn’t do drunken one-night stands. And I wouldn’t have needed to be drunk to sleep with the woman in the Prius. It sure as fuck wouldn’t have been one night either.

I pulled over plenty of beautiful women. I made it a point not to make any kind of advances toward any woman while wearing a uniform. I was well aware of the power imbalance and how fucking problematic that shit was.

Yet I was tempted as fuck when I pulled over the redheaded bombshell. Even more so when her green eyes had lit with a fiery hatred when they landed on me.

“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 having any kind of power over me sent chills down my spine. I wanted to run. Badly. But I couldn’t.

Finding my senses, I lifted my hand, placed it on his chest then shoved. Hard.

Now, I was tall, but I wasn’t strong. Brody was a large man and all muscle. If he didn’t want to move, he could’ve resisted my shove. Easily. But he didn’t. He let me push him back, push him away from me.

“Fuck you, Brody Adams,” I spat, unable to come up with anything more original.

And then I turned on my heel and stormed off, fighting tears of anger and shame.

I’d broken many promises to myself lately, but I’d never broken a promise to eighteen-year-old me until right then.

She cupped my cheek. Again, I let her. “You need to heal. And we’ll forget about Brody Adams. He’s barred from the store and no longer gets my Christmas cookie delivery.”

I didn’t bother to argue with her on that one. Plus, my mother’s Christmas cookie delivery was famous in town. You had to practically murder puppies in the street to get off the list.

“Trust me, Mom, I’m going to forget about Brody Adams.”

Willow was the embodiment of my fears. The hurt on her face, the hurt that she’d carried for years was on me. And I wanted to fix it. But I also wanted to fuck her.

Badly.

Her anger, the way it made her eyes glow, the way it made her cheeks flush, the huskiness to her voice, it all got me rock hard.

Not to mention her sitting at the bar drinking whiskey, trying to hide her wince as she downed it, oblivious to me staring at her for a good half hour until her emerald eyes went wide as they met mine and her full lips flattened into a grimace.

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

The memory was blurry, though, and I couldn’t remember what I might’ve done to garner such vitriol from her all these years later.

I rubbed my hand over my jaw. “Were we really that bad to her?” I asked, racking my brain.

Sam chuckled again. “Bro, we were fucking dicks.” He shrugged. “But we were teenagers who didn’t know any better. And she was fucking weird.”

I frowned at my oldest friend, not liking the sound of that chuckle. It sounded mean. Cruel.

“We were old enough to know better,” I told him, the urge to smack him around the ears overwhelming.

The smile went from his face as he understood I wasn’t going to laugh about terrorizing a teenage girl.