Bad Cruz(52)

It was July Fourth, and the entire town was in a frenzy. There was a parade, BBQ stands everywhere you turned, and horse-drawn carriages rolling through downtown. Floats were made the morning of, and there was face-painting, music, clowns, fireworks, and the kitchen sink (True story. Wannabe comedian Charlie Spacey brought his kitchen sink as some sort of a political statement about the wastefulness of that day that nobody cared about).





Jerry & Sons had been closed for the day, so I’d let my parents take Bear downtown for the festivities while I’d stayed home, nursing a Costco tub of ice cream, a beer, and my never-ending fountain of self-pity.

It was the first time I’d ever missed a Fourth of July celebration. Even at the height of my scandal, these parades were so deeply nostalgic and sweet to me, I couldn’t refuse them.

Problem was, I’d known Cruz was going to be there, and I really hadn’t wanted to face him. He was a constant reminder of the fact he and Rob had gone and built lives of their own while I made unfair sacrifices and paid my dues for my reckless behavior, even if it had given me the most precious thing in my life.

It was probably nine in the evening, just before the fireworks had started, when I’d heard a knock on the door downstairs. Weirded out (my parents and Bear wouldn’t be there until well after ten and Trinity was out with her friends until the next morning), I’d gone to answer.

“It better not be a serial killer,” I’d muttered as I’d jammed my feet into my father’s checked slippers and swung the door open.

And there he was.

Cruz Costello.

Looking gorgeous, muscular, chosen, and…tanked?

On second thought, a serial killer wasn’t that unwelcome considering the alternative.

“Your tits are great,” he’d hiccupped, his dusky cobalt gaze sweeping over my chest.

It was summer, hot as sin, and I wasn’t wearing a bra under my white tank top. Odd thing to say, only the last time we’d seen each other, I think I’d been breastfeeding. Luckily, I was done nursing Bear. My nipples were no longer the size of a family-size pizza each, and the blue veins as thick as sausages were long gone.

For a while there, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to mess with Bear’s buffet. And every time I got into a hot shower to massage said breasts (because I had a ton of milk ducts), I would cry out in pain and my breasts would cry with me, leaking yellowish milk.

Truly, parenthood was a wonderful thing.

“What can I help you with, Costello?” I’d sighed, wanting him gone.

It was hard to believe I used to have a crush on this guy before Rob had asked me out. Cruz was so nauseatingly perfect. In a totally off-putting way. Like, the way a professionally-made cake was so perfect and smooth you didn’t want to cut it.

Though I did want to cut Cruz Costello, sometimes.

“You cuhn let me in and ass-plain to me whad Rob had dat I didn’t.”

Dang, he was three sheets to the wind.

“A general grasp of the English language for a start,” I’d deadpanned.

Was he here just because he couldn’t tolerate the fact I hadn’t flung myself at him years ago when all the other girls had?

Talk about fragile male egos.

Behind him, the night parade had passed through, banging on drums and singing.

Cruz made a disgusted face. “He used to kiss and tell.”

“Real classy.”

I’d rolled my eyes, but tears prickled the back of them, making them sting. I’d paid so dearly for my mistake, it seemed so unnecessarily cruel to bring it up again and talk about the intimate details.

How many times could I atone for it?

I did everything right now. Or as right as I could, anyway, considering the circumstances.

Cruz took a step forward. He smelled like bonfire and amber and sandalwood. Woodsy and musky at the same time. I had to remind myself he wanted what all the others did before him—to get me in bed, because apparently, that was the easiest task within Fairhope limits.

“Get away from me,” I’d warned, stepping backward.

“Not before you give me what I want…”

“What you want?” I’d asked, incredulous.

“Yes. What all-weeze belonged to me.”

He was going to take another step, I could tell, and in that moment, the only thing I thought about was what it was going to look like.

Slutty Messy Nessy, letting Fairhope’s minted doctor-slash-quarterback into her house while her parents (and son!) were away.

Of course she’d have asked—begged him for it.

It would be the golden boy’s word against the jezebel’s.

I’d swung my fist and gone for his cheek, but he was tall, and I’d ended up slamming my knuckles against his Adam’s apple.

I must’ve underestimated my strength, or maybe Cruz had been too drunk to abide by the rules of gravity, because he went down like a sleep-deprived toddler, falling flat on his butt on my parents’ front lawn.

He’d groaned in pain while the parade marched past with drumlines and trumpets, and it had occurred to me we were drawing attention and that I was going to be toast.

“Shut up, Costello. Get up and dust yourself off,” I’d hissed, stepping outside to ensure he heard my warning.

This, of course, had only made him moan louder.