Chapter 1

Chapter

One

The Anniversary

K andie

"How you holding up, Kandie-girl?" Ms. Queen asks, wiping condensation from the top of the bar in front of me.

"Good. That catfish was so on point tonight, Ms. Queen," I tell her, turning my Remy Martin VSOP in slow circles on the napkin, careful not to leave water marks on her handcrafted bar top. She loves this thing more than her five kids. But then it's still here where they chose to live everywhere from Birmingham to L.A. with their lil' ungrateful asses, as she likes to tell me.

"Now, I done told you don't Ms. me. I'm your sexy older sister, not your auntie," she chides, posing in a way to enhance her more than abundant breasts.

"You mean, Granny. Ain't no hoe like an old hoe." I wink at her.

"You got that right, tell your grandaddy, Pa-Pete I said, hey." Winking she tops me off.

"Ugh, uh-uh," I tell her, shaking my head. "I can't stand you, but I don't want Mama-Pete going to jail for geronticide." Then I shrug. "Plus, nobody pours heavy like you."

Lifting my glass, I sip the liquid, letting the oak and smoke wash over my tongue in a loving caress.

"Mm." Humming, I sip again. I'm feeling good.

"Are you floating?" Giving me a little smile Queen asks the same question she always does right before cutting me off.

"Yeahhh." I know my smile is sweet and a little goofy not even having to look at her.

"Alright then, hunnie. I'm going to put your bike up. Do you want to wait for me or Felix to give you a ride?"

"Nah, Tell Jimmy-Ray to play ‘Soul Heaven' for my sister," I say, tossing back the rest of my liquor in one deep swallow.

With the practice of a seasoned whiskey afficionado, I two-step myself onto the dance floor.

"‘Soul Heaven' dedicated to Kerania from her twin and best friend," comes over the loudspeaker as I hit the dance floor. Letting my body sway, I dance alone in the center of the dance floor, letting the music glide over me like the best friend I lost twenty years ago today. No one bothers me knowing how sacred this moment is for me. In the years since I've been allowed to come to this little juke joint situated right at the edge of the town by the only train tracks running through this part of the state, it has been my haven. My place. I get to come here and not feel judged by my past or present.

"‘Members Only' for Kandie from Queenie," Jimmy-Ray croons in his deep baritone, switching to another blues song.

"Alright now," Ms. Lucille calls from the sidelines, dragging Mr. Charlie to the floor.

"Dance with me, darling." Bubba-T pulls me in his arms, then twirls me in a spectacular circle. "Look at your pretty self," he tells me in a big brother fashion, his white teeth breaking into a genuine smile.

"Why are you here tonight?" I ask, basking in his attention.

"Promotion, so I brought the folks who work on my line out for a treat." Shrugging, he turns us effortlessly into the rhythm of the song.

"Congratulations," I say, meaning it. Bubba-T was one of the star players from the local public university until he tore his knee up and had to quit. For the longest time he worked at Shelby Sugar but quit when the new Creative Chaos plant started a few years ago, offering local folks around here better pay and benefits.

"Seems like they are making good on all those promises they made to y'all." I can't hide my skepticism. There have been so many plants that have come and gone using the resources and the people of this area only to pick up and leave when it comes time for them to deliver on all the promises they made to get the tax cuts and the cheap labor.

"Yeah, they really are, but there are always folks that have something negative to say." Shrugging his big shoulders, he almost dislodges my hold on his broad shoulders.

"Well, I'll take your word for it," I tell him, knowing he wouldn't hesitate to give me the lowdown on everything.

We sway and I lose myself in the music and his big arms.

"If I didn't love Ms. Ernestine…" Trailing off, I give him a salacious wink.

"Girl, hush, you know you ain't bout that life for real." Scoffing, he chuckles deep and so hard his shoulders shake.

"Wh—" My whispered outrage does nothing but make this big motherfucker laugh at me more. Thank goodness the song ends because I'm already shoving him. What little good it does with his massive form. He almost reminds me of The Dirty Ass Cop Who Shall Not Be Named. I snatch that thought back as quick as I can. Knowing I can never go there. Never think about that callous, cruel bitch. One heartbreak is enough. That snag of pain spurs me right back over to Bubba-T's retreating form.

"Hey, where do you get off besmirching my rep like that?" I screw him a mean look. He has the nerve not to take me seriously.

"Umm, because everybody with a third leg around here knows you don't deliver beyond a few kisses and few cops of a feel that's why. Not that I'm complaining. Nobody wants that smoke from Mama-Pete about her Kandie-girl." He snickers, leaving me fuming at the edge of the dance floor.

Just then, one of my favorite dance songs, "Buckle Bunny," comes on and soon I find myself on the dance floor — well, between the floor and a little refresher when my buzz starts to dissipate until Jimmy-Ray is calling for last call.

Hurrying over to the bar, I let some random guy, Bob, Billy, Cy; I don't know, buy me last call. "Thanks, sugah." Winking, I toss back the contents of my Remy. Whew, the whiskey is sweet, but the buzz is sweeter.

"What you getting up to after this?" Eager beaver asks, more obvious than period blood on white pants.

"I don't know. What are you getting into?" I ask, knowing better than to give him a quick rebuff.

"You, if I play my cards right," he says, dropping his tone low, a smile creasing his utterly unremarkable face and boring ash blond hair. Right color, wrong shade, and he's about ten inches shy of the six-foot-seven of a certain nemesis of mine.

"Well, you just reneged, buddy. Oh, but you're probably a poker or bridge guy rather than spades. Nah—" I muse, tapping my chin. "Definitely pitty-pat or goldfish." Pivoting, I blow a kiss at Queenie and mouth an "I'm out," to let her know I'm leaving.

"Hey, don't be like that, little lady." He pulls my arm, his tone light, but his grip sure ain't. Wincing, I turn back to him. "In case you didn't get it from the card analogy, that was a ‘no'. No, it's a hell no. Now, let me go." Attempting to tug my arm, the only thing that crosses my mind is how kneading dough is going to be kicking my ass tomorrow morning because of the bruise this guy is leaving on my arm.

"You heard her," Bubba-T says in a tone that spells this dummy's body being found in the Tombigbee River.

The immediacy with which he releases me causes me to stumble. "Bitch," I mutter.

"You a'ight?" Bubba-T asks.

"Yeah." Refusing to acknowledge the loser, I scoot past the would-be altercation. "Thanks," I mutter.

Glancing behind me, I see Bubba-T and a few of the other guys he's with stare down the guy and his friends until they head out back to the rear parking lot. They must be from the county over, Epes. Guys from Shelby-Love know that type of behavior will get you laid down. We take care of our own collectively regardless of what side of the county you're from.

"You need a ride, darling?" Bubba-T calls just as I reach the door.

"Sure, it's your funeral, though. You know Ms. Ernestine don't play that. Word gets out I was in your truck on a Friday night, and you know we'll be having your wake next Friday evening and the service Sunday with her falling all over your casket."

Throwing up my hand, I don't wait to listen to the ribbing he's getting from the guys he's with who know I'm speaking nothing but the truth in that regard.

A few minutes later they blow their horns, passing me going in the opposite direction of the city center which I am heading into. This whole town is part of our heirs' property, so all the land is owned by my family and when I say we've fought to keep it — we've fought to keep it. We have been kind enough to let it to those who want to build on it and keep up leases, which is how I came to own my little bakery. It was nothing but an old diner that when downhill once Ms. Shepard passed away and her son wanted to live in Birmingham.

I made that place my own. Worked hard for it. It's not all I have because I got my family, but it is a big part of who I am. Kandie the Baker. The best cake maker, probably in this whole dang state. Mrs. Pam from church taught me right after I lost my family. It was an effort to reform myself. I guess it worked — no, it didn't, but I don't tell nobody that. I play hard but I work harder, and I have a booming business to show for it.

It's not far. Our little town literally has one traffic light dead center. It was such a big deal when we got one we even had a ribbon cutting, with the mayor and a state representative, who they settled for when they couldn't get Coach Saban down due to a conflict in his schedule.

My bakery, The Kandie Shoppe, sits right across from the Big Love Park, named after one of my great uncles named Big, who was actually named Ezekiel or Josiah, but was so big everyone called him Big because he was our version of John Henry. He saved our city when some disgruntled confederates from the Shelby side got mad our side was flourishing after the Civil War. To this day, the state has never allocated funds for a real fire department because Big didn't let our city burn to the ground. Okay, he killed a lot of them in the process. We never did get the fire department, but we did name the park after Big thanks to Mama-Pete.

Everyone hoped after what happened — another thing I don't talk about — they would fund one, but no. The pressure of those no-good Shelbys is the reason. We all know it. But now that my cousin, Delightful's husband, FADE's Creative Chaos plant, is bringing so much money to this area and the state, maybe we will get one. Then we need to get rid of our ol' no-good Sheriff, Ulysses, and his cousin, Sebastian the Mayor, both Shelbys.

Kicking a couple rocks, I watch them skip, then roll into the ditch I pass just shy of the tracks. If I'm to be perfectly honest, I meander on my best days, getting lost in my thoughts. When that liquor gets up in me, I do it a little more.

"Alright, focus or you're going to be halfway to Mimi's house." I give myself a little chuckle, knowing it wouldn't be the first time. My license got revoked and I don't have time to be waiting on folks, so I keep getting violations for driving. Never mind, I'm a business owner, thanks to that dirty ass cop. Always giving me citations, leading to court dates I can't miss because I don't even have a part-time person, which leads to me being arrested and put in jail. The joke's on them because I magically disappear and since no one wants to be the one that lost me, the whole thing just goes away.

"You fucking cock teasing bitch," comes the scream out of nowhere just as a truck zooms by and I'm pelted with beer cans.

A full one catches me in the back and another grazes the side of my head, forcing me to lose my balance. My left foot slips on some loose rocks. Arms flying before me, I'm grabbing and grappling on nothing but air as the momentum sends me tumbling into the ditch.

Head over tail, I flip. The smell of fresh dirt and grass fills my nose as my face makes contact with it.

Thankfully, it's the height of spring. Heavy rain has lent to an overgrowth of dandelions, buttercups, and clover lining the ditch. I don't know how many rolls and tumbles I take on my way down, but I stop just short of the water rushing along the expanse leading out to the river.

When I come to, I lay there as my vision settles on the stars twinkling where I'm sure my ancestors are tsking in heaven, "Is this what we've come to?"

Blinking, I lay there for a moment just looking at the beautiful sky. I wiggle my fingers, cold but they work. My toes — fine, protected by my pink cowboy boots.

"Gotdamn, motherfuckin, hick-ass degenerates," I scream up to the long gone offenders. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I make a careful inspection. I didn't hit my head, but the area by my ear is wet. Touching it, my hand comes back bloody.

"Dang it." I wince more from the fact that I may have to go to my cousin for treatment and I'm going to have to hear a lecture about my drinking and partying. I almost would rather go to the Shelby-Love Medical Center and risk the gossip rather than deal with her sad eyes and quiet pleading that I see somebody.

Yeah, been there, done that and never again, thank you very much. All they did was use it to put me and Kerania away. I'll be damned if I ever put my life in the hands of another person ever again. Fuck. That.

Making my way up to the top, I take my time. Knees skinned, one elbow bloody, the other arm bruised and scratched.

Tears prickle the back of my eyes. No one's here to see them so it's okay. I'm a one-woman show. It's all on me. If I don't show up, my bills don't get paid. And I'm not asking nobody for shit. It's me or no one. I will always show up for me because no one else damn sure ain't.

Determination that comes from always having to do it alone spurs me forward.

"Whew." I bend down, feeling the same sense of accomplishment when my croissants turn out right.

The light shining from the streetlamp across the street on me lets me know just how dirty they did me. My pretty poplin blouse I got for five dollars on Temu is torn. My cut-off Daisy Dukes have grass stains so deep Mama-Pete may not even be able to get out. Mud is dried on my legs and shirt. I feel the air on my back, so I know that the back of my blouse has not fared any better. And I'm still a little tipsy to boot.

I know I need to get home and get cleaned up. I'm already cutting it close. Saturday is a busy day for The Kandie Shoppe. Five a.m comes quick and bread, cakes, and pies don't bake themselves and require a lot of prep work. Gingerly, I make a few steps in the direction of my shop, which has my loft above it. I dread having to walk the five blocks and tackle the back stairs leading up to my place.

"There's nothing for it." I sigh, beginning the trek. I'm lucky I didn't break my neck in tumbling down the way I did. It happened so fast I didn't even have a chance to tuck into a ball the way my cousin Xander Rafe Leroi taught us that time he did a survival course at the last family reunion. He'd be so disappointed in my sorry tail.

My heart chills when I hear the engine of the truck. My stomach clenches so hard with a fear I haven't experienced in years as I hear the aggressively approaching vehicle. I can tell without looking it's the typical super-duty we typically see around these parts. Not uncommon, but no one up to any good is trolling the streets this time of night. I don't know how long it took me to come to in that ditch, but I do know it took me a long ass time to make my way back to the top.

Are those guys coming back to finish the job? I can't run. I don't even try. It's too late, plus they know where they saw me fall. And if they wanted to attack me while I was unconscious, they could have just rushed down right away and not waited what must be at least half an hour for me. If it's them, I'm screwed. If it's anyone else, baby, I'm just as screwed — only they may not kill me. I know better than most that some of the people around here ain't shit. There was a whole cabal Bishop Smith was catering to. Some of them were locals unknown to everyone but him. They were never able to recover evidence beyond the cages they found the kids in and the eyewitness testimony of the victims. If those volunteers had not seen the horror with their own eyes, I know everything would have been swept under the rug.

My gut clenching tight adds to the new stress on my aching limbs, making everything hurt. If they throw more beer and hit me, I'll count myself lucky. I'll fall. Maybe they will be satisfied with that and leave me the hell alone. If they grab me? My body shudders at the thought.

As the truck approaches, I brace myself for impact, hoping I get a look at the license plate so I can tell some of my cousins who like to put work in. With my memory, I won't forget it. Hyperthymesia is what they call it. I can remember things down to the minutest detail.

My body tightens, stiffening to an almost painful degree with every moment it gets closer. It happens so quick and seems like slow-motion at the same time. The truck accelerates and revs hard, passing me. I may even stop bracing myself, but I can't be sure. I must freeze like a rabbit because when I peel my eyes back open, I'm clutching my arms, bracing for impact — and nothing. It zooms past.

"Thank you, Lord." I give thanks, breathing a sigh of relief, finally focusing on the back of the truck. Which is what I should have been doing in the first place in case they attacked me.

That's when my heart stutter-stops. My face heats. It's a county truck. The sheriff's office, in fact. Down here, they don't have cruisers. No, trucks and SUVs are the general issue. There is so much rugged terrain. Anything else would be useless on these back roads and miles of farmland. We have too many natural disasters. They never know when they have a random tree limb finding its way into a road.

The lights flash like it's stopping. Oh, my damn. They've seen me. I already know even as I see them, they are going to come back, then they are going to see me and tell him. Ugh.

They may even insist on an incident report. I don't even know if I want to tell them. Loves handle our own business. We don't involve police. We do things the way we have since my people first got their freedom — in house.

Just with a description, my cousins Nebraska, Nicodemus, Samson, and Cyrus will go out to Epes and put those dogs down. No need to trouble the law.

The truck flips a bitch and comes back my way. It's about ten feet away when I see who's driving.

"Damn," I say, watching his face harden when he sees the word I mouth. Ice-blue eyes harden to the coldest artic. He drives past me, then does another U-turn.

"Hey," he calls, cruising beside me. Ignoring him, I keep walking, pretending the pain isn't tearing into my soul like a sticker briar.

"I know you hear me. What are you doing out here like this?" I keep walking. My chest feels heavy. His rough voice raking over me like salt is being shoved into every wound.

I don't need having to deal with Ulysses Shelby on top of having a near-death experience. Nope. Nopity. Nope. Nope.

"Gotdammit." He floors the truck past me, stopping several feet ahead. Turning on the flashers, he climbs his big jolly alabaster giant ass out of the state issued truck and comes around to block my path.

"Ugh." I heave the heaviest sigh forging ahead. Four blocks to go with a giant obstacle in front of me. This has got to be the second worst night of my life.

"Kandie," he grounds out. I stop, hearing him say my name for the first time in forever. The shock of it stops me. He never talks to me. Hasn't in fifteen years. He's talked plenty about me. Referred to me. But spoken to? No. I'm too far beneath his elite Shelby ex-Navy Seal ass for him to ever notice me now. Plus, I killed his daddy, so there's that.

"What?" I want to pull the words back. They sound petulant. Small. Like a child knowing they're about to be scolded.

"Why are you out here staggering around like the town drunk?" he demands with scathing cruelty.

Those boys may have hit me with their beers, making me fall in a ditch, but it's Ulysses' words that cut me deep. He's always known how to hurt me best. Good thing I learned a long time ago how to get my lick back.

"You mean like your mammy? She still dancing naked in the yard on Friday nights? Maybe you should go on home and check on her." I make sure to knock his arm as I shove past him.

"Ow," I cry when his strong fingers clamp around my wrist.

I swing around, ready to tear up the unscarred side of his beautiful face, when I see the flash of pain. Maybe that's why I do it. Maybe it's the pain in my body coalescing with the hurt his words cause. I don't know and I don't give one damn. Instead of dragging my nails across his face, I clamp onto his thick neck, clasping a clutch of his thick platinum blond hair in my hand, dragging him down to my level. I attack him like I planned, but only with my lips. I cover his mouth with mine, spearing my tongue. He freezes for all of two seconds before his cruel mouth softens. Though I'm the initiator, he soon becomes the commander.

His tongue meets mine. We tangle, we fight, we savor. Goodness, this man can kiss. His lips slant over mine. His tongue is a temptation. Lips making good on every promise they make. He delves into my mouth on a mission to tempt and I'm helpless to resist. I suck on his tongue like I long to do to other parts of his body. How can his words be so hard and his mouth be so soft?

Pain eventually rears its head. How did I end up with my legs wrapped around his lean waist? How did he end up cupping my bottom and holding me against his hard body and pressed against his even harder length?

Pulling back, I look into glacial pools of blue ice.

"What the fuck happened to you, wildcat?" he asks gruffly, his eyes doing a quick inventory of my raggedy state.

"Put me down, U," I demand, squirming as much as the pain will allow. I don't like him looking at me too closely. He sees too much as it is. "You haven't bothered with me since you came back here over a year ago. Don't start getting curious now."

Eyes narrowing, he pivots, turning back to his truck, ignoring my silent struggles.

Opening the door, he puts me in the front seat and slams the door closed hard enough to make my already aching head bloom with more pain.

Gaze unwavering, he strides around to the driver's side, getting in. "Who did this to you?" The question is cold, deadly.

"Let me out." Gritting, I look at the hard, unmarred side of his face. No one knows how he got the scars on the other side of his face. One looks like a starburst from the left corner of his eye, then a second running diagonally from his temple to just above his lip.

"Kandie Love, you're under arrest for public intoxication and assaulting an officer."

I sit up at his words.

"What?" Bristling, I grab the door handle.

"I'll add escape to it as well if you don't sit your tail down," he grounds out with menace.

"Dirty ass cop." I cross my arms, looking away from him out into the dark of the night.

Stony silence meets my accusation. "You're abusing your authority," I accuse, hating that my voice sounds like I'm choking on a sob.

"And you are impeding an investigation. The fuck you kissing me for when you've obviously been assaulted?" he seethes. The look he flashes me is so enraged I pull myself tight into the corner.

I can't hold his stare. I turn to look out the window again. I can't take the look in his eyes. The street blurs before me as I barely notice the direction he's taking.

Surprisingly, it's not the county jail he stops in front of. It's not the front of any building. It's the rear of my bakery.

Silent as a wraith, he turns the car off, comes around to my side, snatching the door open and me into his arms bridal fashion. He takes the back two flights of stairs like they are nothing.

"Keys," he demands, stopping at my door, clearly indicating by his demeanor any hesitation or lip from me will have him taking me back down those stairs and straight to jail.

Fishing my keys out of my pocket, I hand them to him with steadier than I expect fingers.

Taking them in his firm grasp, he unlocks my door and shoves it open. Pausing for a moment, he seems to take in the layout of my loft, his eyes resting with incredulity on my bed — a dark fantasy dream come true. Kicking the door closed, he takes in the room for all of three seconds before taking me over to the dais my bed sits on and laying me against the pillows. He pulls off my cowgirl boots, sitting them beside the bed.

"I'm dirty." Muttering, I lurch forward, not wanting to make my bed filthy with all the grime and grass stains from my clothes, knowing it's already going to be hell trying to get them out of my shorts. My cute little top is beyond help. I'll make sure to say some words over it before I add it to the trash heap. It did what it needed to do, making me look cute tonight at The Shack while I honored Kerania. It deserved better.

"Uh-uh." Strong hands belying their strength, gently push me back against the stacked pillows running along my huge mandala headboard I found on Esty. "You can barely stand. Tell me you have a first aid kit around here." Taking a skeptical look at my sparse but comfortable loft, he turns back to me and waits.

Too tired to fight with him, I nod to the back left of the apartment. "In the bathroom, under the cabinet."

Giving me a quick nod, he heads that way. Watching him leave, I push down the weakness that makes me wonder what he thinks of my place, my bakery, even me. Dang it, I shouldn't care one bit what Ulysses thinks of me. I'm proud of myself, what I did all on my own. Not that family didn't want to help, but after losing my whole family, for a long time I had a lot of anger towards everyone. Still, I managed to see my way through to opening this bakery and becoming a business owner. The five-k grand prize for the Shelby-Love county fair bake-off I won was enough for me to open the doors, throw some paint up, and get some of the equipment to start The Kandie Shoppe.

His tread is heavy as he moves around in my bathroom. I can just imagine him knocking over my skincare and touching my make-up brushes even though I don't really wear make-up.

"Under the cabinet," I call exasperated.

"I heard you the first time," he calls back just as grumpily.

"Obviously you can't see," I say, just as he strides out of the bathroom with the kit and several towels.

"What's that?" Quirking an eyebrow, he dares me to repeat it.

"I said obviously you can't see." Feeling good about the fact I'm not letting him intimidate me, I roll my eyes a little.

"Hmm, well, it's just as obvious you were wrong." He waves the kit with one hand, sitting the towels on my nightstand. Quickly, he assesses the bruises on the side of my face.

"Let me see." His firm fingers turn my head from side to side. The ice blue of his irises hardens to laser sharpness.

"Who did this to you?" He's demanding now. Pushing down the weakness, I meet his gaze head on. "I haven't needed a hero since they ran my daddy out of this town."

Releasing my chin, bristling, he takes a step back and I think for a second that he's going to leave. After a moment where I busy myself plucking the sheet and not meeting his gaze, he settles back in getting what he needs from the kit.

Grabbing a soapy towel, he starts cleaning my face. The answer as to what he was doing is answered when I smell the light scent of my facial cleanser on the towel.

"Ow." It hurts despite the care he's taking not to cause me pain.

"Sorry. You don't want it to get infected." Turning my face for better access, he cleans the wound with fast, precise motions.

Settling in for his torment, I allow my gaze to rake over his hard features, eating up every savage beauty I've been denied seeing up close.

I bite back more sounds even when I feel the sizzle and sting of the peroxide. Once he finishes with the side of my face, he moves down to my neck.

He cleans a spot I didn't even realize had an injury.

"Why do you smell like beer?" His eyes search mine for a brief moment before he turns back to cleaning my various bruises and wounds. He tsks, tuts, mutters, and curses with increasing ferocity as he cleans every lesion on my body. By the time he reaches the abrasions on my knees, he's fallen silent.

His whole mood is don't talk to me. The room seems almost too small for the emotions spiraling through us.

I know it's taking everything in him not to rail and demand I tell him who the culprits are. But he knows better than anyone how my family does things. How I do things.

Finally, when he's done, he meticulously cleans up after himself.

Disappearing into my bathroom, he comes back in the main area of the loft holding a white pill bottle before heading to my small kitchenette filling a glass with water.

"Here." He hands me some ibuprofen. "You'll thank me in the morning."

I take them. "Thanks." Tossing them back, I hold my hand out for the water. "I appreciate everything you did for me tonight. I'll make you a caramel cake. You just let me know when you want it."

Our gazes snag, so much left unsaid between us. I almost hate I offered to make his favorite cake, which so happens to be my claim to fame.

"I'll hold you to that," he says. My tummy drops. Why does it feel like he means he'll be holding me to more than the cake?

Waiting, I wonder why he's not leaving. He turns. My heart plummets even though I all but asked him to leave. He walks over to the door. Words swell in my throat like something is stuck there.

Don't say anything. Don't ask him to stay. Don't. Don't. Don't.

I get ready to pipe up to say, "Thanks, see ya," — anything with a fake cheerfulness. No point in acting ungrateful.

My mouth clamps shut when he locks the door, toes off his boots and heads over to the cozy nook where I have a small library just for me. He settles in the old La-Z-Boy I repurposed and re-stuffed, reupholstered with my favorite color of robin's egg blue.

The chair is huge, but it may as well be doll size with the way his six-foot-seven frame dwarfs the thing.

He looks at my shelf and grabs one of my thick fantasy compendiums.

"Um, what are you doing?" I demand, swinging my legs over, not liking that he has my special edition of The Cruel Prince and is putting his fingerprints on my one-of-a-kind book I had bound special for my collection.

"Get your little ass back in that goth fairy bed. You have a concussion. Your pupils are dilated. You're unsteady on your feet beyond the fact that you're obviously inebriated. You're banged up pretty good. I'm staying to make sure you make it through the night," he grumbles, distractedly.

"I don't need you to do that, Ulysses. Your mom needs you." I remind him of the only reason he came back to town — his mom who took over being sheriff after his father died and has stage four breast cancer.

"Mom's fine. I texted her before I saw you on the road. I'm working the night shift this weekend, so her nurse is there if she needs anything. They were watching some K-Drama." He doesn't bother looking at me as he puts his finger on the pages of my book like he got it from the half off shelf from some used bookstore.

Pouting, I pull the tattered blouse over my head and unhook my bra.

"What are you doing?" I almost giggle when he sounds like someone punched him in the chest.

"Getting my little ass back into that goth fairy bed," I say, pausing as I shimmy out of my shorts and stand naked as the day I was born in front of Ulysses Shelby for the first time in fifteen years. I look pointedly at my bottom. "But ain't nothing little about this booty, baby." I almost mess up the effect when I feel a little whoosh of dizziness as I turn to make my way to the bathroom.

I can feel his eyes tracking me the whole way, and it's not because he is trying to make sure I don't faint.

When I return from taking care of my lady business and brushing my teeth, he doesn't even look up from his, well, my book. Still, I know he doesn't miss a thing.

"Goodnight, U," I say, clicking the bedside lamp off, noticing the soft glow from my reading nook and feeling an odd sense of safety I know I shouldn't.

"Night, wildcat." My coochie clenches at his words in a way that lets me know I'm going to have to do something about Ulysses Shelby soon. And it's going to spell a world of trouble for us both.

I lay there watching him become engrossed in the story about a supposedly human girl who hates a coldhearted villain, as the past comes to claim me in my dreams.