Page 1 of Redemption
Chapter 1
Mallorie Jade
The blistering heat beams down, causing my shirt to stick to me like a second skin. This is why I’m not a summer girl. I despise the heat—always have. I don’t understand wanting to bake like a cookie under the sun. Give me a crisp fall day any day of the week, but this heat—well, it feels like every wrong decision I’ve ever made.
I’m counting down the seconds until I can get back in my car and crank up the air conditioner, but that can’t happen until I take care of my tire that’s flatter than my cousin Tilly’s hair—and that’s onlyifI can stop thinking about the way my ponytail clings to the back of my neck.
Ripping the offending hair off my skin, I wrap it around the rubber band once, twice, three times until it’s tight in a bun. One problem solved, and a million more to go.
The Southern heat is suffocating as rivulets of sweat drip down my back. After six years, this is not how I imagined returning home. I mean—I didn’t imagine coming back at all, but here I am, starting off spectacularly.
It feels like God is having a good laugh at my expense because I made plans—detailed and specific—and I watched them all tumble to the ground like dominoes, one after another. Now I’m back home, in a town that lacks a stoplight but makes up for it in the number of nosy people because that’s the thing about smalltowns—they love their gossip. It’s part of why I left—I was sick of being at the center of it.
When I left, I did so in a blaze of glory, burning bridges with all the people who could never see past my last name. In hindsight, burning those bridges wasn’t my best idea, but in my defense, I was angry and heartbroken. Plus, I didn’t think I would ever step foot in this town again, so there’s that.
A breeze drifts across my heated skin, giving me a small reprieve. I’ll take what I can get.
My fingers scream in pain as I give another shove at the tire iron. I’ve worked on this one lug nut for the past twenty minutes without it moving an inch.
If it weren’t so hot, I would give up and walk the rest of the way to town, but I might have a heatstroke before I make it there today.
With one last shove, it breaks loose, and I throw my hands up in victory. To anyone passing by, I probably look like a lunatic, but I’ve learned not to care what people think about me—you have to when you’re the family disappointment.
My victory is short-lived because the voice in my ear chirps through my headphones, reviewing the next steps for replacing a tire, and I’m reminded that I still have four more lug nuts to go.
I’m an idiot for having headphones on while on the shoulder of the road. As a nurse, I’ve seen too many cases where cyclists were clipped by a car because they couldn’t hear them coming, but no one ever bothered to teach me the one-two-threes of being stranded. Instead, they taught me proper fork placement, and, as much as I would like it to, Southern Belle training isn’t helping me now.
If I do get run over, I’m adding it to my list of things I blame my mom for.
Always expected perfection—check.
Party planning over life skills because there are people for that—check.
Changing a tire—well, someone else can do that.
Rewinding the video to the exact spot I need it, I put the tire iron back into place.
“Please just give me a hand, God—just a little one, okay?” I say, placing my foot on the iron and shoving my weight against it. The prayer is futile. God and I haven’t been on speaking terms for a while—my fault, but still.
The iron doesn’t budge.
I let go of it, heat rising to my ears as, for a millisecond, I lose my temper, but, in two breaths, I’m reining it back in—gaining control of the situation. I am twenty-seven years old. I can’t afford to lose my head. If I’m going to survive being back home, I have to maintain control.
Swiping my forearm against my head, I wipe sweat from my brows, and as I start to lean back down, something heavy lands on my shoulder.
My heart jumps into my throat—the beats thrumming in my ears.
In two seconds flat, I have the tire iron back in hand, swinging it around with my eyes closed. My survival skills may be minimal, but I refuse to be the victim of a serial killer.
There’s a crunch as the metal connects and reverberates through my hand, the vibration sending a painful shock through my arms. It hurts more than I thought it would.
How I managed to connect with anything solid is beyond me.
“Stay back,” I say, gripping the tire iron in my fist. “I have pepper spray in my car, and I’m not afraid to grab it.”
“Ma’am,” a nasally but deep and somewhat familiar voice starts, “put the weapon down.”
Peeking one eye open, I immediately wish I had kept it closed because in front of me stands one of the reasons I left town, andblood pours out of his nose, dripping onto his police uniform. My eyes drift from the blood soaking into his shirt, past the strong line of his jaw, to his eyes that warn me of the storm.
