Page 2 of Redemption
Looking up, I mutter, “Are you ever going to stop punishing me, God?”
I swear I hear a chuckle rumble in the sky, and when I look back down, electricity crackles through the air when I meet those dark eyes again.
“Hi, Hayes.”
______________________
The first day I met Hayes Miller wasn’t much different than how I’m meeting him now. He was wearing a police uniform and arresting me—except he was five and I was four.
Hayes was new to the town, and Benton Falls, Alabama, being the town it is, doesn’t welcome outsiders.
My brother, Langston, was different from the rest of the town. His heart couldn’t take it when things were broken. A dog with a limp, a cat with a gash, a boy with the saddest gray eyes I have ever seen—it didn’t matter what it was. He took them all under his wing. I think my brother recognized a kindred soul in the wounded things he brought home.
Langston brought Hayes home that day, and I remember noticing his eyes. Even then, there seemed to be a storm swirling in the gray of his irises. I always found that storm fascinating until I learned—too late—that it was heartbreak lying behind that stare.
The irony of that day is not lost on me now as I sit in the back of Hayes’s cop car with handcuffs around my wrists.
“Hayes,” I say, trying to keep the anger behind my words hidden. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar—or so I’ve heard.
He doesn’t bother looking up—too busy messing with his computer and inputting me into the system as if I’m actually a criminal.
Screw the honey.
“Hayes,” I snap. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to tell your mom about this.”
His shoulders tense, and he meticulously shuts the computer—still not giving me the time of day.
I’ve hit a nerve. I can tell by the way his jaw ticks as he grinds his molars together.
He should remember that ignoring me only makes me more determined.
“I’m in the back of a police car like a common criminal. It was self-defense. You can’t hold me here.”
I don’t add that I’m five minutes inside the city limits of Benton, a town with a population of 1,500 people, it’s broad daylight outside, and the possibility of him being a serial killer is slim to none. I don’t think any of that will help my case.
He takes his time turning around to face me, and I brace myself for looking into those eyes again. There’s only so much a girl can take in a day.
My breath hitches when his gaze clashes with mine, and from how his lips lift into a smirk, causing his dimple to pop, I’m positive he noticed.
“MJ,” he says, as my eyes stay glued to his lips. “You bloodied my nose with a tire iron, and there’s a real possibility it’s broken. That’s assault of an officer—maybe I should tellyourmom.”
Letting out a huff, I shake my hair over my shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant, but I’m in handcuffs, for Pete’s sake, and the nickname sends a wave of pain radiating through my chest.
I hate that nickname. I haven’t heard it since I left, but hearing it now opens up wounds I thought were healed.
I narrow my eyes. “It was an accident.”
“More like revenge,” he mumbles, turning back around in his seat and putting the car in drive.
It hits me that I don’t know anything about this version of Hayes. I cut off everyone when I left. I was looking for a fresh start, away from the judgment of this town—away from him. It was my retribution and saving grace at the same time.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I dare you. Let’s see who gets in trouble faster—me or you. My money’s on you.”
Dark eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, unyielding and rigid. I stick my tongue out to punctuate the sentence—like the mature adult I am. His eyes tighten at the corners, but that’s the only reaction he will allow himself. I have never met someone so in control of their emotions. Growing up, pushing his buttons was my favorite thing to do. I lived to try to get a reaction out of him.
“While you’re at it,” I continue, “why don’t you tell her you’re still calling me MJ? I bet she reacts quicker to that than telling her I’ve been arrested. Unfairly—I might add.”
My mother is a true Southern Belle, and it almost killed her the first time she heard Hayes call me MJ. Her exact response was, “My goodness, honey, I know it’s not your fault, being how you were raised and all, but around here, we address a lady by her name. My daughter’s name is Mallorie Jade. I would appreciate it if you did not contribute to her tomboy tendencies by referring to her as anything other than her God-given name.”
