The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

Everybody here has a hand in keeping this town clean, and we don’t take kindly to bullies or outsiders looking to shit up our home.

As he leaves, I make a mental note to ask Faye to confirm who hit her up about that shelf and to tell me about Muddy Boots again.

She only called the other guy a 'nice young man.' I don’t know how old Carson Hudson is, but to Faye, anyone under sixty is a spring damn chicken.

More importantly, I’ve got exactly two suspects who might have Grandpa’s old Winchester, assuming they haven’t sold it already.

As if she’s reading my mind, Shelly asks, “Are we jumping to conclusions?”

“Don’t know, honestly. Both of these people are shifty as hell.”

I don’t like Carson Hudson. My sixth sense spins like a broken compass ever since he blew into town and started making goo-goo eyes at Shel.

Throw in the weirdness with his antique hunts and his desire to outstay his welcome and I’m near certain he’s up to something.

At the same time, I hate to judge someone for no cause, even when they’re slicker than an eel rolled in bacon grease. We also have another suspect, a belligerent creep I would’ve knocked out cold if I’d been there the day he went off on Aunt Faye.

If I learned anything that day I wound up wearing pieces of my friends, it’s never, ever jump the gun.

We thought we were moving into a simple escort mission, securing a convoy route.

We thought the enemy presence was virtually nonexistent like all the intel reports said.

We thought we had air support when they hit us out of nowhere, and when the pricks in the hills started with their suppression fire.

We thought wrong that day about everything, and being wrong has consequences.

It cost my whole unit life and limb and took whatever sanity I had left.

The worst part is, we suspected somebody dropped the ball higher up the chain of command. One of the dime a dozen mistakes from fresh-faced officers who joined the Afghan gauntlet full of brains that weren’t compatible with what was happening on the ground.

When I demanded an investigation, I got a web of red tape to go with that purple heart I chucked into the bottom of my nightstand drawer—along with those letters I wrote for Shelly in my heart’s blood.

The investigation, the official report, was marked as unresolved not long after my discharge.

Unre-fucking-solved.

Why was I the lucky one? Things like that don’t just happen without someone’s dick hanging out of their pants, sloppy errors that got good soldiers killed.

If it could’ve saved anyone else, I gladly would’ve crawled in the body bag.

I wish they came home to their parents and kids and rescue dogs.

I’m also shocked as hell that wish isn’t as strong as it usually is when I turn and look at the beautiful face that haunted me while I was in that pit, while I lost myself, while I—

“Weston?”

I shake my head, clearing the funk, and look into her wondering green eyes.

What the hell are we actually doing?

Nothing about me is close to resolved and never will be. I can’t pull her into that even if we’re just—what?—friends with benefits?

Fuck.

I hate that phrase, despite how accurate it is here.

“Did you find Mr. Whiskers?” I ask.