Old Fashioned - Becker Brothers

I blinked, tracing my ex’s features and remembering a time when I found him attractive. I could close my eyes and go back in time to high school, to the older, more-popular boy noticing me. And though it was a bit foggy now, I could still remember when he’d flash that smile of his — a dimple on each cheek — and I’d melt into a puddle on the tile floor. I used to look into those eyes and find safety and warmth. I used to run to those arms bulging out of his uniform as if they were put on this Earth only to protect me and hold me and make me feel loved.

I used to look into those green eyes and see my soulmate. I used to run my hands through that dark, coarse hair and get so turned on I could barely wait to get him home and undressed.

There was a time when I didn’t even notice that his skin was white where mine was brown, a time when I thought it didn’t matter.

Now, when I looked at that man, I didn’t see a man at all.

I saw a monster.

Randy had never been obtuse in the years he abused me. The times he did hit me were few and far between, and usually spawned by a fight that I could easily look back on later and say I’d played a part in. It was the control he’d exercised over me that had been the real abuse, and my skin crawled the longer I stood next to him, knowing that as free as I felt, I’d never truly be free of that control he had.

“I’m sure it has been,” I finally responded. “Especially since the police department is having such a hard time shutting down Patrick Scooter’s little underground casino. Seems like if y’all could just do that, all of this mess would be gone.” I tapped my finger to my lips. “But I’m sure it’s not that easy, though, huh?”

Randy’s mouth flattened. I was mocking him, and he knew it. My ex-husband was so elbow-deep in the dirty political shit of this town that he had proverbial flies hovering around him in a cloud — and it had been that way since he first joined the department.

It was always my theory for why he’d moved up so quickly in rank.

They knew he’d play dirty for them.

Patrick Scooter was the son of the founder of the whiskey distillery that Stratford, Tennessee, was built on. His father, Robert, had apparently been a stand-up guy. But Patrick? Well, I had my opinions about how he ran his business — how he ran this entire town. And the saddest part was that he didn’t work alone, because he couldn’t work alone. If Mayor Barnett and my ex-husband would have joined forces, they could have easily taken him down.

But to them, money and reputation talked.

Everything else was null and void.

“You know, it’s a shame we’re not together anymore,” Randy said. “We could finally get that boat you’ve always wanted, take Paige out to the lake for long weekends in the summer…”

“Yep, it’s sure too bad,” I said, not feeling bad at all. If Randy should have known anything by now, it was that his money didn’t mean a damn thing to me. I’d even told the judge I didn’t want alimony, though it was owed to me. All I asked for was child support — and even that was nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

“How’s your little job going?” he asked next, changing the subject away from his unethical nature. “I heard you pulled a kid out of the game for no reason and that’s why the team lost last night.”

I resisted the urge to grind my teeth together or scream or shove him backward so hard that he hit his ass right on the pavement. Instead, I blinked, took a long breath, and smiled.

“Parker is one of our best running backs. It was unfortunate that he was injured in the third quarter, and I’m sure the team missed him once he was gone, but his injury was one that needed closer assessment before he could be cleared to play again. As for why we lost, I have my own opinions about that, but I recommend you talk to Coach. He’s the expert.”

I chuckled internally at my sass on that last comment, but when I turned to my ex, he was watching me with disdain.

Randy hated that I divorced him, but I knew he hated even more that I was working. When I got pregnant, he made it very clear that I was expected to stay home and take care of Paige and the house. They were my job, now. It didn’t matter that I had a passion for school, for learning, for the human anatomy and the way we push our bodies past their limits in athletics. It didn’t matter that I’d already had an internship at the hospital two towns over, or that there was a junior college baseball team talking to me about coming on as their athletic trainer after Paige was born.