Bad Cruz

Truly, parenthood was a wonderful thing.

“What can I help you with, Costello?” I’d sighed, wanting him gone.

It was hard to believe I used to have a crush on this guy before Rob had asked me out. Cruz was so nauseatingly perfect. In a totally off-putting way. Like, the way a professionally-made cake was so perfect and smooth you didn’t want to cut it.

Though I did want to cut Cruz Costello, sometimes.

“You cuhn let me in and ass-plain to me whad Rob had dat I didn’t.”

Dang, he was three sheets to the wind.

“A general grasp of the English language for a start,” I’d deadpanned.

Was he here just because he couldn’t tolerate the fact I hadn’t flung myself at him years ago when all the other girls had?

Talk about fragile male egos.

Behind him, the night parade had passed through, banging on drums and singing.

Cruz made a disgusted face. “He used to kiss and tell.”

“Real classy.”

I’d rolled my eyes, but tears prickled the back of them, making them sting. I’d paid so dearly for my mistake, it seemed so unnecessarily cruel to bring it up again and talk about the intimate details.

How many times could I atone for it?

I did everything right now. Or as right as I could, anyway, considering the circumstances.

Cruz took a step forward. He smelled like bonfire and amber and sandalwood. Woodsy and musky at the same time. I had to remind myself he wanted what all the others did before him—to get me in bed, because apparently, that was the easiest task within Fairhope limits.

“Get away from me,” I’d warned, stepping backward.

“Not before you give me what I want…”

“What you want?” I’d asked, incredulous.

“Yes. What all-weeze belonged to me.”

He was going to take another step, I could tell, and in that moment, the only thing I thought about was what it was going to look like.

Slutty Messy Nessy, letting Fairhope’s minted doctor-slash-quarterback into her house while her parents (and son!) were away.

Of course she’d have asked—begged him for it.

It would be the golden boy’s word against the jezebel’s.

I’d swung my fist and gone for his cheek, but he was tall, and I’d ended up slamming my knuckles against his Adam’s apple.

I must’ve underestimated my strength, or maybe Cruz had been too drunk to abide by the rules of gravity, because he went down like a sleep-deprived toddler, falling flat on his butt on my parents’ front lawn.

He’d groaned in pain while the parade marched past with drumlines and trumpets, and it had occurred to me we were drawing attention and that I was going to be toast.

“Shut up, Costello. Get up and dust yourself off,” I’d hissed, stepping outside to ensure he heard my warning.

This, of course, had only made him moan louder.

Seriously, why did I even bother?