Present day
Ten years. That’s how long it’s been since I last saw the Welcome to Gable sign as I drove away as a newlywed in the back of a limo filled with regrets.
Since then, I can’t say how many times I’ve thought about making my return. A hundred? A thousand? Somewhere in between, most likely. I’ve pictured myself in a fancy sports car with my hair tucked into a scarf like I was Grace Kelly, or maybe in a chauffeur-driven SUV.
Not once in those ten years did I think I’d be coming back to town on a Greyhound bus.
The woman next to me snores so loudly, she wakes herself up. Her head jerks from side to side as she wipes drool from the corner of her mustache.
“What’d I miss?” She leans over me to look out the window as we approach the bus station.
“Nothing,” I reply as I pull my baseball cap over my eyes and readjust my sunglasses to hopefully cover my black eye where the makeup is wearing off. Thankfully, she hasn’t recognized me. I’m hoping my iffy luck will hold until I’m off this bus, and she won’t have a clue who she sat next to on this long ride from LA.
When I left in the back of that limo, only one of us was famous then—Ricky Rango, rising rock star who was destined to become a rock god. Now he’s six feet under, and I’m the famous one because I’m the Black Widow who killed him. Or so they say.
I know the truth, but no one else cares about anything so mundane as that. The fall from wife of a rock god to the most hated woman in America has been a rocky one, and to be honest, I’m lucky I made it out of LA alive.
The Greyhound’s brakes squeal as it slows to a stop, changing the direction of my thoughts. It’s time to stop thinking about what I’m running from and put it behind me, if that’s even possible. I’m ready to think about what I’m running toward.
I just never thought I’d be running toward Gable, the place I spent so many years desperate to leave. But now everything has changed. All I want is a simple, quiet life. Something normal. Away from the paparazzi and accusations. Away from the guilt and fear. I’m hoping Gable can be my safe haven, but I’m also not holding my breath.
I glance out the window, expecting the old wooden train depot, but we’re on the wrong side of town for that. Ahead is a glass structure that looks much too new to be part of Gable’s historic charm, but sure enough, it has Riscoff Memorial Bus Terminal in large letters on the side.
Riscoff. That’s one major reason I don’t know if I’ll ever find peace here.
As soon as we hit the city limits a few minutes ago, my heart jacked up to aerobic rates and my skin started feeling too tight for my body. It was like every part of me knew we were in close proximity to him.
I force my breathing to slow and try to look at the name without feeling anything.
Fail.
So instead, I glare at it, like that’s going to help me find some inner strength that I haven’t already used up defending myself against the press and angry fans. Of course the bus terminal is named after their family. It would match everything else in this town emblazoned with the Riscoff name.
The hospital that’s probably only a mile from here. The courthouse that takes up one side of the town square. Then there’s Riscoff Bank and Trust two blocks over, near the Riscoff Art Gallery. And of course, there’s the granddaddy of them all on the other side of the river from downtown, Riscoff Timber.
The only thing that doesn’t have their name is the town itself. I’m pretty sure my ancestors are still smiling in their graves about snaring that honor—right before they jumped the Riscoffs’ gold claim and started a feud that’s lasted over 170 years. During that time, both families have proven over and over how capable they are of sustaining such hate and bitterness.
I did my part too, and I’m not proud of it.
I wait my turn, specifically for the woman beside me to move, so I can haul my ass off the bus. The driver unearths my luggage from underneath and leaves it on the sidewalk near the glass-fronted bus station. The bus rumbles to life again, and I watch as it rolls away. I’m left surrounded by the sum total remains of my former life, in the form of ridiculously overpriced Louis Vuitton luggage, while I wait for my chronically-late-from-birth cousin to come get me.
If it hadn’t been for Cricket begging me to come back to Gable, I probably would have stayed on the bus all the way to Canada. I hear they’re friendly up there . . . unless they’re Ricky Rango fans. At least in Gable, there’s no love lost for the hometown boy who made good. He managed to burn that bridge when he went off during a concert, ripping this whole town a new one.
“Ohhh, baby! Look at that sexy thing just waiting on a ride. You wanna come on up with me, girl?”
If the catcall had come from a man, I would have tensed and prepared to bolt, but no. That’s a voice I’d recognize even if it had been eighty years since I’d been home instead of ten.
For the first time in months, a genuine smile stretches my lips. “You know I don’t get into a stranger’s van unless someone offers me candy first.”
“Well, get up here, little girl. I’ve got sugar for you.” Cricket puts the van in park and hops out, running around the front of the giant Econoline. “Jesus Christ, you look just like a real celebrity—who forgot to tell her chauffeur where to pick her up.”
I rush to meet her. We collide in a hug. “I thought you were my chauffeur. And early too. I was prepared to wait an hour for Cricket Time.”
My cousin smells exactly the same as the last time I saw her—like pot smoke, coconut, and sunshine.
“God, I missed you, girl. It’s been way too fucking long.”
I pull back. Her tawny eyes dance, and her dark brown hair is braided around the crown of her head like she’s a perfect flower child. And she’s right.
My heart squeezes at her smiling face. I’ve missed her too. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
Cricket rolls her eyes. “Shush. You’re here now. That’s what matters. And you’re going to be my maid of honor!”
My stomach clenches, and I’m sure my face looks like I just stepped on a downed power line.”Wh-what?”
Cricket playfully shoves my shoulder. “You knew I wanted you home for my wedding. What makes you think I wouldn’t want you to be my best bitch?”
“The fact that you have a twin sister?”
Cricket’s eye-roll game steps up a notch. “She’s not my best bitch, though. She’s just a bitch.”
I haven’t seen Karma in ten years. She never came to LA or met me at any of Ricky’s concerts when I traveled with him. I assumed she was mad I missed the birth of her daughters, but Karma was born pissed off, so it’s hard to tell.
“I still can’t believe you’re getting married.” I study my cousin, who is exactly one year younger than me and looks every bit the free spirit she’s always been. Her flowy shirt is probably hemp, and her cut-off shorts are likely ones she stole from me when she was sixteen years old. “You swore you’d only ever love God, nature, and your family.”
“That was until I got the good dick. Now I gotta put a ring on it so I can make sure I’ve got that shit locked down for life.”
My smile widens so far it hurts my cheeks, and real laughter rings from between my lips. “Good God, Cricket. I’ve missed you like crazy.”
“Well, obviously. None of those fake bitches in LA could hold a candle to your best girl. We’re blood, baby. It don’t get better than that.”
She hugs me again, and I squeeze tight like she might slip away and I’d lose the one good thing that’s happened to me in years. When we finally separate, I pull my sunglasses off to catch the tears gathering on my lids.
Cricket tilts her head to the side. “Please tell me you got mugged. Because what the fuck, Whitney?”
I wince as I touch the tender skin on the right side of my face, and then quickly slip the giant shades back on. “Angry fan. Got through security and went a little crazy.”
All peace and joy flees Cricket’s expression. “I’m going to kill that limp-dick motherfucker. And the fan who did this.”
There’s no doubt she’s talking about Ricky first.
“That’s going to be a little tricky.” I try to keep humor in my tone, but it falls flat. “Considering he’s already dead.”
“Fucker deserves to be brought back to life and run over by a truck repeatedly for what he did to you.”
I don’t want to think about the message Ricky posted on his fan page hours before that fatal dose hit his bloodstream. He doesn’t get to ruin my reunion with my cousin. He doesn’t get to ruin anything else in my life ever again.
“Can we get out of here?” I glance up at the glass building and the name looming over me. “As much as I like hanging out at bus terminals . . .”
“Damn right. Besides, we’ve got way too much to catch up on, and that’s best saved for non-bus-station conversations. I’ve got all the good-dick stories to tell you.”
With a smile back on my face, despite memories from Gable and LA hounding me, Cricket and I load everything I own in the entire world into the back of her conversion van—after she folds up the bed and moves a bottle of lube.
When I stare at it wide-eyed, she just laughs as we climb up into the burgundy cloth captain’s chairs that I’m pretty sure might swivel.
“What? If they didn’t want people to fuck in these, they wouldn’t have put beds in the back. Besides, Hunter works all the time, and I like to make sure I don’t miss out on my chance to get me some. I like multiple orgasms, and he can make this baby rock and roll. I know you haven’t seen him in years, but let me tell you—”
I hold up a hand. “Wait. Hunter who?”
Cricket, the sneaky ho who withheld the name of her groom in all our conversations because she wanted to tell me in person, smiles wide. “Hunter Havalin. He’s the lucky man who snagged me.”
My jaw hangs slack and my eyes feel like they’re about to bug out of my head. Hunter Havalin is the only son of one of Gable’s other affluent families. The Havalins aren’t Riscoff rich, but they’re still loaded.
I try to picture Cricket the free spirit, Ms. One with the World who eschews money and privilege, marrying a guy who probably knows every inch of the country club. My cousin is everything that is the exact opposite of Hunter Havalin. He was a senior when I was in middle school, and every girl had a crush on him, but he only dated girls from the private school one city over.
“Are you serious?” I finally manage to blink. Cricket’s giant smile is the only thing keeping me from asking her if she had a bad trip she didn’t tell me about.
Her glow fades at my shocked tone. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew if you knew that I was marrying Lincoln Riscoff’s best friend, you’d never come home.”
I jerk back in my seat like I just got hit with a wrecking ball. First, because she spoke the name that is not to be spoken, and second, because I didn’t know they were friends.
“What?” The word comes out between a cough and a squeak.
“Whit, please. Do not freak out. It’s not like Lincoln is the best man or something. I would never put you in that position. He’s way too busy for that, anyway.”
I don’t know what to say to her. Lincoln Riscoff is the one person I plan to avoid for the rest of my time on planet earth, and definitely for as long as I’m in Gable. Which, if the Riscoffs have anything to say about it, may not be long.
“So,” Cricket says, glossing over the information bomb she just dropped on me. “Where do you want to go first? Home, or Cocko Taco for the Taco Tuesday special? Be warned, Mom won’t be out of work yet, and Karma is definitely home because unless she’s doing something with her girls, she never steps away from her freaking computer and reality TV.”
Blood is blood, but if Cricket, the most loving and forgiving person I’ve ever met, still can’t handle her sister’s attitude, I’m in no hurry to see my other cousin.
“Taco Tuesday it is.”
Cricket nods and fires up the van. “That’s my girl.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or the van, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s swinging out of the parking lot and narrowly misses a little red Audi convertible. The blonde in the Audi lays on the horn and flips up her finger before flooring it and taking off at a speed the van has no prayer of reaching.
“Whore,” Cricket says under her breath.
“Who was that?”
The rear end of the Audi disappears as it careens around a corner, its tires almost clipping a curb. At this point, I’m not sure who’s the worse driver, her or my cousin.
Cricket shoots me a sideways glance. “You don’t want to know.”
My stomach, which is already knotted into a ball, twists tighter in anticipation.
“Why?”
My cousin’s gaze slides back to the road. “That’s Maren Higgins. She’s . . . well, let’s just say you don’t want to talk about it—and neither do I—because we both have a reason to run her over on purpose. I like to refer to her as Cuntcake McWhoreson because it makes me feel better about myself and life in general.”
“What did she do to you?” I don’t even want to entertain the thought of why I might have a reason to run her over. “Because you know I’ll still cut a bitch.”
Cricket’s grin comes back. “I know you will. That’s why I’m glad to have you home. Maren is . . . Well, let’s just say there’s a special place in hell reserved for women who think they deserve to have a man who’s already taken, and she’s one of them.”
“She tried to steal Hunter?”
Cricket nods. “They went out on two dates a few years ago, and then she set her sights on . . .”
Cricket stops before she says the name, and I tense because there’s only one person whose name I told her not to mention.
“Well, she set her sights on a bigger target and has been slobbering after him ever since. But, because she’s a Cuntcake McWhoreson, as soon as Hunter and I went public about our thing, she came running back because she was afraid of losing what she thought was a sure bet. Unlike her other option, who has basically made zero signs of ever committing, regardless of how much his family would love him to start popping out the next generation of rich kids.”
“So . . . what did you do?”
“Told her I knew a voodoo priestess who would curse her to marrying a man with no money and no teeth. She backed off, but I don’t trust her as far as I can see her. Apparently, she’s also got a golden twat, because she’s got half the guys in town under her spell.”
I already hate her. I’ve never seen anything but her middle finger and her convertible, but considering she tried to steal my cousin’s man—and only for that reason—I’d bury her body for Cricket without question.
I tell myself I don’t give a damn who she has under her spell or who wants her to use her golden twat to pop out an heir. I’m a thirty-one-year-old broke, bitter widow, and I don’t have room in my life for another man.
I came back to Gable to be close to Cricket and my aunt Jackie, and that’s it. I want to find a job and live a normal, quiet life, and stay out of the public eye. I don’t need people like Cuntcake McWhoreson popping up and causing problems, because I had enough of that with my friends in LA who sold me out to the tabloids by giving them bullshit information about my broken marriage with Ricky.
My goals are simple now. Be happy. Keep the people I love close. Stay out of the press.
There’s no room for wasting a single thought on the man who shall not be named. None at all.
Even if I never get the good dick for the rest of my life. I’ll consider it penance for all the destruction I’ve left in my wake.
Except nothing could be that easy.
“There’s Hunter’s truck!” Cricket veers into oncoming traffic as she hangs her body out the window and waves at a fancy dark green pickup truck parked on the other side of Bridge Street.
“Jesus Christ, Cricket!”
I grab the wheel and jerk it toward the right so we don’t hit the black sedan blaring its horn. My sunglasses go flying toward the dash, and I catch sight of Hunter Havalin on the sidewalk beside his truck.
And standing next to him, because I’m cursed, is Lincoln Riscoff.