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  The shirt I was wearing wasn’t much better. It declared me as a ‘Hostel Cheerleader’ and was way too tight.

  Though technically, I hadn’t planned on going anywhere but the freakin’ laundromat.

  Everyone wore their crappy clothes to the laundromat…didn’t they?

  At least I did, anyway.

  Then I moaned when I got a look at my socks.

  I was wearing the ones that Amanda had bought me as a gag gift for Christmas.

  They were striped and were fairly normal socks until you looked at the toes. My big toe had its own hole while the other four were all on the other side—making it possible for me to wear my flip flops without my toes getting cold.

  Then there were the words ‘damn, piss, and shit’ written on them in cursive script with bright purple flowers decorating them.

  Honestly, I thought they were the best thing since sliced bread and had been wearing them ever since.

  I hadn’t once been embarrassed by wearing them—until today.

  Incidentally, he was the hottest man I’d seen in a very long time.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I bit my lip and hoped that he didn’t look at my feet—but then he suddenly appeared at my side door and asked me to get out.

  I did, not hesitating.

  Once I was out, he gestured toward the back of my truck.

  I went and blinked when I saw it.

  It’d been a joke. Then again, this police department had been a joke, too. Fucking everything about the Hostel Police Department two years ago had sucked. And that’s why I’d gotten the bumper sticker.

  HPD Sucks.

  That was it in a nutshell.

  “Ummm,” I paused. “I can explain.”

  He looked at me like I wouldn’t be able to talk myself out of this one.

  “I really can explain,” I murmured. “See, a few years ago, there was this chief of police here. His name was Fowler, and he was a giant douchebag.”

  The officer blinked at me, seemingly unimpressed by my language.

  I swallowed. “He also happened to be my uncle.”

  That got a reaction out of him. He looked on at me with pity.

  As if he knew exactly who this ‘Fowler’ asshole was, and just what it meant to be related to the devil’s spawn—and yes, I did hear that quite often.

  This town was a big, fat freakin’ joke.

  Years ago, when he was the chief of police, he wasn’t exactly liked, but he was respected by the townspeople.

  Then Evander Lennox, who was wrongly convicted of a crime and went to prison, happened. Evander did everything he could to prove Fowler’s crookedness, and eventually, he accomplished his goal.

  He’d managed the impossible—irrefutably pinning multiple crimes on Fowler, one of those being the attempted murder of Evander himself.

  Since then, the town has fully rallied behind Evander…and was solidly on the anti-Fowler bandwagon, meaning that anything and everything that had to do with Fowler was now tainted—including me.

  Though, this is the point that I’ll admit that I was always considered tainted thanks to who my parents were—the town failures. The town crooks. The two people in this town that no one wanted any part of. No one.

  Even though I moved out of their house at seventeen, hadn’t had anything to do with them for eight years, and knew less about them than the townspeople did, everyone still liked to let me know that they thought I was no better than them.

  My attempt at righting my wrongs—by getting my degree in criminal science—hadn’t stopped them from reminding me that they thought I was a piece of trash.

  Something they did regularly every single time I walked by.

  Amanda often asked me what my attachment was to this place—Hostel—but I couldn’t answer her.

  Nobody knew why I stayed—and sometimes I wondered why myself.

  But truthfully, it all had to do with a certain person, and no one was going to force me out of my home making it so that I couldn’t visit Tennessee anymore.

  Tennessee wasn’t a place, either. It was a person.

  My person.

  My best friend for forever—my grandfather. The one who took care of me when my parents refused. The one who shielded me when life got too tough. The one who held my hand and told me when what I was doing was wrong—and there were a lot of those times. He’d been there when nobody else had cared, and I would be here until he was gone from this Earth, regardless of whether I hated this town with a passion or not.

  When he was gone, that’s when I would leave this place and never look back.

  Until then, I’d grit my teeth and bear it.

  “I think that, in my honest opinion, you should remove the sticker,” the officer said, interrupting my thoughts. “As for the rest, I’m giving you three tickets. One for your license being expired, another for going four over the speed limit, and one for rolling through that stop sign.”

  My mouth fell open in shock.

  “You’re giving me what?!” I screeched.

  “Three tickets.” He repeated.

  He was giving me three tickets?

  What the hell?

  “What the hell for?”

  How the hell was I supposed to pay for that? Sell myself on the street?

  Then again, with my luck, he’d probably catch me doing it and give me a ticket for that, too.

  He handed me the ticket and continued. “I’m letting you go on the broken tail light, but see to getting that fixed right away.” I looked at the paper like it was covered in mold.

  “Well, isn’t that nice of you.” I sneered.

  I didn’t want to take it. Taking it meant that I was agreeing with the charges, but what other option did I have?

  None.

  Reaching forward, I took the ticket, shoved it angrily in my pocket, and then turned my back on him to get back into my truck.

  But something made me look over my shoulder at him, and my eyes went to the officer’s chest, right above his badge, to his name. Mackenzie.

  Well, Officer Mackenzie, you fucking suck.

  Moments later, I laughed when the ol’ piece of junk Ford four-speed diesel shot black smoke in his direction.

  Then I flipped him off because he couldn’t see me do it.

  I wanted to give my grandfather a big ol’ kiss on the cheek for buying it for me.

  When I arrived at the apartment I shared with Amanda, I walked to the back of the truck and fixed the taillight with the spare that Grandpa always made me keep in the glove box. Then, I gave the sticker a cursory look.

  After a few long moments, I decided that I needed to keep it.

  Because there was one thing I was still sure of…at least one officer at HPD still sucked.

  Chapter 3

  It is not nice to bait traps with donuts. Cops are needed to keep this city safe. So, if you happen to catch one, please remember that they need to be promptly released.

  -Hostel PD Facebook page

  Johnny

  The ringing of my phone made my eyes twitch.

  “Give me a second, would you?” I asked, stepping away from a couple of cops and placing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this John?”

  I frowned, then pulled the phone away from my face.

  I’d been expecting a phone call—from my bank—but my bank called me ‘Johnny.’ Nobody ever called me John. I didn’t go by John, mostly because my name was Johnny. It said so on my birth certificate.

  “This is Johnny,” I corrected him as I put the phone back to my ear. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, this is Coke Solomon.” I frowned. I’d heard the name before, but I couldn’t place where, exactly, I’d heard it. “I own Coke Salvage & Impound.”

  The light went on in my head. “Oh, hi. How’s it goin’?”

  The moment I heard ‘Coke’ I knew exactly who this guy was. We’d ha
d a call at his place about four days ago. A man had been trying to break into the salvage yard to steal his car back after it’d been impounded. Coke had caught him—or technically, his junkyard dog, Hooch, had—and then we were called out there.

  “It’s going.” He laughed. “Listen, I have a girl who’s applying for a job with me, and she put you down as a reference.”

  I frowned. Nobody I knew—at least not girl-wise—would need a job. They were already working—and most of them were working with family and wouldn’t need a reference.

  “Yeah?”

  “June Carter Common is her name.”

  My mouth hitched up at the name. “Yeah?”

  “Tell me about her.”

  I’d only met one June Carter in my life and that was two hours ago at a traffic stop.

  She was cute, sweet, and honestly a sourpuss. I’d also given her three tickets.

  Her name had stuck with because of the reference to Johnny Cash—the man that I was named after.

  For her to put me down as a reference…what the hell?

  And how would she have gotten my number? I knew for a fact that shit wasn’t listed—I’d just gotten it last night.

  Again, what the hell?

  “Umm,” I hesitated. “She’s nice. Sweet. Great personality. Big…”

  He started to laugh. “I don’t need a description of her attributes, kid. I just want the low down on her attitude. Is she cool?”

  I’d given her three tickets, and she hadn’t thrown a fit…so there was that.

  “Yeah, she’s really calm and collected. Eager to please,” I offered.

  I mean, she’d jumped out of the truck so fast that she’d nearly slipped and fell on her ass. I would say she was eager to please.

  “So, she’s not one of those young girls who’ll go all Millennial on me, is she?” Coke asked hopefully.

  I snorted. “Nah. She’s nice.” I paused. “And she has a bad ass truck. I mean, it was sweet. Nineteen seventies. Ford diesel. Standard. A girl that can drive standard has to at least have a little patience, right?”

  He grunted in agreement. “Know that’s right. Tried to teach my sixteen-year-old daughter how to drive a standard, and you would think I about forced her to kill someone. All that screeching and squawking. Almost told her never mind and got her an automatic, but then decided that she needed a lesson in patience, so I made her learn anyway. Then bought her an automatic. She was pissed for a week.”

  I chuckled. “I learned how to drive a standard at fourteen because my dad bought an old Mustang. He said if I learned how then I could drive it to school. Still have the beast, too.”

  Thinking about the old Mustang that my father and I had fixed up made something clench in my belly.

  I hadn’t called my parents in a week, and we hadn’t left on the best of terms.

  They were so fucking worried about me, and they just ‘knew’ that this move wasn’t the best decision for me right now, that I was too ‘fragile.’

  I wasn’t fragile. I was angry, and I had a fire lit under my ass. I needed to do something with my life—something that didn’t involve me staying at home under the ever-watchful eyes of all my family and father’s friends.

  I already felt like I could breathe, and I’d only been here for a short while.

  “Nice. I have an old Mustang in the salvage yard. Belongs to Tennessee Common—he’s the other reference June wrote down. It’s her grandfather. He begged me to give her a chance, and honestly, I wasn’t really wanting to, but after hearing your praises, I think I’ll do it.”

  I frowned.

  “Why weren’t you wanting to?” I questioned.

  “I don’t exactly know June Carter Common, but she is the child of the two hellions of Hostel, Texas.” He laughed. “If you don’t know anything about her parents then you must be new.”

  “Been here for a short time,” I agreed. “And no, she wasn’t wild around me.”

  I also felt kind of guilty for giving her a good recommendation when I didn’t even know her.

  Shit.

  But I couldn’t take it back now. I mean, for the short time that I was with her, she was fairly tame.

  Surely that was a good indicator of her future actions…right?

  Wrong.

  I only had to wait a few more hours and respond to a call later that night to realize just how wrong I was.

  Chapter 4

  When it is okay to call the police: someone is shooting at you. When it is not okay to call the police: someone is shooting at you with a NERF gun.

  -Hostel PD FB page

  June

  “Amanda,” I whined. “You know how I hate tending bar.”

  Amanda gave me a hard look. “You want money, don’t you?”

  I glared.

  “You also don’t start that new job until Monday. You have three whole days to help me. And, I deserve it.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

  I sighed.

  She was right.

  Amanda had done a lot for me, and the least I could do was help her tend bar at her dad’s place.

  Amanda’s dad owned the oldest and crappiest bar in town, and honestly, I wasn’t even sure how or why it was still open. Nor why people still went there.

  Amanda’s dad, Tiny, was awesome. He was also not going to be there today, which was why she was asking for my help.

  Tiny was heading to Tulsa for a tattoo convention—Tiny also did tattoos in the back room of the bar—meaning Amanda worked more often than not. But it wasn’t often that she worked without her dad there to back her up if it was needed.

  Which was where I came in.

  The only people that came into Tiny’s were rough, and when I say rough, I mean it in the worst possible way.

  Rough as in wild, unruly, coarse and unconcerned by the fact that they were thought of as wild, unruly and coarse. Rough was what they were—uncaring that they were thought of in that way.

  Rough on the outside and the inside. We didn’t get any sweet little honeys coming into the bar looking to pick up a date. We had tough broads coming in after a long, hard day of truck driving, and the wild, unruly, abrasive men picking the tough broads up and doing it in their rigs.

  “Fine.” I sighed. “Just don’t expect me to pour the beers. I suck at that.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I would never.”

  I flipped her off. “And I’m wearing my jeans. You’re not going to get me into that skirt you tried to get me into last time. No way, no how.”

  An hour later I was in one of her skirts, but it wasn’t one of the ones she’d tried to get me into last time.

  This time, it was a denim mini-skirt instead of a short black swishy number.

  At least she’d allowed me to wear the cowboy boots.

  I was a girl who loved her jeans, tees, and boots. I didn’t need fancy shoes or a low-cut top.

  That just wasn’t who I was.

  I was June Carter Common. A five foot four, one hundred-twenty-nine-and-a-half-pound girl with tits and ass.

  I was literally the girl that everyone wanted to be.

  I had long blonde hair that curled on a good day but frizzed out to the max on the bad.

  But, with the blonde hair, big tits and blue eyes came a certain expectation from men.

  An expectation that I would be willing to give them something that I wasn’t.

  I had to be the last twenty-six-year-old virgin on Earth.

  And I would probably die one, too, the way I was going.

  “Come on, June-June. You’re crawling. I hate when you drag your heels.” Amanda prodded me.

  I flipped her off, then went behind the bar to stow my purse and phone on one of the shelves behind the tall draft glasses.

  Amanda didn’t bother. She didn’t ever have anything with her—no ID, no phone, nothing.

  She said she didn’t need it when she was here. I said she was
crazy.

  I hated the feeling of helplessness when I didn’t have my things, and I liked knowing I had a way to pay for something if I needed it.

  Then again, I only had about twelve dollars to my name at the moment, so it was likely that even if an emergency had happened, I wouldn’t have the cake to do anything about it.

  But that was my life.

  And always had been.

  “You want the left side or the right side?” she questioned.

  I pointed to the right, which didn’t have an opening out to the rest of the bar area.

  If the opening wasn’t there, a man wouldn’t try to come around it like they did on the left side of the bar, which inevitably would happen at some point that night. It always did.

  That was really why I hated going to work with Amanda. She couldn’t handle the drunks, and I couldn’t handle them touching me.

  My mind drifted off to the last person I’d let touch me, and the moment they had, I’d freaked. It’d actually been at Tiny’s. Luckily, Tiny had been there that night, because the moment that I started freaking out, I sort of…checked out. And Amanda knew that when I checked out, I seriously checked out. Meaning I was gone and inside my head so freakin’ far that it would take a thirty-minute panic attack to pull me out of it.

  Amanda knew all about my past, which was why she always gave me the option, despite the fact that she knew what I’d pick, and this was her way of giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  Though she probably shouldn’t bother, but I still appreciated her faith in me.

  Maybe one day I’d be able to figure out a way to tolerate it, but for now, I was happy to be behind the counter, making some money, and flying under everyone’s radar.

  I’d do the dishes. I’d clean the bar. I’d even run dinner out to the stand. But what I would not do was talk to people.

  Nope, no, nu-uh.

  Talking turned to interest, and interest turned to touching.

  I didn’t do touching well. Not since my father had let one too many of his friends paw me while I’d been vulnerable, and he’d been high. I’d learned to protect myself by escaping unwanted touches—but sometimes, they still sneak one in, and those were the days that I looked back on when I was reminded how painfully fucked up I truly was.