New Hope, Old Grudges Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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But Sam was always here, we’d been buddies in high school and we’d fallen into an old routine.

Sam was the same as he was in high school except his sandy-blond hair had receded some, his gut was larger from his beer consumption and he was married now. To his high school sweetheart, Angela Harris.

Despite the wedding ring and the two kids at home, he was here every night and was currently leering at the singer in a way I didn’t quite like. I was coming to understand there were a lot of things I didn’t quite like about my old buddy.

Not at all because he’d changed. He was exactly who he was back in high school. Which made me really fucking ashamed of who I was in high school since I didn’t see what a douche he was.

“Do you remember Willow Watson from high school?” I asked him, changing the subject from the country singer who was barely old enough to be in the bar.

Sam clicked his tongue and chuckled, still leering at the singer. “Weirdo Watson?” he asked, draining his beer, slamming it down then signaling for another.

“Weirdo Watson?” I repeated, the insult sounding chillingly familiar.

He nodded, wiping beer foam from his upper lip. “Yeah, her mom owns the fucking witch store or whatever. She’s got a brother. Didn’t play football, probably gay.” He smiled at himself as if he thought he was hilarious. I scowled at my friend but didn’t get a chance to interrupt.

“She was a year below us.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ugly as sin. All arms and legs, no tits. Glasses. Always fucking reading.” He said this as if it were a crime and not the sign of an intelligent person. “You should remember her, bro. You gave her so much shit.”

My stomach pitted.

With my asshole buddy beside me, a beer in my belly and a concentrated effort, I remembered following a redheaded girl, shoulders hunched as she walked down the halls as if she were trying to paint herself into the walls.

The memory was blurry, though, and I couldn’t remember what I might’ve done to garner such vitriol from her all these years later.

I rubbed my hand over my jaw. “Were we really that bad to her?” I asked, racking my brain.

Sam chuckled again. “Bro, we were fucking dicks.” He shrugged. “But we were teenagers who didn’t know any better. And she was fucking weird.”

I frowned at my oldest friend, not liking the sound of that chuckle. It sounded mean. Cruel.

“We were old enough to know better,” I told him, the urge to smack him around the ears overwhelming.

The smile went from his face as he understood I wasn’t going to laugh about terrorizing a teenage girl.

“Sure,” he replied somberly. “We’re all reformed here, Sheriff.” He gave me a mock salute. “Why are you asking about…?” he trailed off and went slack-jawed as his eyes went to the entrance. “Who the fuck is that, and does she want to ride on my mustache?”

My hand tightened around my beer, and I made the executive decision to cut ties with my old buddy. Every week, he seemed to drink more, say more stupid shit and devolve into a neanderthal.

Even though I didn’t want to play into his bullshit, I turned to look at who was coming through the door, if only to catch a glimpse of who I would have to protect if Sam decided to have another drink and forget he was married.

It was then my own eyes went wild.

It was Willow fucking Watson.

WILLOW

Why I decided to go to the bar was anyone’s guess.

Well, it wasn’t that surprising. It was either that or stay at home for my mother’s full moon circle. No way did I want to be nearby when it was going on. I had enough of those ceremonies and rituals to scar me for a lifetime, especially the ‘goddess party’ she threw when I got my first period. One she thought was a good idea to invite all of my ‘friends’ to.

I didn’t have any friends when I got my first period. And my mother calling all the teenage girls in my class to celebrate my menstruation was a sure way to ensure I never had any friends.

So yes, the bar made sense. Kind of. Only in the sense that there was liquor for sale. Numbness. That’s what I needed. I would’ve preferred to do my drinking alone in a bathtub like any self-respecting person residing in a pit of despair, but the only available bathtub was full of ‘moon water’ and crystals.

The bar itself wasn’t the kind of small-town bar where every head swiveled to a newcomer walking through the door. Thank God. It was Friday night, and Friday nights in a small town meant everyone was at the local bar to blow off steam, drink away their sorrows or hit on someone. The town was just large enough to have a small amount of tourists who either couldn’t afford Vail and were commuting for their vacation or used this as a pit stop along the way.


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