1 Chapter 1

“Well, what do we have here?” a man’s voice said from behind me, where I’d bent to pick up a receipt on the floor. When I stood and turned to look at who had spoken, I wished I hadn’t.

I closed my eyes and bit back a groan. This was just awesome. I ignored the man and walked on, heading for my beat-up truck at the edge of the parking lot in front of the grocery store I’d just left.

Why did my first night back in my hometown have to include an encounter with my high school secret ex-boyfriend, Asher Knox, that whole clichéd “one that got away”? Or rather, one who had run away from me like his ass was on fire and I had some heretofore unknown deadly disease?

I’d heard it said that going home was the hardest thing a person could ever do. As far as I was concerned, it shat bricks. And why would I return to the place that was the source of my greatest humiliation and heartache?

Because I had no choice. And that was the worst reason of all.

“Hey, don’t you have anything to say to an old friend?” Asher said, and only then did I realize he’d been following me. I wished I cared enough to punch him in that still perfectly square jaw, or poke out a ridiculously bright blue-green eye, but I didn’t have the energy, and it didn’t really matter, anyway.

It was weird that he even spoke to me now, where years ago, after I professed my undying devotion and wanted us to go public, he’d called me a derogatory word and stayed away from me the rest of senior year. I was good enough for locker rooms and behind the bleachers and even his bedroom, once. But nothing more.

No one working in the grocery store had recognized me, though I’d known most of them since childhood. They were just older and…fatter, in some cases, though that might be a tad mean. I couldn’t really blame anyone for the lack of recognition, since it had been seventeen years, after all, and I was currently scruffy with a bushy moustache, long beard, and messy shoulder-length brown hair. I hadn’t felt like shaving in a long time.

I’d filled out, too, no longer the lanky, scrawny misfit with questionable fashion sense—everything tight and glittery, hair a rainbow of colors, depending on my mood. I’d flamed since the age of seven and been the butt of most jokes until I was able to escape this hell hole. I even had tattoos, these days, I was so butch. Shocker.

At least I was big enough people would think twice about messing with me. I’d ignored the inquisitive and frank stares that had come my way while paying for my items—“small town nosy” came with the receipt—and had gotten out of there as fast as I could.

“Come on, Kaylie,” Asher said, using the nickname I’d come to hate because it reminded me of him, and he clearly wasn’t catching a clue. He grabbed my arm, and I forcibly removed his hand from my person. I might have squeezed his fingers just a tad. His wince was satisfying. Was that bad?

“I’m surprised you’d be seen talking to the town faggot, Asher,” I said, and wanted to rejoice in the look of shame on his face for that awful day in our youth, but was too weary to care. I left him standing there and kept on walking.

It was all well and good that same-sex marriage was legal in all States. But being out and proud hadn’t done me any favors in this town, way back when. I’d left home with big dreams of being a famous out and proud artist, and finding my one true love. Yet here I was, thirty-five years old, back where I started and tail between my legs because I’d been tossed aside by anotherman—I’d lost count of how many “true loves” I’d had over the years—and they could all kiss my muscular, acorn-crushing ass, thank you very much.

All Berger Rivera—my most recent ex-boyfriend scumbag—had wanted was the “in-crowd” that came with being associated with me, though I couldn’t care less about notoriety. Hell, I avoided people and “see, be seen” places like the plague unless it had to do with my artwork. And even then, it was a chore. When I caught him fucking the gallery owner the night of my latest opening, I’d had it. I probably shouldn’t have let it affect me so much, but I’d thought it would be truly different this time, that someone would want me for me, and think I was enough, no other accouterments necessary. Stupid.

So that was it. I was taking a break from men. They were all backstabbers, liars, and cheats, and I was done. I would focus on my artwork, nothing else required. Well, food…and my right hand, on occasion. But even that hadn’t occurred in months.