The Ex-Girlfriends' Club

In Savannah he was Bennett Wilder, sought-after artisan. He’d built furniture for some of Hollywood’s A-list, for pop stars and politicians. He attended all the right parties, could pick and choose his dates—not that he’d bothered much—and enjoyed all the perks of being a local celebrity of sorts. Nobody cared who his parents were or where he came from. It was refreshing, had been like being reborn and coming out right this time. He’d dusted the red dirt off his feet, had made regular monthly visits to his grandfather and had moved on.

Or as on as he could without Eden in his life.

Did he want to live in Hell? Be looked down upon once more? Feel the suspicious stares of the local folk? No.

But that was only the half of it.

Knowing that he was going to be living in the same town as Eden Rutherford and knowing that she could never be his was infinitely worse—his real hell on earth.

Bennett had known when he’d walked away the last time that he was permanently severing ties, though at the time he’d never anticipated seeing her again.

Which, admittedly, made things quite difficult now.

He couldn’t move back here and not see her. Even keeping the lowest profile possible, Bennett knew he’d inevitably run into her again. And when that happened…well, who knew what would happen? Would she slap him? Certainly possible. Frost him? Another option. The only thing he knew for sure—could count on as well as the sun rising in the morning—was that he’d want her again. Ha! As if he’d ever stopped. He’d want her with the same all-consuming, blinding need that inevitably struck him whenever he saw her. Bennett chuckled darkly. Not wanting her was like commanding his body not to breathe. Likewise, not having Eden was about as successful as him holding his breath indefinitely.

A moot point.

Eden had always been his kryptonite, his downfall, his saving grace and his ultimate weakness. For both their sakes, this time he was going to have to be stronger than the attraction, stronger than the emotion that never failed to twine around his heart and make him long for things he knew weren’t in his future. A wife, a family…Nah. He’d let those things go when he’d walked away last time, as well.

Frankly, being flayed alive and dipped in boiling oil held more appeal than moving back to Hell, but there was simply nothing for it. Bennett might have been an out-of-control teen, might have made multiple stupid youthful mistakes, but he was man enough to repay his debts—and he owed Grady Wilder.

The old man had been the only constant in his life, the only person who’d stood between him and a foster home when his parents had perished in a house fire. He’d been eleven at the time. Just old enough to understand that their lives didn’t remotely resemble the families on TV, the beginnings of shame rounding his usually bruised, too-thin shoulders.

Too much to drink, a careless cigarette…a fiery end to their equally combustible lives.

A mail carrier with a penchant for minding everyone’s business—retired now, of course; a fact that the citizens of Hell no doubt appreciated—Grady had been there. Ornery, obstinate and a bit on the eccentric side, but he’d loved Bennett all the same, and that had made the difference. Just knowing that someone had given a flying damn about him had made living seem as though it wasn’t a complete waste of time. Come on, kid, he’d said. Let’s go home.

And that had been that.

He’d moved in, had learned that it was okay to speak even if he hadn’t been spoken to. That spilled milk wasn’t going to land him a backhand across the face and that outgrowing his clothes wasn’t a cause for punishment. He’d learned that a good work ethic and honesty made the backbone of a man—a fact his father had missed though they’d both ultimately been raised by the same man. And most importantly he’d learned that, with patience and creativity, a block of wood could become a beautiful thing. Bennett swallowed.

Damn straight he owed Grady Wilder. And while returning to Hell might not have been on his top-ten-things-to-do list, he’d do it anyway.

After a lot of blustering and roaring, Grady had finally agreed to let him renovate the house and the barn. Speaking of which…Bennett thought, reaching for his cell phone. He needed to call Ryan Mothershed—his previous employer, his soon-to-be contractor and the only friend he’d kept in contact with since leaving Hell.

He and Ryan had forged a friendship on the gridiron which had survived despite Bennett’s abrupt enrollment into Badass 101 after high school, as well as his subsequent move out of town. Ryan had participated in a foreign exchange program to England during college and returned with more than a degree—he’d brought back a wife, as well. Bennett often teased him about successfully transplanting an English rose in Hell. They had a little boy—Tuck—and another baby on the way.

“Mothershed,” Ryan answered by way of greeting. Bennett could hear various saws buzzing in the background as well as the hydraulic whoosh of a nail gun firing.

“I just rode into town,” Bennett told him.

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The collective gasp of horror from the old biddies I heard echo through the streets.”

“Smart-ass,” Bennett groused, chuckling. “So have you looked at your schedule and figured out when you can get started on my renovations?”

The house needed a little TLC and some updated wiring to competently hold what would be his second office, and the old red barn would house his new shop. In the meantime, there was a small shed in the backyard that would accommodate him. It’s where he’d started, after all. He’d hired movers to transport his must-haves, and barring any unforeseen problems, he should be back on track by the end of the week. In truth, Bennett could have done the majority of the renovations himself, but he simply didn’t have the time. A good thing, he told himself, whether Grady agreed or not.

“I can have a crew out there Wednesday,” Ryan said. He shouted an order to someone in the background, then swore under his breath. “I just thought you might need a little time to talk Grady around.”

“Done,” Bennett told him.

“He’s completely agreed? He isn’t going to give me any trouble?” The last time Ryan had worked for Bennett’s grandfather, repairing a section of the front porch, Grady had positioned his rocker within a foot of the crew for optimum critiquing power. Needless to say, it hadn’t been a positive experience for his friend.

“He knows that the work has got to be done if I’m going to stay here.”

Provided he had the right space, he could work here just as well as in Savannah, he’d assured Grady, who’d immediately given up any pretense of wanting to live alone.

The fact was he simply wasn’t able. Hip replacement had corrected the majority of his physical problems, but getting around was still a chore. Add his failing sight to the mix and he was an accident waiting to happen. Bennett didn’t think Grady needed round-the-clock care, but another warm body in the house would go a long way toward his peace of mind.

Initially Bennett had tried to talk Grady into moving in with him in Savannah, but he might as well have been asking Thomas Jefferson to trade places with George Washington on Mount Rushmore for all the good it had done. His grandfather had been every bit as solid in his reserve. Hell’s not a bad town, he’d said. You’ll see when you come back. Perspective changes things.

Bennett didn’t know about that, but he did know one thing. He would not allow anyone the privilege of making him feel like a second-class citizen again. He’d done a lot of growing up over the past three years, knew that he’d given everyone in Hell plenty of reason to treat him like the bad seed he’d tried to live up to as a bitter kid, and later, as a bitter adult.

But he’d changed, and the difference between the old Bennett Wilder and the new one was simple—he liked himself now. Screw ’em if they didn’t like him. Other than making a few late-in-coming apologies—particularly to Eden, he thought with another mild grimace—he didn’t owe them anything. He was who he was. They could either accept him or not, but it wasn’t going to change his attitude or the purpose of his moving home. Grady deserved better. Hopefully he could simply slip back into town and become part of the scenery. Blend in. Keep it low-key. Be unremarkable.

That was the plan, at any rate, inasmuch as he had one. Only time would tell if it would come to fruition.

“You want to meet up at Ice Water tonight?” Ryan asked.

Bennett knew what his friend was doing and appreciated the show of support, but shook his head. “Thanks, but no.” Walking back into Hell’s infamous watering hole—the gossip hub of the community—the first night he was back in town didn’t coincide with his keep-a-low-profile plan.

“All right,” Ryan told him. “I’ll see you Wednesday morning then.” He paused. “Happy to have you back, man.”

Then that made one of them, he thought grimly, but thanked his friend anyway and disconnected.

Welcome to Hell, my ass, Bennett thought. He damned sure wasn’t expecting anyone else to be happy with his return.

3

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT son of a bitch said to me, Eden?” Josie Brink screeched as she aimed a loaded. 22 rifle at her quivering husband’s privates.

Eden rounded the hood of her patrol car and released a weary sigh. “No, I don’t, but you can tell me after you’ve put the gun away. You know better than this, Josie. Don’t make me call the chief. I’ll look like an idiot, and you know he promised to take that rifle the next time you threatened to emasculate your husband.”

Josie blinked and shot her a questioning glance. “Emasculate?”

“Shoot his dick off,” Eden clarified.

Understanding dawned and she nodded, then her eyes narrowed into angry slits once more. She cocked her head. “Yeah, well, after I shoot his sorry ass, I won’t need the gun no more, will I?”

And there was that, Eden thought, trying desperately to summon patience. This had been the day from hell. Jeb Wheeler had once again been on his cross crusade, stealing the little white memorials which had been placed on area roadsides by loving family members in honor of accident victims.

For reasons no one could explain, Jeb would periodically troll the roads, steal the little wooden crosses and install them in his front yard. Evidently he thought they made fetching lawn ornaments. Jeb’s pulled his little Arlington again, was the usual call that went out over the radio.

Eden had spent the majority of the day convincing Jeb to give up the crosses—she was the only person who’d ever successfully talked him into giving them up, which is why she always got stuck with the call—then returning them to their rightful owners. She’d had less than an hour to go on her shift when this call had come in.

As the only woman on the force, she generally got any calls the guys dubbed “girl trouble.” Sexist? Yes, but given Josie’s current state of mind, Eden couldn’t imagine any of those tactless oafs she worked with being able to handle this one, either.

“Come on, baby,” Neal Brink cajoled his wife. “I was only kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

No, stupid, Eden thought exasperatedly, a fact Neal apparently hadn’t deduced yet. But in Josie’s defense, Neal’s “jokes” were rarely funny. Neal, the twisted little jerk, liked to play his jokes on his wife during sex. The last time Eden had been called out here, Neal had been in the middle of an intimate service for his wife, looked up from between her legs and said, “Not as sweet as your sister’s, but it’ll do.”

Predictably, Josie had Katie-kaboomed, and it had taken Eden the better part of an hour to talk her out of doing permanent injury to her husband. God only knew what he’d done this time, Eden thought, and tonight she wanted nothing more than a cool beer from Ice Water and a steaming plate of hot wings. Thanks to Jeb, she’d missed lunch, and it was beginning to look as though Neal’s twisted sense of humor was going to screw her out of a reasonable dinner.

Eden glared at Neal. “Judging from that rifle pointed at your family jewels, Mr. Brink, I don’t think Josie finds your jokes funny.” She looked at Josie, who seemed heartened by Eden’s support. “What did he do, Josie?” she asked, calling upon every shred of patience she had left.

Josie shifted, causing the spaghetti strap on her pink nightie to slip off her slim shoulder. “Remember what he did last time? What he said about my sister?”

Oh, hell. “I do,” Eden replied, blasting Neal with another withering stare.

“Well, he did sort of the same thing, only this time he looked up at me and said—”

“Mmm, mmm. Tastes like chicken,” Neal finished with relish, then dissolved into a fit of guffaws that made Josie’s finger snug dangerously close to the trigger.

Eden gasped and covered her mouth to prevent a rebellious giggle from escaping.

“See!” Josie screamed. “See what I have to put up with? He’s not sorry! He doesn’t care that he’s hurt my feelings!”

“Baby, how many times do I have to tell you that it was a joke?” He laughed at her and shot Eden a look that said his wife was evidently lacking a sense of humor. If that was the case, then Eden was lacking one as well because she probably would have murdered him by now.

Josie fired a shot at the ground at his feet. A clump of grass flew up and hit him in the shin. The smile quickly vanished from Neal’s lips, and his eyes widened in fearful horror. “Woman, what the hell are you doing?” he gasped.

“Excellent shot,” Eden commented with an impressed nod. She wasn’t worried about Josie killing him. If she’d wanted to do that, she would have done it already. Furthermore, Neal deserved Josie’s joke.

Josie discharged another round, this one at a hanging plant next to Neal’s head. Potting soil and hot-pink petunias flew, showering him in a dirty spray. “Playing a joke, Neal,” she said sweetly. “Isn’t it funny? Ha-ha!”

Neal’s outraged gaze swung to Eden as he batted a torn bloom from the top of his head. “What kind of law officer are you?” he demanded. “Are you going to let her keep shooting at me?”

“That depends. Are you going to stop playing jokes on her?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned casually against her car.

“And he’s got to apologize, too,” Josie piped up, flipping her hair away from her face. She raised the rifle once more, narrowed one eye and took aim. “’Cause if he don’t, he’s gonna be real sorry.”

“I’m sorry!” Neal shrieked when it was evident that Eden didn’t intend to intervene on his behalf. “Dammit, woman, I’m sorry!” He let go a shaky breath. “Sweet Jesus, just put the gun down.”

Josie considered him for a moment, then looked at Eden. “What do you think?”

He sounded more terrified than repentant, but as an officer of the law, she wasn’t supposed to encourage violence…whether she thought it was justified or not. “I think if he’s smart, he won’t play any more jokes on you during sex.”

Josie nodded. “No more jokes, Neal,” she ordered through gritted teeth. “Understood?”

He shoved a shaky hand through his thinning hair, dislodging more potting soil and flowers. “Understood,” he said weakly. “Sheesh. Women.”

Seemingly satisfied, Josie walked over and handed Eden the rifle. “You’d better take it. I’m not so sure I won’t really shoot him if there’s a next time.” Hell, Eden wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t shoot him if there was a next time.

She grinned, accepted the gun and stowed it in the back of her car. “You could always leave, you know,” Eden felt compelled to point out. Honestly, looking at the two of them, she’d never understood the attraction. Josie was a pretty girl, if a little rough around the edges. She could certainly do better than Neal Brink.

“Nah,” Josie said with a small wistful shake of her head. “He makes me laugh.” She turned and started to walk away, then lowered her voice and shot Eden a conspiratorial smile. “And it doesn’t hurt that he’s hot in the sack.”

And on that note, it was time to leave, Eden thought as her mouth rounded in a silent oh of revolted surprise. She could have happily gone the rest of her life without that little kernel of insight about Neal Brink.

Furthermore, there was something distinctly depressing about the fact that Neal Brink, despite being of relatively limited intelligence and appeal, was married and getting laid more often than she was.

Eden sighed, slid behind the wheel and welcomed the cool blast of air that hit her face as she negotiated the rutted dirt driveway. Only May, and yet the temperature had to be a humid ninety degrees. Summer was undoubtedly going to be a scorcher, which would ordinarily make Southerners moan and groan, but not where she lived. In fact, the city council would be thrilled. Eden felt a small smile curl her lips. After all, they hadn’t renamed the city Hell for nothing.

Originally the town had been named after Colonel Jamison Hale, a Confederate commander in the Civil War who’d ultimately settled their little parcel of land in South Georgia. But for reasons that meteorologists had never been able to competently explain to the citizens of her little burg, this particular area had boasted record heat for more than one hundred and fifty years. Deciding that they should capitalize on the phenomenon in order to attract tourists, city leaders—namely her grandfather, who’d been mayor right up until his death, which was when her father had stepped in—had adopted Hell in favor of Hale. And the rest, as they say, was history.

Despite its eternal-hereafter-for-the-damned name, Hell was a good city. Fine, hardworking people lived and raised their families here. And due to the surprisingly busy tourist trade, it had evolved into a hip mecca of sorts for those who’d become disenchanted with big-city life. Naturally they got their share of Goth visitors, but the town was small and had a lot to offer. She rolled to a stop at the intersection and relaxed against the back of her seat while she waited for a break in late-afternoon traffic.

In order to be of better service to her community—and because she loved the science and technology of it—Eden had enrolled in CSI, or Crime Scene Investigation, classes at a nearby college. Just because she lived in a small town didn’t necessarily mean they had to act like one.

Eden knew both of her parents had been happy when she’d moved back to town. Her father had actually asked her to come home—to be the buffer between him and his wife once again, Eden suspected—and her mother had been happy to have Eden to criticize once more. Then again, what else was new? Eden had never been the meek, stain-free, angelic little automaton her mother had wanted. If there was a fight, chances were she’d started it. A mud puddle to jump in? Both feet. She’d worn her dresses with a mutinous face and snatched the ribbons out of her hair the minute she’d left Giselle’s line of vision. She’d always befriended and dated anyone she chose, despite her mother’s protestations, and done things her own way regardless of the consequences. Eden frowned.

And there’d been many.

Fewer now that she was adult, of course, but her teenage years—especially when she’d been dating Bennett—had been sheer hell. One instance in particular still stood out, possibly because in the end it had been so prophetic.

In a routine act of blatant defiance her father thankfully ignored and which only served to infuriate her mother, Eden had snuck out to be with Bennett. They’d cruised the back roads in his old truck, doing a bunch of nothing—which, of course, had meant everything to her. He’d carved a wooden heart out of a piece of peach wood while they’d sat on his tailgate, then attached it to a piece of fishing line he’d found in the back of his truck and given it to her.

Much like the illusion necklaces that were popular today, it had hung as though by magic, suspended directly over her heart. He’d tied the charm around her neck, then kissed her cheek and told her that he loved her. It had been the first time he’d ever said it, and Eden had gotten so choked up she hadn’t been able to return the sentiment for several minutes.

Naturally her mother had been furious upon Eden’s return, but she’d been floating on a cloud of happiness, bouncing along on a current of endless joy because Bennett Wilder had loved her, and she hadn’t paid Giselle much attention.

The next morning the necklace had vanished from her dresser, and she’d found it lying splintered next to her breakfast plate.

That’s what he’s going to do to your heart, anyway, her mother had said with a cold, unrepentant shrug. If you leave this house without permission again, I’ll make you even sorrier than you are right now.

In that moment, Eden had hated her mother more than anything in the world and had never been more thankful for her aunt Devi, whom she’d cried to later. However, as though her mother had had some sort of psychic connection, Bennett had broken up with her shortly thereafter.

Eden swallowed, forcing the memory away. The breakup had been bitter enough without having to endure her mother’s smug I-told-you-so expression.

While Eden knew her mother enjoyed her position as the mayor’s wife, she’d nevertheless always gotten the impression that it had never been quite good enough. It angered her on behalf of her father because, in her opinion, he deserved so much better. Eden had always had an exaggerated sense of fairness—of right and wrong and people being treated accordingly. It was no small part of the reason she’d gone into law enforcement. Her lips twisted with bitter humor.

Unfortunately there was nothing fair or even about her parents’ marriage—her father did all of the work and her mother reaped the benefits.

In the end, though she might moan and groan about some of her less interesting calls on the force, Eden was quite happy with her career. Hell had always been good to her, and while she might miss the occasional trip to the museums and her season tickets to the Braves games, Atlanta had never truly felt like home. Hell, with its slow pace, perfectly manicured square and eccentric personality, was home. She enjoyed being a cop, being out in her community. Leveling the playing field. Serving. Protecting.

Eden’s eyes narrowed as a black BMW flew past. Like protecting people from that idiot, she thought as she darted out behind the driver and hit the blue lights. Good grief. At the rate she was going, she was never going to get that beer. Or the hot wings. Annoyed, she hit the siren, as well, and felt a perverse jolt of pleasure when the driver pulled off to the shoulder of the road.

She eased in behind the car, radioed dispatch to let them know she’d made the stop and calmly snagged her ticket pad. Georgia tag, she noted as she made her way to the driver’s-side window, but she didn’t think it was a local. She didn’t recognize the car, at any rate.

The fine hairs on Eden’s neck prickled as an achingly familiar profile suddenly registered in her rapidly numbing brain. Sound receded. She looked down and her gaze tangled with a pair of dark, sexy—equally shocked—eyes. The air suddenly thinned in her lungs, and her palms and feet tingled with an electrical current that, by all accounts, should have made the ground quake.

After all, it made everything inside her vibrate.

Eden swallowed, felt her blood pressure rocket toward stroke level, her mouth parch, her empty belly roll. Oh, dear God.

Bennett Wilder was back. Her lips slid haltingly into a bitter smile.

Evidently Hell had frozen over.

4

PULLED OVER. FABULOUS. Just freakin’ fabulous. Less than five minutes back in town and he was already in trouble with the law.

Swearing under his breath, Bennett pushed a difficult smile into place and turned as the sound of crunching gravel grew ever closer. “Good afternoon, Offi—”

The rest of the sentence died in his mouth as recognition broadsided him. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he would have staggered under the weight of emotion that suddenly slammed into him.