“Well, let’s get you fed and then I’ll show you around,” Hank instructs, guiding me over to a table as he calls out to someone that he needs two burgers and fries.
“Thanks for this, man.”
“Don’t thank me,” Hank replies. “You’re doing me a favor. I really need some muscle around here. So, don’t act like I’m giving you a free ride.” He laughs and glances over his shoulder before turning back to face me. “Where are you planning on staying?”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it. Just packed up my shit and headed for Tennessee. All I knew was I had to get out of Dallas before I lost my damn mind.”
“Well, you came to the right place.”
Glancing around, I smirk, shaking my head. Never in a million years did I think the road would lead to a strip club in the middle of nowhere Tennessee. “It’s a change of pace, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, and it’ll keep you out of that damn head of yours while you continue to heal up.” Hank nods, thinking to himself for a second. “How is the shoulder?”
I give it a test spin, wincing when I get halfway around. “Still not back to fighting shape, but it’s better.”
Won’t ever be, I think to myself.
Hank huffs his response, his eyes boring into mine. “You’ll do just fine. Pretty sure you could take most people if you were blindfolded and hogtied.”
We both laugh, and I know he’s probably not too far from the truth. Fighting is in my blood. It’s what I’ve always known, what I’ve always been passionate about. Somehow, I’ve got to find a way to channel all of that into something productive.
Over the past couple months, I’ve felt the adrenaline building. There’s always this underlying current, something I’ve never been able to put a finger on, but it’s there. Fighting has always been my outlet, keeping it to an electrifying buzz instead of an overwhelming gong.
Anger?
Anxiety?
Excess energy?
I don’t know, but my father, being a boxer, recognized that when I was in the ring with him, I was a calmer, more collected version of myself. It gave me discipline, taught me respect for myself and others, and even helped me focus on tasks outside of the sport.
I’ve always been determined, motivated, and one of the best fighters in Texas, and most recently, the country. That is until my injury. Now, everything feels like it’s in slow-motion. A few months ago, I was cruising down a highway with no speed limit, and now, I’m on a back country road, trudging through the mud.
Without the rigorous schedule of training for fights and the reward of putting all of my hard work to use, I’m feeling pretty fucking lost these days.
Who knows? Maybe somewhere in this roadside strip club and quaint town, I’ll find myself again.
Chapter 3
Tempest
The way people look at me nowadays makes me feel like a stranger. It’s the same way they look at out-of-towners, or people they don’t trust—guarded and suspicious. My mama has given me one too many talks about putting on a good appearance, and Lord knows, I’ve been trying.
Fake it until you make it.
Put on a good face.
But I’ve never been good at lying and that’s what it feels like.
My bullshitter has been broken since the day I was born. I couldn’t lie my way out of a brown paper sack. For the life of me, I can’t understand what’s happening… why I’m acting the way I’ve been acting. My only explanation is that Asher brought out something in me, a level of anger and vindictiveness I’ve never known until now.
“I’ve raised you better than this,” my mama leans up and whispers as we sit in the courtroom and wait for the judge. "Tempest June, are you listening to me? You do whatever this judge tells you to and get a grip on yourself.”
“Not now, Mama,” I hiss back. I love her. God knows I do, but I’m so tired of everyone telling me how I should feel and how I should act and how I should turn the other cheek. Normally, she’d full name me—first, middle, and last—but since she knows the mention of Williams causes my blood to boil, she did me a favor and stopped at my first and middle.
Small mercies.
“Tempest Williams,” Judge Carson says, as if on cue, and I grit my teeth.
Apparently, he didn’t get the memo.
“Here, Judge Carson,” I say, standing from my spot in the second row and making my way to the podium where I try not to fidget. Forcing a smile, I smooth out the pale-yellow skirt I picked out for today. Not sure why, but it makes me feel pretty and I need any little help I can get these days.
The last time I saw Judge Carson, we were arguing over the last slice of Mississippi mud pie at the church Pie Supper. When he gives me a stern, serious stare, I wince and give an awkward wave. “Seems to me you’ve been in a little trouble, Mrs—”
“Miss,” I correct, cutting him off and clearing my throat, because if I have to hear Mrs. Williams one more time I’m liable to do something that’d earn me a permanent spot in Sheriff James’s jail and as nice as those upgraded cots are, I’m not looking to change my address. “Miss Cassidy. I’d prefer Miss Cassidy.”
“Is your divorce final?” he asks, looking down through the reading glasses at the tip of his nose as he flips through the stack of papers in front of him.
“Uh, no sir, but it will be next week.”
Sighing, in either frustration or reluctance, he cuts his eyes back up at me and repeats, “Seems to me you’ve been in a little trouble, Miss Cassidy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Honesty is still the best policy, right?
“Also seems to me that the trouble stems from your… well, temper, Tempest.”
Temper. Tempest. I see what he did there and the pun isn’t lost on me, but I decide to plead the fifth on this one, keeping my lips in a straight line … and shut.
“In the last three months, you’ve been brought in on a domestic dispute, disturbing the peace, vandalism … and the most recent count, destruction of personal property. How do you plead?”
I swallow, wanting to turn around and see if my mama is still sitting behind me, but if I saw her, then I’d see my dad, and the look of disappointment I’m sure I’d see on his face would be a little too much for me to bear. “Guilty, your Honor.”
Judge Carson nods, pursing his lips, as he flips back through the pages, obviously thinking … thinking of what my fine will be … or sentence, perhaps. Cole told me that my worst-case scenario is a few days in jail and a thousand dollar fine, neither of which I want.
The fact of the matter is, this divorce has cost me in more ways than one. Not only did I lose my husband, but I lost my vehicle and soon I’ll have to give up my house, along with half my savings to cover attorney fees.
Can you believe that shit? He cheats and I still have to pay. But it’s fine because I don’t want anything from him and I’m ready to be done with everything involving him, so the faster this is over the better.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
There are a few people in the courtroom murmuring, probably talking about me, but I tune them out. I don’t really care what people are saying or what they think of me. I can’t explain the reasoning behind the crazy things I’ve been doing. They don’t really make sense at all.
However, I know that with each incident—a pile of burnt clothes, a vehicle dumped into Mr. Miller’s pond—I feel a little better inside, like a small piece of myself is coming back.
The truth is, I want Asher to feel what I feel—to hurt like I hurt—but that’s impossible. What I’ve come to realize lately is that he’s not the person I thought he was. He doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t love me. If he did, he never would’ve broken our vows. I thought they were sacred. I thought we had something special. But I was wrong.
There’s no way I can hurt him like he hurt me, because I loved him.
I was ready to go to the ends of the earth for him.
But he threw all that away.
Metaphorically, he burned everything we’d spent years building to the ground in one afternoon.
The damage was already done.
It kills me every time I see him and Mindy around town. I wonder what he’d think if the tables were turned, but again, I’d never do that. I’m Tempest Cassidy and I’m loyal to a fault.
I also realize that even if I went out and fucked the whole town, I’d just be the new town whore with a broken heart… and maybe a few STDs. I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors.
So, I’ve settled for a different kind of revenge.
The first time I was arrested was the night I was standing outside of Asher’s new house. I’d been sleeping and had one of my nightmares—this vivid dream where I’m walking into the house all over again. He’s moaning. She’s moaning. Practically the whole house is shaking. And then I’m standing in the doorway of our bedroom and I see them.
One time, I was pregnant—round belly, my hands protectively placed.
When I woke up, I had tears streaming down my cheeks and my heart literally ached.
That particular night, I decided if I couldn’t sleep, then neither should he. So, I went over there—to his new house. In my fluffy pink house slippers and my red plaid pajama bottoms from Christmas, I stood in Asher’s front yard and yelled out every feeling I’d pent up inside me—the hate, the betrayal, the disgust. I just let it all out, yelling so loud I probably woke the dead, but then the neighbors had called the cops. Before the sirens and flashing lights, I remember feeling completely exhausted and laying down in the cool grass because it felt good on my hot, tear-stained cheeks.
The liquid courage I drank prior to going over there probably hadn’t helped the situation.
And even though I landed myself in jail, I felt better. That time, my daddy bailed me out pretty quick. I was barely there long enough for the whiskey to wear off. He just drove me home and told me to go back to bed.
A week later, after I ran into Asher and Mindy at the bank, I went straight home and ran around the house like a crazy person, gathering everything that belonged to him. Clothes left in the closet, shoes left in the garage, his stupid baseball magazines—I piled them all up in the driveway and lit the sons of bitches on fire.
Apparently, the Homeowner's Association frowns on fires in the driveway.
“All fires must be contained in a fire pit, fireplace, or grill,” Mr. Ramirez, the HEA president, had said.
Is this still the fucking south?
Can’t people burn shit if they want to, damn it?
That time, I only received a citation and a hefty fine of two hundred and fifty dollars, which initiated my next run-in with the law.
I figured that since all of this was Asher’s fault in the first place, he should have to pay my fine. So, while he and the missus were at work one day, after I finished up my Duchess of Muffin duties at the bakery, I drove over and broke in the back door of his new house and stole his pride and joy—an autographed football from the University of Alabama National Championship team.
Rammer jammer, my ass!
I’d like to have rammed that football up Asher’s ass, but instead, I hocked it.
I know all of these incidents—episodes … whatever you want to call them—make me sound exactly how everyone labels me these days—crazy, unstable, scorned—but at the time, my actions seemed completely logical. I’m not even mad anymore, really, just hurt. I’m also sorry I wasted all those years putting him on a pedestal, because he never deserved it.
“Tell you what I’m going to do,” Judge Carson finally says, bringing my attention back to him. “I’m going to fine you the minimum five hundred dollar fine, plus …” he says, pausing. His bushy, gray eyebrows furrowing as he looks at me. “Twenty-four hours of anger management. You can either find a class or I’ll appoint one for you.”
I swallow, partially grateful and partially pissed off. I don’t have an anger problem. I have an Asher Williams problem, and as soon as he’s out of my life, everything will go back to normal.
“Is that understood, Miss Cassidy?” he asks, waiting for me to acknowledge his decree.
I nod, swallowing again. “Yes, sir.”
“And if I see you back in my courtroom again, I won’t be as lenient next time.”
As we’re walking out, my mama on one side and my daddy on the other, she lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Praise the Lord. See, I told you, prayer works. That could’ve gone so much worse, Tempest. God was looking out for you today,” she says, squeezing my hand and adding under her breath, “and every other day for the past three months.”
“Yes, Mama,” I say, placating her until I can get to the solace of my house. Even though it feels tainted with memories of Asher and Mindy, it’s still mine, for now, and the only place I feel like I can go these days without people staring at me. Although, I have moved into the spare bedroom downstairs, hardly going upstairs in the past three months.
“We should celebrate,” she says as we approach the parking lot. “Butch, take us for steaks. It’s been a while since we’ve been to the Front Porch. I think today calls for a nice supper. And Lord knows I’m too exhausted to even think about cooking.”
I bite my cheek and let out a deep exhale through my nose, willing my patience to hold out a little while longer.
My daddy walks to the car and opens the passenger door for her. Before he opens the rear door for me, he pauses, leaning on the hood. “You wanna grab a bite to eat?”
“As lovely as a nice steak dinner sounds,” I manage. “I really just want to go home.” I try to put on a convincing smile but he doesn’t buy it.
“Don’t let him win,” he says quietly, just for the two of us, looking me square in the eye. “Take your punishment, get this mess over with, and move on with your life.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat that comes out of nowhere, I nod. “Yeah, I’m planning on it.”
He sighs again before giving me a quick hug, kissing the top of my head. “You’re gonna be alright.”
“Okay.” I needed that. I needed someone to tell me that so hopefully I’ll start believing it myself, because right now, things seem dismal, and that’s putting it lightly.
My mama doesn’t say much when my daddy turns the car in the direction of my house instead of the restaurant. When he pulls up into my drive, I get out and shut the door, without preamble.
“Call us tomorrow,” my mama says, rolling her window down. “And I expect you to be at church on Sunday.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I call out over my shoulder, offering her a consolatory wave as I’m halfway to the door.
I know she means well, but she has been downright stifling lately. She’s constantly checking up on me, coming by the house unannounced, and unloading all of her wisdom whenever she sees fit. I know I need some of it. We all need our mama’s words of wisdom from time to time, but I also need a freaking break.
I need to breathe.
I need to forget.
I need some time for my heart to heal.
I need to figure out how to fall out of love with Asher Williams.
Because as hurt and mad as I am, there’s still a part of me that loves the man I married. The one I was planning on starting a family with. The guy I planned to spend the rest of my life with. He was in all my plans … five-year, ten-year … retirement. And now, I’m left figuring out who I am without him.
Today’s soundtrack would include Choices by the late, great George Jones. Maybe I’ll pour a glass of wine and listen to him on repeat. Sometimes, the only thing that can soothe my soul is the steel guitar.
It’s been two weeks since my last run-in with the law, which is something to celebrate in itself, but I’ve got something even better than that: my divorce is final.
I met with my lawyer yesterday after work and it’s a done deal. After a short trip to the DMV and the Social Security Office, I’m officially back to being Tempest Cassidy
. I’d like to say it feels good, and in a way it does, but I’m also fighting off the impending doom of being alone.
How did I get here?
The thing I try to keep reminding myself is that, for the rest of my life, I won't ever have to look at Asher's face again, if I choose not to. After months of living under the weight of his betrayal, I feel the first ease of tension, like I can breathe again.
And tonight, I feel like letting my hair down.
Earlier, I contemplated calling someone to go out with me, but most of the people I know have either joined Team Asher or refuse to take sides, which in my book, means they’re Team Asher. The few people who actually are on my team would never be caught dead in a bar. They’re either knocked-up or are your typical wholesome southern woman, which I am neither—with child or a stereotype.
I'm more than certain my mama and daddy would frown on my choice of location for my celebration, but one thing I've learned since my life got turned upside down is that from here on out, I'm doing things my way.
Operation: Make Tempest Happy.
Because if I don't, who will?
For years, I let my happiness reside in Asher Williams. Twelve years, to be exact, since I was sixteen years old, and look where that got me—cheated on and divorced, with a rap sheet.
Not anymore. From now on, I answer to no one but myself.
So tonight, I'm going to the Pink Pony.
Sure, it’s not my usual scene. Let’s face it, my usual scene for the last eight years has been my house, the bakery, or an occasional night out to dinner. But it’s precisely what I need—half-priced ladies’ night, music to drown out my thoughts, low lighting to keep me as inconspicuous as possible, and half-naked girls to keep the men folk distracted.
I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, what the heck, Tempest? Can’t you at least go where there are naked men? But the truth is, I don’t want to see any naked men. I just want to feel the numbness that comes from drinking one too many margaritas.
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