The Ex-Girlfriends' Club. Rhonda Nelson

      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