The paint on the cinder block wall behind the counter was peeling. You’d think Rockford’s finest would have taken a little more pride in their jail.

Buzz. I glanced over my shoulder at the automatic doors sliding open. An officer escorted a woman in nothing but a thin, white t-shirt inside the jail. No bra. Possibly no underwear... Jesus, I’m ready to get the hell out of here.

The scrawny policeman behind the counter snatched a piece of paper from the printer. “Court date’s set for August ninth,” he said, jotting something on the bottom of the page before sliding it across the counter. “This says you’ve been charged with domestic violence, class one.” He tapped the pen over a line. “Sign here.”

I took the pen and scrawled my name. He tore off the top sheet and handed the yellow copy to me. “Go on now,” he said.

Another buzzer sounded and the metal door beside his desk slid open with a loud click. Exactly what I needed, a domestic violence charge. That charge was a load of shit. Max Summers deserved every bruise, every broken rib I gave him. There was no respect for vigilante justice these days.

The second I stepped into the lobby of the station, someone clapped. I glanced around, and my dumbass friend, Trevor, was leaning against the far wall by a vending machine, grinning like an idiot and still clapping. His blonde hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days, and from the state of the circles under his eyes, I assumed he’d stayed out drinking after I’d gotten arrested. The few clerks in the room stared at him. I just shook my head, punching him on the shoulder when I passed by. “Come on,” I said, walking toward the exit.

“You’re welcome, asswipe,” he said as we stepped outside.

“Thanks.”

The thick summer heat clung to my skin like cellophane, and I squinted against the early morning sun.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I’ve never actually been booked. You’re legit as it gets now, all you need is a shitty prison tattoo.”

The alarm to his BMW chirped, the taillights blinked, and the locks clicked. I wish I could say he wasn’t serious, but he was. “You should have been in jail at least four times by now,” I reminded him.

Trevor is what most people would call a shithead, and I guess that was why I was friends with him. His dad was the DA of Montgomery County, hence why he’d never actually gone to jail. He still lived with his parents. He had no aim in life—not that I did, but I came from a less than desirable background. No one expected me to do anything worthwhile with my life. Trevor was actually smart, had a scholarship to some school in Tennessee, but he just basically pissed his talent away. Said he couldn’t be “fucked” with college.

“Nah, now I can just say my friend’s an ex-con.” He grinned. “Gives me all the street cred I need.”

“Yes, because you need as much street cred as you can get in Sylacauga?” I climbed into his car and dragged my hand down my face. I was tired, hungover, and my jaw still swollen from where Max had gotten a few good shots in on me.

Trevor opened his console, grabbed my phone and truck keys, and tossed them to me. “Oh, they impounded your truck.”

“Aw, that’s bullshit!” I glanced at my watch. It’s already eight-thirty. God, Grandma’s going to beat me if I make her late to church. “Can I borrow your truck?” I asked, switching my phone on.

“Sure.” The deep rumble of the suped-up engine vibrated through the seat when Trevor cranked the engine.

We pulled out of the parking lot while my phone loaded. The distinct ping, ping, ping of texts fired off back to back. I clicked on the string of messages from my boss:

I’ll admit, I may have been late a time or two to a paint job, but I always did a good job and finished it at least half a day earlier than quoted, so I felt like that was bullshit. Dickey had been looking for a reason to cut me loose for months because his ex-girlfriend had a thing for me. She told me they’d broken up; she was five-ten and blonde. Fake tits. The whole lot. A guy doesn’t pass that up, especially not after half a case of beer. “Great,” I mumbled, tossing my head against the headrest.

“What?”

“Dickey fired me.”

“Of course he did. Dickey’s a dick.” Trevor chuckled, but I couldn’t seem to find the humor in it. Not that morning.

Blue skies. Bright sun. It may only be nine in the morning, but the heat was already radiating up from the asphalt. I cranked the AC to full blast when I turned beside the mailbox with the wooden cross nailed to the post. Halfway up the drive Grandma’s prized chickens stood pecking at the gravel. I blew the horn, and they ran off into the yard with their wings flapping, feathers going everywhere. I hated those damn chickens.

When I pulled in front of the house, Grandma was waiting on the porch with a fan and her Bible, scowling at me. Yep, she’s going to kill me. I put the truck in park and left the engine running while I hopped out.

“You’re late,” she said, eyeing me as she shoved her fan into her purse. I knew she saw the bruises on my face.

“I know, I know.” I stepped onto the porch and held her elbow to help her down.

Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Where’s your truck?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Mmhmm. I don’t like to be late to church, Noah. I raised you better than that.”

She raised me better than that and better than spending a night in the county jail…

“I had to borrow Trevor’s truck.” I was sure as shit not telling her the real reason I was late. She may have been old and frail looking, but she was mean when she wanted to be. The one thing I didn’t want to do was let her down.

She swatted at me when I tried to help her into the truck, telling me she could manage on her own.

When we got to the end of the drive, I put my blinker on to turn left.

“Turn right,” she said.

“Your church is left, Grandma.”

“I know. I said turn right, boy.” She shot a stern look at me. “Turn right!”

Shrugging, I did as told and she settled back into her seat, clutching her purse and Bible. “I told you I don’t like being late to church…” she grumbled, turning the radio to some Gospel station.

I came to a four-way stop across from Robert Murdey’s cornfield, the engine idling. She tapped on the window. “Now, take another right.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Rockford.”

“Why in the—”

She whacked the back of my head. “Boy, don’t you swear around me on God’s Day.” She huffed. “When you get into town take a left at the red light and go on down a ways until you see the rock church. Their service starts at ten. I told you, I ain’t gonna be late.” She cocked one of her drawn-on eyebrows. There was no arguing when she cocked her eyebrow. None!

I drove along the road deep in thought. I’d lost my job and that shitty town afforded little opportunity. That assault charge sure was going to be a nice little blemish on my already less than impressive resume.

The truck sputtered when I slowed down for the only red light in town and took another right.

Grandma shifted next to me, an unsettled tension bristling from her. “Now, you wanna confess your sins to me or to Jesus?”

The tiny rock church came into view, and I cleared my throat before I pulled into the gravel parking lot. “What sins?”

“You tell me. Going to jail…” I glanced at her and she frowned. “Just like your daddy. Mm-mm-mm.” She shook her head.

A short jolt of adrenaline jumped through me right before guilt. Guilt that I let her down, that she’d compared me to my worthless father. “Grandma, I—”

“Dickey called me this morning. Apologized to me that he was gonna have to fire you.”

“It’s fine, Grandma.” I cut the engine. “I’ll find another job.”

“Hrmph.” She stiffened a little before opening her door. “I’m gettin’ too old for this mess. I tell you, between your parents and you, I’m surprised the good Lord ain’t seen fit to carry me home yet.” She reached over and fiddled with the collar of my shirt. “But I love you, regardless if you’re a hoodlum or not.”

Before I could get out of the truck, she was already halfway across the small parking lot. A man in a plaid dress shirt and overalls held the door open for her and she bustled right on in. I thanked him when I stepped inside to find she’d already taken a seat in one of the pews at the back. I tried to block out the creepy-ass electric organ music that was way too loud for the little chapel. At least at Grandma’s church, they just stuck to an upright grand.

Church… I came every Sunday, but only because Grandma refused to drive, and she insisted that I stay. I guess she thought the words would sink in eventually. It wasn’t likely, but hey, it did force me to pray once a week. Every time I walked through the doors, I prayed the church wouldn’t go up in flames.

The small congregation shuffled to their seats. People coughed and asked how everyone’s momma was doing. I just leaned back in the pew and rolled my eyes. A group of girls passed by, their eyes trained on me. See, that was the thing about small towns. Everyone noticed when there was someone new in their mix. I smiled. Three of them blushed and giggled, the fourth one gave me a once over. Oh, she must be one of Rockford’s Elite. The Gucci slung over her shoulder, her tailored dress and manicured nails screamed little rich girl. With practiced ease, she stuck her nose in the air and rolled her eyes at me, so I winked at her just to be a dick. Her cheeks flushed before she turned around and strutted off to her pew. Gucci Girl looked at me like I was beneath her, but the irony was: I could most definitely have had her beneath me if I’d wanted, and I took great satisfaction in that.

The organist finished up the last chorus of “Amazing Grace.” Just as she folded the sheet music, the back doors of the church banged against the wall. I turned in my seat. The early morning sun poured through the doorway like a piece of heaven trying to sneak its way in, and just when I was about to face the front again, a girl came straggling in last minute. I dragged my gaze over her curves. Within three seconds, I knew she was too good for me. One, she was in a church, and two, that black dress she wore fell below her knees. With her dark hair and fair skin, she had that Audrey Hepburn classic beauty thing down pat, and you really couldn’t beat that.

That was the kind of girl I’d make love to while whispering promises I’d intend to keep, but wouldn’t….

She glanced around the tiny, packed chapel, gnawing on her lip. Her chest rose in a heavy breath before she grabbed the wicker offering basket from the chair by the door and took a seat. I thought only Deacons sat in those. Maybe she’s a rebel... I was half tempted to stand up and give my spot on the pew to her, but the preacher stepped to the pulpit and cleared his throat. “Good Morning, Rockford First Baptist.”

The congregation mumbled a unified hello, and Grandma swatted at me with her Bible. “Face the front, boy.” With that, I turned around and slouched in the seat.

Halfway through the sermon about that man Jesus raised from the dead, I turned around to take a peek at that pretty girl. She swiped at her check, doing that finger dab thing girls did when they were crying and they didn’t want their mascara to run. And even though I didn’t know her, it bothered me that she was upset. I guess she felt me staring at her, because she glanced in my direction. Our eyes locked for a second before her chin dropped to her chest, still dabbing at her eyes.

When I turn around, I grabbed a donation envelope from the back of the pew, along with a pen, and I scribbled out lyrics—inspired by that pretty girl in the black dress. Grandma nudged me, and I crammed the envelope in my pocket.

The sermon went on and on. Tithing. Sinning. Spiritual healing. I was almost asleep when Grandma elbowed me again. I swear, growing up, I had a permanent bruise from her prodding.

“Let us pray…” the preacher said from the pulpit. And I was ecstatic because that meant this was almost over. I had things to do after all, get my truck, find a job… I bowed my head, but I didn’t close my eyes. Instead, I stared down at the frayed laces of my Chucks.

The kid in front of me whimpered. I peeked up just as he stood in the pew, crawling over his mom. He looked at me and I crossed my eyes and stuck out my tongue like a dead frog. He giggled before falling into his mother’s lap.

“Amen.”

Everyone stood, turning to their neighbor and shaking their hand. I thought about going to introduce myself to that pretty girl. Grandma always said, you never know what burden someone’s carrying, and she was obviously carrying something.

“Oh,” the preacher said. “If any of you young men are looking for a little summer work, I need some help around the farm. I’m getting too old to tend to twenty acres, and the pay is good.”

I went to walk off and Grandma snagged me by the elbow like she used to when she was about to send me out to get a switch. Even though I was twenty-one, a little bit of panic shot through me at that particular grab. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

She led me straight to the altar, stopping in front of the preacher. He extended his hand. “John Blake,” he said, smiling. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you two here before.”

“Doris Mae Greyson.” She shook his hand. “Member of First Baptist Sylacauga, but my grandson here was gonna make me late, and I don’t walk into the Lord’s house late.”

John nodded like that made perfect sense.

“But I guess it was divine intervention because he could use a job.”

Great. Just great. Twenty-one and Grandma’s still wiping my ass for me. I glanced at the back of the church and that pretty girl was walking through the doors. Damn.

“Couldn’t you, boy?” She pinched me, and I turned back to face the preacher, swatting her hand away from my arm. “Just lost his job because he went to jail.”

“Grandma…” I said through gritted teeth while I forced a smile.

“Not prison mind you, just jail. Got in some fight.” She grabbed my chin and turned my face to the side. “As you can see by the state of his face. Now, I raised him better than this, but sometimes…” she sighed.

I wanted to argue with her. I didn’t need her asking for handouts, but how do you argue with your grandma in a church? I may have been an asshole, but I couldn’t be one around her.

“You know where Memorial Cemetery is?” John asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on down a mile from it, my house is on the left. Twelve, County Road Two. Come over Friday and we’ll see if we can’t get you some work.”

“Thank you,” I said, even though I wasn’t the least bit excited about whatever tending twenty acres entailed. I should have just called Grandma and told her I went to jail, then I could have just slept in that day.