I get off the old bus and take a deep breath, adjusting my large aviators. "Welcome to Hell," I mutter to myself. I love the south, but not when I'm broke, heartbroken, tired, and, most importantly, alone.

Here are some words of wisdom from my dear sweet Mama.

"Baby, Southern bells are not just pretty to look at, oh no. We are much more than that. We were raised to look beautiful, to put on a facade of elegance and old—world charm. But we can be nasty."

Mama had always said that we are nasty women when we want to be.

That's our power, our prerogative.

The pretty demeanor is just an illusion; it hides the black mamba from within, ready to sink its razor—sharp teeth into unfaithful flesh. I walk with my head held high, tapping down the blistering rage coursing through my veins. The scorching sun shines on me like a spotlight, almost in mockery: Charlie Wilford, the tap—dancing sensation from Montgomery, Alabama. Broadway's newest star. I was featured in the largest production to date, the 100th anniversary of the academy.

"Hey, baby! You want a shake with that walk!?"

Without looking, I raise my arm and flip—off whoever said that without missing a beat. I am not in the mood for a bad—mannered hillbilly. I Just got off the bus to Blue Spring, Alabama, on this old dirt road in the middle of nowhere. I curse at the small town, so different from the thriving city I fled from, the slight taste of perfection I once had.

Everything was ripped away from me in just a moment's time, or long enough for me to unlock my fiancé's New York flat.

I feel my eyes sting and I force the memory away like a bad omen.

I walk, shielding the sun from my eyes. I don't know my cousin Linda, but she is on my mother's side and lives in a large farmhouse close to here. Ever since my mother died, I have lost touch with her family. I only have a couple of living relatives left, and Linda is the only one with a current address. I hate that I am in this situation, having to beg for charity until I can get a game plan. I hate being vulnerable, exposed.

My mother's death made me defenseless to Tanner Fraiser, the cheating devil.

"Honey, I am sorry! Can I give you a ride?" a man yells out of an old 70s Ford F100, the paint chipped and rusted. "A pretty thing like you should not be walking all alone! Crocs are roaming this territory."

I glance at him and note that he is not bad looking, someone I would have flirted with if I were the old me. The new me will never date another bad—boy womanizer again. I can tell by his easy smile and hard tattoos that this is a red flag to be a bitch.

Never again.

"No, thank you. I am just fine," I say and keep walking, getting a better hand on my hard brown suitcase. I am in cutoff shorts and a tight white T, so I don't blame him on being persistent. I had to sell everything else to afford the bus ticket and food, even my pink guitar.

"Come on, let me make it up to you for being a jerk. I'll take you where you want to go," the man says again, revving his engine as he keeps up with my fast walk.

I look at him and smile. "You ask me again, and I will take this suitcase and shove it up your ass. Or, maybe just through your window."

The look I give him could set wood on fire.

"Shit," he says, "Nothing worse than a woman scorned. Have a good day, miss," he says and floors it, spraying tons of dust—up in the air.

"Asshole!" I cough and flip him off, not that he could see me. I cough more as I walk through the brown cloud, the particles filling my lungs. "Perfect Charlie," I hiss and spit out dirt, "Look at you girl, heartbroken and probably pissed off the only person with a working vehicle in this small ass town of a hundred."

I stop and set down my luggage, taking off my shades to clean them. "You just had to fall for the famous dance instructor and ruin your career. Why couldn't I have listened to Mama? Find me a nice boy, the pretty ones are never satisfied," I say to myself and will away tears. "I need a nice man, one that keeps to himself — refined, a true gentleman — none of this bad—boy with tattoos and chiseled body crap. That kind of man talks real pretty, says everything you want to hear, then sleeps with your best friend."

I pull out a letter from my ripped shorts pocket.

I missed my gig yesterday. I received an acting offer from Fairy Godmother Inc. yesterday morning before I left. I found it in my things at the dance studio, with my name on it.

Probably didn't pay much anyhow.

I open the crumpled letter and sigh; this was probably a recommendation from the academy after they let me go because of the restraining order. Apparently, Tanner's broken eye—socket was frowned upon. And, I also smashed up his pretty new Bentley Bentayga.

This must be a pity gig. They must have told the Fairy Godmother Inc.'s recruiter about my situation. The letter said a lot about my history of dance and expressed their sadness for my mother's passing. Strange, but thoughtful.

Really though, I am not in the right mindset for an acting gig.

I need to take time for myself, to focus on what I want out of life. Maybe I'll travel the world backpacking, or study abroad. I could meet a handsome, down to Earth professor. We could discuss rocks and ancient structures.

Maybe learn about Ancient Aliens.

There's a thought!

Who needs Tanner Fraiser.

I stuff the letter back in my pocket and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I need to find my cousin's place before I plan my escape. I pick up my suitcase and start my long trek down the dusty, hot road. My shoulder begins to ache, and my feet are rubbing with the straps of my heels. Not ideal, but I have to press on unless I want to spend the night with southern critters.

I shiver, no thank you.

I hear a sound, and it makes me pause, my breathing is harsh from my forty—minute walk. I stop and look back, seeing a cloud of dust. Someone is coming in a car and driving fast. I cringe, this might be my only chance. I should have let the man in the truck give me a lift. My cousin's house could take me a couple of hours to reach for all I know.