Love Me ~ Without Regret (33 page)

Now when I got married at twenty-one years old, I was still a baby. I didn’t know a hill of beans about cooking or what the heck to do with that skillet. It sat in my cabinet for a long time. I started making cornbread, I’m ashamed to say, from a mix. Granny did like I said in the book and dumped her ingredients in a bowl and her cornbread always came out amazing. I need measurements for cooking. I may tweak them here or there a little, but I have to have something to go by. Anyways, she didn’t tell me I couldn’t put my skillet in the dishwasher. It ended up fine because you can re-season them but I was in tears because I thought I’d ruined it, or because I was very pregnant.

Cleaning

A cast-iron skillet isn't ideal for a set-aside-to-soak sort of person. For best results, rinse the pan with hot water immediately after cooking. Then dry well. Do not allow it to air dry. If you need to remove burned-on food, scrub with a mild abrasive, like coarse salt and a nonmetal brush to preserve the nonstick surface; you can also use a few drops of a mild dishwashing soap every once in a while. If the pan gets a sticky coating or develops rust over time, scrub it with steel wool and re-season it. To prevent rust, dry the skillet thoroughly and lightly coat the cooking surface with cooking oil. Cover with a paper towel to protect it from dust.

Most of you probably already knew all of this, but I didn’t when I first started using my skillet.

Lizzie’s and Cash’s Playlist

https://open.spotify.com/user/1273789225/playlist/0253lIefsP3dsE03s2lqvT

“I’m Coming Over” Chris Young

“Wrecking Ball” Eric Church

“If you want a bad boy” Brantley Gilbert

“Lose My Mind” Brett Eldredge

"Sail" By Awolnation

“Anytime Anyplace” by Janet Jackson

“Once in a Blue Moon” Earl Thomas Conley

“Breathe You In” Dierks Bently

"Good for You" Selena Gomez

“Goodbye” Chris Young

“Hurt” Johnny Cash

“Rusty Cage” Johnny Cash

Acknowledgments

First, I want to thank you the reader for taking a chance on a newbie author. Please leave a review!

Jason, thank you, babe, for 23 wonderful years. It was always you and it will always be you!

Brett and Braxton, you guys will never understand how much I love the two of you until you have your own children in the far far off future. Just take my word until then.

Nelda, thank you for not only raising the man of my dreams but teaching him to be a gentleman, too.

To my team that makes my writing and book beautiful, Lorrie, Julie, Elaine, Kristy, and Kris, thank you ladies so much for all of your hard work.

Amy Wiater, words can’t begin to express how thankful I am for your friendship and your help.

Kris & Kay, you girls keep me going and laughing, I can’t wait for our secret to be announced! I love you guys. Kay, move to Texas already!

Maggie Adams, you’re such an inspiration to me, thank you for all of your help, kind words, and for believing in me. Your friendship means the world to me.

Denise Veach, you have stood by me from day one! You’re continuously promoting me and going out of your way for me! Thank you for your 20+ years of friendship. Roll Tide!

Amy Musselman, thank you for all of your support. You rock girl!

Noelle, thank you for not only being a gorgeous cover model but for your beautiful voice and song in my video of Love Me ~ Like That.

Falyn, Austin Weatherell, Kristy Louise Photography Studio and Back Cover KLPS, thank you  for all of your hard work on Love Me ~ Like That’s video.

To Kennedy’s Krew! Thank you all for getting my name out there, you guys are freaking awesome!

Kathy Isaacs, thank you for hounding me for this book, it made me feel like you wanted to read it. Thank you for being the one who supports me, listens to everything I say, and never judges me.

About the Author

Renee Kennedy grew up in Decatur, AL and has been married to her high school sweet heart for 23 years. She currently lives in the Houston, TX area with her husband Jason, her son Braxton, and one very spoiled Yorkie, Chico. She also has one son that is serving our Country in the military, Brett.

She loves living in Texas but she’ll always be a Bama girl and that is where her heart remains. Renee has always been an avid reader but never dreamed of writing a book, until reminiscing about her grandparent’s love story, Bailey’s story popped into her head. Her grandparents played a significant role in her life growing up, so sharing a little piece of them with the world, helps keep them alive in her heart.

When she is not reading or writing she loves to cook and try out new recipes. You can often find her hanging out with her family and friends or stalking her own favorite authors.

Chico, her mini Yorkie, runs Renee's house and her so his every need must be catered too, after all he is her 3rd baby.

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Recommended Reads from the Author

Fearing Love by Kay Lindy

CHAPTER 1

For me, riding is like freedom. Feeling the wind whipping in your face as the Quad rumbles beneath you with power. It is exhilarating to feel the surge of the motor as you gas the throttle into the bank of the turn, or that very moment when the rear tires leave the ground at the top of a jump. I could ride for hours left to my own devices. It is a great way to leave behind all of the stress and fears in my life, and it helps me to clear my head. My desperation for some semblance of self-worth drives me to the brink, like my own personal self-destruct button; but riding gives me the sense of empowerment that I lack, helping soothe the anguish that I experience daily.

Lost in this world, time is elusive. I don’t have to worry about what comes next. I don’t have to think about how I might fail once again, or even remotely consider the past that haunts me to the core of my existence. It is the one true reason why I need to be in control no matter what. Without control, I know I will be as I once was; lost and broken, merely a shell of a person. 

Stopping the four-wheeler, I get off to stretch my legs at the footbridge that crosses over Squaw Creek. Anyone who grew up here knows it by that name. The creek was renamed Whychus Creek in 2006 because the county board found the name of the creek to be derogatory for the twenty-first century. Standing on the bridge, I watch the water flow slowly, which adds to the serene view of the dense forest.

There is something to be said for growing up in a small town where the children play in the streets, and the neighbors foster hospitality to you and have ownership of all of the children. Everyone knows everyone and that’s all right. It makes the entire community feel more like home instead of just the place where you grew up.  

The quietness seeps in making me raw and exposed, leaving room for my fears to claw their way back into my thoughts. Sometimes I hate myself. I hate myself for being weak. Having been raised by a self-proclaimed strong woman gave me a sense that women should be strong; but this strength was masked by destruction. A home built on lies, alcohol, and drugs. I always felt like I had lived in the shadows. No one really ever took notice of me. I always thought that as long as I did what I was told, kept out of trouble, and made something of myself, people would take notice. I was wrong... so very wrong. Maybe my need to have people believe in me rather than believe in myself is what led me down the path I am now desperately trying to free myself from. But, then again, how can I believe in myself after everything that has happened.

Fear seizes me. I suddenly have the sense that I am not alone, and panic strikes me like lightning. I tell myself that I am being silly; just a conditioned response that I need to get over if I am ever going to climb out of this hell. Shaking myself off, I realize that the sun is going down. I have been out for hours escaping reality.  It wasn’t until the chill of the wind hit my face that I realized I was crying, tears running down my face. I watched as the wooden rail of the bridge absorbed my tears as if hearing my cries, then taking them away. This was certainly not the first night I have spilled my sorrows onto the bridge, and I know it will not be my last.

While gearing up to head back home, the feeling washes over me again that I am not alone, only this time, it’s stronger. My heart is frantically trying to claw its way out of my chest. Could he be here? Scolding myself, I take several gulping breaths, trying to calm my shaking hands.  Unwilling to wait around a moment longer testing faith, I kick the Quad over and nothing.

“Come on you cold blooded SOB!” I yell as I furiously kick the Quad over and over again.

Oh my God, he is here. I can feel him. My foot slips off the kick-start, slamming into my shin. Blistering pain burns outward, and I can feel the warmth of blood slowly streaming its way down my leg. Shit. I can’t believe this is happening. How stupid can I possibly be? The sound of crunching gravel nears. NO! He is here! He is getting closer.

Forgetting about the pain as I frantically kick the Quad over and over again, the motor roars to life. Cranking the throttle wide open, I spin the Quad in a one-eighty to get the hell out of there. I am too afraid to look behind me and see not what, but who I know is there. Taking the direct route back to the ranch, I chastise myself for not taking more precautions. Not being in control is what got me in this disaster in the first place. I tell myself over and over again that I am not safe without control. I need control in order to ensure my safety.

The dirt road down to the cabin is narrow and rutted from the snowfall, which slows down my speed. I know he couldn’t have followed me, but the slow pace in which I have to travel reseeds unease into my stomach making me jumpy. I keep looking over my shoulder waiting to see him appear from thin air. Am I going to have to live the rest of my life watching every move I make, continually looking over my shoulder? How could I possibly live my life like this, in constant fear? This is no way for someone to live. The fear alone is suffocating, grasping my throat like his strong hands are choking me.

The cabin peeks out as I round the corner. It is a small, quaint little cabin that belonged to my Grandpa. There is nothing glamorous about the rustic wood paneled place, but the sight of it calms my nerves. Although Grandpa passed away eight years ago, I can still feel him here. He was a powerful man. Not in a sense of wealth, but a power that was so much greater. His presence demanded attention. His “take no shit approach to life” let you know that he was not someone to be messed with.

I assume that was a quality he had picked up during his employment as a Correctional Officer for the Folsom Joint.  One look and he could level anyone. I witnessed it first-hand on several occasions. It was comical to watch grown men squirm under his penetrating gaze. It did not matter if you were doing something wrong or not; with that look he could see who you were and what you have done, and by God, to be the recipient of that glacial stare was just downright terrifying. Still, with as hard as his calculated assessments were, he was the most loving man I have ever met. I cherished him. He was so soft and kind with us kids. It was always a special treat to get to sit in Grandpa’s chair with him sharing butterscotches. This place reminds me so much of the man who built it with his bare hands, rough and strong, but cozy and comforting all the same.

Amazon

The Ascension of Laney by Kris Hack

Chapter 1

Laney

“Laney.” my roommate, Ryan, whispers and nudges my arm, waking me from my daydreams of the past. Apparently, they’ve called my name twice. I stand up, smiling and waving, and the entire auditorium erupts in laughter. Eh, they won’t remember me after today. It’s freshman orientation and Ryan volunteered us both to lead the transfer tour. I wasn’t psyched about the idea, and if we weren’t getting paid at least a little I might not have showed up at all.

Ryan dragged me to a party last night, not a good one because most people won’t move back for the coming semester until today or tomorrow. Even so, I’m good and hung over. There’s a little marching band pounding in my head and I’m pretty sure standing up so fast is going to have repercussions in the form of my stomach contents covering the floor. The Dean finishes directing the freshmen to which group leader they should follow and dismisses us.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of the auditorium with a line of about twenty transfer students. I scan the crowd, quickly counting heads. We’re two short. They’ll either catch up later or miss it. Technically, the tour isn’t required—no one checks that each student actually shows up—but they also don’t broadcast that fact. If they did, no one would take the tour, and in a week we’d have a ton of lost transfer students roaming the campus.