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The night before college graduation, was one for the books.

Deciding to memorialize our last night together, my roommates and I ended up in front of a tattoo shop. They chickened out. I didn’t. Lying face down, ass up, and alone on the table of the tattooed, god of a man, whose sinfully sexy style, and delicious demeanor wasn’t part of the plan. It was one night, no regrets, no looking back, until I finally got a good look at the art he tagged me with.

Tag, I’m it.


He can sing, dance, and owns whatever stage he’s “performing” on.

His looks make him a triple threat. And he’s gone viral.

He is the Country Music Artist of the Year.

Which means that face, those eyes, that hair, that body, and his voice are every-freaking-where.

He’s America’s newest country sensation, and he can do no wrong.

Except, he did.

He totally did.

And he did it to me.


I traded my plaid skirt for a navy blazer, my religion for a red Solo cup, and finally my Bible for a bong, just to fit in.

He helped me jeté from outcast to the “it girl.”

In becoming this new, improved version of myself, my truths became laced with lies.

I thought he was my savior, but it turns out that he was really the devil in designer.

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