The Bully (Calamity Montana)

NELLIE’S JOURNAL entry about my dad was the only one in the book that made me laugh. Because after months of being in the same school and unofficially declaring each other as enemies, her dislike of Dad was something we would have wholeheartedly agreed upon.

I really don’t like Cal’s dad.

“Well . . .” I slammed her diary closed and chuckled. “That makes two of us.”

I hadn’t spoken to my father in years. Whenever I went home to Denver, I spent my time with Mom. We’d eat lunch at her favorite bistro. We’d go shopping if she wanted to shop. Once, I’d waited at her salon while she’d gotten her hair colored. Then we’d pick a new restaurant to try for dinner.

I’d pick her up from the house and drop her off at the house. But I never went inside.

The last time I’d entered Mom and Dad’s house had to have been exactly ten years ago for her birthday. Dad and I had gotten into a fight when he’d decided that appropriate celebratory dinner conversation was critiquing my plays from the previous season.

The asshole had pulled out his phone and recited how many interceptions I’d thrown. How many passing yards the other league quarterbacks had compared to my own. How many times I’d been sacked. How many games I’d lost.

He’d picked my career apart over their chef’s beef Wellington. If it hadn’t been Mom’s special day, I would have left before dessert. But I’d stuck it out, and after our meal, I’d vowed to avoid the bastard at all costs.

Dad was more critical than any coach or manager. Hell, he was worse than Nellie. Then again, she didn’t seem to give a damn about the actual football stats, just how I behaved after the game clock had run to zero.

Mom had simply stopped watching my games years ago. Maybe that was why I loved her so much. Either she didn’t care about football or she recognized that Dad cared too much. Her apathy balanced the scales. She was more interested in my personal life, always asking if I’d met someone special or if a future daughter-in-law was on the horizon. My answer was always no.

So in a way, I’d been disappointing both my parents for years.

I returned Nellie’s journal to the drawer in the kitchen where I’d hidden it last night when she’d stopped by. I doubted she’d visit again but living in the same town . . . things were different.

She’d be pissed as hell if she found out I’d stolen her diary. I’d deal with her fury if that time came, but mostly, I wasn’t ready to give it back. Not yet.

Why this book had become so important I still hadn’t pinpointed. Maybe because each time I opened the cover and saw her neat script, I didn’t feel quite so alone. Maybe because it was a connection to her, to any person, that ran deeper than the surface.

Maybe because torturing myself with the actions of my past was better than sitting around feeling lost without my football career.

With the journal out of sight, I swept up my phone from the counter and pulled up Mom’s name. She answered on the second ring.

“Oh, Cal. I got your flowers this morning. They are stunning. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like them.” I smiled. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. I wish you were here to celebrate it with me.”

“Next time.”

I’d considered flying to Colorado for a quick visit, and had I known that Darius and Kylie Rivera would be in town, I probably would have gone south. Except I was content in Calamity and wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. Probably because leaving, even for just a weekend, felt a lot like losing to Nellie.

“How’s your special day going?” I asked Mom.

“Good.” There was a smile in her voice. “I just arrived at the spa. It was your father’s gift.”

My jaw ticked. “Isn’t that what he got you last year too?”

“Yes, but—oh, shoot. They’re waving me in already. Can I call you later, Cal? We’re going out to a fancy dinner later, but I should have some time to catch up on the drive home. I’d like to hear how Montana is treating you.”

“Of course. Call me whenever.”

“Okay.”

“Happy birthday, Mom,” I said again. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

I hung up and stared at my phone, guilt creeping in. She was spending the day at the spa. Damn. I should have gone to see her. At least then she wouldn’t be around strangers on her special day. Though the amount of time she spent at the spa, I supposed those people were hardly strangers.

Dad sent Mom to the spa at least one day a week. Always a gift, so she’d feel indebted. It was his way of keeping her pacified. Because according to him, a spoiled wife didn’t ask questions. She was more willing to overlook his discretions.

Like the fact that he was probably spending her birthday with his latest mistress.

Was the reason Mom avoided him so willingly because she knew about the girlfriends?

I knew of five myself. Dad hadn’t been shy about parading them around whenever Mom was occupied elsewhere. The first I’d met my freshman year in high school, back when he still introduced them as his assistants. One had been his travel agent.

Maybe he’d thought I was too young to realize the truth. But he’d spoken too closely into their ears. He’d touched the smalls of their backs. He’d smiled at them like their secret affair was safe with me.

The son of a bitch.

In one of my first games with the Titans, Dad had decided to fly out and watch. He’d asked for two tickets, saying he was bringing a friend.

That friend had turned out to be a twenty-something brunette with fake tits, a short skirt and a tight ass. When I’d asked him after the game who the fuck she was, he’d brushed it off. Told me it was just sex. He’d said that I’d understand when I was his age.

The fuck I would.

Our relationship had been strained before that day. After that, it had been over.

Any time Dad had asked me to get him tickets, I’d call Mom and invite her first. No surprise, his attendance had dwindled over the years. They’d missed my last two seasons entirely.

This time of year, I’d be in the thick of spring training. I was going to need more to do with my life than sit in this camper.

Christ, I missed football. I missed the focus it stole from my personal life.

My architect had finished the initial draft of the house plans. He was making some tweaks based on my feedback. Hopefully we’d have them finalized this week so they could be submitted to the county for a building permit approval. But even if I had to pick out flooring and tiles and cabinets and paint colors, I was going to need more activity.

For today, it was laundry. A pile of stripped sheets was on the RV’s floor. I had Nellie and her impromptu visit last night to thank for a task to do today. As much as I liked her scent on my sheets, it had to go.

Nothing good would come from holding her too close.

I scooped up the pile and walked outside, about to head for the motel’s laundry room.

“Cal,” Harry called, opening her front door.

“Morning.”

“It’s too early for me.”

It was almost nine, and I’d been up since dawn.

“Laundry?” She nodded to the bundle in my arms.

“Yeah.”

She waved me over. “Use my machine. Marcy’s swamped today.”

And if I went to the laundry room, I would be in the way.

I changed directions, walking through Harry’s sage-green door. I hadn’t given her home much thought. Based on the exterior, I guess I expected it to be clean and tidy. It was clean. It was tidy. But holy shit, Harry had a lot of clutter.

The walls were so busy I wasn’t sure what to look at first. Hung over the pink floral-print wallpaper in the entryway were at least fifty framed photos. Most were landscapes with a few faces mixed in between. Before I could lean in for a closer inspection, Harry waved me to follow her down the narrow hallway.

“Laundry room is this way,” she said.

We weaved through a living room. The space would have been a comfortable size but with four couches, each upholstered in a different shade of mustard, I felt like I’d just stepped into a dollhouse. The furniture clashed beautifully with the green striped wallpaper, not that you could see much past the bookshelves, TV cabinet and piano.

Knickknacks. Pictures. Trinkets. Harry was a collector.

“This is not what I expected,” I said as we passed through the kitchen. Again, it would have been spacious if not for the six-chair dining room table in the center.

“What did you expect?” she asked.

“Less . . . stuff.”

“If you’ve lived as long as I’ve lived and don’t have stuff to show for it, then you haven’t been living right.”

I chuckled. “Maybe you’re right.”

Mom and Dad’s house was open and airy. I’d always thought it was Mom’s minimalist style. But maybe she simply didn’t have enough photos or souvenirs to display.

Harry passed through one more doorway to the laundry room—which was surprisingly empty with only a washer, dryer and a metal drying rack. “Did your mother teach you how to use these?”

“My mother hasn’t done a load of laundry since she married my father. But if you’re wondering if I know how to wash clothes, yes. I won’t ruin your appliances or flood your house.”

Laundry was about the only household chore I’d done in years. In Nashville, I’d employed a weekly housekeeping service and a gardener to care for my property. My dry cleaning had been sent out under an alias to ensure it all came back. But when it came to washing my T-shirts, underwear, socks and jeans, I’d always worried about delegating it to an assistant. The last thing I wanted was to find out that my dirty boxers had been sold online.

There were some weird people in this world.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Harry said, tapping her dryer. “I’m helping Marcy with rooms today.”

“All right.” I nodded and flipped open the top of the washer, fitting the sheets around the agitator.

Harry walked out of the laundry room. “Don’t lock the door.”

“Okay.”

The front door closed as I dumped a scoop of laundry detergent into the machine. I turned it on, then retraced my steps through the kitchen. When I hit the living room, the sheer abundance of stuff snared me. And since Harry hadn’t told me not to snoop, I snooped.

The books on the shelves ranged from non-fiction to cozy mysteries to historical romance novels with shirtless men on the covers. There was a shelf dedicated to tattered copies of the Bible. The piano was an upright, the top protected by a lace doily. Framed photos were bunched together by family. I recognized Marcy’s face from what must have been her senior portrait. Beside it were pictures of kids and grandkids.

I picked up a photo of a boy wearing a green football uniform. His helmet dangled from the hand at his side. His shoulder pads were too big and his white pants sagged at the waist. But the kid’s smile stretched ear to ear.

That was how it should be. Kids should smile when they played football.

Had I ever smiled like that in youth sports? Maybe before my talent had taken hold. Before fun had been replaced with pressure.

If there was a photo of me like this one, it would be in a storage tub at Mom and Dad’s place. They didn’t hang framed pictures on the walls because Dad preferred art from a local gallery.

A gallery I’d been to once, and only once, because as soon as I’d seen the curator—a woman with sleek red hair and bedroom eyes for my father—I’d known exactly why Dad liked the gallery.

A rush of envy hit as I returned the kid’s frame to the piano’s top.

Lucky guy.

The moment I stepped through the Winnebago’s door, Nellie’s scent filled my nose. I cracked the windows, leaving it to air out the smell of oranges and orchids, while I pulled a hat over my hair and put on a pair of sunglasses.

Risky as it was to brave downtown on a Saturday morning, staying here would only make me think of sex. How Nellie had moaned my name last night while I’d sucked on her clit. How her pussy had pulsed around my cock as I’d plunged myself into her tight body. How beautiful she’d looked beneath the moonlight, with her hair tousled and her clothes askew, as we’d walked to her car.

“Get her out of your head.” I dragged a hand over my mouth, then set off across the gravel path that ran the length of the motel. I was five feet away from the sidewalk that led to First when a man’s voice carried my way.

“Maybe we could come back in September. Before it gets too cold.”

“I’d like that,” a woman said. “I can keep my eye out for plane ticket deals. Or we could let Nellie buy them like she offered.”

“Not happening.”

Nellie? Oh, shit. My feet ground to a stop on the concrete but it was too late for me to escape. I glanced left just as Nellie’s parents rounded the corner of the motel.

Darius Rivera spotted me and his face turned to stone.

I swallowed hard, my shoes like cement blocks. It took effort to pick up my feet and approach, hand extended. “Mr. Rivera.”

Kylie’s eyes narrowed.

Darius stared at me for a long moment, and I was sure he’d dismiss me, but then he fit his palm against mine. The fact that he’d shake my hand proved he was a good man. The better man. “Cal Stark.”

“Nice to see you, sir.” I nodded to Kylie. “Mrs. Rivera.”

She glared and damn if it didn’t make her look just like Nellie. I would have teased her about it if I didn’t think she’d rip off my balls.

“I was just heading into town,” I said. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“We were going that direction too,” Darius said.

I expected them to put some distance between us. But as I started down the sidewalk, they fell into step beside me.

Every second was torture. I realized after a block that I wasn’t breathing. Sweat beaded at my temples.

“Well, this is awkward,” Kylie muttered.

I huffed a dry laugh. “Pretty much.”

Yet even after admitting it, we didn’t talk about anything. Not a single word. Not that there was anything to say. So we walked, step after step, until the bustle of downtown forced me to shift behind them.

My gaze flew over their heads to Nellie, standing outside the White Oak.

Her eyes were on her phone. She smiled at the screen, her fingers flying, then she tucked it into her shorts pocket. She was killing me with those shorts. Bare, smooth skin all the way to her sandals. Her loose tee draped off one shoulder.

A shoulder I’d kissed last night.

She turned our direction, spotting her parents first. Her smile was breathtaking. It fell flat when she looked over her father’s head and found my face. Her eyes widened as she rushed our way, like she was coming to their rescue. “Hi. What’s, um . . .”

“We bumped into Cal at the motel,” her mom said, looping her arm with Darius’s. “We’re going to grab a table for breakfast.”

Before they could walk away, I stopped them. “Mr. Rivera.”

Darius turned. “Yes?”

I pulled off my shades so he could see my eyes. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Kylie’s eyebrows rose. Nellie’s mouth parted.

We all knew why I was apologizing.

Darius gave me a single nod before he escorted his wife into the restaurant.

Nellie waited until her parents were inside, then her hands went to her hips. “This town isn’t big enough. You have to move.”

“This again? Not happening. Besides, I figured you’d be out exploring the area today.”

“We’re meeting for a late breakfast.”

“Then the next time you come over for a fuck, mention your schedule. I’ll do my best to accommodate.”

Her nostrils flared. Beautifully furious. “Please tell me you didn’t make that sort of comment to my parents.”

“No. But it’s good to know that I’m your dirty little secret.”

“Oh, and I suppose you tell people about us.” When I didn’t respond, she rolled her eyes. “That’s what I thought. Don’t want the world to know you’re screwing the scholarship kid, right?”

No, that wasn’t why I hadn’t told anyone. I hadn’t spoken about it because I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Whatever,” she muttered. “What was that about? The apology to Dad?”

I shrugged and put on my sunglasses. “It was overdue.”

She gave me a sideways glance. “We’re going to wander around downtown today.”

“I’m just grabbing some food. Then I’ll stick close to the RV.”

“Thank you.”

“It’ll cost you.” That remark earned me another eye roll.

“Of course, it will.” She raised her chin. “What do you want?”

“Tell me what you hate about me.”

She frowned, looking past me to the windows of the café.

I followed her gaze, seeing her parents in a booth beside the glass. Darius was watching us as he pretended to read his menu.

“I hate that you’re a liar,” she said.

Ouch. It stung because she was right. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Bye, Stark.”

“Bye, Rivera.”

She hurried into the café while I continued down the sidewalk. Whatever appetite I’d had was gone, replaced by rocks in my gut, so I turned around and retraced my path to the motel.

She was right about more than me being a liar. This town wasn’t big enough.

Did I really want to bump into her at random? Last night she’d been beautiful and naked in my bed. Then this morning, she was back to the woman who’d learned long ago to keep up her guard where I was concerned.

Maybe sex was just part of that barrier. Maybe it was a way for her to keep me in a box. Casual. Physical. Shallow.

And one day, when she was tired of that box, when she wanted more and met a man who could give it to her, she’d cut me off. It was destined to end.

When I arrived at the Winnebago, I went straight for the closet.

And while I waited for my laundry, I filled my suitcase.