The Bully (Calamity Montana)

I RANG Nellie’s doorbell at exactly five forty-five. It took her four minutes to answer.

Four minutes, where I stood outside under the sun, knowing that she was probably sitting on the couch, watching the seconds tick by on a clock before she’d finally deemed my penance complete.

“It’s about damn time,” I clipped as she opened the door.

“You could have waited in the car.” She met my scowl with her own.

Her body was encased in a little black dress. The fabric molded to her figure, wrapping around her hips as it tapered toward her knees. The square neckline showed a sliver of cleavage. She’d strapped sexy-as-fuck heels to her ankles, and her hair was twisted in a knot, showcasing the silver hoops in her ears. Her green eyes were lined with black, making her irises pop, and she had on that goddamn red lipstick.

She was a living, breathing fantasy.

“You’re not wearing that.”

She glanced at her outfit. “Excuse me?”

“Change. Now,” I ordered as my cock twitched.

“You know what?” She shook her head. “Go to dinner alone. Good luck.”

My hand shot out and stopped the door as she attempted to slam it in my face. “Just change. Please.”

I’d hit my quota of pleases for the day, but apparently, it worked because Nellie dropped her hand.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? I thought we were going to a steakhouse.”

“You look . . .” Incredible. Alluring. Magnificent, as always. “If you wear that dress, my agent will hit on you. And he’ll stare at your tits all night.”

If it was any other woman, I’d let him ogle my date. But not her. I didn’t love Wade, but I wasn’t ready to fire him either. If he crossed a line with Nellie, I’d not only can his ass, but there was a chance I’d punch him in the face.

“Fine.” She huffed and strode through the living room, her ass swaying with every angry step.

Yeah, she had to change. Not just for Wade. But because I needed to get through this dinner and if she stayed in that dress, I’d strip her down before we even made it to the restaurant.

I stepped inside, closed the door and went to the couch. There was a new television on the stand in front of me. “So much for not wanting a TV, huh?”

“Changed my mind,” she said as her footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“This woman,” I muttered, then paced the room as I waited for her to change. It took less time than I’d expected for her to return, except she hadn’t really fixed the problem.

She’d traded the dress for a pair of black pants with a slim fit that stopped at her ankles. The damn heels were the same. Her top was a sleeveless black turtleneck, and yeah, there was no cleavage, but it begged to be torn from her torso.

“You’re fucking killing me.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and willed the swelling behind my zipper to stop.

“It’s this outfit or you can forget my company.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You have three seconds.”

“Let’s go.” I strode out the door, not bothering to wait for her to lock up.

Didn’t she have a garbage sack or a tent she could put on? Some shapeless, boring number that disguised her curves? But hell, this was Nellie. I knew exactly what she looked like beneath her clothes, so she could be wearing a burlap sack and I’d find it sexy.

I had the car running and the air-conditioning cranked by the time she slid into the passenger seat. Her perfume filled the cab instantly. With her hair up, I didn’t dare roll down the windows—one of my mother’s lessons about preserving an updo at all costs. So I was forced to breathe Nellie in as I steered us out of town.

Christ, she smelled good.

“You look nice.” Understatement of the century.

She barked a dry laugh. “That sounded painful. Is it really so hard for you to give me a compliment?”

“No,” I mumbled.

She had no idea how beautiful she was. How much I wanted her. Craved her. She had no clue that she’d ruined me for other women.

Before Nellie, there’d been women. Casual flings. Random hookups. My third year in the league, I’d attempted the girlfriend thing, but it had fizzled in weeks thanks to my demanding travel and practice schedule.

Then there’d been that night in Charlotte and Nellie had fucked up my life. Every other woman paled in comparison.

No one was as beautiful. No one had that fire. No one made my pulse race, whether we were fighting or fucking.

Maybe I’d been comparing other women to Nellie since high school and hadn’t even realized it.

There was an entry in her diary about how I hadn’t looked at her in the hallways. Yeah, I’d never looked at Nellie back then. I’d done my best to pretend she hadn’t existed.

It had been easier that way. The last thing I’d wanted was for one of the guys to catch me checking her out as she stood at her locker, loading up her arms with books. If any of the other girls had caught me watching Nellie, they would have made her life miserable, just because I’d failed to keep my eyes away.

I never should have looked at her. I never should have broken my focus.

But then . . . Charlotte. Fucking Charlotte.

Having her as my non-date tonight was a horrible idea. No question.

I’d asked Harry if she’d go with me, but they’d had some stupid family night planned. Pierce would have been the better choice, and even with the new baby, he would have tagged along. That would have been the smarter choice because there was no way I’d want to reach across the cab and squeeze his thigh.

My fingers tightened on the wheel as I drove. I stayed quiet. Nellie stayed quiet. What was there to say? We didn’t share personal details, preferring to torment each other instead. Except at the moment, the silence felt . . . lonely.

God, I was sick of being lonely. “I miss football.”

“Then take the sportscasting job.”

I shook my head. “It’s not for me.”

“You could play.”

“Nah. It was time to get out.”

She hummed, and as the soothing sound faded, the silence returned.

I shifted, leaning an elbow on the console as I drove with one hand. “Tell me what you hate about me.”

“You drive like an old man.”

I chuckled. “No hesitation?”

“Not tonight.” She smirked, then nodded to the speedometer. “You’re going five miles under the speed limit.”

“I don’t like to drive fast.”

She studied my profile, leaning her elbow on the console too. We were close. Too close. All I had to do was lean in and kiss that red off her lips. So I shifted in the opposite direction.

“Why don’t you like to drive fast?” she asked. “It seems . . . I don’t know. Shy?”

“I’m not shy.”

“Exactly.”

I sighed, not wanting to share this story, but talking was better than the silence. “When I was sixteen, my grandfather died in a car accident.”

“Oh.” She gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was my dad’s father. We were close.” Grandpa Stark had loved football, and whenever we’d play catch or goof around, it had always been a game. When I’d played with Dad, it had always been practice.

“It was a three-car collision,” I told her. “Grandpa’s fault. The insurance companies did an extensive investigation. They found that he was speeding, going at least twenty miles per hour over the limit. He must not have been paying attention. Maybe he swerved to avoid an animal or something. But he overcorrected and flew into the oncoming lane.”

“Cal, I had no idea.”

Not many knew. It wasn’t something I’d wanted to talk about, especially at school. “One of the cars was totaled, but the driver walked away with a few scrapes and bruises. But the other car . . . the guy was a father of four. He died on impact. So did Grandpa.”

Nellie reached across the cab, her hand almost settling on my shoulder before she pulled it back in exchange for a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hassled you about it.”

“You’re not the first person to razz me about my driving. It doesn’t bother me.” Most people who knew the story would drive slower too, at least when I was in the car.

“I’m still sorry.”

“Thanks.”

The remainder of the drive was quiet, though the silence wasn’t as unsettling. The tension was gone. Sad stories had their way of sobering the mood. But as the restaurant neared, a different emotion made my hands strangle the wheel—annoyance.

This visit of Wade’s was pointless. I’d told him as much the last time we’d talked, but he seemed certain that if we sat down and talked it through, I’d change my mind. He was about to be disappointed.

I pulled into the steakhouse’s parking lot, taking the last spot available. Then we both climbed out and made our way to the door. Together. Like a couple. Like we’d done this a hundred times.

Was that strange? There weren’t many people I felt comfortable with but Nellie was one. When it came to her, I knew exactly what to expect. She had no hidden agendas. She didn’t fake her way through life. She was the real deal.

Not many people would tell you to your face what they hated about you.

Which was why I’d only ask her.

“Hey.” I slowed my steps as we approached the door. “Thanks for doing this.”

She nodded. “I’m not doing this to help you. It’s because you’re buying dinner and a steak sounded better than leftover pizza.”

I chuckled. “It’s always brutal honesty with you, isn’t it?”

“It’s kind of my style.”

“Yes, it is.” I held the door open for her to step inside the darkened space. Then I followed, giving my eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, the first face I spotted was Wade’s.

“Cal! There’s my guy.” He clapped his hands together, the crack too loud for the small space beside the hostess station. But that was Wade. He was unapologetically boisterous and crass.

I’d opted for a pair of dark jeans and a button-down white shirt. But Wade, as always, was decked out in a tailored three-piece suit. This one navy and likely from Italy, paid for by the commission he’d earned from my contracts.

“Wade.” I shook his hand, not adding a good to see you or thanks for coming all this way. It would only be bullshit.

“Looking good, buddy.”

God, I hated it when he called me buddy. “Thanks.”

“And who is this?” His gaze raked up and down Nellie like she was a lollipop and he was licking her head to toe.

I shot him a warning glare, putting my hand on the small of her back. “Nellie Rivera.”

Wade held out his hand for a shake.

Nellie raised her chin and extended her hand. But instead of shaking it like a normal fucking person, Wade tried to lift her knuckles to his lips.

She ripped her hand away. “I don’t think so, Wade.”

I grinned.

“A fiery one.” Wade laughed it off. “I like that.”

Idiot. I really should fire him. But he’d scored me a huge contract to play with the Titans. He’d been with me from the beginning, and loyalty was a bitch.

“So should we sit?” he asked. “Talk about this incredible opportunity with ESPN?”

“We can sit. But I’m not taking the job. I’ve had enough cameras and reporters to last two lifetimes.”

“Come on, Cal. I came all this way. Let’s at least discuss it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m going to tell you exactly what I told you over the phone. I’m not interested.”

My reputation was bad enough. The last thing I needed was to rip a team to shreds during a halftime report only to be ridiculed for my opinion later. No matter what I said, it would be twisted to make me look like a dick.

Granted, in my career there had been plenty of on-camera moments when I had been a dick. But the media had searched for it. They trimmed clips and made sound bites to suit their needs. To make me the Cal Stark everyone wanted me to be.

The asshole.

“Cal.” Wade gave me a flat look. “Come on. This is huge. Only the greats get these chances. You’ll make millions per season as a color commentator.”

“I already made millions.”

“Then make more.” He meant make him more.

“It’s a no, Wade. A fuck no.”

His smile dropped and his jaw clenched.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I said. “Would you like to sit down and eat? Catch up? But if you’d rather hit the road . . .”

“Yeah.” His nostrils flared. “Think I’ll bump up my flight. We’ll talk later.”

“Not about this.”

“Fine.” He strode past me, his irritation as fragrant as the scents escaping the kitchen.

Wade would pout for a week or two, then he’d call me like this incident had never happened. I’d be his buddy again, especially if he found another opportunity to cash in on my career while I was still relevant.

But for tonight, I didn’t give a shit if he was pissed. He could have saved himself a trip if he would have just listened to me from the start.

“That went well,” Nellie muttered as the door closed behind him. “He’s a peach.”

“Isn’t he?” I dropped my hand from her back. “Well, that didn’t take long. Should we go?”

“Oh, hell no.” She frowned and took a step toward the hostess station. “You owe me dinner.”

How could I forget? I lingered behind her, keeping a few feet between us, as she told the hostess my name. Then the hostess led us through the restaurant to a tall-backed booth against a shaded window. The steakhouse was rustic and dim, the atmosphere perfect for an intimate date.

I slid into my side of the booth as Nellie did the same, taking a menu and flipping straight to the wine list. Neither of us spoke as we made our selections and ordered from our waiter.

It wasn’t until the wine was delivered that Nellie leaned her elbows on the table, assessing me with her sharp gaze. “So you really don’t want more money?”

“What for?” I shrugged.

“Rich people love to get richer.”

“I’m rich enough.”

There was plenty in my bank account that continued to grow thanks to a steady income stream from my investments. I had my ranch. I’d build a house. If my father ever failed to support my mother, she would want for nothing.

I liked money. But I wasn’t my dad, constantly needing more and more.

Nellie lifted her wineglass to her lips, taking a long sip. Her gaze never wavered from my own.

“Don’t believe me?” I asked.

Nellie set the glass down. “I believe you. But I’m having a hard time reconciling the Cal who doesn’t want to make millions of dollars a year by appearing on a few TV shows to the Cal who told me our senior year in high school that if I couldn’t get a car with a decent muffler and fewer rust spots, then I needed to find a parking spot farther away from his Mercedes.”

I cringed. Not my finest day. Had that day made her diary from senior year?

She’d had a piece-of-shit car in those days. Something she could afford. Probably her mother’s hand-me-down. And I’d struck a low blow.

There were no excuses to make. It had just been me, a spoiled shit of a teenager, acting like a spoiled shit of a teenager.

“I’m both of those people, Nellie.”

“Are you?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.”

She studied me for another long moment, and this time, I didn’t have the courage to hold her gaze. So I plucked up the small booklet tucked between the salt and pepper shakers and flipped open the first page.

“A history of Calamity,” I read, quickly scanning the article. Then, because I didn’t want to talk about the past or about football or about ESPN or about anything that might make Nellie hate me more, I gave her the short version of the story.

“The town of Calamity was originally called Panner City.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “I assumed it was named after Calamity Jane.”

“Nope. The town was a settlement during the Montana gold rush. By 1864, three thousand miners lived here.”

“That’s a lot of people.” More than lived in Calamity today according to the article.

I twisted the booklet to show her the old, sepia photo of what had to be the mining camp. Huts and tents were cramped together. On the next page, there was a photo of one man panning next to a stream. Beside it was a black-and-white sketch of a handmade sluice box.

“It was renamed to Calamity after a series of disasters struck in a period of just five months,” I said, continuing to read. “The mine collapsed in Anders Gulch. A dozen men were killed. Then they had a spring flood that washed out the smaller sites. Next came a fire that burned nearly everything to the ground. It’s speculated to have started in the saloon.”

“Drunken bar fight?”

“Probably.” I flipped the page, seeing more photos. “The last disaster happened in late summer. A lightning storm caused a herd of cattle to stampede through the camps. Flattened tents and people too.”

“Eww.”

I chuckled and handed her the booklet. While she read, I sipped my wine, grateful to whoever had come up with the idea to include Calamity history with the meal. It saved us from personal conversation.

Any conversation with Nellie was dangerous, not just because of her brutal honesty, but because she knew me too well. And for tonight, I just wanted to eat a meal across from a beautiful woman and not delve into anything deeper than this glass of cabernet.

Nellie put the booklet away and leaned back into her seat, giving me a smug grin. “Let’s talk about football.”

“Football?” Why was it so sexy that she knew football?

She shrugged. “Seems like a safe topic.”

“Agreed.” I mirrored her posture, relaxing into the booth. “What do you want to know?”

“The juicy gossip. And I mean the goods. The stuff you’d only know about because you were on the team.”

I laughed. It was a laugh so easy and natural it took me by surprise.

It had been a long time since I’d just . . . laughed.

Maybe it caught Nellie off guard too because she stared at me with this strange expression on her face. Like when a receiver made a catch that he shouldn’t have made. Like it was a miracle play that would land him on the highlight reel.

We spent the rest of our evening talking about football. I told her about fights in the locker room. About scandals that had never made the press. About the assistant coach who’d been fired for sleeping with the owner’s daughter.

By the time we left the steakhouse, I’d laughed more times than I had in years. And when I parked against the sidewalk at her house, I wished for a few more minutes. For one more laugh. For another glimpse of her breathtaking smile.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I said.

“You didn’t really need me there.”

“Yes, I did.” Wade would have kept pushing. And even if he’d left, exactly as he had tonight, I wouldn’t have stayed to eat alone.

Nellie touched the door handle, but paused, her fingers poised to pull. She looked across the cab, her gaze tracing the line of my nose down to my lips.

For a moment, I thought she’d lean over. That she’d close this gap, and I’d spend the night in her bed, not the Winnebago.

God, how I wanted her. To savor her body. To strip off that top. To kiss her lips until the red was on my skin, not hers.

Except she gave her head a tiny shake, then pulled the handle, the door popping open. She was three strides up her walkway before she slowed. The passenger door was still gaping open.

“Are you going to close the door?” I called.

She spun around, taking a step backward. Then she stopped. Her shoulders fell. “No.”

“No, you’re not going to close it?”

“Come inside, Cal.”

I closed the car door on my way to hers.