The Bully (Calamity Montana)

THERE WAS a flaw on the diary’s page in the lower right corner. Sunshine streamed through my SUV’s windshield as I sat parked in front of The Refinery. It made the ecru pages of Nellie’s journal appear flawless. But if I ran my finger across the paper, the texture in that corner was raised, like it had once been wet. Like it was where Nellie’s tear had fallen.

I wished I could say that it had been a misunderstanding. That I’d made a comment and it had been taken the wrong way. Or that I’d been trying to help, like the water incident. But there was no excuse.

This had just been me being a teenage prick.

Though, to be accurate, I hadn’t called her a virgin. I’d called her a prude. In the eyes of a fourteen-year-old girl, which was worse?

If not for the diary, that day would have been forgotten along with thousands of others. But this book had a way of sweeping me into the past with aggravating clarity. You’d think that a guy who’d spent his career being tackled and having his head slammed into the dirt—helmet or no—could at least be blessed with memory issues.

The day I’d called her a prude had been in the spring, close to the end of freshman year. I’d been on the football field, stretching with a few of the guys before the after-school weight training program.

The cheerleaders flocked, like they always did when there were two or more football players in a cluster. Even as a freshman, I got a lot of attention from the girls. I was good-looking. Ripped. Confident. The acne and awkwardness that plagued so many of the guys my age was never an issue. And as of the previous winter, thanks to Phoebe McAdams at a house party, I wasn’t a virgin.

While I was stretching, Nellie walked past the field, passing by the end zone beyond the chain-link fence that wrapped around the area. She walked with her head down, her eyes on the concrete sidewalk.

It was Phoebe who made the first snide comment. She called Nellie a brainiac. Then I called her a prude.

A single comment. She’s a prude.

Then our coach whistled and waved us into the locker room. Nellie disappeared around the corner of the bleachers, out of sight and forgotten.

The journal entry was from the next day.

And my comment was not so forgotten, after all.

I probably should have known better. Done better. Been better. Anyone with two eyes could have looked at Phoebe’s face and seen the envy as green as Nellie’s eyes. Of course she’d taken my comment and run with it.

Nellie had everything Phoebe’s money couldn’t buy. Intelligence. Wit. Beauty.

A beauty that radiated from her pure heart.

I closed the diary and reached behind my seat, placing it on the floor of the Land Rover. Pathetic as it was, that book had become my constant companion. Over the past five days, I’d read it again.

Nellie’s adolescent thoughts had consumed me. Retiring this young was clearly fucking with my head. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t just leave the damn book alone. Just like I wasn’t sure what had come over me at Grays Peak last week. I sure as hell wasn’t sure why I’d wanted her to verbalize why she hated me.

Maybe I’d been trying to pick a fight. Or maybe I’d been hoping that if I asked her what she hated about me, she’d come up empty.

Of course she hated me. I had the evidence in a leather-bound book. So why couldn’t I just accept her hate and move on? Why couldn’t I stop thinking about her?

Why did I care about her opinion?

Christ, I was fucking losing it.

“I really need to stop reading that diary,” I mumbled.

A blonde came walking down the block. I grabbed my yoga mat from the passenger seat, climbed out of the car and slammed the door. The sound caught Nellie’s attention. Her footsteps stuttered on the sidewalk.

I smirked and walked to the door of The Refinery, lingering outside as she marched my direction. “Morning, Blondie. Your roots are showing. Time for a new bottle of peroxide.”

She cringed.

I stifled one of my own. Yeah, okay. I was a prick for constantly making fun of her hair. Especially considering I liked the color.

“Go away, Cal.”

I yanked the door to the fitness studio open before she could touch the handle. “After you.”

“What?” She looked me up and down, taking in the athletic shorts and sleeveless tee. “What are you doing?”

“Yoga.”

“No.” She clutched the mat rolled under her arm tighter. “This is my yoga class.”

“Mine too. I’m the newest member at The Refinery.”

Nellie closed her eyes, her hands balling into fists. “You do not do yoga.”

“Yes, I do. My trainer thought it would be good for my back. Turns out, he was right.”

“Can’t you afford a private instructor?”

“And not support Kerrigan’s business? What kind of friend would that make me?”

“The Cal Stark kind.”

The shitty kind. I gestured for her to go inside first. “Shall we?”

She stomped past me, flicking her ponytail so high and hard it whacked me in the face.

We each checked in at the reception counter and toed off our shoes, stowing them in a cubby along with our keys and phones. Then we entered the studio, me keeping pace with Nellie as she crossed the mats to the far end of the room.

With a fast shake, she unrolled her mat and tossed it on the floor.

I did the same, crowding close. Our hands would probably touch during Shavasana.

“Cal.” She seethed through gritted teeth, dropping to her knees.

“You seem stressed, Rivera. Work been rough on you this week?”

She blew out an audible breath, then leaned forward into Child’s Pose.

Her tank top molded to her frame. Her leggings left little to the imagination. And God, what I wouldn’t give to strip it all away. To forget yoga and work out the tension in my body, and hers, with sex.

My cock jerked as I stared at her ass, so I forced myself to my mat, wishing like hell I’d thought this through.

Yoga was the reason I’d come downtown this morning. My back had been killing me all week. Tormenting Nellie was a bonus. I’d chosen this class specifically because Kerrigan had mentioned this was Nellie’s favorite.

Last night, I’d gone to Pierce and Kerrigan’s place bearing pizza. I’d played with Elias for a couple of hours. I’d held the baby for a minute until she’d started to cry. Then I’d caught up with my friends after insisting on doing the dishes.

When I’d asked Kerrigan about the yoga lineup, she’d told me this was Nellie’s class, probably thinking that I’d avoid it. On the contrary . . . Nellie’s class was now my class too.

I relaxed into a similar pose, feeling the stretch in my hips, thighs and ankles. I turned my head to face Nellie. “Tell me another one.”

“Please go away,” she murmured.

“No.”

She lengthened her arms even farther, her eyes closed as her forehead pressed into the mat. “Then shut up.”

“Hurry. Before class starts. Tell me another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another thing you hate about me.”

She shook her head, her ribs expanding with a deep breath. “This is a very strange, very annoying game.”

“It’s not a game.” I lowered my voice. I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe redemption? I just . . . I needed to hear it. I wanted current examples, not the ones from her old diary. “Tell me what you hate about me.”

“I hate that you’re still in Calamity. Happy now?”

I frowned. “That’s stating the obvious. Try again.”

She inhaled another breath, blowing it out in a purposeful, steady stream. Then she repeated the calming technique, four more times while I studied her profile and the way her sooty eyelashes formed crescent moons against her cheeks.

Nellie didn’t have much makeup on today, just a slight coat of mascara. There were four freckles on the bridge of her nose, so faint that normally they were covered with whatever crap women used to hide what they considered imperfections.

The first time I’d seen Nellie’s freckles had been in Charlotte. The second, the shower at her apartment in Denver when I’d flown to town during the off-season to visit Mom and Pierce.

Nellie had been living in Pierce’s building, and I’d bumped into her waiting for the elevator. When she’d gotten off on her floor, so had I. To this day, Pierce thought the reason I hadn’t shown at his penthouse on time was because I’d been outside on an urgent call with my agent. No, Nellie and I had just been fucking on her couch.

“You’re living in a camper.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “You’re worth millions of dollars and you’re living in someone else’s RV.”

Either she’d asked about me or gossip was spreading. Probably both.

It was only a temporary living situation. My architect was nearly done with the design. The build was already on my contractor’s calendar. “Your point?”

“You’re acting weird,” she said. “I thought you’d act too pretentious for the motel, let alone a Winnebago.”

“Apparently not.” No surprise she thought I was a snob. I tended to have expensive tastes. “You never answered my question the other day. Why did you watch my games?”

“To see you lose.” Her nose twitched.

That was bullshit. “Liar.”

She shot me a glare. “Then I watched for the inevitable explosion when something didn’t go your way or someone pissed you off.”

And she’d probably heckled me along with the rest of the world when that explosion had been caught on camera.

My temper had bested me on more than one occasion. The year after we’d won my first Super Bowl, our team had gone through a rebuilding. Our record had been shit, having lost a bunch of veteran players to retirement.

After a particularly brutal ass-kicking by the Colts, a game when nothing had gone right, I’d had a meltdown coming off the field. A drunk fan had taunted me. You’re a has-been, Stark. You fucking suck. Should have quit while you were ahead.

He’d thrown each of my insecurities in my face. So I’d tossed him my middle finger and a string of colorful obscenities. There’d been a reporter right on my heels. No doubt Nellie had rolled her eyes when they’d aired the segment later that night and the entire sound bite had been a string of bleeps.

One game I’d been so livid about a horseshit penalty that I’d kicked over a table of water coolers. Another time I’d torn off my helmet and sent it sailing toward the sideline after an interception.

I was no stranger to league fines. Whenever a coach had screamed in my face on the sidelines, the camera had been ready.

Maybe it should have bothered me that Nellie had seen my outbursts. It didn’t. She’d seen me at my worst long before the cameras had arrived.

The door to the studio opened and three other women strolled inside. Their smiles dulled when they spotted me.

I pushed up to my knees. “Ladies. Mind if I intrude on your class?”

Two scowled. One blushed.

Those were odds I could work with.

A woman wearing a sports bra and flowy pants came out from the back room. Her dark hair was mostly covered in a head wrap as she walked over. “Hi, Nellie.”

“Morning.” Nellie gave her a smile.

The instructor turned to me and nodded. “You must be Cal. Kerrigan mentioned you’d be joining one of our classes. Though she didn’t think it would be this one.”

I shrugged. “What better way to start a Saturday than with a little exercise?”

“I couldn’t agree more.” The instructor’s smile widened before she waved the other women into the space. “Glad you could all make it today.”

The ladies exchanged greetings and small talk as they went about laying out their mats and positioning blocks. Nellie didn’t move from her mat to mingle. Maybe she didn’t know them yet?

“Let’s get started.” The instructor took up her place at the front of the room, the mirrors her backdrop.

This was the first actual yoga class I’d been to, not that I’d admit that to Nellie. The instructor went through an introduction, her voice steady and monotone as we began the initial poses.

My muscles strained with every stretch, working to get into a flow. It had been a while and I hadn’t been good about stretching after my daily workouts. My hamstrings burned. My shoulders ached. But after the first series of movements, the blood began to flow and my body warmed.

“Good, Cal.” The instructor walked around the room and her hands found my lower back, pressing lightly against my hips as I bent in Downward Dog. “You’ve done this before. Your form is excellent.”

It was? My last instructor had told me my form was weak. I had too much bulk to maneuver and contort properly. I’d spent too many years building football muscles designed to keep me on my feet and send the ball sailing downfield.

I glanced at Nellie as the instructor padded away just in time to see an eye roll. Okay, so maybe the teacher was just kissing my ass.

Nellie, on the contrary, had a fine form with her ass perfectly positioned in the air. The last time I’d seen her like that, there’d been no leggings and I’d been behind her, my hands gripping her hips as I’d slammed inside that tight body.

Blood rushed to my groin. Fuck. This yoga idea was backfiring.

I snuck in an adjustment to my dick while we shifted into a new position. Then I spent the next twenty minutes refusing to glance at Nellie through the mirror. I kept my focus on the instructor, watching her move and doing my best to mimic her stances.

She kept smiling at me, coming over whenever possible to help me get the pose just right. “You’ve got great balance,” she said as I rested in Warrior II.

“Thanks.” I sucked in some air, letting my feet ground into the mat.

Her hands trailed over my shoulders, pressing me deeper into the lunge.

Nellie’s gaze met mine in the mirror when I glanced forward. She looked like she was about to murder someone. Normally that look was reserved for me, but today, it was aimed at the instructor. Was she jealous?

A slow grin stretched across my mouth. Yeah, she was jealous.

We shifted directions, practicing the pose on the other side. And once again the instructor’s hands found their way onto my body. She grew bolder, sliding her fingers across my shoulders and biceps, trailing all the way to my fingers.

I didn’t like strangers touching me, and I could have stopped her. But when she returned to the front of the class and started eye-fucking me from her mat, the irritation on Nellie’s face was worth the hassle.

“Bend at the knee.” The instructor spoke as we all folded forward.

And then . . . Braaap.

The entire room stilled at the noise.

Until Nellie broke the silence. “Eww, Cal! Gross. That stinks.”

There was no fucking stink because I hadn’t farted. She’d made that sound with her mouth.

I looked over, finding her head tucked against the front of her thighs. Her hands were pressed to the floor, fingers splayed. But she was smiling that shit-eating, smug smile. The same one she’d given me after dumping coffee down my pants.

A woman chortled.

Another made an audible sniff in the air.

“Um . . .” The instructor pointed toward the hallway. “The bathroom is—”

“I’m fine,” I clipped.

Nellie’s smirk stayed firmly in place through the rest of the class. The instructor didn’t so much as take a step my way—not that I cared. It had never been about her. No, it had been about Nellie’s attention.

It was always about Nellie.

The moment we were dismissed, she rolled up her mat and bolted for the exit, tugging on her shoes and retrieving her phone.

I hustled to keep pace, staying close as she pushed through the door and into the morning sun. She tried to race down the sidewalk but I caught her elbow before she could run away. “Tell me what you hate about me.”

“No.” She tugged her arm free. “Stop asking me. Find someone else to point out your flaws, like your assistant or manager or any random person you encounter on the street.”

“I’m not asking random people, and I don’t have an assistant. My business manager would never be honest.” He’d think I’d fire him like I had my assistant. To be fair, I’d fired a lot of assistants. Seven in the last five years. All but one had been because of a confidentiality breach. The latest because he’d been a thief. “You’re the only one who will tell me the truth.”

“Pierce would.”

“Pierce likes me. You don’t.”

Her mouth pursed in a thin line as the other women from yoga streamed out of The Refinery. We waited for them to pass, Nellie offering a small smile, then when we were alone again, her scowl returned.

“Tell me,” I ordered. “Come on. This should be fun for you.”

“You’re right.” She tapped her chin. “This is fun. Okay. I hate how you play a fool.”

“Huh? What does that mean?”

“Remember that charity event we went to last year? At the Denver Art Museum?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Pierce had asked if I’d go in his place because I’d been home that weekend—a trip to see Mom for her birthday. He’d bought a table for Grays Peak and had planned to fly down from Montana to attend, but Elias had gotten sick, so he’d stayed in Calamity.

Nellie had been none too thrilled when I’d waltzed into the gala wearing a tux and sat in the chair beside hers. God, she’d looked beautiful that night, wearing a slinky golden dress with matching heels. I’d hoped to peel the gown off her later, but before they’d even served dessert, she’d excused herself to the ladies’ room and had never returned.

“How did I ‘play a fool’?” I asked. She was the only person on earth who could frustrate me enough to use air quotes.

“All night long, the conversation was about business. Who was investing in this and that. It was like a wallet-measuring contest.”

“And I should have whipped out my fat wallet and slapped it on the table?”

“No. Actually, I was impressed that you didn’t.”

“Okay,” I drawled.

“We were eating dinner and the guy next to me leaned forward to ask if you’d invested in anything noteworthy in Nashville. Do you remember what you told him? You said you spent your money on hookers and blow.”

“It was a joke, Nellie.” The whole table had laughed. They’d known it was a joke.

“Yeah, it was a joke. And it was you, acting like the dumb jock.”

Fuck, I hated those two words. I’d hated hearing them from her mouth at fourteen and I hated hearing them at thirty-three. They were still her default insult, and damn, if they didn’t hit dead on target.

“You have at least ten silent partnerships around the country,” she said. “Restaurants. Hotels. Small businesses. And those are just the investments you’ve made through Grays Peak. I suspect you have more.”

Her suspicions were correct. Though most of my portfolio was with Grays Peak. Whenever Pierce had a new opportunity pop up that he thought I might be interested in, he’d send me the details. It almost always ended with me writing a check.

The business manager I employed was responsible for overseeing my involvement. And he oversaw the millions I gave to various charities every year. Nellie wouldn’t know about those donations. I gave it all anonymously because I didn’t need to be invited to functions and fundraisers. I didn’t want thank-you cards and plaques with my name on them.

“I don’t want people in my business.” Especially rich people who had no qualms about asking me for money. It was easier to blow them off at the start. “Is that a crime?”

“You wouldn’t have had to go into the specifics at that dinner. You could have been vague and still showed that table you aren’t just good at a game. That you have more than two brain cells to rub together.”

“Are you kidding?” I scoffed. “So you hate me because I made a joke, then kept my private business private?”

“No.” She raised her chin. “I hate you for pretending. For perpetrating this moronic, playboy image.”

I stepped closer. “Are you sure it’s an image? Maybe it’s exactly who I am.” The dumb jock.

“Then I guess I’ve got another reason to hate you.” She took a step away, then she was gone, storming down the sidewalk that would take her home.

Fuck. What was wrong with me? I scrubbed a hand over my face, watching as she jogged across First. Then I unglued my feet and climbed into my car, retreating to the safety of my Winnebago.

The diary—that fucking diary—got left in the car.