The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(11)
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Nellie
CHAPTER THREE
CAL
The diary gave a thump as I slammed it closed.
“Fuck.” I tossed it on the bed beside me and dragged a hand over my face.
I’d read that journal cover to cover. Twice.
About half of Nellie’s entries were about school, fretting over test scores and worrying about homework assignments. If I would have put in a fraction of her effort, I might have aced more exams. But school had been her obsession while football had been mine. And my B-plus average had been good enough.
I hadn’t realized until reading her journal just how much pressure Nellie had been dealing with in high school. Whether she’d put it on herself or not, having a perfect 4.0 GPA had been her sole focus. She’d dedicated morning, noon and night to studies. Anything to ensure her scholarship hadn’t been at risk. And this book was just for freshman year. Classes had only gotten harder as we’d aged.
Benton was the most sought-after private high school in Denver. My admission had been guaranteed. So had my graduation. I could have failed every course and they still would have handed me a cap and gown, simply because I was Colter Stark’s son.
Amassing money was Benton’s favorite sport.
They balanced their elitist reputation by offering scholarships to five kids in each grade level. Nellie had been one of the five in our class. Girls like Phoebe, whose parents wrote tuition checks, made sure to remind Nellie that her parents could not.
Interlaced in the diary were a few other accounts of nasty run-ins with the cheerleaders. But otherwise, the rest of that damn book was about me.
She hated me.
Hell, after reading that diary, I hated me too.
The jeans and T-shirt I’d been wearing earlier were in a pile on the floor. My motel room reeked of stale coffee. I’d had to take another shower because my skin had been sticky with sweetened milk.
Never in a million years would I have expected Nellie to throw her coffee on me. She preferred insults to injury. Considering my jeans had definitely suffered physical injury, this was a new tactic.
All I’d wanted this morning was a quick breakfast. I’d thought if I could make it to First before the parade started at ten, I’d have a shot at a peaceful meal at the White Oak. I’d been one block away from the café when a group of kids had recognized me. People had appeared out of thin air, surrounding me for selfies and autographs. I’d had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
My Land Rover was currently in transit from Nashville to Montana, and it couldn’t get here fast enough. At least with a car, I wouldn’t be limited to restaurants within walking distance to the motel.
My stomach growled. Thanks to Nellie’s spectacle earlier, all I’d had to eat was a granola bar from the motel’s vending machine.
You threw water on me once. Remember?
Oh, I remembered. Even if I hadn’t just read her diary entry, I would have remembered.
That motherfucker John Flickerman had been bragging in the locker room after gym class, gloating that he’d be the guy to score Nellie’s virginity. She’d kept to herself at Benton, especially when it had come to guys, but she’d clearly had a crush on him.
I’d known that John would laugh if I threw water on her. I’d known she’d never talk to the douchebag again if he laughed. So I’d doused her.
I hadn’t meant to give her a goddamn nipple complex.
She had perfect nipples.
The coffee smell was getting old, so I snagged the stained clothes from the floor, grabbed my wallet and room key, then headed out the door. The jeans were tossed in the nearest trash can—I’d have to figure out my laundry situation later. The shirt was probably salvageable, there was only coffee on its hem, but I had a spare, so it was dumped too. Then I paced the length of the motel as I waited for my realtor to arrive.
Flower baskets hung from the second floor’s exterior walkway. Pots had been planted beside each room, their blooms a riot of color against the red-painted doors. The parking lot was full, like it had been all weekend, but it was quiet. Most of the guests were probably downtown for the parade.
Beside the office’s door was an old wagon wheel with LOBBY stenciled in white across a spoke. The motel’s dark wooden exterior soaked in the heat from the morning sun. As I walked, whichever shoulder was closest to the wall absorbed the radiating warmth.
Did these rooms have air-conditioning? It would get hot as the summer progressed. Though I guess it didn’t matter. My stay at the motel would be short-lived.
A black Toyota SUV eased into the parking lot. The woman behind the wheel waved, then eased to a stop as I approached.
“Hi, Mr. Stark,” she greeted as I slid into the passenger seat. “I’m Jessa Nickels.”
“Cal,” I corrected, like I had when she’d called me Mr. Stark on the phone last week. My father was Mr. Stark.
“Nice to officially meet you.” She reached over to shake my hand. “Would you like to grab a coffee before we head out? Chat a bit?”
“No.” Absolutely not. I had no interest in coffee or making small talk.
There weren’t many realtors in Calamity, and when I’d asked Kerrigan for a recommendation, she’d given me Jessa’s name. She’d also warned that Jessa wasn’t always the epitome of discreet. But of my limited options, apparently Jessa was the best, so before I’d arranged this meeting, my attorney had sent her a nondisclosure agreement and stern email reinforcing my need for privacy.