The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(18)

Cal’s nostrils flared as he growled a warning, “Nellie.”

Razzing him about football was always a guaranteed way to make his temper spike.

“You don’t fit in here,” I said.

“Who says?”

“Me.”

“And you’re the expert on Montana?”

I’d known him for nearly twenty years. No, I wasn’t an expert on Montana. But I had figured out Cal a long, long time ago. “There’s no place for you to hide here, Cal. Everyone in town will see your true colors.”

He tensed.

Bullseye.

We both knew I was right. There would be no blending into crowds, no matter how hard he tried. Cal would always stand apart. And though he loved being the center of attention on the football field, he was oddly private in his personal life.

Someone would eventually intrude and piss him off. Then he’d explode. A town this size, people would talk.

Maybe I didn’t have to run him out of town. Maybe he’d do that all on his own.

“You’d be happier in a bigger city. There, you’d fit.”

“Maybe I don’t fit anywhere,” he murmured, toying with a french fry. “You’re being particularly harsh today.”

Now it was my turn to tense.

Harsh had never been my style. That was Cal’s specialty.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but before I could speak, Cal glanced over with his signature smirk.

“Maybe the one who needs to leave town is you, Blondie? Maybe if I make your life miserable enough, you’ll head back to Denver. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do to me? Make me leave?”

My nostrils flared. “So what if I am?”

“Two can play that game. But don’t worry, I’m sure Pierce will still let you be his secretary, even if you lived in Colorado.”

Any guilt vanished. Now all I wanted was to sprinkle arsenic over his onion rings.

“First of all, I’m not a secretary.” I’d given up telling him to stop calling me Blondie ages ago, but the secretary comment always struck a nerve. “Second, you will never run me out of this town.”

It was ironic that we’d both jumped to that conclusion. That instead of trying to find an amicable peace, our instincts were to drive the other away.

But that was the world of Nellie Rivera and Cal Stark.

We drew battle lines.

We’d been drawing them since we were fourteen.

“I bet you could find an old house in Denver,” he said. “Something with a lawn that your dad could mow.”

This son of a bitch. There were a few buttons Cal knew were risky to press. The subject of my father was one of them.

“I hate you,” I seethed.

“Then go away.”

I slid off my stool.

Cal chomped another bite of his burger, grinning as he chewed.

If he thought I’d just walk away, if he thought he’d won this round, he was about to be disappointed.

Instead of leaving the stool, I climbed up again, this time on my knees. My fingers went to my lips and I let out an ear-splitting whistle.

Jane, bless her heart, killed the background music.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Cal Stark, the Cal Stark, former NFL quarterback”—I pointed down at him as he gaped up at me—“has been so overwhelmed with the welcome Calamity has given him that he’s covering everyone’s tab tonight. Food. Drinks. Everything.”

A round of cheers broke out. The crowd applauded.

And I clapped right along with them, a sugar-sweet smile on my face as I picked up his beer, draining the glass dry. “Bottoms up!”

The whoops and whistles were deafening as glasses were raised in the air.

This scheme could backfire and endear Cal to the community. But it could also set expectations that every time he came into the bar, he’d cover the bill. If I knew Cal, which I did, this would give him pause each time he stepped into a restaurant. Especially if I was in the room.

His glare was razor-sharp as a rush of people scrambled to the bar, ordering another round of drinks. The waitress was being flagged by nearly every table. Peter clapped a hand on Cal’s shoulder—which Cal instantly brushed off.

The bar was so loud that after I set down Cal’s empty glass, I had to lean in close and speak into his ear. “Spend a little of that money. Let everyone in town know that you’re rich. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

His shoulders slumped. For a split second, he looked miserable.

The room was a riot of rowdy, happy people. And Cal looked hurt.

Hurt by me.

I hopped off the stool, slung my purse over a shoulder and marched out the door. As I stormed the blocks home, I couldn’t tell who I was angry at. Cal? Or myself? That wounded look of his was stuck in my head for the rest of the night.

Damn him. Damn this guilt.

Maintaining my guard was nearly impossible when I felt bad for that man.

I really hated Cal Stark.





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Dear Diary,





* * *



Cal told the whole school that my dad was his gardener today so every time one of his dumb friends walked by me in the hall, they made this lawnmower sound. A bunch of them started doing it in the cafeteria at lunch and it was so loud and it was so annoying and it was horrible. I cried in the bathroom. Dad came to pick me up today and he could tell I was upset but I lied and told him it was because I didn’t score a hundred percent on my math quiz. He’s going to help me study later even though I did get a hundred. I hate this stupid school. I just want to quit. I know Mom wants me to have this opportunity and that Benton means I can get into a good college and probably get a scholarship for my tuition. But what’s wrong with community college? What’s wrong with managing the Coffee Cup or being a gardener? I just want to go to a regular school and be a regular kid. And forget Cal Stark ever existed.