The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(39)

Cal made my trip to his Winnebago worth it. Three orgasms later, he’d thoroughly pleasured me with his fingers, tongue and cock. With disheveled hair and swollen lips, he walked me to my car, neither of us saying a word.

There was no kiss goodnight.





-





Dear Diary,





* * *



Something really strange happened today. I had to go with Dad to work after school. Mom’s car broke down. Again. For like the third time this spring. She’s just happy it made it through the winter. Since she couldn’t pick me up, Dad came and got me in between his jobs. We had to go to the Stark house. It was his last customer of the day. Cal wasn’t there, thank God. He was probably having sex with Phoebe bitchface McAdams. I could tell Dad was tired. He took on seven new clients this spring and he’s been getting up super early and working on the weekends. He told me that if he can just keep it up, he can get Mom a new car for her birthday and then I can have her old one after I get my license. Even if it is a junker and it breaks down all the time, it’s better than nothing. Everyone at school is going to make fun of me for it. Jerks. They can have their Audis and BMWs. It’s just a car. I guess the sprinklers at the Stark place weren’t adjusted right and Dad didn’t like how they were watering. So while he messed with them and did the edging, I offered to mow. I was in their front yard. I had my headphones in so I couldn’t hear, but I turned around and Cal’s dad was staring at me. I didn’t even hear him drive up. He just stood beside his car in the driveway, staring at me. It gave me the creeps. I was wearing my shorts and tank top from gym. Dad stopped at a gas station so I could change out of my uniform. I wish I would have had some jeans. Cal’s dad kept looking at my chest. I wasn’t sure what to do so I just kept mowing. On my next pass, he was gone. Maybe he didn’t like that a kid was cutting his lawn? I don’t know. He looks like Cal. They have the same hair and face. Maybe that’s why he bugged me. He reminded me of asshole Cal. Still it was weird that he was staring at me, right? Whatever. I really don’t like Cal’s dad.





* * *



Nellie





CHAPTER ELEVEN





CAL





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.”