The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(70)

I’d rather spend a lifetime arguing with Cal Stark, than laughing with anyone else.

My stomach was in a knot as I walked, my heels teetering on the bottom step. My heart hammered, and my skin felt too hot beneath this gown.

With the short notice, I hadn’t had time to shop for anything new. Luckily, I kept a few dresses in my closet for these fancy occasions. It wasn’t uncommon for me to attend functions on behalf of Grays Peak.

I’d opted for a black gown, adorned with columns of sequins that added a dainty shimmer to the fabric. The skirt was full with a slit that ran up my thigh. The top had two thin straps and a deep V that exposed my sternum.

It felt fitting for tonight.

If Cal was going to break my heart, there might as well not be anything in his way.

Oh God, I hope he hadn’t brought a date.

The skirt swished as I climbed the stairs with a fake smile fixed firmly on my face. Pierce’s parents, who I’d grown to adore during my time working for their son, had made a call—and promised a hefty donation—to get me a seat at their table.

I hadn’t explained why I’d needed to come tonight, and because they were amazing, they hadn’t asked why. They’d simply swung by my hotel in their town car on their way to Benton and picked me up for the event.

“Good evening,” the man stationed beside the door greeted as I approached. “Your name, madam?”

“Nellie Rivera.” My voice shook. If he noticed, he didn’t let on as he scanned the guest list.

“Welcome, Ms. Rivera. On behalf of the faculty and staff at Benton, we hope you enjoy your evening. The festivities are taking place in the dining hall. Down the hallway on your left.”

“Thank you.” I swept past him, breezing into the entryway, standing at the mouth of hallways I’d walked hundreds of times.

Guests milled around the space, making conversation. Their voices echoed in the open space, carrying toward the tall ceilings. The smell of floor wax and lemon wood polish filled my nose and transported me into the past.

I wasn’t a woman in a fancy gown but a teenager again, wearing a red and black plaid skirt with yellow pinstripes. My starched white button-down shirt was tucked tight and covered with a black cardigan embroidered with the Benton crest on a breast pocket.

My legs felt wobbly. My palms clammy. But I refused to study the floor as I walked like I would have when I’d been a student. I held my chin high, my eyes aimed forward, and followed the crowd toward the dining hall.

We passed a row of lockers and I instantly found number 197. My locker from freshman year. Memories from those years whipped around me like a gust of wind.

My first day of school, when I’d realized that everyone already knew everyone, and I’d been the outcast. The days when I’d wanted to scream. The others when I’d cried. The few where I’d laughed.

So much had changed from the first day I’d loaded my books into that locker to the last day when I’d hauled them away. I’d ended my freshman year jaded and bitter. Separate from the others, not only by their choice but mine too.

It had been easier to erect barriers so they couldn’t hurt me.

Especially where Cal was concerned.

But it was time for the walls to come down, especially where Cal was concerned.

The noise grew louder as I approached the dining hall. People filled the space, visiting and laughing. Old friends, rich friends, reunited.

A server with a tray of champagne flutes stood at the doors, offering a glass.

“Thank you.” The bubbles burst on my tongue as I took a sip, then scanned the room. Where was he? My hand trembled as I searched, and a splash of champagne escaped the flute and coated my hand.

“Damn it,” I muttered. That was going to be sticky.

With a quick chug, I drained the glass, handing the empty to a waitress as she passed, then turned and weaved through people as I retreated to the hallway and the ladies’ room. It was empty as I pushed inside, moving to a sink to wash my hands. Then I took a calming breath, examining my face in the mirror.

My eyes were lined with coal, the shadow making the green pop. I’d opted for a pale pink lipstick tonight, a subtler shade than the red I typically wore to special functions. My ice-blond hair cascaded down my back in loose waves. I looked pretty. And terrified. No amount of makeup could hide the nerves.

The door opened and I glanced over as a woman in a silver gown strutted inside. I dismissed her, then did a double take. Oh, hell. Phoebe McAdams.

“Hi,” she said, setting her clutch on the counter to dig out a lip gloss. Like most of the other women in attendance, she was decked out in jewelry. Diamonds glittered at her neck, ears and wrists. Her wedding ring was so large it probably weighed her hand down like she was toting a baseball against her knuckles.

I blinked, waiting for her to tell me I didn’t belong. To ask what I was doing here in her school.

But she leaned closer to the mirror and reapplied lip gloss.

This bitch. She didn’t even remember me.

Funny how people didn’t remember those they tormented, but the one on the receiving end never forgot.

Phoebe looked beautiful, just like she had as a teenager. But as I snuck one more look through the mirror, I saw my beauty too. We could each shine. And maybe I always had. Maybe that was the reason she’d been so awful to me as an adolescent.

Good, old-fashioned jealousy.