The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(7)
He smacked my hand. “Bye.”
I strode past Nellie, still unable to meet her eyes, but she stopped me before I could escape.
“Cal?”
“Yeah?” I felt her gaze on my profile. I sensed her scrutiny. She knew how to read me as well as I knew how to read her.
“What’s wro—never mind.”
I was out the door before she could blink, putting blocks between that house and that woman. The sidewalks downtown were crowded with tourists. Country music blared through the open door as I passed Calamity Jane’s bar.
A man with a beer belly and tie-dyed fanny pack slowed as I walked by. “Hey, you’re Cal Stark.”
I lifted a hand and kept on going, but his voice had carried. Other men and a few women stopped and stared. Shit.
Why hadn’t I taken the side streets to the motel? Calamity was going to be my home, and I was sick of hiding when I ventured out in public. But I should have known better. Why wasn’t I wearing a hat and shades?
“Could I get an autograph?” A guy ran up, blocking my path and thrusting his baseball cap in my face.
“Got a pen?”
“Uh . . .” That was a no. I shoved past him and didn’t slow, not even when I heard him say, “Guess he really is a dick.”
He could hate me. They could all hate me. Because maybe if they hated me, they’d leave me the fuck alone.
With my chin down, I continued to the motel, without another interruption. Pierce had my bags. They were in the back of his Land Rover from when he’d picked me up at the airport. He’d drop them later when he had time. For tonight, I could sleep naked and wear the same thing tomorrow. At least I had my wallet and phone.
The bell above the motel’s office door jingled as I stepped inside.
“Hi.” The woman behind the reception counter had a wide smile that brought out the laugh lines at her eyes and mouth. “How can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a reservation. Cal Stark.”
Recognition dawned and she sat a little straighter. “Oh, yes. Welcome. Let me get you checked in.”
“Thanks,” I said as she went to work.
Pierce and Kerrigan had offered to let me stay at their house, but they had enough going on, preparing for the baby. They didn’t need a houseguest. So I’d asked Kerrigan if she could get me a reservation at the motel. When my assistant had called, they’d been booked solid through August.
Kerrigan had scored me the room. My assistant had been fired—not because of the motel but because he’d stolen one of my jerseys and hawked it online. The world was full of liars and thieves, and a fair share always seemed to gravitate in my direction.
“You’ll be in room seven.” The woman handed me a room key. “My name is Marcy. I’m the owner here. Please let me know if you need anything.”
“A toothbrush?”
“Sure.” She disappeared to a back room and came out with not just a toothbrush, but a travel-sized tube of toothpaste and mini bottle of Listerine.
“Appreciate it.” With a nod, I left the office, weaving past cars in the crowded parking lot.
The moment I stepped inside my room, I locked the door and tossed the key on the dresser, taking a minute to assess the place. It wasn’t a five-star resort, but Pierce had stayed here a few times. If it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.
And they had a TV.
But I didn’t pick up the remote. I reached behind my back, lifting the hem of my white button-down shirt, and pulled Nellie’s diary from where I’d stuffed it in the waistband of my jeans.
A better man would have left it behind.
But I wasn’t a better man.
Just ask Nellie.
CHAPTER TWO
NELLIE
The sounds of a coffee shop were as comforting to me as a warm blanket on a winter day. The sputter of a steam wand in milk. The banging of a barista emptying a portafilter. The drip of espresso into a shot glass.
Years ago, I’d been in between jobs and struggling to decide my next step. At the time, I’d been living in Charlotte, and four blocks from my apartment, there’d been this moody little coffee shop in search of a waitress. I’d contemplated taking the minimum-wage job for the scents and sounds alone. If it wouldn’t have sent my mother into a tizzy about wasting my education, I might have applied.
Instead, I’d moved back to Denver and had randomly bumped into Pierce. He’d offered me a job at his company, Grays Peak Investments, and Mom would never know that for a brief moment, I’d nearly followed in her footsteps.
It was for the best. Mom hated coffee. If I’d taken that waitress job, I’d probably hate coffee too, and then I would have missed out on the charm of the Calamity Coffee Co.
A man with a mustache joined the line for the counter, smiling politely as he took his place behind me. “Morning.”
“Good morning.”
He wore the signature brown uniform of a delivery driver. Maybe my neighborhood was on his route.
My neighborhood. Two weeks in Montana and I still couldn’t believe I lived here. That this was home.
This was my coffee shop. The tourists taking up every table were visiting my town. The Memorial Day parade later this morning would honor the fallen in my community.