Bad For Me

  Dedication

  For my stepfather, Charles Domecq, who taught me you don’t have to be blood to be a family.

  I love you, Dad.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Rules to Be Broken

  About the Author

  By Codi Gary

  An Excerpt from Changing Everything by Molly McAdams

  An Excerpt from Chase Me by Tessa Bailey

  An Excerpt from Yours to Hold by Darcy Burke

  An Excerpt from The Elusive Lord Everhart by Vivienne Lorret

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  “AND THAT WAS John Michael Montgomery, with ‘I Swear,’ ” Callie Jacobsen said into the microphone. “For all you Little Big Town lovers, this one’s for you.”

  Turning on the next track, Callie stretched her arms above her head and yawned, groaning silently that it was only Monday. As the morning DJ for Kat Country 106.1, she was at work from four in the morning until noon, even eating breakfast while on the air. The small radio station had three on-air DJs during the week, and two part-time on the weekends. Although it might have been nice to sleep in and take the afternoon shift, Callie enjoyed the early morning callers.

  Well, one caller in particular. He went by Rhett, which probably wasn’t his real name, but who cared? He’d been calling in for over a year now, the same time every day, but what had started out as simple song requests wound up striking a chord with her every time—mostly because every one of the songs he chose was a favorite of hers.

  Plus, he had an amazing voice. A rough, deep rumble that made her toes curl every time she heard him on the line. It reminded her of Deacon Claybourne’s voice from Nashville, her favorite show, and maybe that was what had her so infatuated with Rhett. She loved her some Deacon.

  It was crazy, really, but each time she heard his voice over the line, the butterflies he woke in her stomach fluttered like crazy. And it had been a long time since she’d had butterflies. Not since high school.

  Not since Tristan, her high school and college sweetheart. They’d met sophomore year and seemed perfect for each other. When he’d asked her to marry him after their last year of college, she had imagined a future filled with happiness and babies.

  Absently, Callie rubbed her chest and felt the bumps and ridges of the scars under her plain T-shirt, a constant reminder of how good love could go bad. Really bad.

  Which was why she usually steered clear of romantic entanglements. It was hard enough to trust anyone, let alone someone looking to get into her pants. She’d had a few stress-relief partners over the years, but no one she’d felt even a zing of interest for, besides the initial getting-her-rocks-off impulse.

  Kicking off her shoes, she rubbed her feet over Ratchet’s belly. The 130-pound Anatolian Shepherd went everywhere with her but usually found that sleeping under her DJ table was the best way to get belly-rubs. She’d jokingly called him “Killer” to a few folks when she’d first moved to town five years ago, and word had spread pretty quickly that there was a crazy new girl in Rock Canyon with a vicious beast of a dog.

  In actuality, Ratchet was a trained therapy dog, but no one knew about that except for Gemma and Caroline. She didn’t like talking about her past or her two years of insomnia that could only be cured with a bottle of Jack. Even now, nightmares left her filled with terror, soaked in sweat, and trembling like her muscles would explode.

  But when she’d seen the ad in the Sacramento Bee for a litter of Turkish guardian dogs, she’d felt compelled to go see them. After what happened to her old dog, Baby, Callie hadn’t thought she’d ever have another dog, but the minute she’d looked into Ratchet’s soft brown eyes, she’d felt calmer. It was as if he’d understood that she needed him, and when she’d taken him home, she’d immediately started researching therapy-dog certification programs. She wasn’t going to spend thousands of dollars just for a shrink to tell her she’d suffered a trauma but was “lucky to be alive.” She didn’t need to talk, not with Ratchet, who would crawl up onto the bed with her and snuggle close and who could sense her fear and loneliness. He made her feel safe.

  No one else needed to know her problems. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, she just kept the huge sheep dog as a deterrent for criminals. And Callie liked it that way.

  Little Big Town’s latest hit came to an end, and Callie leaned forward to speak into the mic. “Coming up after the event calendar, we’ll be taking requests for our ‘Crack of Dawn’ hour, so all you early birds can listen to your favorite hits as you start your daily grind,” Callie said. She smiled, then, as their station intern, Dalton, held up a coffee cup in the control-room window with the Local Bean Coffee Shop’s logo on the side. “And speaking of grind, try waking up at three-thirty and still being as entertaining as me. Let me tell you, it takes work and a lot of coffee, so we’re going to take a commercial break. Callie Jay will get herself a little java pick-me-up, and you stick around for more of today’s hottest country on the Kat.”

  Turning off the mic, she waved Dalton in. The kid was a big improvement over the little bastard the University of Southern Idaho had sent her last semester. Despite having known what kind of station he’d signed up for, the intern had been into punk rock and had sported an attitude about everything from the music to the people who came in. And instead of putting his whole heart into the job, he’d blanched at every task. Callie had sent him packing shortly after he’d given the concert tickets Justin Silverton had won to another winner who was supposed to get a singles’ weekend package. The intern hadn’t even bothered to apologize. Callie had put in a call to his professor about the kid needing a work ethic before being placed in another internship.

  Of course, that mix-up had started the chain of events leading to Justin’s and Valerie Willis’s wedding next month—and to Callie deejaying the whole event—but still, you had to own your mistakes.

  No matter how hard and painful it might be.

  Dalton was a complete 180 from the little jerk: a good ole boy, just turned eighteen, and eager to learn. He had only been there a month, but he’d jump into the next job without her even having to ask. She couldn’t have hoped for better.

  Plus, he was pretty to look at, with a tall, rangy frame and sweet smile. Sure, he was just this side of jailbait, but Callie would have to be dead not to notice that he was a cutie.

  As he came in through the studio door, Ratchet stood up to say hi. Most of the staff still gave him a wide berth, but Dalton had never been nervous around the big dog. He’d told Callie that he’d grown up on a sheep ranch outside of Shoshone around Great Pyrenees dogs, which were similar to Anatolians but hairier.

  “Here’s your coffee, Callie,” Dalton said. He handed her the cup before kneeling down to pet Ratchet. “Hey, big guy, you gotta go handle your business?” Dalton too
k Ratchet’s leash from the desk. “That okay if I take him outside?”

  “Thanks, Dalton. You’re a godsend,” Callie said before taking a small sip of the hot liquid. Sweet spices filled her mouth, and she sighed. “Man, that is good.”

  Dave, her producer, signaled her for the countdown, and she set her coffee on the desk. When he pointed at her, she flicked the mic back on and said, “We’re back. October is only a week away, so don’t forget to mark your calendars for the following events: on October 6, the Rock Canyon Harvest Festival will be held at the Silverton farm with yummy food, games, and a haunted corn maze perfect for getting your chills and thrills. Then, on October 31, come out to the Rock Canyon Community Center for Kat Country’s Ghoulish Halloween Ball. Get yourselves a babysitter, because everyone twenty-one and over can enjoy dancing and drinks until two. Tickets are on sale on our website and at the following retailers . . . ”

  After naming several local businesses, she continued. “And now, our all-request hour. So get to your phones and call 208-555-3KAT—unless you’re driving or eating. No one wants to hear you talk around a mouthful of bagel, and we all want you to make it to wherever you’re going safely.”

  Dave held up his finger, and she hit the button for line one.

  “First caller, what can I do you for?”

  “Hi, I’d like to hear ‘Teardrops on my Guitar’ by Taylor Swift,” a young female voice said over the line.

  “Sure, honey. What’s your name? And is there anyone specific you want this going out to?”

  “Um . . . do I have to say?” the girl asked nervously.

  Callie smiled. Poor kid. “No, of course not. I’ll get that on the air for you right now.”

  “Thanks.” The line went dead, and Callie flipped on the track before taking the next call. By six twenty, both lines were blinking, and she had half an hour of music to play.

  But Rhett had missed his call-in.

  He’d been calling every morning at six thirteen and hadn’t missed a morning yet.

  He’s just a caller. Stop being a freak about it.

  Besides, if he’d had romantic notions about her, he probably would have dropped a hint or two, especially since she’d started taking their calls off air when their conversations went on too long. And when she’d get angry waves from her producer and she’d have to go, he’d always just say, “Have a nice day, Callie Jay.”

  Unlike some of the other citizens of Rock Canyon, Idaho, he didn’t call up to bitch and moan about politics or what was wrong with modern country music. In fact, just yesterday he’d said that he loved October because it was when all the fall drinks and colors started showing up. She was more of a spring person, but when Dalton had made a coffee run this morning, the pumpkin-spiced latte she’d ordered had been in Rhett’s honor.

  Callie glanced down at her cell phone and noticed the voicemail icon was on the top of her screen. She tapped it and held the phone to her ear. The robot voice said, “Hello. You have one new voicemail from . . . ”

  “It’s Caroline Freaking Willis!”

  Callie groaned as the robot continued. “At eleven twenty-five P.M.”

  “Oh, come on, Callie! I know you’re avoiding me, and you won’t get away with it! You go to Buck’s and Hank’s, so what’s wrong with this?”

  Callie shook her head. When Callie had met Caroline back in April, she’d sensed someone she could relate to. Someone who had her own demons and was fighting her own past—and she’d been right. Yet in all the time since, and as the two of them had grown closer, Caroline had never asked Callie about her past. She’d just taken her for who she was now.

  Even though Callie loved Caroline for trying to bring her “out of the army tank you’ve climbed into”—Caroline’s words—Callie had no desire to go to Caroline’s sister’s bachelorette party.

  “You already agreed to DJ the damn wedding. Just because you have no desire to go out with a group of obnoxious women and watch some greasy dudes gyrate to ‘It’s Raining Men’ does not make you weird. It just means you have taste.”

  Caroline had continued her rant, finally ending with, “Fine, but I’m not through with you! If you think I’m going to this thing with just my sisters and their crazy friends, you’re dreaming!”

  Callie deleted the voicemail. Dave held up his finger, and Callie picked up line one again. “You’re on the Kat. What can I play for ya?”

  “I was thinking a little Blake Shelton, actually,” a deep voice said. The caller’s smile was evident, even over the phone.

  Rhett.

  Turning off the “record” button, Callie tried to ignore the giddy butterflies fluttering through her stomach. “You’re late.”

  “You noticed.”

  “Well, you’ve been almost OCD about the time you call, so it’s a little hard not to notice.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I overslept this morning. Can I just say I’m actually flattered? Were you counting down the minutes?”

  Callie’s face burned, and even though he couldn’t see her, she rubbed her cheeks with one hand. “Actually, it’s just because you’re the only person with any taste who calls in.”

  “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should,” she said, turning around in her chair so she couldn’t see Dave and her tech, Sam, making kissy-faces at her. “Now, what Blake song do you want to hear?”

  “Uh-oh, did I get you in trouble with the boss?”

  “No, I just . . . there are just a lot of calls coming in, so I can’t talk as long.”

  “I understand,” he said, and there was a pause on the line before he cleared his throat. “Maybe we could talk more later? Off air?”

  Callie’s heart pounded. Was he asking for her number? Giving him her number made their interactions more than just a flirtation. What if he was dangerous? The scars on her body tingled with apprehension, a silent warning.

  “I’m going to take it from your silence that I’ve freaked you out,” he said, breaking into her panicked thoughts. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  He hung up before she could say anything. Without his trademark farewell.

  Way to go, you paranoid freak.

  Though really, Callie didn’t think she was paranoid; she was cautious. Having your fiancé turn into a complete stranger—a violent stranger—six months before your wedding could do that to a person. Thinking of Tristan was painful, and she tried to push him from her mind. Tried to forget their past together. If she didn’t, the nightmares might start up again—and the urge to drink herself into a stupor along with it.

  Just then, Dalton came walking in with Ratchet. The minute he let him off leash, the large dog lumbered over and laid his head in Callie’s lap, as if sensing her dark thoughts. Stroking his dense fur, she murmured softly to him until he sat and eventually flopped to the ground.

  “Callie, you’ve got callers holding,” Dave said over the intercom.

  Pressing the button, she took the next call, but her thoughts were still on Rhett. Was she ready to let someone in and trust again?

  She really wasn’t sure.

  EVERETT SILVERTON TOOK off the headset just after two and stretched his arms above his head, cracking his neck in the process. He had been sitting in the same position for five hours, counseling traumatized and frustrated veterans, and added to the two hours of farm work this morning, he was damn sore.

  It was worth it, though, to have a safe place to come home to. Veterans coming back after long tours who realized that the world hadn’t stopped while they were gone had it much worse. Despite the fact that he’d spent several months in a hospital overseas and had come home to a wife who couldn’t handle his scars or his “issues”—as she’d kindly referred to his PTSD—he’d always had his father and brother. Some vets didn’t have anyone—no stability, no job, and the adjustment often took its toll on their psyches. It was hard to come back from a world of violence—one where any minute a roadside bomb could go off or a
sniper’s bullet could take you out—unscathed.

  Everett ran a hand over the scarred side of his face, every ridge and rough patch a badge of dishonor, of his failure to Robbie, his best friend. A constant reminder that Robbie’s wife, Cara, and son, RJ, now had to live without him. In the end, the scars on Everett’s body couldn’t hold a candle to the abrasions on his soul.

  Everett stood up and headed for the kitchen of his three-bedroom modular to grab a soda. His brother, Justin, had actually wanted to build a home for Everett on their land, but Everett hadn’t needed a stick built. He was happy with his picked-from-the-lot manufactured home. It had cost him about fifty thousand for the house and all the amenities, but his place was serviceable and perfect for him.

  “Hey, Rhett,” Everett’s dad called as he poked his head in through the open door.

  Everett’s gut clenched just hearing the nickname. Justin and his father were the only people who called him that, but now it was just a reminder of his crash-and-burn with Callie.

  He’d started listening to the Kat when he moved home and had especially loved listening to Callie Jay in the mornings when she took over the show five years ago. She was funny, and the music she played wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill modern country rock; she mixed in the old-school eighties and nineties. He had no idea what she looked like, since the station website only had a cartoon avatar for her instead of a photo, but he didn’t care. Her voice, which was a low, husky rasp, was sexy as hell, and he found himself addicted to hearing her over the line.

  Finally, a little over a year ago, he’d been unable to resist calling in to her all-request hour. And again the next day. And the next.

  But despite how friendly their conversations had become, he’d had no intention of pushing for more. It was just fun. Besides, there was no guarantee that she’d be able to see past his scars. None of the other women he’d gone out with since his divorce had.

  Which is why he’d been just as surprised as her when he’d subtly asked for her number this morning, but he hadn’t wanted to say good-bye. If her reaction was any indication, though, he would not be calling the station again. She no doubt thought he was a creeper.