Bad For Me Page 2

  Realizing he’d left his dad hanging without answering, he called, “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “You mind going to the grocery store for me? I’ve got a meeting in Twin Falls in an hour and don’t want to be late.”

  Fred Silverton was weathered and craggy, but his shoulders and arms told the story of a man who had worked hard his entire life. His alcoholism had spiraled out of control just after Everett’s mom had died eighteen years ago, and it was only in the last six months—since he’d been diagnosed with pancreatitis—that he had begun seeking treatment. Things had been going well, so far, but while Everett believed their father was truly committed, Justin had his doubts—and it showed.

  Justin had every right to his anger and resentment. Everett had spent two years picking up his dad at whatever bar he’d passed out at, but Justin had had it worse after Everett enlisted. But despite what Fred had put them through, they were still family, and family had each other’s back.

  “Sure, Dad, just give me your list.” Everett abandoned his soda and stepped outside, only to be treated to a smack of cold air on his face. The wind blew crisp and hard this time of year, and he reached back inside to grab his jacket.

  “Here,” Fred said, handing Everett a scrap of paper.

  “I’ll head out now. I was going to go for a hike, but I can push that back until later.”

  “Well, I will probably go for coffee with my sponsor after the meeting and maybe have dinner with some of the guys after, so don’t wait on me for supper.”

  Everett smiled and slapped his dad on the back. “Are we ever going to meet your sponsor? This woman who steals you away?”

  Fred Silverton’s leathery face flushed, and he grumbled, “It’s not like that. She’s too young for me.”

  His father was in his sixties, but Everett had a hard time believing a woman in her forties or fifties was too young for him. At least, that was how old he assumed his dad’s sponsor was. It seemed crazy that someone any younger would be mature enough to be a good example for his father.

  “Well, still, you should have her over to the house,” Everett said. “Anyone who has your back and that you respect so well is welcome here anytime.”

  “Thank you, son.” Fred cleared his throat. “I appreciate that.”

  Everett watched his father head to his truck. He definitely looked better, but he still seemed worn out. His pancreatitis flared up every once in a while; plus, he was just getting too old to work as hard as he used to. Which was where Everett and Justin came in.

  Silverton Farms was running smoothly and successfully, but it had more to do with Justin’s passion than Everett’s. Everett had too much to do with his nonprofit, Stateside Support, than with the farm.

  Right now, Everett’s organization was active only in Idaho, but the hotline counseling was statewide, and he’d partnered with several other national organizations where he could direct vets for job and housing assistance. He spent anywhere from five to eight hours a day counseling over the phone, and although he avoided any kind of interviews, he’d hired a publicity crew just before Stateside Support had launched. They went on air and handled the TV appearances and radio interviews. He just wasn’t big on parading around in front of strangers. Even though the people of Rock Canyon treated him with respect, he felt their pitying stares whenever he ran errands in town. If that was the way people who knew him reacted to his scarred face, how would an on-air interview go? And if they started asking questions about the fire . . .

  Yeah, living the hermit life had its benefits.

  He could have moved anywhere after he was honorably discharged and his marriage fell apart, but anywhere else, he didn’t have his family. The awkward encounters here were worth dealing with, just to be close to his father and brother.

  Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he climbed into his silver Chevy and brought the large diesel to life with a twist of the key. He usually let it warm up a bit, but he needed the drive to get out of his head and stop thinking about what an ass he’d made of himself that morning with Callie. He could blame his stupidity on being lonely, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth. Every time he called in, his hands began sweating and his heart pounded.

  It was a hell of a reaction to have to a woman he’d never actually met.

  Maybe that’s why he’d thought there was something more between them and that she might have felt the connection too. He’d even considered accepting the interview for Stateside that Eddie Kendall had scheduled with Callie’s morning show, just so he could meet her.

  But her silence had told him in no uncertain terms that was a bad idea.

  Pulling the truck off the gravel road and onto the pavement leading into town, he shook his head. He’d been crazy to think she’d give out her number to some guy who called in to her station. What sane woman would? It was just that since he’d been back, dating had been tough—and not just because of his scars. Even months after he returned, he’d suffered from night terrors so severe that he’d wake up in a neighbor’s yard, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Even the backfire of a car could send him to his knees, screaming Robbie’s name . . .

  God, it was hard to think about the world without Robbie.

  It was hard to relate to the cheery, small-town girls he’d taken out. He’d joined the marines at eighteen and done four tours in Afghanistan. He was twenty-seven when he was honorably discharged, months after he’d returned home to recover from his burns.

  After everything he’d suffered and the five years of therapy he’d gone through just so he could function seminormally, the sheltered, small-town women he’d gone out with would never be able to comprehend the darkness that still hung heavily on his conscience. He was thirty-four now, and in the past eight years, he’d suffered more loss and pain than most people would in a lifetime. And although he’d met a few women he’d had things in common with, there just hadn’t been that spark of interest. Which was why Callie Jay the DJ had taken him by surprise; the electricity between them sizzled, and they’d never even met.

  Six minutes later, Everett parked his truck and headed into Hall’s Market. On his way in, he passed a hay bale circle filled with pumpkins and thought about grabbing a few for Justin and Val’s wedding. They were having a fall theme, and Val had mentioned something about pumpkin centerpieces on Pinterest. Maybe he should pick some up for them.

  Pulling out his cell, Everett suddenly ran smack into someone coming out of the store and instinctively caught their arms.

  Make that her arms.

  Golden eyes stared up at him from a round, pale face, her mouth open in a surprised O. The way her wheat-colored hair flowed around her in a riot of curls made him think of a disheveled angel.

  Then, the low rumbling of a dog’s growl broke through the spell of his fascination, and Everett stepped back from the woman to find a giant tan dog watching him, its lips pulled back enough to flash its canines.

  “It’s okay,” the woman said softly, touching the dog’s head. The low growl stopped, but the dark eyes still followed Everett’s every move.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he said.

  “Neither was I,” she said, holding up a torn newspaper that she must have been reading. “I guess this is why they say, ‘Don’t read and walk.’ ”

  “I haven’t heard that one before. Is there one for thinking and walking?”

  “You know, I have heard thinking is hazardous to pedestrian traffic.”

  As he laughed, he watched her reaction to him—to his scars. Even now, eight years after a roadside bomb had taken out his Humvee, his best friend, and half the skin on his body, he waited for the inevitable awkwardness that followed an introduction. But as he studied her expression, he was surprised to find there was no pity, eye-shifting, or discomfort in her gaze.

  Then again, she didn’t seem to find the conversation half as amusing as he did. She hadn’t cracked a smile once, despite her joke.

  “I’m Everett Silverton,
” he said, holding out his hand.

  She hesitated for a moment before taking it. “I know.”

  A zing of pleasure went through him. “How do you know?”

  Her cheeks turned a dusty pink. “You’re a local hero, and people talk.”

  “Ah,” he said, a little disappointed when he caught her meaning. “So my scars gave me away, huh? I should start wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask; try to be a little more mysterious.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she said sharply.

  “What?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “You shouldn’t try to hide who you are. What you did . . . well, it was very brave. You should be proud of your scars. They’re proof of your heart and your service.”

  The statement was so frank that Everett was a little taken aback. Even she seemed thrown by her words. Most people tiptoed around his burns, even his brother and father.

  “Well, they definitely make a fascinating conversation piece,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “By the way, do you have a name, or should I just call you Whiskey?”

  “Whiskey?” she echoed.

  “Yeah.” He tapped just below his eye. “Your eyes are the color of rich Scottish whiskey.”

  “Why Scottish?”

  “I went there and took a tour of one of their distilleries. Nobody makes a clearer or better whiskey,” he said, adding, “as the hangovers I suffered during that week will attest.”

  “I didn’t know hangovers could be expert witnesses,” she said.

  “Are you forgetting Brad Paisley’s ‘Alcohol’?”

  “Touché,” she said, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile.

  “Your name is Touché?” he deadpanned. Her soft laugh was exhilarating.

  “Callie. It’s Callie Jacobsen. I’m actually the DJ for your brother’s wedding.” Callie tucked a stray curl behind her ear, just as the wind blew five more into her face.

  What he wouldn’t give to be able to reach out and push her hair back, the soft strands sliding through his fingers—

  Everett’s heart skipped a beat as her words sank in, and he realized she was his Callie. The Callie he’d been calling nearly every morning for over a year.

  The one who pretty much thought he was a creep.

  Justin had said he’d hired one of the Kat Country DJs, just not which one. What if he admitted who he was and she bailed on the wedding? Despite her friendly manner, there was nothing in her demeanor that said, I am so attracted to you that I’ll forgive the fact you freaked me out.

  Better to play it cool, at least for now.

  “You host the morning show on the Kat?”

  “Yeah, Weekdays with Callie Jay.” Her tone was amused, even if her lips barely tilted up at the corners. Though she’d laughed, he wondered why she didn’t smile. Instead, she just watched him with those amber eyes, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of him.

  “It’s . . . it’s a good show,” Everett said, his voice sounding squeaky to his ears.

  Get a grip, man. She doesn’t know you’re the crazy stalker.

  “Thank you. Well, it was nice to meet you, but I’m actually late for something.” Callie folded her ripped paper.

  “Let me buy you a new Rock Canyon Press, as an apology for bumping into you,” he said quickly. He wasn’t ready for her to go yet.

  “Really, it’s not your fault—”

  “It’s fifty cents,” he said, taking her paper and tossing it in a trashcan. “And it will make me feel better.” He slid two quarters into the newspaper dispenser and waited for the click before opening it and grabbing another paper. “Here you go.”

  She took it slowly and seemed at a loss for something to say. “Thank you. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Happy to do it,” he said honestly. The wind tossed her curls over her eyes once more, and Everett resisted another urge to brush them back, just so she would look at him again.

  God, when was the last time he’d been so taken with a woman he’d only just met? At least, in person. If his desire to be near her was any indication, too long, apparently.

  “Well, thank you again,” she said and tucked the paper under her arm. “I guess I’ll see you at the wedding?”

  “Yeah, if not before.” Everett wondered why she kept looking away from him. She had been so frank about his scars, yet she hardly met his gaze now.

  Except for that first intense meeting of their eyes.

  “Bye, then.” She walked past him with her monster dog, those curls dancing around her shoulders like gold and moonlight ribbons.

  “See ya.” He was speaking more to himself, though, since she was already several yards away.

  Now that he’d met Callie in person, there was no denying that the connection he’d felt had been real.

  The question was, had she felt it too?

  Chapter Two

  “SO HOW ARE the wedding plans coming?” Callie asked Fred as they walked through Twin Falls’s Old Town with Ratchet lumbering beside them. Since Fred had chosen her for his sponsor six months ago, they had taken to getting coffee after the meetings and talking about the stress of their lives. And although they tried to keep the specifics out, it had been inevitable that Fred would tell her his last name.

  Silverton.

  It had seemed like an incredibly small world when they’d realized they were from the same community, but it hadn’t bothered either of them. There was an understanding that what they said during group and coffee stayed between them; neither wanted personal struggles broadcast back in Rock Canyon.

  Callie had to admit, she enjoyed the older man’s company. He reminded her a lot of her grandfather before he’d died, a roughneck cowboy who had given freely of his time and his bear hugs.

  “Well, my son’s bride has informed me that they’re going to have a dry wedding.” Fred’s sun-weathered face broke into a smile. “Partly because of her pregnancy and to support my recovery, but also because my future daughter-in-law doesn’t want a bunch of drunk assholes raising hell and causing chaos.”

  Callie smiled at Fred’s description. Having met Valerie Willis, she imagined the words were spot on. She knew this wedding was very important to Fred, partially because he felt responsible for some of Justin and Val’s past relationship troubles but ultimately because he just wanted his youngest son to be happy.

  Of course, the fact that he was going to be a grandfather had Fred over the moon too.

  “I can understand that,” Callie said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I wouldn’t want to be around a bunch of drunk people when I’m stone-cold sober.”

  Even when she went out with Gemma or Caroline, she usually was the only truly sober one. Caroline never got drunk—she had one or two drinks, maybe—but since bar consulting was her business, she tried to be never less than professional.

  Still, watching everyone else relax and cut loose was sometimes hard on Callie. Especially following a letter from Tristan. She never opened them, but just seeing his name on the envelope sent her longing to dive head first into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  She hadn’t, though, not in over five years. Even though drinking may have made her problems go away for a while, they always came back with the hangover the next day. It was something her first sponsor had told her, and it had stuck with her over the years, especially when she was feeling weak.

  Suddenly thinking of hangovers, Callie remembered Everett Silverton and his Scottish-whisky bender. He was not what she’d been expecting from the gossip she’d heard. She’d pictured a brooding, mountain of a man who could lift cars and stop trains with his finger. The exaggerated praise was proof enough of how much the people of Rock Canyon thought of him and his heroism.

  But what had really surprised her was the fluttering she’d felt in her stomach when she’d looked up and met his gaze. His hands had burned a hole through her shirt sleeves, the heat of his touch sending goose bumps down her arms. She had barely noticed his scars, not with the way his light
brown eyes had stared down at her, reminding her of her past obsession with a certain vampire hero from her favorite book series.

  Of course, that had been before, when the thought of a dangerous vampire loving her forever had been romantic. But after the night of Tristan’s attack, that fantasy—along with every other hope and dream she’d held onto—had been shattered.

  “It’s going to be beautiful though,” Fred said, patting her hand and startling her.

  “What?”

  “The wedding,” Fred said. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

  “I bet.”

  Callie could imagine. Well, she could imagine what her dream wedding would have looked like. It had been documented in the wedding scrapbook she’d started after Tristan had first proposed—and tossed into the fireplace after she returned from the hospital. Even so, she still remembered the joy she’d felt as she’d filled it with pictures and clippings of everything she’d wanted to make her special day perfect. Callie had even signed up for an online service that had made them their own wedding web page, complete with registry links and engagement photos—photos her mother had paid to have done in Forest Hill, one of the most beautiful spots in the northern California foothills. The memory of standing atop the Forest Hill Bridge, holding nervously onto Tristan’s arms, held a bittersweet place in her heart, one that belonged to another girl in another time.

  “I’ve got you; I promise.”

  Tristan’s deep voice echoed through her mind, a ghost from her past that she just couldn’t shake.

  Especially when he wouldn’t let go.

  Once he’d gotten out of the psychiatric hospital, Tristan had called her, over and over. She’d changed her number several times, but when he started following her—never too closely, or he’d have violated the restraining order she’d taken out on him—she’d realized he would never stop. Soon, Callie began looking for a new job, far away from her past.

  After three months of living quietly in Rock Canyon, her lawyer had forwarded the first letter. Callie had never told her lawyer to stop, mainly because she was afraid of agitating Tristan. Instead, she just shoved them, unopened, into a drawer in her living room. One day, she hoped she’d have the courage to read what he had to say—but she knew she’d never be able to see him again. How could she face him after what he’d done to her, her mother, and their dog?