Bad For Me Read online

  “Are you all right, Callie? You seem distracted.” Fred broke into her memories.

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Is something bothering you?”

  Nothing I want to talk about.

  “No, I was just thinking of stuff I have to get done.”

  “My older son, Everett—he does that to me. I’ll be having a conversation with him, and all of a sudden it’s like he’s in another world.”

  At the mention of Everett’s name, Callie’s heart tripped up. “I was going to tell you, I met Everett today.”

  “Did you? How did he seem?”

  Charming. She didn’t dare say that aloud, though. Meeting Everett had been a surprise, and she’d barely caught herself before telling him how she knew his father. She never talked about her alcoholism and wasn’t about to advertise it to a man she’d just met.

  Especially considering how she’d been drawn to Everett and his smile. The scars on his face hadn’t diminished his handsomeness; instead, they actually seemed to accentuate it. She’d avoided his light brown eyes because they were beautiful, like the crisp autumn leaves that fell from the trees in November. Her reaction to them had struck her dumb.

  Well, for a minute or so, before his easygoing nature had helped let her guard down. He’d even made her laugh, which was something that rarely happened. Yet with the battle-scarred marine, her laughter felt effortless.

  “He was nice. He bumped into me while I was reading my paper, and when it ripped, he bought me a new one.”

  “That sounds just like him. He’s a good boy. Would give the shirt off his back to a stranger if he needed it.” Fred paused, and Callie looked up in time to catch the flash of pain in his eyes. “I worry about him, though.”

  Every fiber of her being wanted to ask why, wanted to press for more, but she didn’t want to seem like she was fishing for information.

  “I just think he spends too much time alone,” Fred continued. “When he first got home and was recuperating, I understood, but he’s had time. He should be out, getting reacquainted with the world. And so should you, missy,” Fred added, patting her hand.

  “Oh, come on, I’m in touch with the world.”

  “Watching the news doesn’t count.”

  “Does reading it?” she asked.

  “No. I just mean, you should be out there, meeting a young man. A real man.”

  Callie’s mouth twitched. “Oh yeah? And where do I find all these real men?”

  “In the country, at church, on farms,” Fred said, holding his fingers out as he named off places. “You would be surprised where the perfect man might show up.”

  His words caused a familiar ache to settle in her chest, but that wasn’t his fault. Her thoughts drifted back to high school, when she thought she’d met the perfect blue-eyed boy in her sophomore English class. He’d come walking in, and the minute he’d caught her gaze, she’d known he was meant to be hers. Which was proof enough that there were too many outside factors for anyone to be perfect for another. There was no right one, no “forever and ever, amen,” no matter what Randy Travis sang. There was happy for now. There was getting some good years together.

  And then there were irreconcilable differences.

  “Callie, I swear, girl, you’re a million miles away and fading fast.”

  Fred’s comment pulled her back again, and she shook her head. “Honestly, I think I just haven’t had a good run in a while.”

  After she’d joined AA, she’d started running in the morning and at night. Anytime she started to feel helpless or out of control, she took her control back. She wasn’t sure if it was the endorphins or the soreness afterward, but running always put things in perspective. She was alive. She had survived.

  “Well, don’t feel like you need to humor an old goat like me.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know I enjoy your company.”

  “Same goes, but you should go home. Maybe take a nap or a jog, if that’s what you like. Me? Well, I’d rather go home, sit down in my chair, and turn on some football.”

  Callie was thankful that Fred was so understanding. Sometimes, depending on what was weighing on her mind, she just needed to be alone. Actually, most of her free time was spent alone, watching TV with a bowl of buttered popcorn in her lap. Unless it was Karaoke Night at Hank’s Bar. She hadn’t accepted Gemma’s invitation to go out until about two years ago, and even now, some nights it was hard as hell. But she pushed through her weaknesses because going out with her friends gave her a small semblance of normalcy, something she wanted desperately.

  Still, she hadn’t been to Hank’s in the last few months, what with Gemma’s being pregnant. Without Gemma as a buffer, going out with the rest of the group was awkward, especially with Gracie. Callie liked the opinionated blonde most of the time, but she was a little too wild for Callie on her own. Too many times, Gracie had mouthed off and caused a scene, and the last thing Callie wanted to be around was drama and violence.

  She’d seen enough of that to last a lifetime.

  AFTER HIS RUN-IN with Callie, Everett decided to head out for his usual hike. He still had several hours of daylight left and needed to burn some energy. When he worked hard during the day, he usually slept better. No night terrors. No lying awake, thinking of Robbie or Robbie’s family. Sometimes he still used a sleep aid but not often. Not with his family history of addiction.

  He stopped along the hiking trail and bent over to tie his shoelace. The late afternoon sky was just turning a peach color as the sun sank down. He loved coming here, not just for the peace and quiet but for the beauty that surrounded him. This time of year, the trails were becoming overgrown, but at least it was past tick season. He hated those blood-sucking bastards.

  Once his shoe was tied, he dropped his pack onto the ground and pulled his water bottle out. He always came prepared for several hours: a couple of water bottles, protein bars, a windbreaker—and his Glock attached to his thigh, just in case. The chances of bumping into a large predator were slim, but it never hurt to be prepared.

  Everett took a long drink from his bottle before shoving it back inside his pack and pulling it into place. He needed time to think, especially about his reaction to Callie.

  When he’d married Alicia, all he had wanted was to settle down and start a family. Have a couple of kids who would jump into his arms when he came home and a loving wife to grow old with. It was what he had been working for.

  Until a roadside bomb had blown those dreams to hell.

  Everett couldn’t blame his accident for his marriage going down the crapper. According to some of his friends’ wives, Alicia had never been a one-marine woman anyway. When he’d come back hurt and with a long road to recovery, she’d bolted. Still, it had hurt like hell to wake up one morning and find that his wife had abandoned him. Granted, they had spent more time apart than together, but she could have at least had the decency to leave him a Dear John letter. Instead, she’d sent him a text: At my mother’s. I want a divorce.

  Since he’d come home, he’d been working on himself first, then on the farm, and then on Stateside. After a while, he’d started to think that maybe, if he met the right woman, he could have the family he’d always wanted. But he couldn’t seem to find a woman who fit the bill.

  Whiskey-hazel eyes flashed through his mind, and he shook his head. Callie was the first woman to spark anything inside him, but she hadn’t exactly seemed enthralled with him when they’d bumped into each other. If she knew he was Rhett, his fiasco on the phone would make him persona non grata.

  Maybe she’s just shy and awkward in person. Maybe she has her own hang-ups, just like you.

  Pounding feet alerted him to someone coming down the trail, and Everett looked up to find the woman of his thoughts jogging toward him. He could tell it was her by the blonde curls swaying as she moved and, of course, the giant dog loping beside her. As she drew closer, he noticed the loose T-shirt and sweats she wore, making her nearly shapeless. Her face was
shiny with sweat, and her cheeks were flushed.

  Just then her dog barked—actually, barked was too mild for the deep sonic boom that came out of the beast’s muzzle.

  Everett waved. “Hey, there.”

  “Hey,” Callie said as she and the dog came to a stop. She removed her ear buds before asking, “What are you doing?”

  “Hiking. I thought I was the only one who used this trail.”

  “No, I come down here often.”

  “Me too. I was trying to get down to the river, but I need to clear out the path.” Everett took his pack off and began to reach in for an extra bottle of water. “Want a water?”

  “Thanks, I’m covered.” She held up the bottle already in her hand before popping it open to drink.

  Everett’s cock hardened without warning as he watched her place the mouth of the water bottle to her lips, the muscles of her throat working as she drank. Droplets of water rolled down her chin, and when she finished drinking, she held the bottle against her forehead and neck. Suddenly, he wanted to be the one trailing the bottle over her skin.

  The erotic scene playing out in his head made his erection worse, and Everett shifted his pack in front of him. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “So why did you want to go down to the river?” she asked.

  “There’s this place I like to go and relax. It’s on a huge, flat rock overlooking the Snake River. It’s just been one of those days, you know?”

  “I’m having one of those days too,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I hope my assault on your paper didn’t affect it.” He watched her lips twitch and hope flared inside him. That was pretty damn close to a smile.

  “No, and thank you again for the replacement. Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Maybe not, but it was my pleasure,” he said.

  “What’s with the piece?” She waved her water bottle toward his thigh where his Glock was holstered.

  “It’s just in case I run into a bear or cougar. I don’t need any more scars jacking up my pretty face.”

  “I see. I’m actually a little surprised to see you again today. We’ve lived in the same place for five years and never crossed paths before.”

  “Maybe it’s fate.”

  She didn’t look amused; she looked downright suspicious. “I don’t believe in fate.”

  “Well, I don’t have any other way to explain it. I’ve been using this trail since I was a kid, and aside from the good-weather months, I hardly bump into anyone out here.”

  He hadn’t meant to come off as defensive, but he got the feeling she was accusing him of something, and he didn’t like it.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have implied anything. I usually run earlier, but I had somewhere to be today, and . . . well, I’m sorry.”

  Everett let it go but couldn’t ignore the questions that Callie’s suspicion raised about her and her past.

  “Well, we’re going to keep going,” Callie said, putting one of her ear buds back in.

  “Be careful out here, especially at dusk.”

  “That’s sweet, but I’ll be fine.”

  Everett started to open his mouth to argue but changed his mind. “Have a nice day.”

  She paused, staring at him strangely before pushing in her other bud. “You too.”

  As he watched her run off, the dog loping beside her, Everett hoped fate would throw them together again soon. One thing was for sure: Callie Jacobsen was a mystery he wanted to solve.

  Chapter Three

  CALLIE WAS IN the dark, a blaring alarm screaming around her. The only thing louder than the noise was the sound of her heart pounding. She reached along the wall, trying to find the deactivate button, anything to quiet the sounds.

  Blinding pain sliced through her back, and she fell to the floor. Writhing, she turned to look up at her assailant, knowing who it was before she even saw his face.

  Tristan.

  His face was twisted into a terrifying mask of hatred, and she tried to move, to pull herself across the floor and away from the glittering knife in his hand, but she was paralyzed.

  The knife swung down toward her, and she screamed . . .

  Callie woke up sobbing, the soft, wet brush of Ratchet’s tongue on her face pulling her out of the nightmare. With shaking hands, she wrapped her arms around her dog and buried her nose in his fur. She breathed in the calming lavender-and-vanilla baby shampoo she used for his baths, and slowly, her trembling subsided. She flipped off the alarm clock on the nightstand when she realized it was still going, breathing a sigh of relief when all was quiet except for the sound of her heartbeat and Ratchet’s panting.

  God, it had been months since she’d dreamed about Tristan. Not since the last letter. It didn’t make sense.

  Climbing out of bed on unsteady limbs, she made her way to the bathroom and splashed water over her face. The cold was jarring but just what she needed to pull her completely out of her terror.

  Ratchet sat next to her, leaning his body against her leg as if to reassure her. I’m here. You have nothing to fear. It was amazing how he could read exactly what she needed.

  “You’re such a good boy, Ratch.”

  His large tail thumped the tile floor as she undressed, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t need to see the scars to know they were there. All six raised lines—some jagged; others, clean white scars on her already pale skin. They were proof of her stupidity. She had put her faith in a man who had lied to her, and his betrayal had cost her everything.

  Her mind drifted back to that night. She’d come home just after seven, since the radio station she’d been working at was just a few miles from her childhood home. Her mother had given the house to them as an engagement present and moved into the guest house. It had been so amazingly generous, Callie almost hadn’t accepted, but her mother had squeezed her hands hard and said, “No buts; it’s yours.”

  As she’d come through the door, she’d expected to smell dinner on the table and hear the sound of Tristan and her mother talking, or the click of Baby’s nails on the tile floor just before she greeted Callie, barking happily.

  But all she’d heard was the beeping of the house alarm. There’d been no barking, no laughter from the kitchen. Nothing.

  And then she’d seen Baby on the floor of the darkened house.

  “Baby!” she’d screamed.

  She’d dropped to the floor, reaching out for her beloved pet but paused when her hands had met a warm, wet puddle. Thick liquid had covered her skin and even in the darkness, she’d known it was blood.

  Callie had stood up, going for the light, but the incessant beeping wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t think with the noise. She’d reached up to turn off the alarm when the first slice of pain had exploded across her back.

  Callie remembered falling to the ground, writhing and crying as a shadowy figure stood over her. “Please, there’s money upstairs. Just don’t—”

  He’d leaned down over her, and she’d gotten a look at his face.

  “Tristan?” But he’d looked nothing like the curly haired man who loved to make her laugh. His normally blue eyes were wide and black in the darkness, and his lips had twisted into a feral snarl.

  “Who sent you?” he’d hissed, spittle dropping onto her cheek.

  “Tris, it’s me! It’s Callie!” she’d yelled and put her hands up to push at his chest.

  And then, as he’d pulled his arm back, she’d seen it: a knife, covered in something dark red and glistening. A knife from their set that sat in the corner of the kitchen—another engagement gift.

  Suddenly, Tristan brought that knife down into her right shoulder. Callie had felt each snap of bone and muscle as he’d torn through them.

  “Who sent you to kill me?” Tristan yanked the knife out of her shoulder, and she’d screamed in pain, the wet rush of her blood pouring out across her shirt.

  Callie had sucked in air, sobbing hysterically as she’d tried to hold his arm back, t
hat knife glinting at her threateningly. “Tristan, it’s me! Your fiancée! It’s Callie. Please, stop—”

  “I’ll make you talk, creature!”

  She’d been no match for Tristan’s strength, though, and the next sharp stab had struck her abdomen. She’d had no time to process how it was possible that the man she’d chosen to spend her life with was thrusting a knife into her, again and again. Callie had started to feel woozy, to watch the world fading away around her . . .

  Before she’d blacked out, blue and red lights had flashed through the window, but she remembered nothing else.

  Callie had woken up in the hospital days later, groggy from the painkillers they’d given her. The doctor had come by to see her, but she remembered only snippets of that conversation.

  “Stabbed seven times . . . just missed the lung . . . had to repair your intestine . . . recovery will take time . . . you were very lucky . . . ”

  Lucky. She would never forget that. People told her that often, afterward. She was lucky to have survived. She’d hardly been able to understand what lucky meant until the police came in.

  The officer had been so matter-of-fact, like a robot: Tristan had suffered a psychotic break and had been shot by police. He was recovering, but he’d been charged with second-degree murder, animal cruelty, and attempted murder.

  “Murder? Who else did he . . . ”

  The looks on the officers’ faces had been grim. “Your mother was found by the back door . . . ”

  She’d stopped listening after that. Her mother was dead. She had spent years trying to make up for her mistakes and in return, she’d been killed by her future son-in-law. A man she had loved and trusted.

  A man Callie had loved and trusted.

  Callie should have been more diligent. She should have made sure he was being treated, that he was safe to be around.

  It was her fault—all of it.