Page 29 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“No.” Jolene shakes her head so emphatically I’m worried she’ll pull a neck muscle. “I mean, not really.”

“Not really?”

She laughs haltingly, even though I didn’t crack a joke. “Just a few off weeks. Things were strained between us, and we didn’t get the chance to talk it out, but it was no big deal. Anyway…” She wipes her forehead. “Look how busy we are. We’ve been kinda slow lately, so busy is great, and I really need to get back to work.”

With an awkward wave, she zips away, not giving me a second look.

I drum my fingers on my beer. Something clearly happened between her and Callahan, a man who has a tendency to go overboard when faced with problems.

I’m not sure the rest of my family knows Callahan Bower is a secret wheeler and dealer—a schemer, if you will—but the guy lives to fix problems, no matter the method.

When I was fourteen, I found him sliding money into Dad’s wallet, as though replacing something he’d stolen. The move was uncharacteristic, and Dad was in a foul mood that week, doling out harsh punishments like cleaning the attic if we stepped out of line. Being the blackmailer I was, I cornered Cal and accused him of stealing the cash then returning it. He confessed quickly. Almost too quickly, with a hint of a smile. I then bribed him to do my math homework for a month or I’d snitch on him. He agreed, but I caught Des running around shortly afterward with a new cell phone I knew our folks had refused to buy him.

That’s when the puzzle pieces snapped into place.

Cal hadn’t swiped the cash, but he knew Desmond had stolen it, and he hadn’t wanted Des to get caught in Dad’s crosshairs.

There were other instances of his conniving over the years, more diabolical in nature. Freddie Lorimer turned up with a mysterious broken finger after picking on E, but Des—the usual Bower bully punisher—was away playing football. At the end of high school, I received a B on an English essay. No big deal for most people, but I needed a B to pass my second attempt at the class. I’d rushed my essay on Shakespeare’s Othello. Kept mixing up Othello and Iago and should’ve flunked the paper, but miraculously…I got a B. That same day, I saw Callahan leaving school property, even though he had long since graduated.

I don’t have proof Cal schemed to our benefits, but I always found him afterward in an extra-chipper mood, smiling that half smile of his, like he had secretly won the lottery. All this to say, Callahan’s need to keep those he cares about happy goes beyond kind words and nice gestures. He’ll do dark deeds to avenge his family or help those he loves, and Jolene used to be his best friend. It’s possible a scheme of his went awry.

“Maggie!” someone shouts.

I whip around, and there’s my old nemesis still looking defeated as she nears the group…and she’s not alone. Her tumbleweed of a boyfriend is in tow.

I grit my teeth, silently cursing my luck.

I didn’t see the limp-shaker at the festival, figured he wouldn’t be here tonight. His appearance ruins my plan to convince her to ditch the guy…unless I can get her alone.

Another upbeat song kicks in. The people on the dance floor hoot and jump. I scowl at Maggie’s plus-one, trying to figure out how best to separate them. When I spot a few of Delilah and E’s friends, an idea sparks.

Avoiding Maggie’s eye, I tug Delilah to the side and whisper my plan in her ear. I don’t need Maggie alone for long. I have a million things I want to discuss with her, but only one of them needs to be said tonight.

“I’m so in,” Delilah says, sparkling with intent.

“Don’t do it until I’m dancing beside her.”

“Roger that.”

We discreetly bump fists.

I nod to Maggie and Harrison and succeed in not grimacing at him. “First round’s on me. What’s your poison?”

“Tequila with a shot of tequila,” Maggie says.

“Tequila overdose. Got it. And you?” I try to smile at Harrison. I think I resemble the vengeful clown from the creepy It tableau.

Bopping to the tunes, he says, “I’ll have a strawberry daiquiri.”

Of course he orders a slushy for a cocktail. “I’ll get you an extra straw.”

Halfway to the bar, a man knocks into me, sloshing his drink on my shoes. “Shit, sorry.”

“No biggie. The rest of me is dyed red with beet juice.” I glance up from my shoes and startle. “Mizhir?”

“Lennon?”

I take in my former friend’s thicker frame, the contacts he’s wearing instead of glasses. He’s gained a bit of weight and has shorter hair, but I still see the guy I dared to light cherry bombs under the bleachers. The friend who got too busy at college to connect with me. “Great to see you, man.”