Devils' Day Party: A High School Bully Romance - C.M. Stunich Page 0,111

snatched that space. The fact that he's driving a car worth more than most people's houses probably doesn't help either.

“Why don't I give you some money to fuck off?” Calix says, completely deadpan, his eyes flicking to the woman as she gives his outfit a strange once-over. It's not often you see a hot dude dressed in a white doublet and leather pants with boots, black makeup streaked down his cheeks. As tourists, they'd likely be unaware of the existence of Devils' Day. “Would five hundred bucks help?”

“Five hundred bucks?” the guy asks, glancing over at his female companion. Her eyes widen slightly, as if to say take the fucking money. I quiver slightly, gritting my teeth as I watch the situation play out. How can their dignity be worth any amount of money? Yet … I know what it's like to struggle. Maybe they really need the cash? “I want eight hundred.”

“Fine. A thousand. Take it.” Calix throws a wad of cash on the ground, and the man and his wife scramble to collect it before the wind carries it away. Calix doesn't even bother to wait around to see if they manage to get it, grabbing my hand and dragging me away from the scene. My hand burns where he touches me, even as my heart simmers with anger.

“You can't just throw money at people and get away with being a jerk,” I snap, yanking my hand from his, just outside the front door to the café. It's getting later and later, and I'm exhausted. As soon as I eat, it's going to be game over. I can't fight sleep forever.

“Can't I though?” Calix asks, looking back at me with one dark brow raised. “It's worked for me thus far. Maybe those people need money more than they need me to smile and pretend to be nice?”

My mouth drops open as Calix continues past the front entrance of the café and toward a storefront with men's clothing in the window. I jog after him and grab his arm before he can step inside. We both pause to look down at the spot where my fingers curl around the white sleeve of his doublet.

“You don't need to buy new clothes right now,” I challenge, looking up into his ebon eyes.

“I'm dressed like fucking Shakespeare,” he growls back at me, and one of my brows goes up. I redirect my gaze to his pants.

“Pretty sure Shakespeare never wore low-slung, ass-hugging leather pants.” Calix rolls his eyes and tries to pull away from me, but I just cling tighter to his arm. He lets me keep holding onto him, refusing to drag me along the sidewalk in front of all the passersby. He seriously needs to stay in his own lane and stop worrying about what other people are thinking. If he's so interested in the thoughts and feelings of others, maybe he should try philanthropy instead of paranoia over his own self-image? “You don't need to change, Calix. Just … maybe button up the jacket for the restaurant. Hygiene, and all that. Plus, nobody wants to see your nipples.”

That last statement's supposed to be funny. Only … it doesn't come out that way. A strange tension pulls between us. One of, uh, a sexual nature.

“People are staring at me,” he says, lifting his gaze up and surveying the people passing by. Occasionally, someone glances our way, but even with the tourists, Eureka Springs is still an artists' colony. The shops sell tie-dye and crystals, glass pipes and gay pride flags. There's even a haberdashery—that's a fancy name for a hat shop—that sells steampunk top hats. The town is basically the antithesis of the rural Arkansas.

“Nobody here cares,” I insist, pointing across the street to where a guy with neon pink hair stands outside the tie-dye shop, kissing a man with a ponytail and a dangling earring. I look back at Calix. “Let's just go have some eggs and pancakes, okay?”

With another gentle tug, Calix finally starts toward the front doors of the restaurant.

I yank the glass door open and take him in with me, keeping hold of his arm as we move down the stairs.

“Did you know the café used to be on street level?” I ask, trying to distract him. Calix's dark eyes constantly scan his surroundings, always looking for trouble. “Did it ever occur to you that trouble comes to you because you're expecting it?”

The host takes us to a two-seater table and hands us some menus.

“Anyway,” I