Chasing Callie

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CALLIE

The front door slams and my heart skips, throat tightening. Breathe, Callie. It’s okay. But every step Theo takes in my direction, every stomp, sends my pulse into overdrive. He’s mad. Again. I do my best to finish putting on my eyeshadow, but it’s hard with trembling hands.

I hear his breath moments before he storms into the bathroom.

“You’re still fucking getting ready?”

Exhaling to steady my fluttering heart, I set the brush down and pick up the mascara.

“I’m almost done. Are we leaving early?” I ask instead of telling him that he told me I still have thirty minutes.

Arguing with him only escalates the situation, and I’m too tired from three late bartending shifts to deal with his adult sized temper tantrums.

“Jesus, Callie! It’s like you don’t even care about me. Tonight is my big show, and you’re already making it about you.”

Maybe I don’t. The thought rushes through my head, and I frown at it.

Things have been bad between me and Theo lately.

I met him at an artist collective years ago.

We fell madly in love—only now I realize it was never actually love; it was simply a fever dream of lust and my burning desire to make it in New York City.

Theo fit in. He’s the quintessential artist. Terrible with money, constantly taking loans from his family. He’s chaotic. Messy. Brilliant.

Or I used to think so.

He surges forward and swipes the mascara from my hand and chucks it into the shower.

And right now, he’s a complete asshole. “Theo, what the hell?” There’s only so long I can play peacekeeper before the old Callie rears her head. I’ve already given up so much of myself in an effort to please him, but no matter how hard I try, he’s never happy.

I’m starting to wonder if it was ever worth it.

“Are you trying to embarrass me?” he demands, looming over me.

I used to love the fact that he was over six feet tall. Now I feel cornered with him blocking the only escape. My heart thrashes in my chest, the shaking in my hands traveling through my body. “What do you mean?”

He jabs his hand in my direction. “You look like a slut.”

My mouth parts slightly. The dress I’m wearing covers all of my cleavage and hits above the knee. It’s the most conservative thing I own. “Do you want me to change?”

“Yes, Callie.” He spits my name. “I want you to fucking change so you don’t make me look stupid.”

The only one who looks stupid is you. My scowl deepens at the thought, and as soon as it does, Theo grabs my arm, squeezing hard enough to shock the air from my lungs. We’ve had some pretty heated arguments lately. He’s thrown things at me. Punched the wall. Degraded me. This though? This is new.

“What I need is for you to stop acting like such a bitch and for once in our relationship support me.” He drags me closer.

I resist, tugging to break his grip, but the pads of his fingers dig in. “Theo! You’re hurting me!”

“I’m barely touching you,” he counters, face inches from mine now, hold on me unbreakable. “Wipe that fucking look off your face.”

Shame burns through me as I do as I’m told, softening my features and smiling. “Better?”

Sneering, he shoves me away from him. I stumble slightly but catch myself. If I’d been in heels, it would be a different story.

“You have ten minutes.” He crosses his arms and stares at me.

My throat burns, and I blink back tears, hating myself.

With a sniff, I slip past him, holding my arm as I head to the closet.

I have no idea how I got here. When I ran from my hometown, I swore I’d make a name for myself in NYC, and when Theo expressed interest, I was so desperate to make my dreams come true, I ignored the warning signs.

He was always a little controlling, but I wrote it off as a quirk.

The floor creaks behind me, and I stiffen, glancing over my shoulder.

Theo is watching me. His eyes narrow, daring me to question him.

His violence isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always bruise.

Sometimes the worst part of his abuse is found in the moments of quiet where the threat of his anger hangs in the air between us.

A single look that makes me regret ever speaking or smiling.

One grin at the wrong person, one wrong word, will set him off for weeks.

Just get through the night.

Swallowing, I turn around and pick out a pair of slacks and a nice blouse with long sleeves.

I don’t dare to inspect my arm, but I know there are marks on my skin.

I’ve always bruised easily. Placing the outfit on the shelf, I start to peel off my dress.

The floor creaks again, and dread runs through my entire body, but he doesn’t reach for me again.

His eyes burn over every inch of exposed skin in a way that makes me want to hide even though he’s seen me naked plenty of times. I do my best to act unaffected as I tug on the pants and pull on the blouse. When I’m done, I face him, waiting for his judgment.

Am I good enough for you now?

Theo’s face is full of an emotion I don’t understand. Hatred. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me this way. With the way we’ve been fighting, I’ve been on the receiving end of that look a lot lately.

Things used to be good. He used to make me feel so special, but I have a hard time remembering any of that as he stares at me like I’m enemy number one.

“I guess that’ll work,” he mutters, glaring at the ring on my finger.

My mom gave it to me on my seventeenth birthday, and I always wear it. Theo hates it.

“How do you think it makes me feel that it’s not my ring on your finger?”

“It’s on my right hand,” I tried to argue.

“It doesn’t matter, Callie! It’s emasculating!”

He wants me to take it off, but I tip my chin, refusing. Huffing, he stomps out of the closet and heads toward the front door. “Are you coming or what?”

The last thing I want to do is go anywhere with him.

I glance at myself in the mirror in the closet.

Brunette hair, tired hazel-green eyes with puffy eye bags despite my best attempts to conceal them.

The woman staring at me is almost unrecognizable.

I hate what he’s made me, and I think I want to break up with him.

“Callie!” His voice cracks through the air.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” But tonight is his first show at this gallery, and I wouldn’t want someone to ruin that for me.

Tomorrow then.

Things end tomorrow.

Theo berates me as we walk, but once the sidewalks get too crowded, he stews in silence.

Yes, must never let the rest of the world know what an asshole you are.

The beeping of his texts breaks the quiet between us. His steps slow, and I pause, watching him stare at the phone like it might decide to attack him. I try and peer at the message. He tucks the phone out of sight but not before I manage to catch some of the text.

Something about paying back money.

“Was that another scam?” He’s been getting a ton of spammy pay now or you’ll go to jail type texts and emails over the last few months. Enough that I can’t help wondering if there’s something more to them.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles, stalking off and leaving me staring after him with confusion and hurt crinkling my face.

I hurry to catch up with him, hating how desperate I must look.

We turn, and the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Artist Collective take my breath away.

The AC is a well-known gallery in New York City, somewhere between an indie gallery and the museum of art.

Having a show here is a steppingstone to bigger shows.

Back when I still had hope for my art, I dreamed about that type of opportunity. I’ve since learned my art isn’t cut out for this scene. Or so Theo and his friends have told me. Seeing as some of them have had multiple shows here, I trust them.

“I need you to behave tonight. None of your little quips.”

I stifle a retort, because I’m done fighting. No more arguing. Tomorrow, I’m gone. “Yes, Theo.”

He glares at me, and I’m sure he’d say more, but one of the coordinators rushes out to meet us.

I study the pieces in the window. Those spots are reserved for the most well-known artists of our century.

Their work is breathtaking. Full of emotion and meaning, bright bursts of color or dark swaths meant to convey the darker sides of ourselves.

Or at least, that’s what it means to me.

“Callie.” Theo’s voice is sharp.

I absolutely loathe being summoned. My eyes flutter closed. “Coming.”

The coordinator hurries us inside, and I’m so wrapped up in the other art that I forget Theo has his own scattered about the room. I let myself linger for a moment then turn, prepared to give him one last night of support. A familiar canvas stares back at me, and my eyebrows knit together.

That’s my painting.

Is Theo surprising me? Is that why he’s been so agitated?

I look at the next, and my heart leaps. Oh my god. This isn’t Theo’s show. It’s mine! All my pieces from the last year of hard work, even some I didn’t love, are proudly on display. Here in the special lighting, they almost look like they belong.

“So, we’ll open the show and let you say a few words,” the coordinator says.

“Oh, I’m not prepared,” I say quickly.

“Callie, love, he’s talking to me. The artist’s girlfriend doesn’t speak at these events.”

Lines slash across my forehead. “But—”

“Forgive her,” Theo says with a laugh. “She likes to be the center of attention.”

My mind spins, trying to understand, to fathom what he’s doing. This is my art. My hard work. The artist’s girlfriend doesn’t speak. I’m the artist. But he said it was his show. Theo wouldn’t. No. He can’t. He won’t.

Wouldn’t he, though?

My gaze shifts back to the piece closest to me. The plate next to it has a title that I didn’t give it, and there, etched in silver, is Theo’s name listed as the artist.