Page 26 of Chasing Callie

Her mouth falls open, hurt washing over her face like I slapped her, lips trembling.

Fuck.

“Callie.” I run a hand through my hair. “That was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

But she’s already backing toward the door, arms crossed protectively over her chest. I watch her go then grab my keys and head for the parking lot. Inside my truck, I drop my head against the steering wheel.

So much for repairing the damage between us. Maybe Jax can get through to her.

Chapter Eleven

CALLIE

The days following the bombshell about Frank blur together in a monotonous haze. Every morning, I deliver art supplies to different classrooms and help tiny hands create masterpieces without getting paint in their hair—mostly unsuccessfully. My afternoons are spent cleaning up messes and prepping for the next day’s chaos.

Brax is nearly impossible to read. One minute, he’s politely asking for more construction paper; the next, he’s avoiding eye contact entirely. I’ve tried giving him space, skirting around his classroom when possible, but my chest aches whenever I catch glimpses of him with his students. The tenderness in his expression when he crouches down to their level. The patient way he explains things. All these new dimensions to the wild boy I once knew.

Regret sits heavy in my chest, a constant companion these days. I should’ve at least come back for the funeral. Frank Williams was like a second father to me, but I was too busy running from my demons to consider what my friends might be going through.

It’s been three days since I found out. Three full days of self-loathing. I’m hoping my shift at The Bar tonight will get me out of my head for a while. I finish applying a coat of mascara, check my reflection one last time, and grab my purse.

My phone dings as I climb into my RAV-4. Unknown number. Probably another scam about my car’s extended warranty. I glance at the screen and my blood turns to ice.

UNKNOWN

Please come back, baby. I love you so much.

Before I can process it, another text follows.

Don’t fucking forget that you are mine. I’m not giving up. We belong together, Callie.

My hands shake as I stare at the messages. Acid pours through my veins. Fuck Theo. Was it not enough to steal my artwork and dignity? He has to harass me too? I don’t understand why he won’t just let me go. Anxiety has my heart pounding so hard I can’t breathe. I thought leaving would be enough, but apparently, he’s decided our story isn’t over. Hatred churns in my gut, rising, rising, rising until it shoots out of me.

“Fuck!” I scream, hurling my phone into the back seat. It thuds against the floorboard as white-hot anger courses through me.

I blocked his number, but I should have changed mine. The thought of him showing up makes my skin crawl, but beneath the fear is something else. A deep, simmering rage. He’s already taken enough from me. I’ve had this number since I was a teenager. It’s mine, I refuse to let him take that and steal my peace in Big Ridge too.

I start the engine, burying my emotions. Dealing with this will have to wait. I can’t afford to be late to work, especially not when Maura’s been so good to me. The drive through Big Ridge isn’t too bad tonight, but The Bar’s parking lot is packed when I arrive. A muffled bass line thumps through the walls. Perfect. A busy night means good tips and no time to dwell on unwanted texts or how much I’ve fucked up.

I slip in through the back entrance, waving at Lincoln who’s flitting around the kitchen.

“Hey, Callie,” he calls, grabbing the handle of a pan and dumping the contents onto a plate. “Brace yourself. It’s wild out there.”

“When is it not?” I tie my apron around my waist, adjusting the knot at my back. At least Jay, the lead bartender, is back from vacation. Maura’s been running herself ragged covering his shifts on top of everything else.

The moment I push through the swinging door into the main bar, the cacophony of laughter, music, and clinking glasses engulfs me. I’m heading toward my usual station when I hear a laugh that sends an electric current skittering down my spine. Low, rich, and achingly familiar.

I freeze mid-step, my focus drawn to the source like a magnet.

Behind the bar, flipping a bottle with practiced ease, is a man with broad shoulders and a wicked grin I’d recognize anywhere. The light catches the sharp angle of his jawline, the same one his twin brother shares.

No fucking way.

Jay is actually J for Jaxon Williams? I blink, shake my head, and look again. Shit. It is him. The lead bartender is Jax. My chest clenches. This can’t be happening.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, too busy charming a group of giggly tourists with that smile that always meant trouble.

“Shit,” I breathe, the profanity barely audible over the noise.