Check Swing (Callahan Family Book 3)

by Carrie Aarons

  “Good afternoon, guys,” I announce myself as I walk into the room. “If we haven’t met, I’m Frankie, the head strength coach down here. I’ll be working with you today on our arms lesson.”

  “A chick?” I hear Garrett snicker.

  Clark throws him a furious glare, and the rookie rolls his eyes.

  I continue on, having dealt with my fair share of sexism long before this baby hotshot came into my weight room.

  “As pitchers, you need to keep your arms conditioned. Loose, muscular, but with a certain precision. We don’t want to bulk you, but we don’t want them becoming soft. It’s a complicated balance, one I’ve tried to refine in the workout regimen I’ve put together for you.”

  I nod to binders sitting in front of each of their feet. They pick them up, thumb through them.

  “These are good. Really good.” Clark looks up, winking at me.

  It’s not a flirtatious wink, I can tell. No, this is a “way to go” wink from a player who supports a female being in charge. But if it was flirtatious as well, hell, I wouldn’t be mad. Clark is a demi-God. The man looks like one of those European male models in a perfume commercial.

  “Not bad,” Garcia says in his thick accent. “I think the light weight coordination with the bench presses will actually help. I’ve been feeling some tightness after my fast ball.”

  “Well, that’s what we’re aiming to do here. Cure the letdown after your pitches. Build the necessary muscle mass to keep everything flowing correctly.”

  Even Garrett looks impressed that I might know what I’m talking about.

  “If everyone is ready to listen to me,” I direct that one at the newbie, “then let’s get to work.”

  All the men jump to attention at my command, and I grin a smug smile to myself. Yeah, I’m the head honcho in here and it feels damn good.

  9

  Sinclair

  Red curls spill across the bed sheets, one hand fisted in hers, pinning it back against the mattress.

  “You’re so fucking hot. Do that thing with your leg.”

  I groan as Frankie grabs her ankle, pulling her shapely thigh up and over her head as I drill her missionary style. Jesus fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I move my hand from where it was tweaking her nipple and hold her ankle myself. I’m splitting her in two, pounding her to kingdom come, and she’s moaning so loud that I think the patrons at Eddie’s bar can hear us half a mile down the street.

  We’re both slicked in sweat, and it’s like we’re running some kind of sex marathon. This is the third time I’ve been in her tonight, some insatiable need spurring us on from our usual wham-bam-thank you, ma’am.

  “I’m going to come. Oh my God, Sinclair, I’m going to come.” Frankie is gasping, and her violet eyes latch on to mine as a careening wail leaves her lips.

  Her orgasm hits hard, those nails raking into my hips. As soon as I feel her internal muscles relax, I pull out, spilling my come onto her stomach.

  When I flop over, grabbing a tissue from the box on her nightstand and handing it to her, I’m practically breathless.

  “Jesus.” The ceiling fan in Frankie’s bedroom spins above me in a rhythmic, hypnotic circle.

  “Yeah,” Frankie agrees to my sentiment. “I think I have a new record of how many times I’ve come during sex.”

  A smug, slow smile parts my lips. “Hell, yes. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “You’re such a man. Damn, I shouldn’t have said anything. Now your ego will be even bigger than it already is, and it can already barely fit through a doorway.” She chuckles, reaching for another tissue.

  She rises from the mattress; her curves doing a whole lot of things in the dim lamp light of her room. If I wasn’t halfway dead, my cock would be stirring again. After a quick trip to the bathroom, Frankie is back, and I’ve barely moved a muscle.

  Typically, I’m up and at ’em after coming over for our nightly booty call, but I’m exhausted and can’t seem to muster the energy to get my pants on.

  “I don’t even know your last name.” She settles half on an elbow, half on my chest, and begins tracing circles in my hair there. “It seems odd that I’m fucking you five nights a week and barely know a thing about you.”

  Internal alarms start to sound. Not only have we never cuddled after sex or done any sort of pillow talk, but Frankie has barely wanted to exchange two words with me. Shit, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid. But clearly, I was going to have to fess up, and that time is now.

  “Well, what do you want to know?” I ask, my tone cautious. I hope she doesn’t notice.

  “I mean, you’re not some serial killer, right?” Those violet eyes hold a sarcastic expression.

  “You probably should have asked that the first night we slept together. Now you’re in too deep. You like my dick too much, even if I do stab people as an extracurricular.” Humor as a defense mechanism is my middle name.

  She clicks her tongue at me. “No, but seriously, what is your last name?”

  It’s now or never. I twirl an auburn curl around my finger, loving the silkiness of her hair.

  “Callum. Sinclair Callum, pleasure to meet you.” I stick my free hand out, but instead of waiting for her to shake it, I palm one of her bare ass cheeks.

  “Oh!” She jumps a little, but her body seems to melt closer into mine.

  I don’t know why I lie. It’s dumb, really, because she could find me out so easily. At any moment while at work, she could discover who I really am.

  But for right now, I don’t have to be a Callahan. Frankie isn’t holding me to some standard because of who my family is. She doesn’t need money or fame, though I know she isn’t that kind of girl to begin with. For right now, I can just be. Since the day I was born, my life has been intertwined with one of the most famous names in the country, and if I can distance myself from that for just a few months, with even just one person, I’m going to take it.

  “Okay, Sinclair Callum. Tell me one thing about you that will also differentiate you from a serial killer.” Frankie’s eyes dance with humor.

  I tap my chin with one finger. “I honestly don’t know what to say that wouldn’t be something a serial killer would say. Because a lot of serial killers came off as normal dudes, you know? Ted Bundy was married. So was the BTK killer, and he had a daughter. John Wayne Gacy was a clown at kid’s birthday parties—”

  “Um, a clown at kid’s birthday parties? They should have known he was a serial killer just from that.” Frankie shudders.

  I laugh. “That’s kind of true. Wow, such rousing pillow talk. How did we go from orgasms to murder?”

  “I’m efficient like that.” She shrugs, running a hand through that mass of sexy red curls.

  “How about you? Tell me one thing about Francesca Kade that I don’t know. Did you grow up here?” I ask, surprised that I genuinely want to know.

  Her lip sticks out in a pout, and her eyes narrow. “You didn’t answer my original question, but I’ll let that one slip. Yes, I grew up here. How about you, from Florida?”

  I shake my head. “No. What about your family? Big or small? Siblings?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?” she asks, catching onto my plot not to answer any questions.

  I shrug, tucking a curl behind her ear. “We’ve been sleeping together for a little. Is it a crime if I get to know you?”

  It might be a crime to my heart. What if she tells me something about herself that is a total turnoff? Then it would taint this. But also, what if she tells me something completely endearing? What if I end up catching feelings? It’s dangerous territory I’m wading in, but I go in, nonetheless.

  She doesn’t answer my question about those crimes but goes back to the original ones I asked. “Small, almost nonexistent family. Just me and my mom. Never knew my dad. So I guess it’s possible I have siblings, but I know nothing about them.”

  “You talk about it like it doesn’t bother you,” I point out.


  “It doesn’t. I’ve never been the type to dwell on that stuff, I don’t have daddy issues. Mom was a hardworking woman who provided for me, and I did the rest.”

  “Aren’t you trying to avoid relationships? Isn’t that why you’re sleeping with someone emotionally off-limits, like me?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.

  “I wasn’t aware you were emotionally off-limits. Now my plan to get you to fall in love with me is thwarted.” She snaps her fingers as if to say aw shucks.

  I chuckle, somewhere in the back of my mind thinking that she just might get me to fall in love with her. “Funny. But really, you don’t seem like a woman who wants to find love.”

  This went from a get-to-know-you chat to seriously deep in a couple of chess moves. I’m not sure if I meant to take it here, and Frankie looks uncomfortable.

  “I’m focusing on my career. I’m really happy where I am right now, and if it happens, then yeah. But I’m not actively seeking it. I don’t need to check it off on my to-do list. I have other things I want more. Hey, what’s with all of the questions directed at me? How about you? Is your family big or small?”

  Enormous, but I won’t tell her that. “Just my mom, dad, and brother.”

  It’s not a lie, but it definitely isn’t the truth.

  We ask question after question for so long that I don’t even notice when my tongue grows heavy with sleep or how Frankie ceases talking. I don’t remember as I drift off to sleep with her naked in my arms.

  I’m not sure when my eyes shut, but they do so as I’m wrapped around her, warm under her covers with the sound of the ocean waves beating the shore just outside her window.

  10

  Frankie

  I sit on the side of my bed, chewing my thumbnail nervously.

  As if sensing my apprehension, Sinclair stirs, those gorgeous long black lashes sweeping over his cheeks several times as he clears the sleep from his eyes.

  “Shit, we fell asleep?” His morning voice is deep and raspy, and it does dangerous things to my insides.

  “I guess we did.” I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from his abs, biceps, and morning hair.

  The man shouldn’t be allowed to sleep over, which I guess is why I had this rule. He’s way too lethal at this hour of the day.

  Sinclair stretches, all of those lean, taut muscles pulling tight, and I have to audibly gulp. I’m sitting here like a paranoid freak, and he’s taking his grand old time greeting the morning.

  “You’re dressed,” he observes, those aqua pools heating as he takes in my white sundress.

  “I typically go to Sanibel every Sunday. Well, if there isn’t a game. And there isn’t one today, so I’m headed there.” I try to keep my voice neutral.

  But what I’m really saying is, get out of my bed so I can get on with my ritual.

  I couldn’t very well leave him here, alone in my apartment. It was strange enough that he’d fallen asleep in my bed. It was stranger still that I felt some odd sense of peace when I woke up in his arms, the warmth of his skin and solid wall of muscle at my back both inviting and comforting.

  It had me jumping out from under my duvet and retreating to the living room, where I paced for a good five minutes before brewing coffee and sneaking back into the bedroom to throw on my bathing suit and a sundress. Now all I want to do is bid him farewell and get onto my Sunday trip, clear my head. Walk in the natural grasslands and sit on the white sand beaches of the island off Fort Myers.

  “I’ll come with you.” He all but jumps out of bed, and I had forgotten he was naked.

  He towers over where I’m sitting, that perfectly shaped ass at my eye-level as he walks to the bathroom. I trace the muscles of his back as they taper down into his waist, and Sinclair turns before closing the door. His cock, rigid and long, sticks out perpendicularly from his body.

  I can’t stop the tiny gasp that leaves my lips, and he notices. “Or we could start the morning off with a bang. Before we leave?”

  That cheesy line has me rolling my eyes. “I didn’t even invite—”

  My sentence is cut off as he closes the door, and the water begins running behind it. Apparently, his accompanying me is not up for discussion. I could argue more or simply leave while he’s still in there, but I don’t.

  And I’m not sure why.

  “I want to crack some crab legs.”

  Sinclair rubs his hands together. I shoot him a look over the center console, and my stomach flutters at him sitting in the passenger seat of my years old Camry.

  “There are some pretty good seafood restaurants on this main drag. Or we could drive further down and go to Captiva. The traffic is just a bitch, but it’s worth it to come here.” I gesture to the bumper-to-bumper we’re currently sitting in.

  “I’ve got nowhere to be. Now that I’ve got supplies, I can waste the whole day here.”

  An entire day with Sinclair. Out of my bedroom. It will be interesting.

  Those supplies he’s talking about is the entirely new wardrobe he just picked up. Since he slept at my place, having shed his work uniform before jumping into my bed, all he had were those khakis and Pistons polo. I offered to drive him to his place, and wishful thinking on my part thought he might just stay there and leave me to my peaceful day. But no. He said he’d buy some things on the island, so off we went.

  I’d stopped off at the first beach supply store we hit once we got over the bridge. Sinclair bought a white and blue pair of striped board shorts, a gray tank top, a pair of aviators, two sticks of beef jerky off the front counter, and a towel for the beach. I looked on like my eyes might fall out of my head. I’m not poor by any means, but I have never walked into a store with the ease Sinclair had and just picked things off the shelves without checking the price.

  It’s clear he comes from money, but he hasn’t told me a lick about it.

  “Thanks for letting me come along, by the way.” His grin is genuine, with no note of its usual tease or jokes. “I know this is usually your solo thing, like you said. But … I wanted to spend the day with you.”

  Uh-oh. My heart skips a beat, and I can tell we’re treading in dangerous waters. First, the pillow talk last night. Then him falling asleep at my place. Now we were taking day trips together?

  Like I told Sinclair, I have no daddy issues. I’m not opposed to finding love. But, as I always felt, there’s something inside that’s warning me about this guy. He’s here for spring training; who knows if he has any plans to stay. He’s disclosed near to nothing about himself and hasn’t invited me to his place once in all the weeks we’ve been hooking up. This screams temporary, and yet …

  Here he is, charming me into something more than just sex. Truth is, I enjoy his company. I think today will be fun. And that’s what scares me so much.

  “So, we’ll head to the beach first. I like to park at Bowman’s, it’s a pretty walk out to the sand.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he agrees easily, pushing his newly bought aviators onto his face.

  Jesus, he looks way too handsome with those on. I gulp, focusing on the traffic that always seems ever-present on Sanibel.

  Another twenty minutes, and we’re parking at Bowman’s beach. It’s crowded, per usual, but I’ve never minded that. We’ll find a secluded spot after the five-minute scenic walk.

  “I brought a cooler and umbrella, they’re in the trunk.” I nod to it, and Sinclair follows suit.

  He grabs the umbrella, shouldering it, and then pulls up the handle for the rolling cooler I packed with waters, fruit, and even a couple of beers. Without much instruction, he begins to walk, and I hastily grab my small beach bag with a towel, sunscreen, and paperback novel, and hurry to catch up to him. It’s chivalrous, a man doing all the heavy lifting, and I’m surprised that my heart flip-flops at the sentiment. I’m a strong woman, literally. I’m used to calling the shots, carrying the weight, and being mentally tough on top of it all.

  With Sinclair taking the lead as the man, you think
I’d bristle. But I’m finding that with him, I react in the complete opposite way I would.

  “This is pretty,” he remarks as we walk.

  I nod. “It is. My favorite part is when we cross this one bridge, you can see kayakers on the bayou.”

  Our steps fall into rhythm as we stroll through the sand, stopping on the bridge I mentioned to watch the water below.

  By the time we make it to the beach, picking a spot way out from the entrance so we have some privacy, I’m sweating. I strip off my sundress and feel Sinclair’s gaze eating me up. It only serves to make my skin flush hotter. I do the same when he pulls off his tank, taking an extra-long moment to appreciate the sight of his bare torso.

  We set up camp, shake out our towels under the umbrella, and I reach into the cooler for a beer.

  “Want one?”

  The minute the words leave my mouth, the minute I see my hand extending him a Leinenkugel, I want to slap myself on the forehead.

  “Shit, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have asked.” I’m mortified.

  Sinclair pulls his sunglasses down his nose and eyes the color of the waves before us, squinting back warmly at me. “Frankie, you forgot. It’s fine. It’s not like it’s something we’ve discussed in detail. No offense taken on my part.”

  I quickly chuck the beer back in the cooler. “I feel so bad, that was so rude of me. And I don’t know how tempted you are …”

  I trail off, realizing there is a lot I don’t know about my friend who provides lots of benefits.

  “Pretty tempted, actually. I’m only a year sober.” He looks out to the water.

  “Only a year? From what I hear, that’s the hardest year. And you shouldn’t tack on an only. That’s a hell of an accomplishment.” For some reason, my voice is defending him to himself.

  He smiles, but it’s half-hearted. “Thanks. It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure. I would have loved to guzzle that beer you just offered. But you wouldn’t like the guy I turn into if I did. I hate that guy. Everyone I know was so ready for that guy to shape up. So … I’m trying.”