Stealing Home (Callahan Family Book 2)

by Carrie Aarons

  “I’m trying to make it to the bedroom, but Jesus, I might just take you up against the wall,” I croak, because I’m almost slipping inside her.

  “Please … please …” Hannah nearly chants.

  We’re both practically drunk on each other, and I make it up the stairs and into my bedroom in record time. I’m surprised neither of us breaks anything in my near sprint to get here.

  I don’t even bother depositing Hannah on the bed, but lift her with me as I crawl up the unmade sheets.

  “Condom?” she asks, like she’s unsure whether I’ve been asked this.

  “Of course,” I say immediately, and reach over to my bedside drawer at the same moment she spreads her thighs wider, parting for me.

  It’s agony sliding the condom on, because I’m so close to losing myself that any friction is excruciating. Ducking my head, I cover Hannah’s mouth, thrusting my tongue inside at the exact moment I slide my cock into her.

  Our groans mingle in the other’s mouth, and I think I might have just stroked out. My eyes are closed, considering I’m kissing her with the desperation of a dying man, but white spots are poking at the inside of my eyelids. The arousal that rockets down my spine, gripping me by the balls, is something out of this world. There might as well be G-force pulling me up into the atmosphere.

  My eyes connect with her mesmerizing blue irises, and we’re locked that way. Her hands comb through my hair as I slow my pace down, stroking in and out of her with both gentle, measured rhythm and an intensity that I can’t put a name to.

  We’re saying everything without uttering a word, and this feels like the most intimate, fragile moment of my life. I’ve had sex, plenty of it, but this is … holy shit. Way more. I feel like if she were to reach up and touch my cheek, I might confess that I love her.

  It feels like the world is moving in slow motion as I watch her arch against the bed, her hair tattooing itself on my sheets. I’ll remember her like this, in this exact spot, for the rest of my life. Hannah’s drowsy eyes stay on mine as she shudders, and I feel her squeeze my cock in pure bliss.

  Her orgasm sets my own off, and I sink to my elbows, pressing my nose to hers, as I spill into the condom. Our gasps mix in the breaths between us, and I’m lost in her.

  We’re silent for a while, touches and kisses the only language we need. I knew sex with Hannah would be incredible, but this is … earth-shattering. It’s like being with her solidifies everything I’ve always assumed was between us, but could never get confirmation on.

  When she begins to move, I finally break the quiet.

  “Can’t we just stay here all day? Call your boss, she’ll understand.” I hook an arm around her waist and pull her to me.

  She buries her face in my neck, inhaling and kissing at the same time. “Oh, how I wish I could do that. But the real world calls. We’re not all in the off-season.”

  “You know when people ask what super power you’d want if you could have one?” I ask.

  She nods into my neck.

  “I wish I could stop time, so we could lie here for as long as we want.” My hands rub up and down her back.

  “Just lie here?” Hannah mumbles, and I can tell she’s trying to insinuate something, but is too shy to look me in the eye and actually say it.

  I smooth the hair out of her face and shimmy down so she has to look at me.

  “If I could stay in this bed and be inside you for the rest of eternity, I would.”

  The blush that creeps across Hannah’s cheeks is pure scarlet.

  She clears her throat, though I can feel her body warming at the same time I go completely rock solid once more.

  “As enticing as that sounds, I do have to get back to work. But … thanks for lunch.” She giggles.

  “I’ll pick you up for lunch every day, I swear it.”

  We both start laughing together.

  I end up driving Hannah back to the salon in a mad rush, a peanut butter sandwich in her purse for nourishment, and my fingers laced through hers the entire drive.

  18

  Hannah

  The holidays are the gateway to a new year, and I can’t wait for this one to be over.

  It seems like Christmas snuck up on me; from working almost full time, to taking care of the girls, to getting a lot of documentation and statements ready for both the domestic violence trial and my divorce case … well, I haven’t completely been Mrs. Claus this season. Plus, if I’m being honest, this Christmas won’t be a normal one for us.

  In the past, even if my marriage was in turmoil, Shane always turned up the charm for the holidays. He was Mr. Attentive Dad, spoiling the girls with tons of presents. He’d tell me to spend whatever I wanted on decorations and food, gifts out the wazoo, and then he’d get to put on his show. I think he loved the pomp and spectacle of it. And even if I hated him, I loved him so much during that time, which felt like being a rose-colored snow globe.

  This year, I don’t have nearly as much money to dedicate to the girls’ presents. I bought as much as my singular, in-my-name-only credit card could handle, but it’s not nearly the stash they usually get. We’re also not living on our estate, with its massive living room that could fit a fifteen-foot Christmas tree.

  And then there is the fact that I don’t get to be with Noelle and Breanna on Christmas Eve. Because it’s a major holiday, the court has mandated that Shane is allowed a visitation. Since I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone on Christmas Day, I gave him the night before, even allowing the girls to sleepover. Dahlia will pick them up first thing tomorrow morning, and we’ll do presents and celebrate all of our traditions. But it’s not the same. They’re not here in my home, baking cookies and singing their favorite Christmas carols. Tonight, I won’t snuggle up against their tiny bodies and hear everyone argue about if we should watch Rudolph, or Frosty the Snowman.

  I’m sad, incredibly so, and there is nothing I can do about it. This is what life will be like now, a division of everything, especially my children. It feels like a part of my soul is being ripped out.

  So Dahlia suggested the only thing that will make me feel better; a ton of alcohol and girl-power songs.

  Currently, we’re on our second eggnog and rum, mostly rum, and belting it out to one of Miranda Lambert’s biggest hits about her abusive partner. And I’m thanking the universe that at least my sister is here with me to keep me from spiraling too hard out of control tonight.

  “His fist is big, but my gun’s bigger!” we both shout, and I feel giddy with power.

  Dahlia’s phone rings just as Miranda Lambert goes into the heart-smashing chorus.

  “It’s Shane,” she says, flashing the screen my way.

  My stomach drops. “The girls.”

  “Everything is fine, I’m sure.” She rubs my arm and presses accept.

  “Hello?” she asks, in a tone that conveys the sentiment, I hope you rot in hell.

  All I hear from the other end of the phone is shouting, and I’m instantly on alert. I’ve heard Shane scream countless times, berate me for the littlest things, and the fact that my girls are in his care? I want to rip the world apart trying to get to them right now.

  I press my ear up against Dahlia’s, just like we did when we were teenagers and coaching each other about what to say to boys on the phone. Except this situation is a far cry from those carefree, innocent days.

  “They’re crying, and whining about wanting freaking Hannah here! Said I’m not doing the whole Santa routine right! Well, if these brats can’t appreciate it, then I’ll ship them off with a nanny or something. You better come get them! I don’t know what Hannah has poisoned them against me with, but I’m not going to put up with this shit!”

  He’s rambling, and I notice that his mood has reached dire levels. This would be the point, if I was in front of him, that he’d hit me. That he’d pinch my upper arms or smash my wrist into a doorjamb or shove me into a dresser, cracking one of my ribs. My mind freezes for a moment, a side effe
ct of years of trauma, and I’m frozen to the spot.

  I come to from the spell of mind-numbing transportation back to the days of my abuse, to Dahlia whisper-screaming at me.

  “What the hell do we do, Hannah?” Her face is a mix of panic and fury.

  “If she thinks that I won’t go off on that motherfucker, Walker, if Hannah thinks she can disrespect me, her husband! I’ll blast this all over court. I’ll take everything, call it infidelity. You’ll be left penniless!”

  Shane is ranting, and I’m terrified that my girls are hearing every word.

  My blood runs ice cold. He’s talking about Walker, about infidelity. No doubt, he saw Walker that night at Hudson’s, but up until that point, it was a harmless attraction. We hadn’t even gone on a date. There is no way he could know about us seeing each other, spending time together over the last few weeks.

  Because … well, that’s what we’ve been doing. We’ve had two more dates, that ended with us getting half naked in the back of his pickup truck like horny teens. But when you have two little kids and a sister in your small condo, you can’t exactly bring a man home for a sleepover. The only other time I’ve seen him, aside from those two dates, is when he picked me up from the salon again for lunch. Which, inevitably, ended up with us in his bed just like the first lunch, and me rushing back to work scarfing down a peanut butter sandwich.

  Aside from the few times we’ve seen each other, we talk every day. He’s always messaging me, asking how work is going, and even sent flowers to the house, a beautiful bouquet of seasonal poinsettias, for no reason last week.

  We’re getting closer, but it’s more than that. During that initial lunch at his house, when we slept together for the first time, it felt like a shift on a cosmic level. Something inside me changed cellularly, like my central nervous system is making room for Walker in my veins. I never expected this, to fall so quickly for someone else. Maybe this is my MO, and that scares me. But I can’t help it. No matter how rational I tell myself to be, I think I’m falling in love with Walker Callahan and there is nothing I can do to stop it. It feels insane, but the moment I opened my eyes up to it, it’s as if the world said, duh, here is your person.

  And apparently, someone who is in Shane’s ear has taken notice.

  If he becomes vindictive over this, it could go very poorly for me. I’ve seen my husband in a blind rage of jealousy before, when he thought I was cheating on him in some fit of irrationality. I ended up with a bruise the size of Texas on my hip that time.

  This time, it could cost me custody of my girls. I’ve seen Shane spin things less important into mountains in the blink of an eye, and I am shaking in my boots.

  Dahlia seems to take matters into her own hands. She cuts the man unraveling on the other end of the phone off, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone try to silence Shane.

  “Enough, Shane. I’m coming to get them.” And then hangs up.

  She shakes my shoulders, and I have to swallow back bile to focus on her voice.

  “Call your lawyer, now,” Dahlia instructs me. “I’m going to get them. We’ll be back in no less than thirty minutes. If I’m not, call the cops. But don’t worry, I’m going to protect them. I’d trade my life for theirs.”

  I have never been more grateful to have such a dedicated sister than in this moment.

  “Thank you, D,” I choke out, trying to keep the hurricane of emotions swirling inside me at bay.

  My sister is out the door in two minutes flat, and I’m left standing in my temporary living arrangements, feeling utterly helpless. I hate that I can’t go get them myself. I hate that I have to send them off into harm’s way, each time wondering if this will be the end result.

  I know I need to make moves, to get things in motion. But before I call my lawyer, both my divorce attorney and Laurel at the prosecutor’s office, I need to protect myself further.

  I pull up a text message with Walker’s name and begin to type, not letting myself think before I hit send.

  Hannah: Shane is catching on to us seeing each other. I’m not sure if you’ve told anyone, but please keep this private. I think we should cool down a little, put the brakes on. I have my girls to think about, and I don’t want anyone knowing any more about my personal life. I like you, I do, but if we’re going to continue seeing each other, it needs to be kept under wraps. As it is, I’m hesitant to even pursue it. I have my children’s future to consider, and this situation could get dangerous. I hope you understand.

  19

  Walker

  My body might be in a suit, at this stuffy New Year’s Eve ball, but my mind is still back on that text message.

  Hannah’s words were the last I thing I read on Christmas Eve, when I’d been about to get in my car and drive over to surprise her because I knew she was sad about the girls being away for the night. Spending a major holiday together might be a big step, but I made it known how deeply I care for her, and I thought a quiet December twenty-fourth, even if her sister were there, would be special.

  When I received her wishes, that we should keep things private and even slow down, I was confused to say the least. And she hasn’t been much more detailed since.

  In the week between Christmas and New Year’s, or tonight, Hannah and I have barely communicated. Yes, we’ve messaged, maybe spoken on the phone a couple times, but they’ve been all surface level. She’s shutting me out, I can feel it. I don’t want to push her, because she’s been through something like that before and I always want to be respectful, but I feel it all slipping away.

  And now, I’m spending the last night of the year, and the first hours of the new one, without the woman I’m in love with. Not that she knows that, or how long I’ve actually been falling, but not talking to her or being with her at midnight feels like the wrong decision. It feels like something I’ll regret not taking no for an answer on.

  “You just completely ignored the governor,” my father snaps at me, and my mother looks at me like I’m crazy.

  I don’t know why I agreed to attend this ball, but I guess I thought it might cheer me up. A few other players are in attendance, and my father kind of talked me into it. Plus, Sinclair decided to come, and I haven’t seen my brother since that fight we had before I left his house with puke and pool water all over my shoes.

  I blink, bringing my parents into focus. “Sorry, I just … I think the late hour is getting to me.”

  Sinclair snorts beside me. “The late hour? It’s like, ten thirty. More like the third scotch you just downed.”

  The glare I send him could melt metal. “You’re one to talk.”

  “But I’m a fun drunk, where you just seem to be sinking deeper into your ethical dilemmas,” my brother cracks.

  “Stop it, you two. This is supposed to be a fun family night,” Mom scolds us, and I have to refrain from rolling my eyes.

  My mother is a saint for putting up with the three men in her life, but her toxic positivity can sometimes be just that. She chooses to brush negativity under the rug instead of addressing it, thinking that by trying a new exercise or cooking a new dish or activity, that will make sadness go away. She’s done a lot for us, but Mom has always had the mentality that people with money possess: we don’t show vulnerability or weakness, it’s just best to put on the sheen of happiness.

  “Walker, you need to get your head on straight. A lot of these people came here to see what the future of the organization looks like.”

  “And what does it look like, Dad?” I snap, because I’m tired of him trying to push this on me. “I’m a ballplayer. I have years left on my contract. Was a World Series not enough for you last year?”

  Daniel Callahan’s face becomes hard as stone. “Keep your voice down. And don’t be so ridiculous, Walker. Who paid for all of those private lessons and camps? Supported your dream of being a player instead of coming to work in the family business? Me. And it’s expected that you’ll play and then fulfill your duty. Just as so many other Call
ahans have.”

  I bite my tongue so hard I think I taste blood. I don’t want to get into this here, and I’m tired of talking in circles about it. My old man thinks I’m going to put on a suit and tie after I hang up my cleats, when all I want to do is be free to explore anything besides baseball. I love my sport, it’s my first and only focus and passion most days. But I envision some day in the future when I can freely explore other things that might fulfill me. Where I don’t have to be a goddamn Callahan or just follow what Daddy wants.

  Mom puts a hand on my father’s arm, probably because she can feel the tempers rising between us, and tries to gently pull him across the dance floor. “Danny, I see the Millers over there. Remember, you were talking about sponsorships opportunities with them? Let’s go say hi.”

  She turns back and nods as they leave our familial circle, and I thank her silently. One good thing about Mom is that she’s always been good at backing Dad off us when she senses we’re at our breaking point.

  “Well, this is fun.” Sinclair smirks into his beer.

  I harumph, finishing off the dregs of my drink.

  “You haven’t been around as much. At least, you’re not bugging me about my life choices as much,” Sinclair remarks, and I think I notice a new tattoo dotting the knuckles on his left hand.

  I shrug. “Doesn’t seem you want me around too much.”

  “Never said that. Sometimes I like when my big brother, the golden child, comes around and shoves his morally correct choices in my face.” Sin’s grin is sarcastic and shit-eating. “Though I never expected to see you be the one to shirk the responsibilities Dad was trying to thrust upon his sons.”

  “Well, Sin, who is supposed to take all of his criticism and expectations after you decided you wouldn’t take any?” I snap again.