Stealing Home (Callahan Family Book 2)

by Carrie Aarons

  An ominous feeling fills my chest. That one you get before you know something is about to go terribly wrong. But I’ve already walked through about four circles of hell, so what’s another one?

  Walker looks up, those blue eyes landing on me the minute I walk out my front door. Slowly, he opens his truck door, and we meet in the middle of my front sidewalk.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, like my world isn’t also falling apart.

  He looks more tired and haggard than I’ve ever seen him, his cheeks sunken in and pale.

  “My brother got out of surgery about four hours ago to stop some bleeding in his brain. He’s awake now, but groggy. I couldn’t leave until he was awake.”

  “Of course,” I say, and notice that neither of us has reached out to take hold of the other.

  “What happened?” Walker asks, his eyes weary, but I know he sincerely wants to know.

  “Shane showed up yesterday, with the girls in tow. At first he said he wanted to get back together, and I told him to leave. He got angry, said a bunch of things in front of the girls. Noelle tried to call nine-one-one because she was scared. Shane ripped the phone out of her hands, threw it across the room. It hit Breanna, she needed stitches and a CT. Both of the girls are shaken and scared. I don’t … it’s been awful.”

  Walker’s hands flex into fists. “Jesus Christ.”

  “He was taken into police custody, and I filed an emergency petition to get the girls under my restraining order. They are now, so he won’t have access to them.” The words feel hollow coming out of my mouth.

  The man I’ve fallen in love with, the usually charming, enigmatic, caring good guy just looks defeated.

  “You get why I couldn’t leave, right? Why I couldn’t be here, even if I wanted to?” he asks, but it sounds more like an accusation.

  I gulp, my throat burning with some emotion I can’t put my finger on. “Uh-huh.”

  I can’t even elaborate, because part of me doesn’t understand. Even more than the night in the stadium parking lot, I needed him last night. When the girls are hurt, or involved, it feels like my world is falling apart. He said I could count on him, and then he didn’t show up. I finally opened myself up to trusting him, another man, after years of being a victim. That’s a big deal. And now Walker is pulling that support back, withholding it.

  “I care about you, I do. But I’ve been neglecting my family. I haven’t spoken to my brother in a month, and that led to him getting behind the wheel drunk. He could have died, and I wasn’t even there. I haven’t been there.”

  “Your brother’s decisions are not your fault, Walker. He’s a grown man. I know you feel responsible, like you’re going to be head of the Callahans someday, but—”

  The look Walker gives me is so sharp that I cease talking. He’s pissed off, upset, and apparently has decided he’ll take it out on me. Tiny cracks begin to splinter in my chest, and I feel the inevitable break coming.

  “I just … this is my family, Hannah. They need me, and I wasn’t there for them. How am I supposed to commit to being there for you and your daughters if I can’t even be that for my own flesh and blood? I think we should just spend some time apart right now. I have the season, and I need to be there for my brother.”

  He can’t even look at me, and I feel like every piece of my heart is shattering. “You want to end this?”

  My mind spins, and out of everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, this is the most shocking blow. It’s the one I never saw coming. As horrific as what Shane did was, and how awful seeing my daughter in the hospital was, I could almost feel something with my soon-to-be ex-husband coming to a head. I expected my relationship with Walker to continue growing, to blossom immensely after all the darkness with the trial was out of the way.

  I am in love with him, and he’s walking away.

  Walker shrugs, almost nonchalantly, and he still can’t look at me. “We both have a lot on our plates right now. This only complicates things. I think it’s better for both of us if—”

  “Don’t act like you know what’s best for me. Two weeks ago you swore that what was best for me was you.” I hear my tone, its icy nature.

  “I have to take care of the people most important to me.” His eyes finally connect with mine, and they’re shuttered.

  He’s not letting me in. Not anymore. I feel like I could double over and heave on the pavement.

  Instead, my voice comes out small. “And clearly, we’re not important to you. I’m not important to you.”

  Walker’s expression is full of desperation and confusion. But all he says is, “I can’t.”

  So I turn and let my leaden feet take me back into the condo. I don’t want to hear any more about how he can’t love me, or why he won’t be my rock any longer. Maybe he stands there and watches me go. Maybe there is a sense of relief on his face. I’ll never know, because I don’t look back.

  I should have learned my lesson by now, that no one is going to help me stand on my own two feet. No one is going to let me lean on them, and no man is going to come to my rescue.

  My broken heart has been mangled for the last time. After this, it’s closing up shop.

  I swear right then to never let another man in again.

  30

  Walker

  My eyes go directly to the batter, to his stance, and I feel the tingle in the air.

  Everyone on the field crouches into position, practically tasting the last out of the game. We’re in the bottom of the ninth in New York, an inner-division game that has playoff implications, even this early in the season. It’s only June, but as the reigning World Series champs, there is a target on our backs.

  The first couple months of the season have gone by in a flash, probably because my head feels like it’s in outer space most days. But our record is good, and the team if gelling nicely, if not for missing some of the players who retired or were traded after we won the championship.

  New York is predicted to be one of the best teams in the league this year, but we won the first two of this three-game series, and we’re one out away from sweeping it. My body is running on pure adrenaline at this point, as it usually is after back-to-back-to-back road games.

  The batter bears down, after our closing pitcher confirms his pitch to our catcher with a head shake, and I feel the fastball coming before I see it leave our pitcher’s glove. That’s what baseball has become for me over the years, instinct over tangible evidence.

  It whizzes toward home plate, the angle on it too good for the batter not to swing. He does, and with a crack, I see it go flying.

  The ball is driven in a line straight for me, and it’s one of those tricky bat plays where it could zoom right past my ear if I wasn’t a more experienced shortstop. But my reflexes are honed from years of playing and drills, preparing for this exact moment. I shoot out, my glove extended, and it’s like the world comes to a halt. The red stitches on the white ball tumble in slow motion, and my fingers tingle with anticipation.

  Force, hard and stinging, hits my glove as I try to hang onto the ball and make the last out. I topple over my feet, rolling into a backward roll awkwardly on the infield. But when I finally come to a sitting stop, I hold my glove up, the baseball securely in it.

  A roar goes up from the crowd, some of it celebratory but most of it pissed off and frustrated. After all, we’re in New York territory. It’s close enough that there are Packton fans here, but the majority of the people in the stands wish we’d have lost. Which is why we don’t stay on the field long, and huddle together as we head for the dugout.

  “Good game, dude.” Jimenez high fives me. “That catch was epic! And the triple in the fourth? Crucial for us, bro.”

  “Thanks, man. You weren’t so shabby yourself.” I give him a congratulatory nod. “A homer in the eighth? You’re batting average is pretty damn good.”

  “Just trying to set records, my brother.” He flexes a bicep.

  The team shakes hand
s with New York, and then heads for the visitor locker room. We shower, a lot of whoops and big egos all in the same space. Coach gives us a wrap up pep talk, since we swept this series, and then tells us to go enjoy ourselves, albeit responsibly.

  “You staying here for the night? A couple of guys were going to go to the cigar bar down the street,” Clark offers as we dress in our suits and ties after the showers.

  I shake my head. “Have to get back for one of Sin’s meetings.”

  I never stay on the road anymore if I don’t have to. Since the drive is only about three hours home to Packton, I drive myself, leaving the team to their spoils and celebrations in the Big Apple.

  “You’ve got a savior complex, that’s for sure.” Clark snorts under his breath.

  My temper spikes, and I want to get defensive, but I’m too tired to argue. None of these players understand the pressure on me. Yes, they’re in the same boat when it comes to expectations about the game and their conduct, the way they handle fame. But they just get to worry about their playing careers. I have the freaking owner, who just happens to be my father, on my back about my next chapter, and I’m not even halfway through my first one.

  Plus, it’s been three months since Sinclair’s accident, and I still don’t feel like my head is on straight. My brother has had some lingering problem from the accident; an infection when his ribs didn’t heal correctly, and his stubbornness about seeking treatment for his alcoholism. I’ve had to be on him for weeks now, but my conscience won’t allow me to do anything else. My inattentiveness is what landed us in this situation, and I won’t let myself slip again.

  It’s also been three months since I’ve seen Hannah, or the girls. After what happened with Shane the night of Sinclair’s accident, he was sent to jail for twenty-something days for violating the restraining order. More charges were added to his case, and his lawyers advised him to end up taking the deal the prosecutor originally offered.

  Therefore, I never had to testify at the trial, because there wasn’t one. On one hand, I was glad Hannah didn’t have to go through that. Even from a distance, I’d heard from Colleen that she was relieved. But it would have been my first opportunity to see her.

  Yes, I’m the one who ended it. And I hate myself for it every single day. But with how well my brother is doing, I can’t say it wasn’t for a good reason. The trial would have been my excuse to assess how she’s doing, to possibly talk to her. To apologize.

  My date for testifying would have been a few weeks after that fucking horrible night, and I thought that maybe I could … I don’t know. Talk to Hannah, tell her how much of an idiot I was. Tell her how badly I fucking miss her, and that my heart is broken beyond repair.

  But the date never came. And I chickened out. It’s easier to keep my distance, to convince myself that this is what is best for both of us. Inside, I’m dying, a rotting mess of heartbreak and patheticness.

  What I said to Hannah was what I feel, though. How am I supposed to take care of her, and her daughters, if I can’t even get a handle on my own family? There is so much more delicacy with her and the girls, so much more to lose. I’ve never been one to shy away from risk or danger, but something snapped that night I saw Sinclair in a coma.

  And I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.

  I drive home from the game in the shroud of a dark night, at least getting some solitude on the empty roads with nothing but my windows down and the radio on. Tomorrow it’s back to the grind; my day starts with an Al-Anon meeting with my mom, brother, and father. We’ve been attending them together, trying to be there for Sinclair.

  Other than that, I’ve been bending to my father’s will. Board meetings, corporate events, sponsorship opportunities; if there is a place for me at a conference room table, you better believe Daniel Callahan is adding me to the list. And I haven’t exactly been telling him no. What else am I supposed to do?

  I shucked duty and responsibility once, tried to pass off the buck and take my own happiness into account. That almost ended with my brother dying.

  So it’s back to the status quo of things. I would be the best damn Callahan I could be.

  Even if I have to give up everything I want to do so.

  31

  Hannah

  “To bastards being in jail!”

  Dahlia holds up her wineglass, clinking it to ours.

  “To divorces being almost finalized!” Colleen looks at me with glee.

  I clink my glass, but shake my head with humor on my tongue. “Let’s not jinx this, please! And these are kind of morbid things to celebrate, no? The end of my marriage, and my husband in jail? Seems a bit tacky to party about those outcomes.”

  My sister shrugs. “You’ve been through hell and back, I think that should be fucking written up on billboards and shouted from the rooftops.”

  I take a sip of my Cabernet. “Hmm, maybe you’re right. It doesn’t quite feel like the chains are off, but they are definitely unlocked.”

  The three of us sit on the living room carpet of my condo, which Colleen is still helping to foot the bill for, so technically I guess it’s her rental. That won’t be for long, though, if everything goes off without a hitch.

  It does feel strange, celebrating that my soon-to-be ex-husband is sitting in a prison right now. But I can’t feel anything but relief or something close to contentment about it. For close to six years, Shane Giraldi abused me. He hit me, slapped me, pinched my skin, and left welts. He broke fingers, destroyed my self-esteem, and made love a toxic thing. And now, finally, he’s getting the karma he deserves.

  Shane originally got twenty-six days in jail for violating the restraining order I initially filed for, and for harming one of our children. Breanna is a minor, and charges of child battery and child endangerment were added to the criminal trial, along with the original domestic violence charges. With all of those odds stacked against him, a guilty verdict is pretty much insurmountable. Or at least Laurel, the prosecutor, assumes that because Shane’s lawyers ended up taking the plea deal she offered.

  Six months in jail, of which he’s about three months into, two years’ probation, and a fifty-two week batterer’s program. All in all, it’s not the justice someone should get for years of tearing another person down, but it’s more than I ever assumed he’d get. And because he plead guilty, with the charges against him for harming Breanna, it helps my divorce case.

  Karla all but put her foot down for sole physical and legal custody, and Shane’s divorce attorney had no choice but to capitulate. That doesn’t mean Shane can’t see the girls in the future, but with him in jail, it means I have full authority to make decisions on their behalf without consulting him. He has almost no say in how they are raised, where we could go, and has to be granted permission to see them. Which will be rather hard considering we still have the restraining order against him for all three of us, for at least another year.

  As for the rest of the divorce, Karla is still ironing out the details of the monetary settlement. We’ll be selling the house, which means I’ll get half of whatever it goes for, and I’m hoping that my portion is in the high hundreds of thousands. I know what remodeling I put into that house, and what it’s worth, so it should pay for college funds for the girls and a modest house for us after this is all over. Other than that, Karla thinks she can get me a lump sum settlement. I’ve opted not to ask Shane for child support; the less contact I have with him, the better. If we can take our lump sum, plus whatever I make while working full time, and never see him again? I’ll be on cloud nine.

  It’s the first break, the first time I’ve been able to catch what feels like a full breath in more than half a year.

  So Dahlia suggested a girl’s night. Except when you’re a single mom, that means bottles of wine in your living room after your kids go to bed.

  “I’m going to get another bottle of wine.” Dahlia shoots up, leaving Colleen and me alone.

  “Once the divorce is final, which could take months o
r even a year, I’m going to pay you back for all of this.” I gesture to the condo.

  She lays a hand on my wrist. “Don’t you dare. It’s not even close to what I wanted to help with. I feel like I failed you last year, Hannah. I knew, I saw the bruises, and yet my job and who Shane was to me as a player taped my mouth shut. I feel awful for it.”

  The pain in her eyes makes me sad. “You couldn’t help someone who didn’t ask for it. And I didn’t. Not until it was almost too late.”

  “But you’re here now. And I’d help a thousand times over, so please, you owe me nothing.”

  I have to blink back tears, because before that night in the parking lot, I essentially shut this woman out. I didn’t want her to see the abuse I was going through, so it was easier to nip our friendship in the bud before it even blossomed. And still, she jumped into action the moment I needed rescuing.

  “I’m just glad to be standing on my own two feet … well, almost.” I smile sheepishly.

  “You’re going back to school next month, right?” she asks, sipping the last dregs of wine out of her plastic cup.

  I bob my head up and down. “Yes, have all of my classes lined up, and then Ginny will be supervising my licensing hours. I’m anxious, but so excited.”

  “Well, you can practice on me anytime you want.” Colleen grins.

  “Don’t tempt me. I might experiment right now, and we’re a few glasses down.” My smirk is wry.

  The truth is, I’m so excited about going back to cosmetology school. Since I let my license expire, I have to do some continuing education before I retake my exam and get relicensed. But, by the beginning of next year, I’ll be able to have my own chair again.

  Yes, the workload of courses plus my existing shifts at the salon, plus taking on the girls full time as the only parent in their life … it’s going to be a lot. But we’ll get through that season, just as we have every other one. My only worry is that Dahlia will have to leave us soon. The worst with Shane and the trials is over, hopefully, and I know she has a life to get back to. She can’t live with us forever, no matter how much I might want that.