Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One

by Aarons, Carrie

  Her body is liquid sin, flowing with its petite curves and exposed skin, that if I reached out and touched, would most likely slide like warm butter under my fingertips. Endless waves of that amber hair fall down over her shoulders and back, and it’s pinned off her face with a sparkling hair piece. Those brilliant whiskey eyes are rimmed with dark shadow, making her look more mysterious and sensual than she usually does.

  “Ms. Callahan, you look stunning.” Clark’s eye spark with appreciation as he takes her hand and kisses it.

  If I did that, I’d look like a creep hitting on the female general manager. But he does it and she giggles like it’s the most charming thing that’s ever happened to her.

  “Save it for the auction, Clark. I have a feeling you’re going to make the team a lot of money tonight.” She winks, the sweep of her lash on her pink cheek catching my attention.

  “Don’t I already make y’all money with my superior hands?” His Texas twang comes out.

  The way he’s flirting with her is shameless, and jealousy bubbles inside me.

  “You’re right, you’ve been playing really well. Keep it up.” Colleen grins at him.

  “Is Aunt Barb drunk as a skunk yet?” Walker asks his cousin.

  Colleen chuckles. “Not yet, but I could see her spending a large sum of Uncle Dunne’s money on some date nights with a few players.”

  “Hopefully not me.” I grunt.

  Walker hooks a thumb at me. “Someone is a little grumpy. What’s wrong, big guy, someone piss in your whiskey?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s scotch, and no. The free drinks are the only reason I’m here.”

  “Well, that and your affinity for helping repair the Pistons’ reputation,” Colleen teases me, her eyes dancing with sarcasm and amusement.

  That makes me crack a smile. “Oh, what I wouldn’t do to remove the stain from this team.”

  Walker gets distracted by something across the room and smacks Clark on the pec until he turns to look. “If you’ll excuse us …”

  The two of them make off without further explanation, and I’m left standing there with a half-hard dick I’m trying to discreetly readjust in my dress pants, and Colleen.

  “Thank you for coming tonight, I know it’s not your first choice. This is a big event for our season ticket holders, and the team being here is a great draw.” She nods courteously at me.

  I tip my head slightly to acknowledge her appreciation before sipping my drink. “I’m not such a surly bastard that I wouldn’t show up for a team event. I know how this world works, I play along.”

  “You’ve been a great source of steadiness for the team this season, I think that should be praised.” Colleen’s lips are blood red from her makeup, and it’s distracting.

  The past few weeks have been uneventful, which is just how I like it. We play games; we win most and lose others. The media still picks at the scandal in most postgame interviews, but a lot of the infamy has died down, and I can avoid it most days.

  Our team is gelling a bit better, and I’ve grown closer to Walker, and Clark. We often grab beers after road games, or play cards on our nights off in Packton. Otherwise, I spend most of my time alone. When we play in San Francisco, I drive up and stay with Ronnie and Bryant for the night, which eases my soul a bit.

  But I’ve always been a loner. When you grow up without a family, without any roots, it’s hard to form attachments even when you live in a place for a long while. I have no one to celebrate milestones or holidays with, and I’ve generally been okay with that. Though watching the Callahans work together and spend so much time around family—a sight that’s unavoidable if you’re a Pistons team member—leaves a hollow sort of ache in my chest.

  Especially when I watch Colleen. She has an intimate closeness with almost every single person who works in the stadium. From her blood relatives to the janitorial staff who cleans out our locker room, the general manager knows everyone on a first name basis. She’s here from the time I arrive on practice and game days, and I typically see her car in the parking lot when I’m leaving.

  It’s difficult to ignore her presence, to turn a blind eye to the way she warms up a room every time she walks into it. Colleen Callahan is a consummate professional, but her easy likability and top-notch listening skills draw people in and make them feel comfortable.

  I swore to myself I’d hate any Callahan on sight, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to not only not hate her, but not fall a little bit under her spell.

  “So, you’re saying you’re going to bid on me?” My voice sounds foreign with its slight hint of charm.

  Colleen looks as shocked as I feel, though an adorable smile curls her full lips up. “Well, Mr. Swindell, I don’t bid. That would be a conflict of interest.”

  Something about the way Clark was making eyes at her got under my skin, and I can’t help the flirty nature that’s coming out of me. It’s been a long time since I spoke to a woman in any sort of pursuing nature, and maybe it’s the scotch. Maybe it’s her dress, or the way that dark makeup is doing something to my insides. Or maybe I’m just fed up with watching this enigmatic woman walk around and not being able to do anything about how she unconsciously catches my attention.

  I shrug, raising my eyebrow at her. “Sometimes conflicts can be a good thing. You know … if you’re interested.”

  Aliens must have taken over my body, or maybe it’s the feel of the room tonight, but we’re about to spark a fire. I feel it, low in my gut, the kindling of the embers.

  “Again, I don’t bid. But …” Colleen looks around, biting her lip in a way that makes my balls ache. “If I did, I might open my checkbook for a night out with you.”

  There is a squeak on the end of her words, as if she surprised even herself with how saucy she’s being. In the grand scheme of male-female courting rituals, dating, hookups, whatever you want to call it … what we’re doing is so PG that it can barely even be considered flirting. But at the same time, there is an X-rated undertone.

  “I would have liked to see that.” My smile hides a hint of the devil in it.

  Someone calls her name from across the room, and she turns her head slightly, acknowledging whoever it is. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go rub elbows. General manager duties call.”

  “Of course. Have a good rest of your night, Colleen.”

  She gives me a shy smile before turning to walk across the room.

  And that’s when I see the back of the dress. I almost shove a fist in my mouth to keep the low growl from coming out of my throat.

  Her dress ties at the nape of her neck, and then is completely open until it sweeps dangerously over her tailbone. The entirety of her back is exposed, smooth, golden brown skin on display for all to see. I want to run my hands over all of that velvet and hear her intake of breath as they move to disappear under the black material of her dress.

  Shit, I think I might be in trouble.

  11

  Colleen

  The ticker on the bottom right-hand corner of the screen alerts viewers to just how much time there is until my father’s interview debuts.

  It’s the only thing that has been covered on the baseball scene, much the sports scene, in the last two weeks since it was announced. I decide to stay in my office, or his former office, to watch it rather than going home.

  I don’t know why, as its masochistic, but it feels like the only way to watch it. I’ve been on edge for days, accidentally dropping things or trailing off in the middle of sentences. I’m not an aloof person, I have clear-cut communication skills and am usually extremely attentive to my staff and the coaches. But this is fraying my nerves, the waiting, and a part of me is relieved that it is finally here despite whatever he’s going to say.

  The office is slowly becoming my own. About three weeks ago, one of our staff members came in and packaged up all of my father’s belongings and took them out while I was in a meeting. I’d come back to a bare office and was greeted by the knock
of our usual interior designer an hour later. Since then, she’s had my office repainted a warm white, brought in a bunch of beautiful white flowering plants, added touches of Pistons red to accent, and had my favorite family photos framed to put on the credenza. I transformed the bar into a cart with flavored fruit waters in beautiful pitchers, and some of my favorite chocolates and cookies, rather than the chauvinistic scotch lineup like something out of Mad Men.

  It’s more my space now, but as I watch the TV, the sportscaster teeing up for the interview, I can’t help but feel like an intruder in here.

  My nails are chewed down to the quick, a gross habit I’ve tried quitting a billion times but can’t, and I try to force my mind in another direction. Something outside of this job, and it lands right on last weekend, when I felt my heart flutter for reasons it hadn’t in quite some time.

  Hayes Swindell had … flirted with me. At first, I wasn’t sure, because even thinking that sounded crazy in my head. But then he said it twice, how he’d basically want me to bid on him, and a whole swarm of butterflies had flapped through my stomach. Imagine that, a date with Hayes?

  For me, a date with anyone would be out of the ordinary. Like I said before, I don’t date and have barely held a relationship in my adult life. But a date with one of the most dashing men I’ve ever met? That made my throat run drier than that summer vacation I spent in Arizona with my father when I was ten.

  Hayes sported that just-rolled-out-of-bed look even when he was all dressed up in a tuxedo, which was a deadly combination. It’s got to be the hair, which Uncle Daniel has complained about twice now since he asked me to address it. But Hayes clearly won’t cut it, and I don’t have the heart to rob millions of women from looking at those dirty blond locks. There is something so Roman soldier about his whole appearance, like he’s an extra on the set of 300.

  I’m pretty sure he was throwing out some signs at the bachelor auction, and while I know it’s off-limits to even entertain that with one of my players, I couldn’t help it. For a split second, I was just a normal woman being hit on by a very gorgeous man, and I liked it.

  And then there was the actual act of watching him up on that stage. I thought he would act reserved and somewhat grumpy at being paraded around, but the man put on a damn show. Strutting around the small elevated podium as the announcer rattled off his stats, his accomplishments in the league. He threw winks and smirks at the women raising their paddles, trying to win him. In the end, he’d gone to the wife of one of our season ticket holders, a nice old woman who would probably talk his ear off about why he should make pretty grandbabies with one of her granddaughters.

  There is no denying he’s been on my mind ever since that interaction, which feels wrong in such a forbidden, giddy way. But that’s all it can be; one suggestive interaction at an event that we can both claim had too much free alcohol. This can go no further than that, despite the fact that I walked the long way to my office this morning simply to see Hayes practicing in the batting cages.

  My father’s voice comes over the speakers of the flat screen, and I’m captivated.

  Over the next hour, I sit in suspended shock and awe as I watch my father describe his crimes. The inner workings of the scheme. How he duped and manipulated players to coming to the Pistons, paid people off, bribed some, and blackmailed others. He’s leaving nothing off the table, and I wonder idly how much he’s getting paid for this interview.

  And then he gets to his family. Namely, me. Words like inexperienced, unintelligent, not equipped, and too myopic come out of his mouth.

  But the worst thing he says? That the Pistons never should have given me this job.

  I almost bend over and heave into the garbage can under my desk during that one.

  I have to get out of here. Staying in the office for this was the wrong decision, because I suddenly feel like I’m coming down with the flu. My whole body is going hot and cold, I’m wracked with shivers and chills, it feels like I can’t breathe.

  Making a mad dash for it, I pray to heaven above that I don’t bump into anyone who decided to work late or the odd stadium crew who sometimes mill around.

  But I’m almost to my car when I feel the tears coming on. Hot and violent, burning my ducts, I know they won’t wait to come out. I’m about to unravel on the spot, and I need to find somewhere quickly.

  I wait until I make it to a back room of the trainer’s offices, where players typically have their massage therapy. No one is in here now. Players and staff left the stadium nearly an hour ago, and I duck inside before the tears can start sliding.

  Once I’m there, in the dark office with its glass windows looking out onto the main room, I sag against the wall and let the sobs wrack me. They come in violent, sharp wails that I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle. As I cry, it feels like a tension is easing inside, but also like a tidal wave is drowning me.

  If I let myself listen to all the doubts and naysayers about me being able to do this job, I’d never get out of bed. Usually, I can move past it, keep my head on straight and advance the initiatives I’ve been working hard on. But to hear your own father, who was grooming you for this job in the first place, say that you should never have been hired? For him to say that I am just a spoiled rich girl who’s been handed this position?

  God, he really is vile. We weren’t getting along before the scandal went down, and I’d even told him at one point that I would never run the team the way he did. He’d been furious, even throwing a crystal paperweight in my general direction. Things must have been unraveling even then, for him to lose his temper so quickly with me. Dad would have known, since the allegations came out a week later, that he was about to be burned.

  One week before the most famous sports news organization outed his dealings in a full investigative piece, I’d stopped speaking to my father. And haven’t said one word to him since. I wouldn’t read his letters, did not attend his trial, and have not been to visit him in prison. As far as I’m concerned, that man is out of my life.

  Not only was he volatile with me, but he has no remorse for what he did. He made no apologies to the team, the people who have worked for our family for years, or to his closest relatives. Including me.

  This is clearly his payback, he’s trying to teach me a lesson through the media. By making a public statement about his own daughter’s ability to lead, he was all but dooming my career as general manager. Jimmy Callahan is a criminal and a liar, but his track record with World Series championships still speaks for itself. Sure, there will be people who think he’s a phony and still just trying to get in front of the cameras because he has nothing better to do in jail. But there would be more who took that grain of sand he planted in their mind and let it unfurl into an entire beach. As if it isn’t hard enough doing my job now, there would be even more scrutiny.

  And this is my father, I don’t think I have to go into huge detail about how emotionally scarring a parent speaking out against you is. When you have a parent who trashes you to other people, no matter if it’s on a grand scale or to your best friend’s mother, it leaves a tiny cut. I should know, I’ve been sustaining those cuts my entire life. Some are scars now, having healed over from one too many verbal assaults on my character or ability. That’s what happened when the person who was supposed to love you most in this world constantly chose the side against you, put you down, made sure you thought you’d never be enough.

  You know what they say about death by a thousand cuts …

  The door to the room I’m in creaks, and the handle turns with a metallic click before its pushed open. I shoot straight up, swiping at my cheeks even though the damage of swollen redness has to be done.

  My sudden movement catches the entrant’s eye, because they flick the light on, and then I’m standing in the same space as Hayes.

  “Jesus, I didn’t know anyone was in here!” He practically jumps, clearly surprised by my presence.

  “What are you doing?” My voice cuts the air, ho
stile and thick with emotion.

  “I left my gym bag by accident when I came down to get massaged after practice.” He eyes me skeptically. “What are you doing in here?”

  I flash my gaze to the bag that’s sitting on the table. “Well, get it.”

  Hayes frowns, stepping toward me. “Colleen, are you—”

  I can’t handle the look of pity in his eyes. “Don’t. As if I need to give you one more reason to view me as weak and ineffective.”

  I’m a wounded animal, biting back against the hand that’s trying to feed me.

  His back goes ramrod straight, and I can feel the cool temper start to bubble off him.

  “This have anything to do with the bullshit interview your father just did? It’s not that big of a deal. Everyone knows your father is a piece of shit. You’ve been weathering his storm.” He shrugs as if the ugly words my own parent just spoke about me mean nothing.

  “It’s a big deal to me. I’ve been actively trying to prove everyone wrong, keep it together, and now this will bring even more disdain to this … you know what, I don’t even know why I’m explaining this to you. You’re one of our biggest enemies in this.”

  My thoughts aren’t completely rational right now, and everything coming out of my mouth is unprofessional, but I can’t stop. My emotions are drowning me, and if I’m not careful, I might just cry in front of this man. One who already thinks I’m weak.

  “Your family cheated the system, that’s what everyone thinks,” he says, as if every Callahan who has ever worked for this ball team is corrupt.

  My blood boils, and I suddenly feel like picking up one of the lotion bottles on the counter next to me and hurling it at his head.

  “You don’t think I wear a scarlet letter of shame every single day because of who my father is? I fucking hate that vile human being. He’s tarnished everything I love about this game, taken it and twisted it into a nightmare. I love this team, I love this sport. Of course, I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed, I can barely look at myself in the mirror and I’m not even the one who did those things. But his blood runs in my veins, and so I bear the weight of his mistakes as well. But that does not mean I, or any number of my family members, are anything like him.”