Which is why I’ve been giving my game everything I’ve got. Bryant was right when he reprimanded me for phoning it in. Even though I despise that I’m playing for the Pistons this season, the team is actually winning a decent number of games. We’re top of the division, and if we can sustain some of this winning streak, we could be in a good position for the number one playoff seed. If this is the year I get another chance at a World Series title, then no matter who I’m playing for or how much I’d like to leave Packton after my contract is up, I’m damn well taking my shot at it.
My keys dangle in my hands as I walk through the parking lot, only a couple of cars dotting the massive expanse that wraps around the stadium. It’s strange, seeing a ballpark at this time of day, so quiet and humbled. Normally, these coliseums of sport are alive with energy, music, physical exertion, and tons of noise from fans. Hours after practice or games are done are some of my favorite times to admire the stadiums I’ve played in, the sleeping giants just awaiting their next competition.
The noises come before I see what’s going on, the sound of a scuffle and protest of uttered no’s. I hear a cackle, a scrape, and then a yelp. And as I turn the corner, I can see the three of them, illuminated under one of the lamp lights in the parking lot.
Two men, with their hands on a woman … and it takes my brain a minute to register that it’s Colleen.
“Stop … no … get off …” She struggles against them, holding her arms around herself as they paw at her.
My eyes flash red, everything I hold in them drowning in the fury I feel. The complete fight response that overpowers my tired muscles, jumping into action as I eat up the space between where I am and where they’re attempting to double team and take her down.
“Motherfuckers,” I mutter under my breath as I sprint to where she is.
“Get off of her!” My order is loud and the two creeps whip their heads around.
“Hey, isn’t that …” One of the pricks trails off, trying to get a better look at me.
“Hayes!” Colleen’s voice is desperate and so much smaller than I’ve ever heard it.
That alone makes my fury ratchet up several levels, because this is not a weak woman by any means. The need to murder these two with my bare hands is palpable, and the sensation ripples down my back muscles as if I’m a dog ready to attack.
I reach them and just begin swinging. Fist on bone, saliva on my hands, followed by blood.
There isn’t a rational explanation of why I can fight off these two men when I’m only one person. Probably because they’re impaired, I smell alcohol all over them, or maybe my adrenaline is just pumping so hard, but my punches are landing square and effectively. The one guy is knocked out cold before I even have to fire another back at him, which makes me believe taking down the other won’t be too difficult either.
I knock his body on one side of the jaw with a right hook, and he stumbles, but stays up, staggering backward. I see it in his eyes, he’s weighing whether he should come back at me, try to combat me. A split second later, he must decide that it’s not worth it, because the piece of shit scampers off into the night.
“Get in my car,” I order her, not sure when the bozo on the ground will wake up, or who might be still in this parking lot.
“But my—” she stammers, shock speaking for her.
“Colleen. Get. In.” My voice leaves absolutely no room for argument.
I walk robotically, my hand at the small of her back, ushering her toward my vehicle. I don’t care if her car gets stolen, if someone says something about it being here in the morning, or what not. There is absolutely no way I’m letting her drive home alone right now.
All but hauling her up into the passenger seat of my Range Rover, I make sure she’s completely in before stiffly putting my bag in the back seat and climbing behind the wheel. I seem to be moving on auto-pilot, my body stuck between the chaos of the fight and coming down to complete and utter exhaustion. Reality sets in, the buzzing in my ears growing stronger. There are too many emotions coursing through me right now, and my mind feels like it’s slipping into a spiral I won’t be able to come out of.
“Fuck!” I growl, slamming my hands against the steering wheel.
In the passenger seat, Colleen visibly jumps, and I try to take a deep, calming breath. I’ll only scare her more if I get myself worked up right now, but I’m pissed as all hell that I didn’t at least get a picture of the two men who attacked her.
I’m weary to look at her, but I know I have to. I know I have to put on a soothing voice and make sure she’s okay, make sure that they didn’t …
The thought of either of them touching her makes my blood curdle.
Slowly, I turn my head toward her, trying to assess her physical and mental state in the dark lighting in the cabin of my SUV. Her hair is half torn out of the clip or hold it was in, falling around her face haphazardly. It’s roughened, frizz puffing up in chunks. There doesn’t seem to be any visible marks on her face, but when I get down to her blouse, I see that the seam at her right shoulder is completely torn. There is a gaping hole there, the white gauzy fabric ruined. There are a few buttons missing down the front of it as well, and I have to clamp my teeth down on my tongue to stop from growling in rage again.
Thankfully, her skirt seems to be intact as my gaze falls farther down her body, because if it wasn’t, I’d probably drive out into the night to catch and maim those guys myself.
“Are you hurt?” I ask her the simple question, praying that I get the answer I want.
She meets my eyes, and I see that her face is ghost-white. “I don’t … I don’t think so. They tore my shirt, but I think that’s all.”
I reach my hand out, wanting to touch her, but then pull it back. Maybe she wants her space right now.
“Do you want me to call someone? Is there a, um … security team? Should I call the police?” I’m asking her the question as much as I’m asking myself.
Colleen shakes her head. “No, please … don’t. I don’t wa—want the media …”
My heart shatters, both for her and because the woman sitting next to me is not the confident, successful general manager that she’s worked so hard to be. In a couple of minutes, those men and their selfish, disgusting actions knocked her entire axis off kilter, and I want them to pay.
“The media is probably going to hear about this anyway,” I say, because it’s true. “We have to report this. I don’t want you becoming one of those victims you read about; they never reported it, suffer from the trauma, the criminals are never found or served punishment.”
“I’m not a victim.” Colleen’s voice breaks, and I see the tears sliding down her cheeks.
The thing is, she’s not crying. They’re just pouring out of her eyes, as if she can’t stop them but doesn’t seem to feel that they’re leaving trails down her face.
“No, you’re not. Which is exactly why those assholes need to be found.”
“Please, take me home first. I want to go home.” Her eyes are a chocolate brown in the dark, and wide as saucers.
I’m not entirely sure where she lives, and she’s spotty with directions as I wind my truck through the streets of Packton. But I have to have patience, have to remember that as much as I’m coming off the high of what just transpired, Colleen is crashing and burning herself.
Finally, we make it to her house, a modest ranch on a quiet street. It isn’t the flashy mansion I thought she’d occupy, kind of like the one I am renting or the row of homes on Walker’s street. It’s quaint, has a picket fence, and ivy climbing up a trellis on the side of it.
After killing the engine, I help her out, and up her front walk. I’m waiting for it, the inevitable breakdown, but she’s holding it at bay. Probably until she can convince me to go. Little does she know, I don’t plan to leave her side until the sun comes up. I decided that on the drive over here.
“I’m not a damsel, Hayes.” Her eyes are serious, and more aware than they were in the
parking lot.
That pale, just-seen-a-ghost look seems to have gone from her face, and it makes me breathe a little easier.
“I know you aren’t. But you were in shock, and I wasn’t going to let you break down alone. It’s okay to ask for help, Colleen. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re smart, and in tune with preserving your state of mind.”
My palm finds her cheek, and we’re stuck there, in the lamplight of her porch. This moment feels intimate, not sexual, but something deeper. The thought flits through my brain, that I should kiss her, and my body unconsciously leans in as if this might be a good idea.
Right, because the first thing a woman wants after being assaulted is for some guy to take advantage of that weakness, the sarcasm inside me rebuts.
It takes me a moment to pull back, to stop myself from making a huge mistake for both of us. But, Christ, how much I want to make it …
“I’m going to call my agent. He’ll know how to handle this from here,” I whisper, and pull up the purse that’s hanging off her shoulders.
Colleen takes my cue, unlocking her front door and letting us inside.
Then begins the long night ahead of us, that will change both of our trajectories forever.
17
Colleen
My entire body aches as if I’ve run a marathon when I blink my eyes against the muted morning sun of my bedroom.
Every part of me feels groggy, as if I’m underwater, and it takes me a second to bring it all back into focus.
Walking out of my office, to my car. Being stopped by a voice yelling after me. Two men coming up, spitting vile words about my body, my job, my family. Their hands on me. The fear, paralyzing and desperate, that they would violate me in the worst way possible. The need for it to be over, to just take away my pride or knock me unconscious. Hayes’ voice coming from the distance, a tiny flicker of hope reignited. Chaos in the fight, blood and screaming, and my own wails which sounded foreign to my ears.
I have to shut my eyes against it all; the emotions hitting me like semi-trucks one after another.
The police were here, that much I can recall. I don’t remember the exact words I told them, but one of the female ones held my hand, told me I’d be okay after the shock and exhaustion wore off.
I didn’t feel okay. I doubted I ever would again.
My feet fall heavy as I climb out of bed, relieving myself and avoiding all the mirrors in my bathroom.
It’s not until I make my way out to the living room, with my open concept kitchen butting up against it, that I see a body on my couch. I jump, unable to curb the reaction, and I contain the scream that is about to rip from my throat. Will I ever be able to calmly be in another man’s presence again?
Although, this man is the one who saved me. I vaguely recall him saying he’d stay, that he wasn’t going to leave me until the morning light, but I’d either forgotten or not taken him on his word.
Hayes breathes softly, one arm draped over a naked torso, the other dangling off my couch. His bare feet are propped up over one end, his body far too large for the suede beige sectional that is still unbelievably oversized and comfortable. That rugged, handsome face is at rest, a neutral expression worn during his deep slumber. I watched it vacillate last night between fury, caring, and utter hopelessness at not being able to fix this for me.
My heart flutters a bit, the first time I’ve been able to feel in what feels like hours, at him staying the night on my couch. After the police left, I was almost in a stupor. Exhaustion had hit and shock had worn off, and I told Hayes that he should go, too. But something in my eyes must have stopped him, because he insisted on helping me get into bed.
The memories come back a little more vividly now that I am observing him in my environment; him walking me to my bedroom, turning on the lights, making himself scarce while I shed my tattered clothes and pulled on the first thing I could find to wear, a nightgown with a drawing of my favorite Jane Austen books in a stack. Hayes had been waiting by my bed with a glass of water and pulled back the sheets so I could climb in. I was nodding off before I could make out his words, but he must have told me he was staying the night.
It’s hard not to stare at the Goliath of a man dwarfing my couch, and the way his perfectly sculpted chest and abs rise and fall with each breath. There is a trail of hair, darker than the dirty blond locks splayed on a throw pillow, starting at his navel and disappearing under the belt of his jeans. My cheeks burn with … is that lust?
How the hell …
Hayes stirs and blinks his eyes open, clearly unaware of his surroundings. I try to make it look like I wasn’t watching him sleep, but it’s a lost cause and we’re already in this awkward place from everything we went through last night.
“Morning.” The gruffness in his voice causes me to rub my thighs together.
“Morning. Thanks for … staying. You really didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it. Can I make you breakfast?” I both want to be alone, and don’t, and offering to do something nice for him seems like the courteous gesture.
Hayes sits up, twisting to crack his back, and then rolls his neck, which cracks, too. I feel even better about offering breakfast after witnessing that, because he just slept on my not-entirely-comfortable couch, at least not for a six and a half foot tall man. Leaning down, he grabs the T-shirt he had on last night, and pulls it over his head.
Is it terrible that I’m a bit sad when he puts the shirt back on? After the night I just had, the last thing I should be noticing is a man’s physique, but he’s got such a ridiculous one.
“No need to thank me. I hope you’re feeling a little bit better, if not a bit more grounded?” he asks, ignoring my offer.
I nod, trying to check my state of mind. “I think I do. I’m exhausted, but I feel more … me, if that makes sense.”
The scruff on his jaw is distracting as he nods. “Good. Thanks for offering, but I think I need to get out of your hair. You need some alone time, and I hope you’re taking the day off. I also hope you’ll talk to someone. You should, okay?”
I gulp. I don’t want this trauma in my life. I’ve been through enough in the past six months, and this is just another thing I’m going to wrap my head around. But I know I have to do it, so I relent.
“I’ll figure something out.”
Rising to his full height, Hayes walks across the room so that he’s standing in front of me.
“Give me your number.” He fishes his cell from the back pocket of his jeans.
“Excuse me?” I’m taken by surprise.
Hayes has the humor to smirk a little. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to hit on you. I just want to be able to check in. What you went through isn’t a light subject, Colleen, as much as you’re going to act like you’re tougher than nails. I admire that, I think we’re very similar in that way. But I’d like to be able to see how you’re doing. That is, if you’ll answer my texts.”
His explanation puts the first smile on my face in what feels like a very dark hour of my life. “Okay. And I’ll answer.”
And that’s how I end up giving Hayes Swindell my phone number.
* * *
The headlines are everywhere. They’re saying that the Pistons’ star player saved the general manager. That Hayes came to my rescue, insinuating that I’m some damsel in distress who needed his heroic hand. My personal favorite was an article that detailed how one of the players my father cheated and lied to had done the morally correct thing and saved me from rape.
As if he should have just left me to the wolves for what the Callahan family did to him in the first place.
And then there is the other speculation. Reporters have been on the news networks hourly, or blowing up my office line and my PR rep’s cell, asking why Hayes and I were together in that parking lot. Why were we the only two left at the stadium at that late hour? Why did he drive me home, and why was he there when I gave my statement to the police?
I would cry if I felt
anything more than numb. The fact that they’re preying on this situation for clicks and romance gossip instead of focusing on the reality that two fans physically assaulted me …
I shouldn’t be surprised. This is what sold papers and got people tuning in. They wanted the dirty details, the sex that sells.
Of course, the minute the media got their hands on the police report and statement I gave, my family was blowing up my phone as well. Walker had already threatened to cut someone’s balls off, Whitney was breathing down my neck about her coming over to talk, and a variety of cousins and aunts were recommending therapists in the area who could help me.
The whole thing is just extremely overwhelming, and from my mental state to trying to get back on track at work, the last week has been a blur.
And then there is what’s actually happening with Hayes.
This will tie us together forever, like when you walk through an invisible spider web and are never able to wipe it off. Years from now, the trace of that night will still linger on our skin, on our permanent public file.
He’s been texting me every day for a week now, ever since he got my phone number before he left my house. He asks how I’m doing each morning, what I have planned for the day. At first, I was annoyed by his concern, but after a while, the checking in turned into actual conversations. Which is what I open up my phone to now.
Hayes: I can’t believe you watch this. There is no way people actually get married after three days of talking to each other behind a screen. This has to be fake.
Me: LOL it’s not. I may have found some fan accounts who stalked the cast members …
Hayes: Don’t tell me! I’m invested now. I hate spoilers.
Me: Spoilers don’t ruin shows for me. If anything, I want to know how the plot or the characters ended up there.
Hayes: Says someone who has never relished the term “delayed gratification.”
Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One Page 9
