Stealing Home (Callahan Family Book 2) Page 2

  I knew I was done playing it safe. I am done waiting in the wings. Of course, I will give her time. All the time she needs. If she can only give me friendship for the next decade, then that is what I’ll take. But I’m not hiding my feelings any longer, I’m not avoiding her or skirting around seeing her simply because I can’t be in her presence without blurting out how I feel. My utmost priority now is making sure that she is safe, protected, and happy. I’ll stop at nothing, pay any price.

  Which is why I can’t help but provide monosyllabic, snippy answers in these interviews. Normally, I’m the club’s golden boy, the hometown son who made it big. I carry the legacy of the Callahan name, the only family to ever own a ball club and have one of its members play for the team, on my back. And I’ve done it with pride. I’ve played the charming all-American, toed the party line and completed all that’s been asked of me.

  For some reason, though, I just can’t summon the smile today. The expression I have in my back pocket for cringeworthy media encounters, or the perfectly programmed interview responses I have tattooed on my brain … they’re escaping me.

  And if they’re not asking me questions about Shane, they’re all up in my cousin’s business. Colleen was just outed for dating one of her players, one of my teammates. They were discovered in a passionate lip-lock on the night that Shane beat up his wife in the parking lot, and we all came to her rescue. Between worrying like hell about Hannah, and keeping the secret for Colleen that is now out of the bag, I feel like I’ve run a marathon on two hours of sleep in the last month.

  “You better get your head in the game, or we’re going to blow this thing,” Hayes Swindell, one of my newest teammates and the man dating my cousin, grumbles from behind me.

  We’re in a more private space, the Pistons’ craft services table, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t any media in earshot.

  “Oh, so you’re telling me you’re fucking thrilled to be here today?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  Hayes shoots me a look like I’m being a smart-ass. “You know the answer to that; I’d rather be scalding my balls on a hot grill. Which is basically what these reporters are doing. But you’ve got to at least appear like you’re happy to be here. It will only bode worse for the articles that come out, and you know the curse of bad media going into the series. The cleaner our slates, the more we can just keep our fucking noses down and play the game we love. Don’t you want another ring?”

  He has a point, but I’m still salty as hell. “Of course I do. But this a shit show, man.”

  My teammate nods in agreement as he puts a turkey and cheese sub along with a chocolate chip cookie on a paper plate. “It certainly isn’t the chipper and amiable mood I’ve encountered in media weeks past. But at least he’s not here, Walker. At least your father, and Colleen, did the right thing.”

  “How could they not?” I grumble, burning at the thought of Shane Giraldi being allowed to remain on our roster. “This is a one and done incident. I hate seeing other guys in other sports remain there, even through allegations. Much less when a wife speaks out or there are pictures floated. Guys like that should be fucking locked up forever. As it is, he’ll probably get a fucking slap on the wrist, while she …”

  I trail off, my anger catching my tongue. Each time I think about what’s to come for the trial, which has barely even gotten underway, terror fills my gut so sharply that I want to bend over from the ache.

  “You love her.” Hayes says it matter-of-factly, as if it isn’t even a question.

  I avert my eyes, because what am I supposed to say? “That night was hell.”

  My own personal form of hell, at least. I’ve watched on for years as she’s loved another man, had his children, bustled in and out of the games and ballparks with her gorgeous face and absolutely beautiful personality. Then, over the last year or so, I’ve watched her shine dull. Her eyes went lifeless, she barely smiled, she wore long sleeves in the summer, and rarely showed up to any extracurricular events for the team. The day I saw them fighting in the parking lot, the first time, I’d been so incensed that I’d taken it all the way to Colleen. But there was nothing my cousin, the general manager, could do. We had no proof, no allegations, or signs of abuse.

  No, we all had to wait until he’d beaten her half-unconscious.

  Hayes blows out a long breath. “I can’t imagine seeing a woman you care about in that position. If that were Colleen, I would have murdered him.”

  His candidness takes me by surprise, and I’m not ignorant to the fact that he’s still pressing the issue of me having feelings for Hannah. “I’m not sure why you didn’t let me.”

  “Because then you wouldn’t be here to heal her, to care for her in the aftermath. I also would have to find a new shortstop to win this World Series with me, and as big of a shithead as you are, you’re kind of growing on me.”

  That, in some small sense, gives me a source of comfort. “I’m glad Colleen has you. I hope this media tornado swirling around you two stops soon. As for my cousin, I’ll be an even better shortstop if she tells me where Hannah is staying.”

  Some PR intern sticks their head into the tent where craft services is located, and tells the players standing around that it’s almost time for another round of interviews.

  “Wish I could, man, but she won’t even tell me. If Colleen is making that call, you know it’s for the best. I know you only want to help, but look at it from Hannah’s point of view; I’m sure the last thing she wants right now is another keyed up guy around, putting her on edge.”

  Hayes doesn’t even bother sticking around after he’s made his point, instead, taking his overflowing plate out to the press table with him. I guess if you can’t beat ’em, eat through ’em, or something like that.

  Begrudgingly, I do have to take his advice into consideration. Even now, I’m so fucking angry I could spit nails. Going around Hannah like this could only cause more trouble, more anxiety on her part. I need to let myself cool down, and I’m not even sure how long that’s going to take. But I know I can’t and won’t be the source for any fear or stress for her.

  That probably includes me confessing how I truly feel about the woman, and that’s something I’m not sure I can help spilling once I finally do see her. She could reject me, downright refuse any man who comes sniffing around ever again. I wouldn’t blame her.

  It would probably be smart to put these emotions on the back burner, focus on some of the most important games of my baseball career in the next week.

  As for pasting on my signature Callahan smile and chumming it up for the cameras? That’s going to be a no.

  I said I’d win a World Series. I didn’t say I’d have a fucking grand ole time doing so.

  3

  Hannah

  Rambunctious shouts fill the air of my silent condo as the girls come barreling in.

  The smile that lights up my face is a genuine one, not only because I’ve missed them but because my day had been absolutely terrible.

  Noelle and Breanna hurtle into my arms as I stand from the rickety kitchen chair I was just occupying.

  I kiss the tops of their heads. “Oh, I missed you! How are you doing?”

  I try to infuse lightness in my tone, when every muscle in my body feels everything but. This was their first visit with Shane since the emergency hearing for my restraining order. I’d gone with my lawyer, the morning after the assault, to the courthouse to request a restraining order against my husband. We petitioned to have the girls fall under that, but since there was no prior recorded history of violence on his part, and he’d never harmed the girls, the judge denied that portion.

  The leaden anvil of that defeat still sits heavily within my stomach. So instead of keeping my girls close, I had to send them to visit the man who put me in the hospital mere weeks ago. Who had caused me physical and emotional pain for years on end.

  And since he’s Shane Giraldi, baseball superstar, the judge hadn’t even mandated that there should be
a supervisor present. So for the first time since either of the girls were born, my husband was spending four hours of uninterrupted time with his children. I had no idea how that would go, but it tied my stomach into knots and left me barely able to breathe for the majority of today.

  “We’re good! Daddy bought us ice cream, and then candy at the store! And we watched Frozen, twice!” Noelle fills me in.

  Great. So Shane just doped them with sugar and sat them in front of the TV. Figures he has absolutely no idea how to be a parent, considering he was never around long enough or had enough patience to deal with our children.

  My smile is so big and fake it hurts my cheeks. “That’s great!”

  I pick my two-year-old up. “How is my baby?”

  Breanna nuzzles into my neck and then holds up her thumb. “I got a boo-boo.”

  My gut plummets to my feet. “How did you get that?”

  Because now I’m imagining my abuser taking his anger out on our little girls.

  “She got it stuck in the door, because she was playing with it.” Noelle flashes her sister a tattletale face.

  I lower my eyebrows at Noelle and smooth a hand down Breanna’s back. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to play around like that. Would you like me to kiss it?”

  My littlest one nods, and I smack my lips against her finger.

  “Daddy says he misses you so much, and for us to tell you every day how pretty our mommy is.”

  At Noelle’s adorable little voice, my stomach drops again. Like a heavy stone into a black lake, dread prickles at my neck, giving me the feeling of sinking. My fingers go numb as I realize, for the thousandth time, that my husband will not be going down without a fight. And knowing how he likes to brawl, it will be a no holding back, knockdown, drag out.

  When someone tells you something enough times, you’re going to believe it. Not only believe it, you’re going to write it into your life as fact, carry it as a personality trait, make it a part of yourself. With Shane, it was him telling me I was never enough. That I wasn’t enough of a wife, a lover, a mother, a cook, a supportive partner, a fan of his. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t enough, but he made me feel like a charity case nine times out of ten. My husband would tell me that another man couldn’t possibly love a screwup, a weak, lazy woman like me. That if I left him, no one else would take me in. That I’d be homeless, out on the streets without his generosity.

  And yet, I miss him. Because it wouldn’t be a toxic, abusive relationship without the highest of highs. I know that now, having been in therapy for almost three weeks and researching all kinds of articles after Noelle and Breanna are fast asleep. Wives or women in abusive marriages are often reeled back in for a variety of reasons, but one of them is that when their partner turns on the love, they dial it up to twelve. It’s off the Richter scale kind of affection, adoration, and worshipping.

  My marriage is the textbook example. Shane would smack me, split my lip, cause me to bleed. I’d hobble away crying and lock myself in a room. I’d almost be at the brink of bravery, swearing in my head that this time I would leave him. And then he’d coo and whisper sweet words. Caress my body with such effortless care that I’d feel like the most revered woman on the planet. In really horrible cases, he’d spring surprise vacations on me, whisking me away to an island or on a romantic weekend getaway to a Rhode Island bed-and-breakfast.

  There are nights I lie awake craving the warmth of his body next to mine. Mornings that I miss his kisses. Even in the worst of times, I still get butterflies thinking about the way his mouth met mine.

  I make myself sick, that I could still deeply love and yearn for an absolute monster. Shane is a vile human being, one with no remorse and the capacity to love the size of a thimble. But he’s effective in his tactics, even now, when he sends our daughters home with praise for Mommy, directly from Daddy.

  “Okay, that’s enough, rascals! I told you it was bath time, so scram!”

  My younger sister, Dahlia, walks into the condo like a drill sergeant. The girls squeal and make off toward one of only two bathrooms in the whole place.

  I have to thank my lucky stars that Colleen Callahan found this place for me. I’m ashamed to admit she’s footing the bill, but if it weren’t for her, my girls and I would be living out of my car right now. Which, technically, isn’t even mine. Shane controls everything, including the passwords and reins to our entire financial portfolio.

  The condo is something that looks rather sterile and corporate, with its white walls and IKEA furniture. But it’s a roof, and it has working plumbing and appliances, two things I didn’t realize I’d ever need to be thankful for.

  Sooner though, as in this week, rather than later, I’d need to find gainful employment. I can’t keep being Colleen Callahan’s charity case, no matter how much I need it.

  I spent a majority of the day calling around to salons and searching open chair positions online. It was no surprise that there weren’t any hair parlors or spas looking to hire a hairdresser who has been out of work for close to six years and hadn’t renewed her license or taken continuing education courses in the same amount of time.

  But I have to find work, some kind of way to provide for myself, and that was the only thing I knew I could go back to. I never went to college, as it wasn’t really a goal my family pushed.

  Growing up, I started my life on the island of Oahu. Born into a family of coffee farmers, my grandfather and father worked tirelessly to provide for our large extended brood. My younger sister and I might be the only children of our parents, but my father is one of seven children. There were always dozens of cousins running around barefoot through the coffee plants and gathered around card tables on holidays. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich … not that it ever mattered to us. My memories of the early years are of jungle, sand, and surf. Hawaii is a magical place, one I don’t get back to often enough, and even though it has been nearly a decade since I’ve been on the island, I miss it terribly.

  The year I turned eight, my father was offered a job opportunity with a farming organization in California, and took it. We left our home, and most of our family, behind. Over the years, some of the family has moved from Hawaii to California, after seeing my father’s mild success in holding down a traditional job. And I grew up, going to a regular suburban high school, and eventually enrolling in the best beauty school I could find.

  I was good, too, at doing hair. It came naturally, and working on other people’s strands felt therapeutic to me. Like I was a born hair stylist. After graduating with my license, I went through a couple of salons before landing at a very upscale, effortlessly cool hair studio where I could perform all kinds of techniques and make my own money.

  And then, by some random act of chance, I met Shane in a bar in San Francisco one night and the rest is history. I gave it all up, falling so deep, so fast. I missed shifts at my salon, spinning so much of myself up in the man until one day, I just decided to quit my life for his. I stopped working, he proposed, and months later, we were moving from one coast to another. I left my family behind, everything I knew, and threw myself full-throttle into a relationship. Like an idiot, like a blinded fool. Looking back, I barely knew who Shane was then.

  I hadn’t seen his true colors until it was already too late.

  But now I have to stand on my own two feet again, provide a life for my girls. As it is, Shane has pulled his financial help, cutting off my credit cards and freezing me out of our bank accounts. When you’re the one bringing home the money, and your wife has no access to the passwords or decision making, you can do that sort of thing. I feel so goddamn stupid. I’m the exact picture of the wife they tell you never to be.

  I quit my job. Made no money of my own. And not even didn’t make the money, but I neglected to be involved in it. I just stuck out my hand and took cash or cards for the grocery store, the girl’s clothes, our daily living expenses. But I had no knowledge of our accounts, how much was in there, and what belonged rightly
to me.

  My name isn’t even on the deed for our marital home. Aside from the marriage license, I have no real claim to anything.

  Once the girls are out of earshot, Dahlia turns to me. She’s a younger, more vibrant version of me. With straight black hair to my curly mass, and a set of dimples that make her look more Marilyn Monroe than Shirley Temple, she is the knockout to my girl next door.

  “Any luck with the job search?” She’s trying to steer the subject away from the girl’s visit right off the bat, but I’m not shying away.

  I shake my head. “No openings, or I’m not qualified anymore. I did this to myself, so I can’t be angry. But I’m so angry. How … what did he say?”

  My voice wobbles on the last question, and I feel the sweat break out between my boobs. Dahlia rolls her eyes, and I notice her fists clench on the basic Formica countertop.

  “You’ll find something, I just know it. Karma is on your side. As for your ex,” she drops this referral as if I’ll agree that’s what he is to me, “he’s still a total piece of shit. Tried schmoozing me, acting as if I didn’t pick you up from the hospital with your face bandaged half to hell and two broken ribs. I wanted to pull the Mace out of my purse and spray him right there. But the girls were present, obviously, so I couldn’t. I don’t like the feeling of this, Han, not one bit. You need to start the divorce as soon as possible, sever all ties. Don’t ask him for a thing. Come back to California. Your family will take care of you. Be done with that monster and never look back.”

  “You know it’s not that easy.” Everything in my being feels tired. Exhausted. Wrung out and spent.

  I’d love to do what Dahlia is saying, but it isn’t that easy. Legally speaking, a divorce takes time. Custody battles are even lengthier. And if I know Shane, which I do, he’s going to go for the jugular. That is, if I file.