She catches my eye, sees me watching her, and mouths I love you before planting approximately one thousand kisses on Easton’s chunky cheek.
The two greatest loves of my life. Who would have thought I’d land here, on my feet and actually thriving?
There were many times over the course of my adult life that I didn’t think something like this would ever be possible. But now that I have it, I see that every mistake and wrong turn kept me fighting, led me here.
Well, that, and a push from Dad, a little Florida magic …
And the snarky tongue of a woman who never stops surprising me. The only woman who could ever possibly hold my attention.
Sneak peek of Control Artist
Anxious to find out what happens between Dahlia and Garrett? Pre-order Control Artist, book four in the Callahan Family series, and read on for a sneak peek!
Control Artist
Prologue
Garrett
Two Months Ago
Jesus Christ, this chick is making my mouth water.
Sorry, Lord, I didn’t mean to take your name in vain, and my mama would probably whoop me upside the head if she knew I did. But, I feel that in this moment, it’s appropriate.
Because she’s just over there, her frayed jean shorts giving me more than a peek at the curve of her ass cheeks, standing at a family barbecue as if she isn’t making every guy here sprout a stiffy.
She looks like that Disney princess, the one on the island who is always staring at the edge of the water; all exotic curves, big blue eyes and long black hair. Except hers is stick straight, brushing against the swell of her incredible ass. An ass that could definitely put me into a trance if she was performing a hula dance.
“What’s her deal?” I ask it without ever taking my eyes off the chick.
“Don’t even think about it.” Walker, one of my teammates, barks.
But in typical fashion, I don’t even bother to conceal the wolfish, interested grin on my face. I get it, though, now that I’m really looking. This bombshell looks similar to Walker’s wife, Hannah. If Hannah weren’t the kindest, most girl-next-door person I’ve ever met. If Hannah were sex on very luscious legs and flaunting it for the world to see.
She must be related to my teammate’s wife, and from his point of view, he had good reason to not want me anywhere near her. After all, I was getting quite the playboy reputation in the league … and I’m not going to lie and say that most of it isn’t true.
But that’s what happens when you’re a twenty-three year old male playing sports as a profession and earning millions of dollars. Millions of dollars when you came from a dirt road and pinching pennies. Some days there weren’t even pennies to pinch.
So yes, I may be overdoing it. The fast cars, the sexy women, the alcohol and partying and flashy lifestyle I never could have dreamed of. But who could blame me, really?
Certainly none of these rich folks. I was sitting on Sinclair Callahan’s patio, which was five times bigger than the postage stamp trailer I grew up in. His deck, the backyard of his house, was more grandiose than the dwelling I’d occupied for the first eighteen years of my life. No, none of them would understand why I was going a little insane on my newfound power, money and fame.
Sinclair, his wife Frankie, and their baby Easton are dancing to music that doesn’t seem to exist to the rest of us while they coo to the baby. He’s in matrimonial, and parental, bliss, and I’ve never seen the guy so happy. We struck up a friendship when he first got to Florida a year ago, where I’d just been called up to play for the major league team his family had owned for generations. Now here we are, hanging out with his family in Packton, Pennsylvania, where I’m a full time resident since I’ll be the starting pitcher for the Pistons during the upcoming season.
He invited me to this barbecue because he felt bad for me, I know it even if he didn’t say it. I’m alone here in town, not that it bothers me. I’m good at riding solo. I’m excellent at looking out for me and pleasing my needs above everyone else’s.
Plus, I stick out like a sore thumb. Aside from his little family unit, his brother, Walker, and his wife Hannah are here with their two girls. Then there is his cousin, Colleen, who is also the general manager of the Pistons. Sitting beside her is her husband, Hayes Swindell, who is a baseball legend in every sense of the word. He retired two seasons ago, but I’m still in awe as I sit in the same vicinity as him … no matter how cocky I am. Their foster son is horsing around in the backyard, and apparently there are more Callahan kids on the way.
And rounding out the family gathering are Sinclair’s parents, which includes his father, Daniel, otherwise known as the owner of the Packton Pistons. I admit, I’m intimidated watching my owner and general manager let their hair down. But no intimated enough to have a little fun with Walker.
“She single? Where does she fit in with y’all rich schmucks?” I wink at him, and he looks like he wants to rip out my throat with his teeth.
“She is my sister-in-law. And off limits. I know how you treat the women you take home, Chester. Don’t you dare.” The team and family golden boy is touchy, apparently.
“I treat them to multiple orgasms, thank you very much.” I take a long swig of my beer.
Sinclair walks over as I say it, and chuckles under his breath. “You know there are children present, right?”
I shrug. “You’re the one who invited me to this. You know exactly how I am, Sin.”
He and I have had many conversations about how I remind him of his younger self. And from the stories I’ve heard, Sinclair was a badass, fuck-the-world type before he got sober and met Frankie. So he should know exactly what I’m like.
“I’d listen to Walker. He’ll kick your ass. Or maybe Dahlia will, I think I’d like to see that.” Sinclair quips.
“She once kicked a guy in the balls who groped her at bar.” Hannah, Walker’s wife and apparently Dahlia’s sister, cocks her head to the side as she walks up.
We all stare in the direction of her sister, who is running around with her nieces in the backyard. Her ass cheeks jiggle and I watch the bounce of her tits as she moves. Fuck, I would carry her upstairs caveman-style if she crooked her finger at me.
“It would be worth the pain if it meant a shot with her.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“It’s your death wish.” Sinclair pats me on the shoulder.
The rest of the afternoon is somewhat boring, with more food and conversation about kids and other banal topics. The only joy I get is when Hayes and Walker start talking about baseball games that happened before I was even born, and going over stats and our favorite players. I think they’re somewhat surprised that I can rifle off the ERA, or earned run average, of many pitchers from the seventies until present times.
What they don’t realize is that baseball is all I’ve ever known. This sport is my life, my meal ticket out. I’ve studied this game inside and out. I spent many nights on my fold out couch of a bed, in that dank trailer, with a flashlight under my threadbare blanket. I’d shine it on old baseball magazines, baseball cards I’d spend my entire lunch money to buy. Yes, I’d go hungry just to get a taste of the sport I love so much.