Chapter 1
In less than twelve hours C. J. Callahan’s life would be over, and there was nothing he could do about it.
His long-fingered hand loosely wrapped around a longneck, C. J. sat in the back booth of his bar, Callahan’s, on the West Side of New York and contemplated his life … or what was left of it.
At 9:00 AM sharp he’d take over running Callahan Software Company. C. J. tucked his dark head, then lifted it to stare around the neighborhood bar that he’d first helped his uncle operate for five years, then owned outright after his uncle’s death three years ago. The bar was as much a part of him as his hands. His uncle, Robert Callahan, the older and only brother of C. J.’s father, had felt the same attachment.
Because of C. J.’s love of Callahan’s, his uncle had willed the bar to C. J. and asked him to make sure Callahan’s reached the twenty-five-year mark. C. J. had accomplished that last year and looked forward to twenty-five more and beyond … until fate said differently.
As much as he didn’t want to run the family-owned software company, he didn’t have a choice. His father’s and his brother’s health no longer allowed them to keep the grueling schedule and frantic pace. That left C. J., his parents’ only other son.
The mournful sound of Wynton Marsalis’s sax caused C. J.’s usually erect broad shoulders to sag. His unflappable sunny disposition was long gone. He felt as if every unhappy note had been written just for him. Life had done a number on him this time. It had taken him years to finally find what he wanted to do with his life, and now that he had it was going to be snatched away from him.
“It’s not that bad.”
C. J. twisted his dark head to see Alex Stewart, one of his two best friends, standing beside the booth. “Why aren’t you still on your honeymoon?”
“Because I’m here.” Alex tucked his trim six-foot frame into the booth’s other side.
C. J. grunted. Alex, a lawyer and a darn good one, had an irritating way with words. He was also crazy in love with his new bride, Dianne. They’d had a big lavish wedding a little over a week ago at his parents’ palatial estate in California, and were supposed to still be in Paris. When they weren’t working, they were inseparable. “Where’s Dianne?”
“She had a stop to make,” Alex answered, bracing his arms on the wooden table. “Sin should be here any minute.”
“And it won’t change a thing.” Sin was C. J.’s other best friend. They had always been there for each other no matter what. Sin had a way with women, thus the nickname.
C. J.’s hands closed around the bottle, then he cocked his head as he saw Sin—tall and as physically fit as the athletes he matched with his corporate clients—making his way toward them. His bearded face was serious for once; he was casually dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, the same as Alex. C. J. preferred T-shirts and jeans. Callahan Software employees might dress casually, but his grandfather, the founder, C. J.’s father, and his brother always wore a suit to work.
“Can you get me on a private jet to parts unknown?” he asked as soon as Sin neared.
Sin was a phenomenally successful sports consultant with his own Gulfstream. Payton “Sin” Sinclair moved in some very wealthy circles, but you’d never know it. He was as laid-back and down-to-earth as they came.
“If I thought it would help, you’d already be gone,” Sin answered in his straightforward way. He sat beside Alex when he slid over.
“We’re here for you, man,” Alex said.
C. J. knew it, but at the moment it wasn’t much help. He and Sin had been best friends since they were freshmen in high school. Alex hadn’t become a part of the strong bond until eight years ago, when he’d moved into the same apartment building where C. J. and Sin lived. They were as close as you could get.
“Yeah, I know, it’s just—” C. J. began, but he was interrupted by a loud whistle. His head came up and around. Marsalis’s sax shut off. C. J. came out of the booth to see what was happening, then he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Sitting on the bar, mike in hand, was none other than Maya, a six-time Grammy-winning blues singer from New Orleans. Throwing him a kiss, she opened her mouth and moaned, low and deep, and then began to sing about love lost and never regained in her haunting voice.
For a moment he was transfixed by the sight and sound of his favorite singer in his bar in a red satin dress that showed off every generous curve to perfection. Maya had a breathy, whiskey-coated voice that grabbed a man by the throat and tugged at the emotions. She also had the homeliest face on the planet, but he loved her music. No pretense, just jaw-dropping power. Not many things were that way today.
A picture of a beautiful woman in a lavender dress tied at the shoulders flashed before C. J. Her full skirt had shown a tantalizing glimpse of black netting underneath each time she’d moved in stiletto black heels. She’d smiled up at him as he held her to him on the dance floor. He pushed the image away before he could wrap his mind around why he was thinking of her again.
Ever since that slow dance with her at Alex and Dianne’s wedding, he’d been thinking of Cicely St. John more and more, of what would have happened if he had taken her to his room and untied that dress. There was a reason why he hadn’t. At best they tolerated each other because she was Dianne’s friend.
She was stuck up and had slammed his bar, not once but twice. Once to his face, the other on her irritating blog. He might have bent to be cordial for the sake of Alex and Dianne, but if he never saw her again it wouldn’t bother him in the least.
Copyright © 2012 by Francis Ray
