Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I’m not even fazed by her insult. I just smile.

“In that case, why are you so obsessed you’d break in and throw drugs around just to make me give up a humiliating video? You always thought combining our assets and my business with your Hollywood glamor would make us a powerhouse.”

She gives me a smile I used to mistake for seductive—only now it’s anything but.

Now, it’s almost broken.

Now, it’s more like Medusa’s eyes before you’re turned into stone.

“What do you see in your stupid driver, anyhow? She’s nothing like me. No clout, no talent,” Carmen hisses.

“She’s ten times the woman you’ll ever be. I needed her heart, not her connections, or her money.”

Her face drops, nearly bloodless.

I don’t take any satisfaction from this.

I just want it to end.

Pulling the phone back toward me, I glance at the screen, ready to hit send.

“Jesus, you’re serious. Wait, Nick—” She lunges across the room, almost bowling me over.

She teeters with me, an arm slung around one shoulder, determined to throw off my balance.

I’m a big man, but she’s a hellcat fighting for dear life. I miss my step when I try to shove her off me.

The way we’re tilting, she’ll break my fall. But she’s also less than half my size.

I’ll smash her to bits.

With one hand—I don’t dare loosen the grip on my phone—I try to maneuver us so I’m not landing on her. Even after all she’s done, I won’t hurt her physically.

We still wind up in a heap on the marble floor. I’m flat on my back and she’s on top of me, beating my chest with her fists.

“Oh, sweetheart. If you wanted it, all you had to do was ask,” she snarls.

Of course, she’s going for the hand holding the phone.

“Get off of me and get the fuck out of here!” My eyes dart around, desperate to finish this before Reese ever makes it back here.

Carmen slides further up my body, this oily look sliding across her face, and locks her hand around my phone. “I only have one hand on the phone. My other hand is free to tease. The way I see it, this could go a few ways. You’ll either let go of the phone without requesting a favor so you can stay true to your new found lovey-dove, or you’ll decide you’ve had a change of heart and want me to touch you. Just like I used to. Carrot or stick. Such a fun game.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath,” I spit.

“No, but I did play one on Catch the Murderer. It took a lot of research. Savannah loved to play with her prey, and this was one of the games I wrote for her...”

Really? She’s babbling about her character right now?

“You’re acting out a fucking scene with me?” I can’t believe this shit.

“I’d rather not, but since you won’t let go of the phone...I’m running out of options.”

I must’ve been drunker than I ever realized to waste years on and off with this woman.

“I’m not letting go of the phone and you’re never touching me again. Why don’t you just get the fuck off me, and we’ll call it a truce?”

She smiles. “As you wish.”

Bad move, trusting her.

The witch buries her nails in the top of my hand the second I move.

“Fuck!” I grunt.

“Let go.”

I don’t.

She sinks her claws in harder.

“Let. Go.” Her voice is pure poison.

I refuse.

She digs her nails in as hard as she can.

Hot liquid trickles down my hand—blood—but I keep my phone locked in a death grip.

There’s a popping sound in her shoulder as she rips it away from me, and she tumbles back with a whimper.

Thank God she’s off me.

She cups both hands around the slick phone like a prize and jerks her body back. It almost slips.

Damn.

She’s stronger than she looks, but I manage to keep my grasp on it. “You know all of this wrestling with the phone may have already sent the email, right?”

“If I don’t get the phone, you will send it. At least this way I have a chance.”

“I’ve been careful because I didn’t want to hurt you. My patience is gone. Get the fuck up or I’ll yank you off it,” I tell her.

“Whatever.” She tugs on the phone.

With a fierce pull, it slips out of her hands and I throw it across the room, then spring to my feet. Carmen crashes onto the floor behind me.

“That hurt!” she screeches after me.

“You were warned,” I say, sprinting across the room.

She’s back on her feet and running at me again—or trying to with halting, uneven steps. “Nicholas fucking Brandt. Do not send that shit.”

She’s right behind me.

I rush back into my room and jump on my bed.

She tries to follow.

“Too late. Already sent.”

“You did not!”

“Did. Checkmate.”

Her hand goes on her hips as her eyes narrow. “What did it say? I only saw the images.”