Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

1

Everybody Sings the Blues (Callie)

I’m breakdancing on cloud nine and nothing is going to ruin this.

Seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in a chair this comfortable in my entire life.

The deep leather seat feels as soft and smooth as butter.

I’ve heard people say that before, but I never took it to heart when leather is supposed to be a tight, slick hide with a hint of texture, hardness, and too much tension in the cushion.

But until today, I’ve never had my butt kissed by fine leather in a luxury airport lounge.

This thing swallows you and conforms to your contours until you’re pretty sure you’ve either died and gone to heaven or else you’re having the strangest wet dream ever.

Just sitting shouldn’t be so magical.

Between this chair and an impeccably mixed mint julep, I might actually get used to flying first class. I could even settle into a nap with my eyes shut.

If only I didn’t feel so guilty about my father paying for my flight to Chicago out of his dwindling royalty funds. He refused to take no for an answer, though.

He also didn’t give his dearest—and only—daughter much choice when he’d already bought the ticket.

I just wish I’d remembered my AirPods. Not even the fuzzy ambient music in the lounge can drown out the sharp, clipped voices across from me.

They fly back and forth like arrows, taking up too much space in the room and completely disregarding everyone who’s trying to relax while we wait for our flights.

I grit my teeth, trying to ignore it, fighting to focus on the loving embrace of my butt-worshipping chair.

Turns out it’s mighty hard when the intense chatter sounds like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, all hard words and demanding questions.

Eavesdropping isn’t a choice with the way they’re going at it.

I catch a few familiar terms.

Photo spreads. Print layouts. Color boards. Content calendars. Sound bites.

It’s not the jargon that makes me open my eyes.

It’s one particular voice that dominates them all.

Even classifying it as a mere voice seems too mellow.

It’s deep, concentrated masculine, a sort of gritty, slow drawl dripping molasses and smoke. The type of voice that’s made for throaty, heart-stomping songs strummed to acoustic guitars under low lights that turn the audience into shadows of themselves.

Except there’s no passion in this thunderclap of a voice at all.

That voice dismisses every word with a disinterested, “No. Next,” or “Are you kidding?” or “Off brand. No.”

Jeez.

It’s hard to parse the words as rejections when they carry no harsh condemnation, no disapproval—but no interest, either.

I guess the other groupies are used to this song and dance because they just keep going, firing away with words like bullets.

I can’t help myself.

I’m too curious now.

Cracking one eye open, I try not to be too obvious when I scan the room.

I don’t need to look far.

The owner of that voice and his entourage are seated right across from me, less than fifteen feet away. They occupy the entire arc of leather seats on the opposite side of a scattering of little tables.

I actually get whiplash when I see Mr. Thunderclap.

He lounges like a king holding court.

Tall, elegantly built, too much toned muscle caged and sleek inside a crisp white button-down. A deep-grey wool waistcoat thrown over it. Devil-black slacks that make his long legs look even longer, ending in polished leather shoes borrowed from hell’s wardrobe.

The style suits him.

His hair is that shade of brown that’s so deliciously mocha-dark it looks nearly black until it catches the light. Then it gleams like brown butter and walnuts at the crests of the artful sweep flowing back from a princely brow.

His eyes are half-lidded—and aren’t they always with these sort of men?

They’re calm, lazy, sly, and such a piercing blue they’re like unpolished sapphires. All cutting edges, but murky enough to hide the shine in their depths, swirling with secrets.

God help me.

The minions around him look like children. Most of them are younger, apparently in their early to mid-twenties, all dressed in ragged imitations of his expensive clothing. Professional, but nowhere near his polish.

Not a single minion looks at him directly. They’re glued to their tablets while they ramble on and he sprawls in wait for their next big idea to shoot down.

I repress the sudden urge to snicker.

Even the way he sits in his chair is obscene.

Ugh.

I just wanted to give the asshat ruining my lounge vibe the evil eye.

Not find an interesting asshat.

He’s turned sideways, one leg drawn up and draped over the arm, the other spread out with the heel cocked. His arms flow along the back and arm of the chair, one hanging lazily over the back.

It pulls his body into a taut curve, thrusting his arrogant hips forward. His legs draw the crisp black fabric of his slacks against his pelvis.