Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

But there’s something different hitting right now.

Something that makes me fluttery and beautiful.

There’s a hint of lonely, too.

Like I should be getting dressed up like this for someone, to watch ice-blue eyes melt with feral heat and dark desire.

To know with one glance that someone on this planet finds me irresistible.

Yeah, no, I shouldn’t be giving Mr. Imaginary Perfect a smoky voice and smooth mocking manners. I definitely shouldn’t be imagining the perfect man heaping an ant’s wet dream of piled sugar into his morning coffee.

Damn him.

This is for my job.

It’s not a gift.

It’s not that thoughtful.

It doesn’t mean anything.

But there’s a lump in my throat as I offer Wanda and Corinne a grateful smile. “You ladies did a great job turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” I tease. “I can take it from here.”

They excuse themselves, Wanda with polite detachment and Corinne with singsong joy over her handiwork. I kinda wonder if Wanda isn’t right to be worried about me.

I’ve got this weird ache in my chest now for wishing I wasn’t going to this red-carpet gala alone.

You’re not, I remind myself.

I’ll have Janelle, Sasha, Nathan—this is work.

Not just work, but a secret assignment where I’m here on a mission as Roland Osprey’s corporate spy chick.

I need to keep my head on straight.

And I tell myself it’s purely to irritate Osprey that I take a selfie in the mirror and send it.

From church mouse to femme fatale. Eat your heart out, hawk boss.

The message he sends back makes my blood burn with irritation.

I think I want that.

I think I want to remember how much I can’t stand his loathsome, handsome face when it’s a mask for the ugliness underneath.

Roland: I knew I had good taste. Happy to see my instincts were right.

I should’ve known he’d take credit for my sizzle. Of course.

I’m not expecting the second text that follows before I can answer, though.

Roland: Your smile sings the blues, Snoopy. Remember what the song says—when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you. Even when you’re sneaking around on my behalf.

Oh, I’m smiling now at the song reference, but for some reason it feels like bursting into tears.

Jools Holland? You’re sending me to what’s practically the Teen Choice Awards with Jools freaking Holland? I text back, biting my lip.

There’s something like laughter in his words when he answers, despite the fact that they’re as flat as ever and emoji free.

God help us, I’ll think we’re in the end times if Roland Osprey ever uses an emoji.

Roland: Only you would get the reference.

It hurts a little less to smile now.

Maybe that’s what he wanted.

A sweet distraction to amp up my confidence. To make me feel like I can do this without crashing and burning in an embarrassed heap.

We’ll find out soon enough.

Feeling up to stepping out into the world with a dress fit to kill, I order my ride and pocket my phone, feeling like I’m taking him with me.

Time for my red-carpet debut.

I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Here.

We.

Go.

* * *

You’d think that by growing up with a once-famous rockstar dad, I wouldn’t be so awestruck by the regal glitz and glam.

You’d be wrong.

There’s something no one articulates about being around beautiful people—the ones who are breathtaking both inside and out, I mean.

They make you feel this overwhelming wonder just by being near them.

They make you feel hope that everything’s going to be okay in your boring, less beautiful, less impressive life. Mostly because the beautiful people believe it’ll be okay.

I studied foreign music for a while in college. In Japan and South Korea, this is sometimes known as “the idol effect.”

These bands of gorgeous idols always strive to put their fans first, encouraging them to reach for their hopes and dreams because the idols believe in them. And if the larger-than-life idols believe in them, then they must be beautiful inside, too, and that means they can do anything.

Some would call it hero worship. Peddling false hope. Parasocial relationships. Whatever.

But in a world that gets too bleak sometimes, hope is a precious delicacy—and so are the people who inspire it.

Tonight, I’m feeling inspired as I make my way shyly through the regal people gliding around. I’m less awed by their amazing outfits and more by recognizing the faces behind the voices that thrill millions.

What can I say?

I’m an old-school girl: New Orleans jazz, rhythm, and blues.

Deep down, though, I love any music that gives me the feels. It’s almost dizzying when the artist behind one of my favorite songs stops to compliment my dress, while the drummer of a band I used to headbang to in college tells me my lipstick is like, so on point.

Wow.

My team shows up not too long after me and we form an entourage.

They’ve been living the Chicago media highlife far longer than I have. They flit around as if it’s normal to have immaculate sultry cocktail dresses and kitschy rhinestone-studded suit coats on hand, just like these events happen every night.