Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

With a bit of pride, I watch them break off to mingle, totally at ease among the glitterati.

I’m the only one acting starstruck.

But I’m okay with that. I think.

Last I checked, having a sense of wonder isn’t a sin.

Any time I feel like I’m about to lose it, it’s the music that grounds me again.

I’m happy riding that high as I catch a few high-profile artists for some good quotes that’ll make great Instagram graphics when my phone yanks me back to Earth.

On the way over, in the Uber, I changed the bossman’s notification tone on a whim.

When you’re smilin’, when you’re smilin,’ it croons. Ironically a reminder I have a secret reason not to keep smiling tonight.

So I slip off to a secluded corner past a glittering champagne tower to check my messages.

Roland: Has anyone asked you to dance yet?

I roll my eyes like he can see me.

Nope. I don’t think they do that here?

Roland: Anyone can do that anywhere they damn well please.

Oof.

There’s my imagination running away from me again.

Picturing the moment when I catch the sound of a buzzing phone and look up to realize it’s Roland’s phone growling from my own text. And he’ll step out from behind the drapes along the wall—dapper and perfect in another of those fine silk vests, his hair slicked back, an elegant bow sweeping toward me as he takes my hand...

Maybe he’ll lead me to dance while everyone watches and whispers in scandalized admiration.

I.

What.

What the hell is wrong with me? Picturing the two of us like some kind of demented fairy tale couple in black-and-white from a noir film as old as our beloved jazz?

Hell no.

Roland freaking Osprey is no gentleman worth fantasizing over.

He’s a sleaze. He’s dirty. He’s horrible.

And I’d like to be done thinking about him that way before I really start.

Pressing my lips together, I fire off another text.

What do you want, Mr. Osprey? Why do you keep bothering me?

Roland: So formal. Even in text, his tone bleeds sarcasm. I simply want to know if you’ve made any headway on our mark.

I just got here, I answer. It’ll look suspicious if I hunt her down right away, right?

Roland: Fair enough. Just don’t forget why you’re there, Miss Landry.

Now who’s being formal? I send back.

I don’t expect him to answer.

In fact, I can picture him in that glossy office inside his dark tower, all low light and dark-green marble flooring with that imperial view of Chicago at his back.

He’s lounging there, smirking, his eyes half-lidded in that sly way they always are—like he’s got some secret joke I don’t know, but of course I’m the butt of it.

So I’m not anticipating the next text.

Roland: Would you prefer I call you Callie?

Oh, God. I can hear it.

Low and sultry, enticing, his voice calling my name in throbbing tones.

I shiver, clutching my phone in both hands.

Yeah. I really, really hate this man.

It’s suddenly too crowded in here and I need some air.

There’s a small veranda off to one side of the foyer I spied on my way in. Tucking my phone in my little clutch purse, I duck out through the main entrance and take the side hallway leading outside, desperate for a few breaths that don’t smell like the rich and (in)famous.

The voices stop me as soon as I step through the door.

There’s someone out there.

Two someones.

I hang back, waiting to see if they’re about to leave and angling to see who it is, when I catch a glimpse of remarkable blue hair.

Easterly Ribbon, in the flesh.

There’s no mistaking her.

Oh, boy.

She’s a perky little bunny with knowing eyes that carry a tired sadness beyond her years. She’s dyed her hair a loud pale blue with the roots showing, and she wears it up in twin odango bob style.

It shows off her long, slender neck above a gorgeous fairy-tale gown in layered shades of shimmery blue organza.

Resting one delicate hand on the veranda railing, she gives the woman with her a starstruck, admiring gaze.

Can’t say I blame her.

The other woman is none other than Milah Holly.

Few modern pop stars have ever captured the world the way Milah does. Especially after her post-rehab comeback and brush with some dangerous people.

Her music is larger-than-life, all heart and soul, and she belts every note out with so much passion it’s like witnessing a volcanic eruption.

In person, she’s a gorgeous doll of a woman. Slender but with strong shoulders, her blond hair falling in a deliberately messy tangle, her pink sheath dress sleek on her tall frame.

I don’t mean to eavesdrop.

I really don’t, but I’m so startled I forget to move, forget to breathe.

That’s why I catch Milah saying, “Be careful who you associate with in this industry, Natalia.”

That’s right—Natalia Reynolds is Easterly’s real name, while Easterly Ribbon is the stage name she broke out under.