Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

“Yeah!” he says breathlessly, wearing this goofy smile that makes my lips curl despite the fact that it’s flaying me alive.

I shake his hand, then let go to nudge his shoulder gently.

“Scoot over and let me sit, if you please.”

With a curious little sound, Barrett scooches down the bench, making room for me to slide in next to him. If I’m telling the truth, I’m not the greatest piano player.

Barry was always the family musician. I was just an amateur who plunked along passably enough to keep our piano teacher from murdering me when I mutilated Chopin.

Thankfully, I remember enough to make Barrett happy.

“Give me your hands,” I say.

He eagerly offers them.

In his head, these are the hands of a little boy being guided by an older man.

Really, they’re the large, coarse hands of a man in mine as I guide them to the right positions on the keys.

Slowly, gently, I walk him through the slow heartache of “Hallelujah.” The notes are spaced apart enough to make it easy to guide his hands through these thrumming sounds of hope and loss, sweetness and despair.

Barrett’s face screws up—happy and startled—as if he’s discovering his only love for the first time in his life again.

I can hardly see the piano keys through the acid mist covering my eyes, but still—fuck.

Still, we play on together.

This is the only thing I can do for him.

This is the only comfort I can truly offer my brother.

This is it, just like always.

We don’t stop until the last notes of the song ring out over the loft like an organ’s prayer to the hallowed rafters of a church.

We sit silently, with nothing left but my strained, rasping breath between us.

Until Barry lets out a yelp and throws his arms around me.

“That. That was sooo awesome, Mr. Roland!” He hugs me tight enough to choke me. “I—wowee—I didn’t know I could do that!”

I wrap my arms around him with a broken smile.

As tight as he grips me, my own emotions have me in a tighter grip.

Hatred and loathing and outrage for what happened.

All I can do is hold on and bury my face in my brother’s shoulder.

“You sure can, bud,” I whisper. “You sure can.”

Holy God, if I saw Vance Haydn right now, I’d dismember him with my bare hands.

This is why I can’t lose focus.

Not for Callie, and not for anyone else.

I won’t rest until Haydn pays double for what he did to my sweet brother.

For what he drove him to; for that terrible day when I found Barrett dangling from that rope, the chair kicked out under him, his face bloodless with slow, gasping breaths hissing past his blue lips.

Every time I look at Barry, that’s the version of him I see.

That’s the poison I can’t suck out of my head.

Even as I stay to play a few more simple songs, even as I promise I’ll be back tomorrow—although tomorrow we’ll have to start all over again from ground zero—my own brother a stranger to me yet again.

I’d kill to see him whole again.

A blood wish that can’t come true.

And because it can’t, I’ll never rest until I’ve splintered Vance Haydn into a human ruin.

Soon.

Very fucking soon.

Bittersweet, delayed justice should be the only emotion I let into my thoughts.

The only thing I should think about Caroline Landry is how much faster she can help me taste it.

7

A Secret Chord (Callie)

When Roland told me I’d be playing double agent, I didn’t think it meant I’d end up living a whole double life.

Every day I have just enough time to run through editorial targets and reports with my team before Wanda shows up with a private car to spirit me away to The Chicago Tea’s offices at the top of that dark tower. If I’m lucky, I slink back to my own domain after lunch.

I feel like an intern, shadowing the tabloid’s staff—but it’s been pretty illuminating.

The Tea is a far different beast from Just Vibing.

While we keep things laid-back in my office, at The Tea I feel like I’m trying to keep up with the chaos of an auction floor. Everything feels fast-paced and frantic and yet bizarrely efficient, this well-oiled machine that never fully sleeps.

Considering what they do—uprooting human lives—I’m not expecting the editorial staff to be so nice...or so helpful.

In just one week, I’ve learned more than I ever expected from the marketing team.

Like why clickbait headlines still work despite everyone claiming they’re too cynical and smart to fall for them anymore.

Just like how I’m supposed to be too cynical to notice supergrump Roland Osprey and his stupid, sexy vests.

To be fair, I barely see him for more than a few minutes.

He’s just as busy as the rest of his staff, demanding as much of himself as he does of others.

I have no good reason to push those double doors open and step into his office.