Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I’m actually surprised to step out and find the office in a flurry.

If we start before sunrise at The Tea, apparently Just Vibing is catching up.

Guilt belts me over the head again.

What is this? Are they filling in for Callie because I’m taking up so much of her time and energy, keeping her from doing her real job?

I don’t even realize I’m standing there, staring, until the receptionist clears her throat.

“Sir? Do you have an app—” Then she breaks off with a strangled sound of recognition that I’m all too familiar with. “Oh, crap. Mr. Osprey, I...is there something we can do for you?”

No sign of bright lipstick, color contrasts, vivid red hair streaked with blue highlights.

I glance at the perky little girl behind the desk.

“Nothing. I thought I’d drop in and see how things were going. Is Miss Landry available?”

“Oh...right.” She looks puzzled. “She didn’t tell you? She called in this morning and won’t be arriving until late afternoon. I thought you knew since...” She trails off.

Since you monopolize her mornings, goes unsaid.

I hide my smile.

“It must have slipped her mind,” I say casually. “I hope everything’s all right?”

“I believe so,” the receptionist says slowly. “She just said it was a personal matter and not to worry, but she didn’t tell me much.”

Shit, I know that answer.

Usually, when people say it’s personal and it’s nothing, it’s definitely not.

There’s always something to worry about.

Every 'personal day' I’ve ever taken was when Barrett took a turn for the worse and I had to spend time with him.

How many times did I tell Wanda not to worry?

I’m gone without a goodbye, flying out the door and texting Wanda to pull up Callie’s address from the personnel files.

I can’t slow down or else I’ll ask myself what bad decision I’m making, why I’m so worried, what I think could’ve possibly happened.

You know.

After what Haydn drove Barrett to, you know how fucking dirty he is.

That’s it.

That’s why I’m so anxious, because this could mean life or death.

It’s nothing personal, beyond the fact that my withered conscience still cares about another human life.

Wanda adds no comment when she forwards the address. Technically, the absence of a comment is a comment in and of itself.

I know she disapproves, but she doesn’t know.

As loyal as she’s been, as much as I’ve trusted her over the years, I’ve never told her the absolute truth behind everything I do. I’ve never told anyone the whole truth.

The only one who knows what I’m after is the same woman who has me rushing after her like a lunatic.

Only necessity, I tell myself as I direct Dominick to the address, sinking into the pillowy back seat of the Rolls.

I try to count breaths, try to think about work, try anything besides what I’ll do if I show up at her house and she’s fucking gone like she never existed.

I shouldn’t have worried.

I see her roughly a block away when we’re nearing her place—impossible as hell to miss with her lips a vivid pink and her hair so deliciously coppery with stark blue streams. Her dress is bold and sleeveless with a slender belt, and just as shocking pink as her lips.

She’s at the crosswalk, and not alone.

There’s an older man on her arm, his grey hair tussled against her shoulder. He’s leaning hard on her like it’s taking all his effort just to stand.

She touches him gently as she helps him across the street, her eyes warm and sad.

“Hang back, Dominick,” I say.

“Yes, sir.” He dutifully eases out of traffic and onto the curb, idling out of sight behind a line of other parked cars.

I watch Callie helping this strange man who clearly means the world to her, up onto the sidewalk, through the gate of a stylish townhouse, and then inside—and that’s when I recognize him.

Alvin Landry.

I’ll be damned.

I’d only skimmed her background check out of respect for her privacy.

Yes, I know it’s an odd stance for the prince of scandals. There are certain lines I won’t cross, particularly when they’re ordinary citizens and employees rather than Hollywood glitterati.

That’s why it hadn’t clicked that her dad is that Alvin Landry.

A former eighties heartthrob and front man of Four Times Crazy, whose life took a spectacular tumble down the same ugly hole so many fallen stars die into.

Drinks, drugs, fast living, and regrets, their desperation only worsened by the endless hounding of paparazzi.

The Tea had nothing to do with Alvin’s fall, at least.

It’s not our style of work, pushing honest victims of industry backstabbing and quiet demons to the brink.

Even so, I can’t deny the other tabloids accelerated his collapse, taking gleeful pleasure in the destruction they caused.

I don’t remember the full story. I just remember finding it pretty damned trashy.

No wonder she loathes everything I stand for.

No wonder she looks at me like a curse made flesh.