Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Yeah.

That was all.

And then for that colossal prick to stalk me, to see my father like that—

I could’ve slapped his scheming, control freak brains out.

My boss from hell, salivating over the sight of my father’s vulnerability, as if he hasn’t already been eviscerated a hundred times over the years by media hitmen like Osprey.

God. I can’t stay here.

I’m trying to catch up on work now that everyone’s gone and I finally have the office to myself.

But I can’t.

I just want to be home, burrito-wrapped in a blanket with my own selfish fantasies about a normal job, a normal boss, a normal life.

Argh.

I shut down my computer, snatch my purse, shut off the lights, and head outside to catch my bus. It’s a miserable ride that only makes my migraine pulse, but every stop is one stop closer to home.

When I step off at the townhouse and let myself inside, though, I have a hopeful second.

Just one before my heart sinks into the abyss again.

No new whiskey bottles or field of beer cans.

But there’s Dad curled up in that fat easy chair, bundled in a blanket like an invalid mummy. He just stares at the TV.

Staring at himself, a younger version from his best days, rocking out to one of his last big flashy music videos for one of his old chart-toppers.

The look on his face cuts me to pieces.

So does the bitterness, the grief, the loss...

It isn’t fair.

I love my dad for who he is, near-suicidal drinking aside.

But it’s not hard to see how much he misses who—and what—he used to be.

“Hey,” I say softly. He doesn’t even move, doesn’t seem to hear. I bite my lip and call louder, “Dad!”

He jerks, blinking rheumy eyes, and glances over his shoulder at me before smiling weakly.

“Oh, hey, Callie-girl.”

This lump in my throat might choke me to death.

“You had dinner yet?” I set my purse down on the arm of the sofa, slowly approaching him.

“I don’t...” A puzzled wrinkle dents his brow. “Damn. I don’t remember.”

Oh, Dad.

I struggle to pin my sad smile up as I slip into the kitchen.

Usually Doris leaves something, and sure enough, there’s a roast in the slow cooker. But the gravy’s congealing around it, and it’s long gone cold. Completely untouched after she no doubt tried to serve it.

I swallow a rough sigh.

I can feel him watching, and I flash another smile over my shoulder as I go to work. It doesn’t take long to cut up the roast and parcel it out onto two plates ready for the microwave.

Meanwhile, I fish around in the fridge for some cold pasta salad and ladle it out before bringing both plates and a couple glasses of cold lemonade into the living room.

“Here you go.” I set his dinner down on the coffee table in front of his chair before claiming a spot on the sofa. “You have to eat, Dad.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I just wasn’t hungry, I guess.” He reaches for the plate blindly, picking up his fork in shaky fingers. His eyes are still on the TV, that ancient video of a man who moved with his words like lightning. The only thing that shook then was the world when it heard his music. “Callie, you know what?”

“Hmm?” I tuck my legs up and drink deeply, hoping the lemonade helps chase this headache back behind my eyes.

“I could do it,” he whispers. He’s scooped up a big bite of pasta salad, but his hand just hovers, holding it up. “If I just found my muse again, put in the hours, worked like a dog...I’ve still got some good tunes in me. I do. I can fix this.”

I almost burst out crying.

I don’t know how to feel right now.

I know how much it hurts him to be in this funk, lost to who he is. But the idea of him putting himself out there again, exposing his throat for gossiping vampires and ruthless critics, especially with how “sick” he is?

Deep breaths.

Deep. Breaths.

I want my father to be happy, and I breathe until that urge to scream fades, pinching my fingers around my glass until condensation squeaks under my fingertips.

“I bet you could,” I make myself say, struggling to keep my voice steady—not from my stutter, but the painful tightness in my throat. “But Dad, if you really want your muse back, maybe you should lighten up on the—”

“Don’t say it,” he growls, cutting me off. His fork clatters on his plate. “I don’t want to hear it, Callie. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” I flare. “Dad, there’s no shame in getting a little help to get you back on your feet. If you’d see a therapist, or maybe join AA—”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” he bites off, dragging his blanket tighter around him. It’s like he’s walling himself off from a reality he can’t stand.