Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

This close, she smells like gardenias, floral and soft.

“What about Easterly Ribbon?” I ask.

“I know you heard everything on the mic, but you didn’t see her, Roland.” She bites her lip and comes a micron away from smudging her painted-on daisy petal. “You didn’t see her. Her body language. How stiff she was when she talked about Vance Haydn. And those hot flashes in her eyes right before she’d get angry. Defensive. Scared. It was almost like she was more pissed at herself than with me, for doubting the man who’s given her so much. It made me sick.”

My gut churns right along with her.

“That’s the trouble with transactional relationships. They’re usually abusive as hell,” I growl, trying to dial back my own flaring anger. “An abuser convinces his victim to gaslight herself. He does just enough for her to buy her compliance. He doesn’t even have to say a word.”

“Yeah,” Callie agrees with a long, deep sigh. “You’ll do what you can?”

“Everything.”

That guilt dagger returns, knifing me again.

The way she’s looking at me, her eyes soft and thoughtful, tears me open.

Why does it feel like she sees a better man than what I really am?

She’s staring like she sees man who’s willing to fight with his all for Easterly and those other girls.

For all of Hadyn’s victims rather than one intensely personal tragedy.

Instead of a man out for revenge, and everything else is just collateral damage.

I breathe in slowly and force that thought aside.

This is the kind of shit that gets a man in trouble, wanting to be the hero he isn’t for the woman he’ll never be good enough for.

I’m not stepping into that bear trap.

No matter how enticing she is.

No matter how good she smells.

No matter how fucking much she makes me question myself.

I wish I could lean away from her while I struggle to force my tone to cool professionalism.

We’re almost shoulder to shoulder, her against the door and me against the wall, her body heat imprinting my side.

“I could do more if you’d tell me a little bit about that source you mentioned in the interview,” I say.

Callie fidgets her fingers together, looking down at her hands.

“I can’t tell you much more. I think Milah’s been pulling some strings, though.”

I stare at her. “Milah Holly?”

“...yeah.” She half-smiles. “She wasn’t happy about what happened at the gala. But I got a Twitter DM from an anonymous account. It was created just a couple days before the interview. She said she couldn’t identify herself due to an NDA with a very high-level music executive that ‘we both know by name,’ but she heard about me asking questions from a mutual friend named MH.” Callie lifts her head, those soulful eyes locking on me. “Since the interview’s not out yet, Milah’s the only one who knows I saw anything—and the only one who knows I’ve been talking to Easterly.”

“Damn. Can you forward the DMs? Screenshots, summaries, anything.” I frown. “What if it’s a setup? What if it’s Haydn himself? He knew, too. He might be feeling you out to see what you’re up to.”

“It’s possible,” she says slowly. “But if he is, those messages would incriminate him. I’m inclined to believe it’s the real deal. One of the girls he screwed over in the past, looking to tell her story.”

My mind takes off like a greyhound.

If I could talk to the person who messaged Callie, I could wrangle more together.

Like a court-issued protection order to keep her safe from the consequences of that NDA, and encourage her to speak out.

Fuck.

I never thought roping Callie into this would work out as well as it has.

“You,” I say, almost breathless with surging energy, “are a fucking godsend.”

“Me?” Callie shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know. People trust me for some reason.”

I trust her, I realize.

I’m so close to telling her that.

So close to giving her the real, hard truth behind my insane hunt for Vance Haydn. I want her to understand with an urgency that jabs me in the gut, but I can’t.

Because I understand her far too well.

She doesn’t want my pity, and I don’t want hers.

What I want from her is simple.

“Roland?” Her brows knit together. “What’s going on? Why are you staring at me?”

Whoops.

I feel like a little boy caught cutting holes in his bedsheets. I search for something quickly to deflect.

The only thing I settle on is her overripe, gorgeous mouth.

Breathe, Roland.

I conjure a smirk.

“I was thinking. You’ve painted your lips to be a deliberate distraction. Are you surprised I’m staring?” I growl with exaggerated irritation. “I should add that to your performance report. It can’t all be glowing. Flagrant violations of dress code.”

Callie narrows her eyes.

“I haven’t violated anything. I checked the HR handbook. There’s nothing in there about makeup.”

“There should be.” Now that I’m lingering on her lips, I can’t stop. Every purse, every part, every syllable they speak draws me in until I catch myself leaning closer. “Try darker shades next time, woman.”