Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

“Yes.”

He chuckles, glancing away, his eyes fogging over.

“Still. Makes you wonder just what the hell Max did to grow an apple so far from the tree. The other one didn’t seem half bad. The brother. Can’t remember his name, but I know I saw him live one time years ago. Local charity thing. Sang like he had real heart.”

Brother?

I don’t remember anything about a brother when I’d gone poking around Roland’s internet footprint. Then again, if anyone could get something secret scrubbed off the web, it would be Roland Osprey.

Now, I’m curious.

Why would he blackout his own brother?

What is it that he needs to keep so quiet?

And why do I get the funny feeling this has everything to do with Vance Haydn and the bizarre vengeance quest that makes Roland Osprey such an irresistibly complicated asshole?

12

Same Old Song And Dance (Roland)

For the hundredth time.

I should not be so off-kilter from Callie’s new absence in the office every day. Weeks of conference calls aren’t enough.

It’s like there’s an itch under my skin I can’t scratch. Rather than making it better when I see her looking at me through a Zoom window—her lips so bright and mocking and painted by Satan himself—it does the opposite.

It makes me so fucking frustrated I could snap.

I admit I’ve been an extra demanding grouch around the office. Even Wanda’s had it up to here with me.

More than once, she’s stopped by my office to drop off printouts and lingered, leaning over my chair with a pointed hmph! when she sees me scrolling Just Vibing’s website.

Look, I’m just keeping an eye on my investment, dammit.

Assessing what sort of daily content they’re producing. Checking out the community engagement in the comments section and the high-end fashion brands paying through the nose for ad space on the site.

That’s it.

That’s absolutely all.

No, I’m not annoyed that I only have one text from her that entire time, outside the weekly video check-ins.

Callie: Any progress on Easterly?

Roland: Not yet. Some wheels turn slow, but grind fine.

That was my reply two days ago.

Nothing since.

I shouldn’t feel like that’s a personal slight, a condemnation. As if she’s figured out my selfish game, and I’ve lost all right to that playful way she makes my blood flash with excitement and—

Defensiveness.

Yes, fuck, I’ll admit it.

Caroline Landry makes me defensive when I haven’t even broken my own moral code.

Perhaps I enjoy having someone with a backbone. Someone who’s able to stand up to me without resorting to calling me human scum or 'birdshit' and storming off angrily.

I’d rather fence wits than trade insults, and Callie wields a blade I admire.

Goddammit.

I just wish I could stop.

I’ve been staring at my screen like a drooling dog after a bone for the last hour, sipping my usual sugar-heaped coffee. I don’t have time for this nonsense—especially when I’m running on fumes and have a flight in three hours, along with one impossible woman accompanying me to a digital media conference in Austin.

I’m sick to say I’ve been counting down the days and it’s finally here.

I’ve also spent entire nights working every angle I can on Vance Haydn.

Hell, I’m up almost every night doing that, but this trip down south might force me to take a break.

It just feels like grains of sand slipping through my fingers in an endless ticking countdown. I’m so close to a breakthrough I can taste it. Easterly Ribbon is the key as long as something convinces her to speak, to expose my white whale and his criminal fuckery.

It leaves me uneasy.

I don’t know what I think will happen if I take a few nights off.

Vance Haydn is so secure in himself that even if he caught wind of me sniffing around, I doubt he’d cut and run.

He’s too arrogant. Always confident he’ll handle anything thrown at him.

Before he dealt with me, he was right.

Eventually, when he does find out, he’ll learn fast that I’m more than any psychopath can handle, however slick.

I jerk up from my screen as my intercom buzzes, and Wanda’s voice pipes through.

“Mr. Osprey? Dominick’s here. He’s picked up your luggage and Miss Landry, and he’s waiting to take you to O’Hare now.”

I don’t expect the heat roiling my gut, surging down my spine and tensing muscles I didn’t know I had. I fight the urge to go pelting down thirty flights of stairs to the car without waiting for the elevator.

This is not me.

Scowling, I push up slowly, taking my sweet time smoothing my clothes and shutting down my workstation before buzzing the intercom. “Thanks, Wanda. I’ll be out shortly.”

Her voice floats through again. “Mr. Osprey, are you certain you don’t want me to lend a hand? I told my husband to stand by for a few days; it’s really no trouble to throw my things together and go.”

I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard Wanda sound insecure about not accompanying me on a trip.