Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

He feels too light against me. Thin. Like his bones are hollow, and it freaks me out.

I don’t want to admit the relief I feel when we step outside the precinct. Roland’s still there, leaning casually against his Rolls Royce like a high school kid waiting to pick up a friend after detention—not waiting to escort us through the disaster of our lives.

Having him here makes me feel safer, at least.

More grounded, somehow, and better able to manage this ugliness.

Until Dad notices the car I’m shuffling him over to and perks up, glancing between Roland and me.

“Well now, who’s this handsome gent? You dating an investment banker and you didn’t tell me?”

I groan, leaning my lips to his ear. “Don’t embarrass me. He’s my boss. He only gave me a ride here from the airport since we flew in together from the conference. Now he’s giving us a ride home. Say thank you. At least ten times, Dad.”

“I’m much obliged. Hope you’re taking good care of my Callie-girl.” Still leaning on me, Dad grins and sticks out his good hand. “Alvin Landry.”

I’m not entirely surprised Dad doesn’t recognize Roland’s face.

Roland’s reputation is bigger than he is, but the many hit pieces that tried to land a fatal blow usually neglect to add a picture.

But when Roland takes my dad’s hand to shake, I suddenly find myself ever-so-conveniently tripping as he starts to say, “Roland Os—”

I jostle into him in the side, making my dad reel.

“Oops!” I chirp, righting us both.

“Ow,” Roland mutters with an irritable look.

For the love of God, don’t say your name, I mouth desperately.

That’ll tip Dad off in a heartbeat, and I don’t think we need him throwing hands in front of the police station he just left.

Roland blanks, his expression overly neutral before smoothing as he smiles and reaches for Dad’s hand again, shaking it firmly.

“Roland. It’s no trouble at all. Neither Callie nor the ride. You wouldn’t believe how much I rely on her at work. When I finally had a chance to return the many favors she’s done for me, I snapped it right up.”

Smooth.

We’re both spared any further questions or needling comments when Roland’s driver opens the door for us. I help Dad inside and settle in next to him.

With the double seats, we’re facing the back of the car. Roland faces the front, slouched lazily and taking up the entirety of the seat opposite us.

As the car pulls away with a murmur of our address to the driver, Roland tilts his head, studying my father keenly.

“Alvin, was it? Do you need a hospital check-up before we get you home?”

“Nah.” Dad shrugs, rubbing underneath his purple, swollen eye. “Done worse to myself tripping on the frigging stairs. I’ll be fine. Other guy looked a hell of a lot worse, believe me.”

The pride when he says it makes me bristle. I glare at him.

“The other guy could still press charges, Dad,” I snap. “What were you thinking? How does a middle-aged man end up in a fistfight?”

Dad at least has the grace to look a smidge remorseful, ducking his head and fidgeting his hands in his lap. His right hand is bruised, the knuckles red and split. As angry as I am, there’s a pang of terror when I wonder if he’s hurt his hands too much to play his guitar.

God, I hope not.

Take that last thing away, and there really will be no getting him back.

“Nothing would’ve happened if that dude hadn’t started mouthing off about the band,” Dad mutters. “I was actually feelin’ pretty good about things when one of our old songs came on the radio, y’know? It’s nice to know somebody still plays us. But this guy’s drunk as a skunk and starts yelling at the bartender to change the station. Nobody wants to listen to our shit, he says, buncha druggies and deadbeats who wouldn’t know a chord from our own little dicks.” Dad winces. “I, uh...I may have gotten a little opinionated.”

“A little?” I sputter.

“Look, I just...shit.” Dad makes a frustrated sound, clenching his fists, his knuckles turning redder until he relaxes with a wince. “I can’t get over it, okay? All that shit talk...that’s what killed us. People wanted to hear more about our train wreck lives than our music, and they didn’t even give two fucks what was true. Just them fucking papers making things up for coin like the cockeyed vultures they are.”

Cringe. I barely manage to keep my expression neutral.

I can’t tell Dad that one of those very vultures is right across from him, and actually just rescued him from the drunk tank.

I steal a glance at Roland to see how he’s taking it.

As always, he’s calm, unaffected, and offers my father a sympathetic smile.

“That’s the trouble with rumors, isn’t it?” he says. “They grow larger in the telling like a bad game of telephone until it’s impossible to control how much damage they can do.”