Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Callie Landry is going places, and I need to do everything possible not to let her trip over my dick on her way to heaven.

I lean back in my chair, watching her thoughtfully.

“So if it’s not about Haydn, then who?”

“Oh, it’s about Haydn.” Her smile twists with excitement. “His girlfriend is having some doubts...and last night, she chose to confide in me.”

I stop breathing and stare, bewildered.

“Easterly Ribbon called you?”

“She did.” Callie cocks her head. “Have you seen the Twitter trends?”

“The #TimesUpVance hashtag being pushed by several anonymous accounts, you mean?”

“That’s the one,” she says. “It’s only got a few thousand tweets driving it right now, but the anonymous group who started it aren’t just hashtag trolls. If they’re the same people who reached out to me...they’ve also been talking to Easterly. Very carefully, I’d guess, since they’ve implied they’re past girlfriends, clients he abused, the works. They’re dead set on warning her.”

I swallow thickly.

It’s like having Vance Haydn’s exposed underbelly in front of me, asking for a knife in his guts.

“What have they been telling her?” I ask.

“I haven’t seen it specifically. She’s been cagey about sending me screenshots. Not to protect him, but because she’s afraid of him hurting those girls. You know he has a mean streak...” Callie drums her nails on her knee, her smile fading to intense concentration. “But from what I gathered, they told her that Haydn used them, and then when he was through he dumped them like hot trash, canceled contracts with major labels, slapped them with gag orders backed by ironclad NDAs. They told her he’d do the same thing to her the second her star loses its luster. That he’d wear her out, run her ragged, take her for everything...and then leave that poor young woman with a smashed-up heart.”

“That’s his MO, all right. Which means we could be on the verge of breaking this story,” I tell her. “Is Miss Ribbon ready to talk?”

“I think so, but...” Hesitating, Callie chews her lower lip, drawing my eyes like helpless moths despite the serious conversation. “She’s scared, Roland.”

I hold in a breath. Suddenly I’m Roland again and not Mr. Osprey.

Is it possible to stay professional while you’re being teased into a pile of ash?

I wonder.

“Scared of what?” I demand.

“At first, I thought she was terrified of losing her boyfriend since she’s so young, but it’s not that. More like she’s scared of her boyfriend. Music means the world to her. She’s terrified of having everything she’s earned ripped out from under her.”

“Ah.” I sigh deeply. “Would you believe me if I said I’m already working on that?”

“You are? How?”

“That clumsy fucking lawsuit against Just Vibing. Since Haydn claims the name drop in your article stirred up the online backlash against him, we’re well within our rights to reach out to those anonymous accounts as part of legal discovery,” I say. “I’m doing my damnedest to get my hands on those NDAs now. I want to find a loophole that makes it safe for those women to speak without legal repercussions. If Easterly’s NDA is similar to theirs, she’ll be safe to drop her truth bomb on the media—and we’ll be standing by to light the fuse.”

Callie’s brows draw together.

She looks away, her gaze drifting past me to the windows and the glistening city skyline.

“Hmm. I don’t know if she’s ready for that, honestly. Even without legal consequences, that kind of explosion could overwhelm her. She won’t like the attention, the social backlash. You have no idea what kind of ugliness gets directed at women who come forward...”

“Callie, I work in a pigsty. I practically control the dirt flow in the Chicago press. I’m aware.” I settle deeper into my chair, stroking my chin. “I assure you, I’ll do my best to make sure nothing we produce uses the kind of salacious I-didn’t-say-it-but-I-did spin a lot of reporters use to steer public opinion. Still, I can’t control what happens on social media—although I can assign a few of my trend teams to steer the headwinds.”

She smirks, making those lips so delectable it hurts.

For the thousandth time, I want to fucking bite her.

Almost as badly as I want to be normal—not sick in the head—as my brain whips to fucking her boneless while we’re supposed to be razor-focused on saving one very vulnerable girl.

I never pretended to be a hero.

“Going to launch your own hashtag? #IStandWithEasterly?” she mocks gently, glancing at me sidelong, this sad empathy in her eyes. “I never would’ve expected you to put so much work into protecting one girl.”

“It’s not just one girl, Callie. It’s everyone Vance Haydn’s ever broken and left bleeding. He’s done enough damage for ten lifetimes, I swear. He won’t hurt them again for doing the right thing or grind them into silence. I won’t let him.”