Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

On the other hand, I sense something else.

Sometimes she’s just distant.

Far away from me, her thoughts turned inward, her eyes unfocused.

She’s troubled, all right, but whenever I ask what it is, she just smiles and deflects and tells me she’s thinking about her father. About how he’s suffering as he fights through rehab.

I’m sure that’s true.

She kept me updated on Alvin’s progress, the painful uphill climb he faces.

Still, there’s always one note off-key like an instrument out of tune.

There’s something she’s not telling me.

It grates like a fishhook dragged through my guts when I feel like I need to tell her everything.

I don’t know when the hell I realized how hollow my life has become.

Maybe when I stood there watching Callie play the piano with Barrett.

I’ve spent so much time trying to avenge my brother that I haven’t spent nearly enough time trying to appreciate him. Far less time living a life beyond work and this quiet, all-consuming rage.

Once I’ve destroyed Vance Haydn, I wonder.

What will my future be?

Yes, I’ll always have Osprey Media—and regardless of what people think of my strategies and reputation, it’s work I’m proud of.

Work I enjoy, from the raw analytics to finding the human angle in stories that drive empathy, rather than carnivorous schadenfreude—unless it’s someone who’s brought that enjoyable ugliness on themselves and they’re getting flattened by the karma train.

I’ve spent years with every waking thought centered on eliminating Vance.

What will there be in that place when I clock out for the day, go home, and I have no one for company? No one to fill my thoughts but myself?

Fuck.

I’ve never dwelled on this crap before.

Never bothered envisioning a future, an aftermath.

Before, life beyond Haydn’s end was just a blank void.

Seeing Callie with my brother like an angel made flesh showed me something else.

Maybe there’s another life ahead.

And maybe I should stop playing this elusive game with her.

Pretending what we’re doing is just a temporary fling, over with the morning dawn, no commitment expected.

Trouble is, I have no idea how to treat it like anything else.

How to treat her like anything besides a mistress who makes my sheets ash every night.

That’s partly why we’re leaving Chicago.

I thought if we traded the office and home for a long, lazy weekend in New Orleans, maybe we could forget.

Forget who we are when we’re here and figure out who we’re meant to be.

I think I’d like that.

I’d like to talk about us without whispering over the tops of the towering walls we’ve each built around ourselves.

Now, I just have to survive until Friday night and our flight without, you know, committing a murder and ending up in jail.

Maybe Callie would come bail me out, too.

She just might have to, if Frank calls me again.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, leaning back in my desk chair with a wicked headache as my phone blares again.

Groaning, I snag it without opening my eyes, swipe it blindly, and lift it to my ear.

“What. What now?”

“I think you already know, boss,” Frank says.

“How many is it now?” I grumble.

“We’re up to seventeen nuisance suits. Four that pose a significant legal threat if Haydn’s lawyers are good enough,” Frank says. “Your turn. How many advertisers have we lost now?”

“Nine, and I’m very well aware,” I snap. “Look. I’m not worried. I’ll bankroll The Tea and every last subsidiary out of my personal funds if it means we’re pissing Vance Haydn off this much.”

There’s a long pause before he slowly asks, “Just what are you playing at, Mr. Osprey?”

“Nothing, Frank. I simply refuse to be bullied, even if our advertisers cave under the pressure.”

“Is that really all this is?”

I’m almost startled by the near fatherly concern in Frank’s voice.

Shit.

I don’t usually think of my employees—even Wanda—as friends who consider me human and who care about my well-being.

“Don’t go sentimental on me now,” I mutter. “I need you to keep that razor edge in the courtroom, not go limp.”

“No wet noodles in this Italian blood. Just pointing out when my boss might be acting less than wisely out of personal reasons that could jeopardize the entire company.” He pauses. “And maybe I feel a bit of concern for your stress level, if I’m being frank.”

“You’re always Frank.” I wait for him to snort at that lame joke before I finish. “That’s a long, borderline legalese way of saying you’re scared shitless for me.”

“I neither confirm nor deny.”

“Just plead the fifth and we’ll be done for the day.” I open my eyes with a sigh, swiveling my chair to look out over the Chicago skyline, a whole world moving that’s indifferent to my woe. “Every move Haydn makes is a warning shot, Frank. He wants attention. Mine, specifically.”

I knew this was coming.

Haydn knows.

He must know beyond any doubt who wants him tossed in the meat grinder.