Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Her hand creeps into mine while her eyes well up with a telltale shimmer.

But I’m still not prepared for her to blurt out in a half-sobbing mumble, “He fucked me on the night of my eighteenth birthday, Callie. He was all over me. I didn’t even get a chance to say yes, I just...I had to go along with it, and...” She cuts off, straining to breathe. She’s obviously trying so hard not to break down, and she squeezes my hand like it’s a lifeline, hurting my fingers, but I don’t let go.

I stare at her softly, willing her to go on, if only to drain the wound.

“A-after that he was a different person. Like...he got so mean, but he’d say it like he was joking. He never wanted me to talk to my friends or even like...make new friends with my idols.”

“It’s okay, honey. What do you mean?” I ask, clasping her hand tightly.

“He hates Milah. He hates it if I talk to anyone about us, and...and...he always wanted me to wear sexy stuff in private but he’d call me a slut if I wore anything revealing in public. Then I didn’t have a choice because...”

She trails off.

I already know what she’s about to say, a dread lump expanding in my chest.

I’m still afraid to hear it. Afraid for it to be true. Afraid I’ll want to vomit.

But she doesn’t say a word.

With her free hand, she loosens the neck of her hoodie and drags it down over her baggy tank top, enough to show her upper arm.

It’s a good thing I’m too stunned to gasp so I don’t make her feel worse.

Deep, painful bruises fester on her skin, the type that look like they could go permanent if they happen often enough. Purple fades to dull green and sickly yellow around the edges.

I can even see the unmistakable shape of a hand.

My breath falls out of me, sharp and painful and sad.

Before I know what I’m doing, I lift her out of the chair and into my arms.

I hug her tight because I’m too fucking angry to do anything else.

She clings to me, not crying this time, but still she holds on so hard.

Like I’m the only thing keeping her together.

I’m close to crying myself, heaving up this awful weight in my chest.

“Damn it, Natalia,” I sputter. “He can’t do that to you. Ever. Milah was right to send you to me. Let me help you. All I need is a written statement, girl, and I promise you I can get the ball rolling. He’ll never hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

“How?” she rasps, her voice like a razor. “He’s a kingpin. He’s got so much power, and this is just a little magazine. No offense. I mean, I know he’s suing you, and you’re a big deal locally, but if you keep it up...he’ll bury you.”

She sniffs harshly.

I pull up a ghost of a smile.

“Let’s just say this little magazine has some giant friends. Plus, those girls who contacted you, they’ve been in touch with me, too. Together, we’ll make this a whole lot bigger than him. We can bury him faster.”

I can’t tell her more because I don’t know how the logistics and legal machinery will actually work.

I just know we have to drive a legal stake through a beast’s heart before it’s too late.

Smoothing a hand over her hair, I squeeze her lower arms encouragingly, only hoping I’m not touching another hidden bruise.

“Do you want to write it all down now, while it’s still fresh?”

“Y-yeah,” she stammers, sniffling again.

With another gentle pat on the shoulder, I pull back slowly, giving her time to get steady on her feet and sink back into her chair.

While I round my desk to get a fresh notepad, she picks up her tea. She takes several slow sips, breathing in the steam. It’s calming her, thank God, and she holds the small cup like a comfort object as she takes the pen and pad I give her with her other hand.

She throws me a quick, determined look.

I give her a reassuring nod.

She answers with a smile, wavering and sweet and so brave, before ducking her head over my desk and writing in quick scribbles. A few seconds in, she stops, staring at the page.

“Um, Callie?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s something I wanna mention. He’d, um...he’d score weed for me and my friends sometimes.” She swallows. “He talked me into trying other stuff, too. Hard stuff. Bad stuff. W-will I go to jail for that?”

My lips thin.

Right now, I want to put a pen through Vance Haydn’s eye socket.

“No, Natalia. No way. No judge would convict you for anything you did under duress, under his influence.”

“O-okay. Right,” she says and bows her head to write again.

I stay busy with this week’s editorial calendar so she won’t feel like I’m hovering over her.