Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

It’s a modest place. From the outside, it looks fairly classy. The front window looks in on intimately spaced seating, lacquered wood, gentle lighting, and a stage against the far wall with the bar discreetly tucked to one side.

The house is already packed. Well over a hundred people at a glance, plus a few more lined up outside, curling around the block.

I hustle Barry out of the car and swipe his ID from his back pocket to avoid any awkward explanations. The bouncer doesn’t even blink as he takes our tickets and stamps our hands.

As he follows me into the dark space, Barrett snickers.

“Dude. Roland, I’m impressed. Where’d you get the fake ID?” he asks. “I look so old in it. Can computers do that? I can’t believe it worked. That guy must be blind as a bat.”

“Yeah,” I say, a little pang hitting me in the gut. “Something like that, Barry.”

It doesn’t take much work to get my brother a seat after a quick detour by the bar.

Classic Coke for him, bourbon for me, and a stern look while I play the big brother who’s almost legal enough to drink but won’t let his younger sibling steal a sip of liquor.

Yeah, it’s mighty weird playing this younger version of myself; the older teenage brother Barrett sees in his memory.

Then again, there’s something fun about it, too.

It’s liberating.

If he’s gone back to a time when he was happy, before he was hurt, maybe I can too.

What's the harm?

For one night, I'll be the man who isn’t coated in the slimy karma I’ve dredged up for years.

I can forget about Callie punting my heart into orbit.

It’s a nice thought, but it’s not that easy to banish brooding thoughts.

Despite whispering through the dark noise with Barry, taking a few scorching sips of bourbon to ease the oddness inside me, I’m anything but myself.

I’m here for Barrett.

And I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s all for him and only him, and my only interest is in snagging a few notes on Alvin’s comeback. The Tea’s new creative direction needs fresh meat. Something positive, uplifting, framing a hopeful path for his future.

It’s hard as hell to admit that I just want to see Alvin because he's still connected to Callie.

There’s a lump in my gut as the lights fade and Barrett goes quiet.

Anticipation charges the air.

Then the MC coming out on the stage to announce the lead singer of Four Times Crazy, followed by a smattering of applause and several chaotic whoops. A few hands thrust at the air with forked fingers.

I can’t help an amused snort a second before Alvin emerges on stage. A guitar hangs from a strap and bangs against his stomach, one hand held up to the crowd.

What I don’t expect is who’s behind him, trailing in his wake like an angel come to Earth.

Callie.

She’s carrying her own guitar, wearing a small smile on her lips as she settles on a stool slightly behind and right of the mic waiting for her father.

Fuck.

I’m going to explode with the force of the freight train slamming through me.

What was I thinking?

I knew she’d be here.

Deep down, in a place I won’t acknowledge, I think I hoped she’d be.

Hoping for one glimpse of her, even if she didn’t see me—or want to lay eyes on me.

She’s so goddamned beautiful it skins me alive.

None of the memories banging around in my head do justice to seeing the living, breathing, undeniable woman in the flesh who used to give said flesh to me.

It’s like seeing a perfect gardenia in full bloom when you’re close enough to touch the dew on its petals and inhale its scent, versus remembering its faded perfume.

Dammit, yes.

You’d better believe I stop and stare like the lovestruck pillar of salt I am.

Her vivid red and blue-streaked hair is back in a twist. It’s as unruly as she is, several tendrils falling, framing her face.

Her sleeveless black dress hugs curves that still demolish me in a single glance, its bodice tight and belted. The skirt flares out in a shifting black bell over her knees. The belt is the brightest pink I’ve ever seen—almost obscene and entirely her—and it matches the brightness of her lips, her pumps, her chunky bangle bracelets.

I want to bite that mouth of hers if it’s the last thing I do alive.

I want to torture, to tease, to brand those lips and her taste in my brain before I depart for the next world.

Holy shit, I’ve lost it.

The light doesn’t really put a halo around her.

Her eyes don’t actually glow like she’s searching the crowd with her whole soul.

I don’t get a rapid-fire slideshow of the forever we lost like my life flashing before my eyes.

It’s all in your head, idiot. Quit staring.

Ha, good fucking luck.

Callie Landry beams tonight, standing out like she’s made of different stuff than the rest of the world.