Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

She cuts me off with a kiss that wrings me out.

That hot, colorful mouth that captured me from the very first moment takes me prisoner now, trapping me in this intense rush of everything as her lips melt on mine.

She’s warm and needy and soft and entirely mine.

I kiss her back with my whole jackhammering heart.

I never thought I’d kiss her again.

Never thought I’d have another chance.

Now that I do, it fills me with a giddy joy I’ve never known just to taste her for a small eternity, feeling her body swaying into mine.

Her mouth grazes mine and I add a nip of teeth, then break away for oxygen.

“Once is enough,” she whispers against my lips. “Because I love you too, you ginormous lunk. But if you ever put me on blast in the paper like that again...”

“You can serve me my balls on a platter,” I tease with a rough laugh—like she doesn’t already have my heart and my balls plush in the palm of her hand.

She laughs, too, her fingers curling against my chest and knotting in my shirt. “Roland, I...why didn’t you just tell me? Back in New Orleans when you did your whole Romeo under the window thing?”

“I was afraid,” I admit. It’s weirdly easy to confess that now. Pride isn’t worth a damn anymore—not when Callie loves me. Not when somehow, someway, I managed to not screw this all up beyond any hope. “As you know, Barrett always said I guarded myself with a suit of armor, and the sharp edges hurt other people. I didn’t know how to climb out of that armor. I had to. For you, I had to learn. I’m sorry as hell I hurt you on my odyssey of figuring shit out. Never again.”

I’m vibrating, making her a promise with all my being.

“But you did figure it out.” Her soft fingertips touch my lips. “I guess we have Barry to thank for that—” She starts leaning past me, glancing at my brother, only to go white as a starched sheet. “Um, Roland? Where is Barrett?”

What?

I pull back from her sharply, searching the backstage area. It’s pretty open despite the ropes and props hanging everywhere, nowhere sectioned off for an adult man to hide.

Shit.

There’s no sign of him.

He’s vanished into the ether.

And I’m officially the crappiest brother ever.

Sweat beads on my brow. “He must’ve thought he was giving us some alone time, but—fuck, fuck—”

“Roland.” Her hand grazes my arm, soothing. “It’s only been a minute. He couldn’t have gotten far. We’ll split up and find him.”

She offers me a reassuring smile—and then she’s gone, her heels clicking lightly as she patters across the floor to the far end of the stage.

I only stare after her for half a second before bolting in the opposite direction.

I’m heading for the door to the main floor to see if Barrett got caught up in the crowd.

I never make it.

The second my hand touches the doorknob, a bloodcurdling scream stabs my ears like a falling icicle, followed by Callie’s desperate cry.

“Roland!”

Then the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

The distinctive thud of a body crumpling, hitting concrete.

“Callie! You...l-leave her alone, damn you!” Barrett roars, his voice thick and struggling.

I must have a miniature blackout from sheer panic, rage, shock.

Because one second I’m standing in front of that door.

The next I’m on the other side of the backstage, skidding around a corner leading to a small storage room. It’s almost buried behind various props and rigging, the door wide open.

I slam into the doorframe, catching myself with both hands, barely stopping myself from falling into the room.

There’s less than a breath to take in the sight.

Callie on the floor, pushing herself up on shaky arms, the shoulder of her dress torn, her arms and knees bruised.

Vance Haydn stands over her, flashing a crazed look over his shoulder.

With Barrett in his arms, and he's struggling wildly, but already going red-faced and limp as Haydn loops a rope from the stage rigging around his neck.

He pulls hard, crushing my brother’s windpipe.

Haydn’s face is hellish crimson, his eyes dilated, and I realize—oh, fuck.

Fuck, he’s high as a kite, probably on enough cocaine to bring down a rhino.

The ogre must’ve found out Easterly Ribbon flipped on him. Then he must've completely flipped his shit and snorted everything he had the instant he realized just how cornered he really is.

He wouldn’t be the first to let that little white demon convince him that murder is the only answer to his problems in the heat of the moment.

He doesn’t realize I’m here even though he’s looking at me, still too focused on Barrett, his mouth close to my brother's ear and growling.

“I came here for the girl, you little fucktard,” he snarls, his mouth frothing. “But you’ll do. It's better late than never wrapping up loose ends...”