I snort out a tired laugh, then let my phone fall on my thigh, turning my gaze out the window and watching the Chicago nightscape fly by.
Only Callie could give me a reason to smile right now, let alone turn my crank.
Still, I’m just weary by the time my driver lets me off at the office—and I tell him to go home.
I can take an Uber; I won’t ask him to wait for me when he has a life of his own. The only one I expect to keep my grueling hours is me.
Which is why, when I let myself off on the main floor, I’m not expecting to see a light flickering on the main floor.
The lamp over Wanda’s desk haloes her grey hair, turning it silver.
She’s looking at some printouts, her stern face softened by lines of worry and exhaustion, but as I draw closer, she turns them over and sets them down.
“You’re working late,” I say, stepping past her and pushing my office door open.
“Mr. Osprey, I...” Her voice drifts after me, but I don’t stop moving.
As I drop myself heavily into my desk chair and pick up a pen and a notepad to start sketching out what I need to discuss with Frank, Wanda trails me into the office.
She’s usually a formidable woman, so it’s strange to see her hesitant, her eyes dark, her body language almost withdrawn.
What the hell is going on?
She’s got that stack of printouts clutched in front of her like the holy grail.
Frowning, I lean back and say, “Let me guess. More lawsuits? More pissed off advertisers?”
“No.” She shakes her head with a heavy sigh, then steps closer and sets the papers face up on my desk before retreating. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t understand what she means.
Not until I process the images in front of me, printed out in stark color ink.
They’re draft broadsheets—layouts for a competitor’s spread pages that will go to print tonight and hit the newsstands tomorrow.
We pay good money to a few insiders to get this info to us ahead of time in case we’re about to get scooped.
Or, in this case, completely fucking wrecked by an atomic bomb.
I never expected to see my face on one of the tabloid pages.
Not for something real.
Let alone my body entwined with Callie’s, splashed against the backdrop of that alley in Austin where I’d pinned her up against a wall and kissed her like my life was running out.
Someone was watching us.
Someone recognized me—or was stalking me on Haydn’s dime—and apparently they did some digging to find out who Callie is.
GET THE TEA ON THE TEA! the headline screams. INFAMOUS “KEEP STEEPING” MEDIA MOGUL CAUGHT RED-HANDED GROPING RED-HOT EMPLOYEE! IS THE EDITOR IN CHIEF OF JUST VIBING FEELING HIS VIBE?
I don’t realize just how tight I’m gripping my pen until there’s a crack like broken bone.
Shattered plastic bites into my palm, and wet, cold ink splatters my collar, my jaw.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” It’s all I can grind out between my teeth.
I let the ruined pen fall and rocket out of my chair, brushing past Wanda as I surge toward the door. I’m already fumbling for my phone and hitting Frank’s contact.
I’ll behead the motherfucker for this.
Literally, if I can’t do it legally.
There’s got to be some legal protection I can invoke to cut off some balls.
Something I can do to halt this runaway train before it crashes through my entire world.
First, before anything, I have to find Callie.
I have to make sure she’s safe.
Before Haydn does exactly what I fear.
If he can’t take her life like he almost did with Barry, he’ll turn it into an absolute shitshow.
All for the sake of punishing me.
All because I was a big enough fuckup to fall in love.
21
Sing A Little Ditty (Callie)
Easterly Ribbon’s timing could be better.
We’d scheduled our interview already, so I wasn’t expecting a text to pop up as I curled up in bed reading, waiting for Roland to come home. Almost like I’m his little woman and I actually belong here rather than just camping out in my boss’ bed until he shows up to ravage me again.
I may have put on a cute matching lingerie set just to make sure that ravaging isn’t a maybe.
But Roland’s not going to get to see it, because suddenly at ten p.m. there’s Easterly in my notifications.
Sigh.
Some things are more important than an amazing sex life.
Easterly Ribbon: Can we talk? Tonight? Can we do the interview tonight? PLEASE, CALLIE.
I drop my tablet, bolting up in bed and staring at my phone.
What’s wrong? Are you okay? I send back with my heart pulsing in my throat.
My hands are shaking. I’m scared for this girl.
Easterly Ribbon: I’m okay. But he’s out at some kind of meeting right now so maybe this is the best time. Is it okay? Is it too late?