I’m burning up. Too warm.
So much for thinking the sandman would deliver any peace from the office tyrant.
Pressing my cool palms against my overheated cheeks, I force myself up and stagger into the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face helps as I stare at my miserable reflection in the mirror.
“This is just sad. Get it together!” I whisper sharply.
My reflection mocks me back.
My lips are still blue. I went to bed without wiping them off, and it just reminds me that last night I lost my mind.
Last night I was effing flirting with my boss, wasn’t I?
Nope.
Not with him.
Not ever.
Clucking frustration, I snag a tissue and wipe my mouth, smearing the lipstick and scrubbing until my lips are clean save for a vague trace of pastel purple.
Of course, Dad catches on as I slump downstairs in my pajamas, yawning. Since I’m up early I don’t have to worry about rushing out the door to the office.
He sits at the breakfast bar, cradling a mug of lukewarm coffee and reading the paper.
For just a brief second, he looks so normal. I could almost forget there are empty bottles and crinkled cans all over his bedroom floor.
He glances up at me with a faint smile through his grizzled beard.
“Hey, Callie-girl. You okay? Looking a little pale and—are your lips blue?”
Damn. Busted.
“I’m fine. I just forgot to wash my makeup off last night.” I steal a cup of coffee and plunk down on a stool next to him, leaning over to peer at the paper. “What’re you reading?”
“Morning news. It’s always terrible.” He yawns, then buries his mouth against his own mug with a loud slurp. “Doris promised she’d pick up a copy of your magazine on the way in, too.”
“Hey.” I laugh, nudging him with my shoulder. “This feels like fourth grade all over. You putting blue ribbons on my book reports. You don’t have to read my stuff, Dad.”
“I want to, Callie-girl. I’m proud of you.” He leans against me.
He smells like fresh soap, but I can still catch the strong whiskey under it. It hurts despite his smile.
I don’t know what to do with that, this bittersweet pain.
So I don’t do anything.
I just smile, and stand to whip together a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs before settling down quietly to share it with my father. While he eats and reads his paper, I pull up The Chicago Tea on my phone.
It’s not that I don’t trust Roland.
I just have this itchy feeling.
And I want to make sure that paper-thin trust isn’t misplaced, and he’s not running some salacious hit piece on a vulnerable nineteen-year-old girl.
But there’s no hint of Easterly in the headlines.
That article about Billie Hicks is up, and I tap on it to feed my curiosity, skimming slowly just to see how bad it is.
Huh.
Imagine my surprise when it’s...not bad at all.
It paints the heart-wrenching story of a woman who lost everything she had, but who still fought on and clung to the music she loved. A brave woman against the roaring winds of the fickle, youth-obsessed entertainment industry. They spit in her face after she gave her entire life to them, and she’s coming out strong anyway.
There’s even a hint of hope for her, highlighting vocal cord surgeries and revolutionary therapies to help her shattered voice.
I frown. What the hell?
This isn’t a gossipy kill piece at all.
It’s actually kind.
And it feels...
I don’t know. Familiar?
There’s a familiar tone to it, almost compelling, a sharp and punchy rhythm to the word flow that makes me hear Roland’s voice.
...did he personally write this, taking over from his team?
Is there actually more than a freezing lump of coal beneath that five-thousand-dollar vest?
My frown deepens, but I’m pulled from my thoughts.
Dad glances over and lets out a derisive sound.
“Why’re you reading that bullshit? It’s a goddamned stain on Chicago.”
Because the bull who produces that shit basically owns me, I think. But I keep that to myself and just shrug, deflecting with a small smile.
“Do you hate it that much?”
“Not just me. Anyone who’s ever plucked a goddamned string or turned a tune,” he grumbles into his coffee mug. “Pretty sad, though. It actually used to be a damn good rag, back when old Max was in charge.”
I blink. “Max?”
“Maxwell Osprey. The head honcho, a real media tycoon with enough sense to take the good and bad—before his shit-slinging son took over and ruined it.” Dad makes an almost comical face of disgust, curling his upper lip. “Christ. That guy probably jacks off to ruining people’s careers.”
I nearly choke on a sip of my coffee, spluttering into the mug.
“Dad!”
The last thing I need over breakfast—the very last—is thinking about what Roland looks like when he’s doing—that.
Hot-faced, I snag a napkin, blotting my mouth and cheeks.
All while Dad offers a sheepish smile.
“Sorry, babe. That was a little much to say to your daughter, huh?”