Page 557 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Same.”

“At least something good came from that breakup,” he mused. “You got yourself a little heartbreak buddy.”

“The only good thing to come out of my relationship.”

“Hey, Carolina gave you the ring back, you beat me on that too,” Tyler said, still trying to spin the shitty story into something positive. “Roxy freaking kept the one I gave her. Not like I’d want to recycle the cursed thing, since I had it designed for her, but it might have been kinda fun to smash it with a sledgehammer or something. Symbolic, you know?” He stared into space silently for a few seconds. “Never again. Any guy who blows that kind of cash on a chunk of rock in a hunk of metal is out of his mind.”

“And there’s the reason I hired you to walk my dog and not write my ad campaigns,” I said dryly.

Tyler blinked and then his mind clicked back online. “Oh yeah, how’s that engagement ring campaign thingy going?”

I could tell he was fighting hard against his hangover. I was touched by his concern, but that was Tyler. The rock star with a heart of gold.

Or former rock star. Which seemed to be the core of his issues.

I sighed loudly. “The campaign is scattered. Messy. No one knows their head from their ass, and I’m doing everything in my power not to lose my shit on the entire team.”

Veritique was still trying to dig out from an avalanche of bad press. We weren’t the only jewelry company highlighted in that big exposé about sub-par working conditions in South African diamond mines, but all the other companies had the good sense to take some face-saving actions. My dad was never one to apologize, though, and he sure as hell wasn’t one to allow public pressure to “make” him do anything—even to save his own skin. Which was why he’d gotten ousted as CEO, leaving me in the hot seat to try to make things right and get our reputation out of the toilet. So far, it had been an uphill battle. We were taking a beating every damn day.

“You’ll figure it out. You always do. You’re a winner, Cam.” His face shifted into a frown. “Wish some of that luck would finally rub off on me. Reflected glory, you know?”

Tyler looked around and found an unopened bottle of Miller Lite next to the couch. He propped the top of it on the edge of his pock-marked coffee table, then brought his fist down on it, sending the cap flying.

“Dude, seriously? Now?”

I hated that I sounded like a parent, but I wasn’t about to let it slide.

“What? It’s hair of the dog!” He tilted it up and gulped down half the bottle. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ty…”

He threw his hand out at me. “Stop. You’re in my house, so just stop.”

I refrained from saying anything else as he downed the rest of the beer. I hated seeing my friend like this. He was backsliding, big time. I reached for the only thread available.

“Please don’t walk Boris while you’re drunk, okay?” I said in a quiet voice. “He’s a powerful dog. He could pull you down or run off. I need you to be able to look after him.” And yourself, I added silently.

“I love that dog,” he shot back at me, defensive as hell. “I would never put him at risk, and I’m pissed you even suggested it. Jesus, you’re turning into an old woman. You know that? Nag, nag, nag. It’s getting tiresome, bro.”

He leaned forward to scan the floor, and I figured out he was looking for another beer. It didn’t matter how busy I was, I needed to break through whatever darkness that had a hold on my friend.

“Breakfast. You and me. Now.”

Tyler’s eyes widened in surprise. “Do you really have time for that? I’d have thought you’d be too busy.”

I felt a little ashamed that he was right. I hadn’t been making enough time for my friend. I stood up. “Never too busy for you, bro. Let’s go. Greasy eggs and hash browns, stat.”

He nodded and got up slowly, wobbling once he was standing. “I could go for that. But not one of your fancy restaurants, okay? I don’t think they’d let me in.”

I scanned him. The ripped black t-shirt, holey jeans, and beat-up face would definitely raise eyebrows at Balthazar, but no one would outright forbid us entry. Given who I was, I could get away with just about anything. But he was right—this was a day for diner food.

My work could wait.

We headed downstairs, and Tyler turned to me suddenly.

“Before I forget, are you coming to my gig at The Sty?”

The West Village bar was indeed similar to a pig sty, but right now it was the only type of venue he could book.