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I would have gotten whatever I could off Easterly Ribbon, and any benefit for Easterly’s own good would’ve been a fortunate side effect.
I couldn't put the poor girl above my shattered brother, my own flesh and blood, or my churning rage.
So why am I so worried about that girl right now?
Why the fuck do I feel so guilty for the selfish prick I would've been without Callie in the mix?
Because of me, Easterly Ribbon ran back to Haydn, and I'm afraid for what he’ll do to her if he finds out she spoke to someone connected to me.
I'm definitely the reason why Callie’s face is splashed all over the internet in a position that compromises not just her privacy, but her professional reputation.
Groaning, I press my face into my fingers.
There’s not enough beer in the world to drown out this shit storm.
There’s also zero point in getting drunk in self-pity.
It’s after midnight.
I need a few hours of sleep to set my armor and get ready to tackle the fallout in the morning.
I head inside and throw back a third beer just to numb how sharp everything feels.
It’s enough to get me to throw myself in a bed that smells just like her, gardenias and sex and us.
It keeps me tossing and turning all night, falling in and out of a fitful, rough sleep.
Sleep that’s broken before dawn by the sound of my phone exploding with a dozen unread texts and missed calls.
Groaning, I roll over and stare up at the shadows skating across the ceiling, my arms flung out to either side.
I feel like death warmed over.
Fuck my life. Preferably with a rusty screwdriver.
I snag my phone and drag it over, squinting at the screen.
A few dozen emails and texts, mostly from Legal.
Missed calls from Frank, and unknown numbers that probably belong to reporters who managed to get my contact info and are trying to turn me from the scooper into the scoopee, judging by the intrusive texts from the same numbers.
I scowl at the irritating square of hell-light.
Then my heart sinks when I notice what's missing.
Not a goddamned thing from Callie.
Maybe deep down, some part of me thought she’d want to talk it out once things cooled down and we spent a night apart. Give me a chance to make it up to her.
When did I get this weak?
I have to talk to her and cobble together a quick text.
I’m sorry. I had no idea we were being watched or that someone would use you to get to me. I never should've put you in the line of fire.
Yes, I’m an arrogant bastard, but I’ll always apologize when I’m wrong.
I’m still angry with her for meeting with Easterly secretly.
Still, she’s not the one who screwed up my one chance to get the dirt on Haydn.
I am.
We’ll sort that later.
First, I need to clean up this mess I made.
By the time I drag myself into a hot shower, there’s been no answer. My heart drops to my knees.
Whatever.
If she won’t answer me, I’ll go to her.
Even if she won’t talk to me, I’ll find a way to make this right.
I’ll bury that story, even if it costs me my whole damn empire.
I couldn’t save Barry.
I may not be able to save Easterly.
But I can do something for Callie.
I finish getting dressed, meet my car outside, and direct Dominick to Just Vibing.
My heart pounds like an angry fist against the side of a steel drum by the time I step onto the magazine’s floor.
Everyone on the main floor stops and stares at me like I've sprouted a second head.
There’s a special sort of silence when people know shit.
This hush is all awe, fear, and greedy interest, because whatever they know, it’s still not enough to satisfy their hunger.
I have to fight to ignore the watchful silence following me as I stride to Callie's office.
Of course, she isn't there.
I should've fucking known.
The office looks emptied out. Nothing but her work computer and phone remain on an empty desk, unoccupied chair, papers and photos and binders full of sticky-note-marked pages gone like they never existed.
Nothing except Matilda, the previous owner and transition director, who greets me with a surprised smile.
That’s how little time it’s been, I realize.
The transition director hasn’t even phased herself out yet.
Still, I’ve changed so much, knocked on my face by a pint-sized whirlwind.
Old me would've dismissed Callie right now for running away with disinterested contempt.
The me I've become, he’s cracking in half, right down the middle.
Matilda pauses, looking at something on the computer before looking up.
“Oh...Mr. Osprey,” she says with something like pity. She’s bending over Callie’s empty chair, but it hits me like a load of bricks that she’s not Callie.
She doesn’t belong there.
I suck in a rasping breath, hating that I have to confirm the inevitable.
“She’s gone?” I snap like I don’t already know the goddamned answer.
