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Everything’s coming together perfectly.
Easterly and I are seeing eye to eye. She’s in Frank’s good hands along with a signed affidavit outlining Haydn’s abusive behavior.
By now, she and at least six other former clients of that jackal’s should have cases pending—considering I made sure he was formally served with papers this morning.
Including a case on my brother’s behalf, acting as his executor myself.
Frank was as giddy as a little girl when I showed him that contract clause. I trust him to completely rip Vance’s life out from under him, rung by rung, until the fuck drowns in the mud below.
His end is nigh.
I finally have what I’ve worked for—no, better. I have the faint chance that one day Barrett will understand what happened.
What this was all for.
Why I spent so many years lost in the fucking wilderness, and why I couldn’t fathom having a life beyond work and the chase until her.
If only victory didn’t feel so hollow right now.
Because as much as I’ve gained from this, it’s cost me Callie.
If I ever had her in the first place.
How the hell can you say you had a woman that you treated like a pawn, only recognizing just how valuable, how amazing she was when it was too late?
It’s been too long. I don’t think she’ll ever have a change of heart.
I don’t think my feelings were enough to make up for the gruesome shit I’ve done.
Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy. That’s all I want for her now.
Her happiness, even if it’s built without me.
Nothing else is necessary.
That includes the traffic, the credit, the satisfaction of being the one to splay Vance Haydn’s downfall across the media, using The Tea as the instrument of his humiliation.
That’s not what we’re about anymore.
I make the conscious choice not to wade in.
Though that doesn’t mean I won’t let someone else take a swim.
So I flash Barrett a smile and say, “Hey, give me a second, man. I need to make a call.”
Then I tap a half-forgotten number buried in my contacts—lightly punching Barrett’s arm when he teases me about calling a girl.
I wish it was the only girl worth calling.
It’s actually Mason Leary, the owner of The Chicago Dish.
A little derivative, I know.
We’ve fenced for years over who claimed the name format first. We've also fought for space in this hypercompetitive market like starving wolverines.
Our relationship isn’t friendly—especially considering he was one of those happy little fucking elves who splashed my tryst with Callie all over the front pages of his rag.
I’m not surprised by the hostility in his tone when he picks up after several rings.
“Osprey?” he snarls. “I hope you’re calling to tell me you’re retiring, after all the bullshit stunts you’ve been pulling. The thing with your own editor must’ve been quite the black eye, huh?”
“Not quite,” I say coldly. “Show me you have a brain, Mason. Shut your yap and get your pen...because I’m about to hand you the story of the year.”
* * *
I’m not surprised it takes the entire drive to the club to work my magic.
It’s a little place called the Pog & Pug.
Whoever names Chicago bars has some serious explaining to do.
By the time we’re there, I’ve convinced Mason that I’m on the up and up, and this isn’t some half-cocked revenge plot. That I’m really giving him a smoking hot exclusive, that I’m telling the truth, that I can lend him vetted sources before he runs with it to the tune of national coverage and the ad windfall that brings.
All I ask for in exchange is that he work the right angles to get people off Callie’s back.
Stop talking about her, stop prying after her, pull the articles his outlet already published.
“The fuck? You’re not on drugs, are you?” he asks suspiciously. “I thought you’d love the notoriety, honestly. The villainous lady-killer behind the most scandalous publication in the Midwest. What the hell’s with you breaking character, Osprey?”
When I don’t say anything, he grunts.
Like he’s so surprised he's winded from a blow to the gut.
“Goddamn. You really fucking care about that gal, don’t you? This is real...not just gossip shit.”
“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but yes. Something like that,” I clip.
“Yeah, well...” He sounds uncomfortable—I guess it’s that disturbing to find out a monster like me can fall in love. “Lucky for you, I still have a heart. Small. Half-burnt. Possibly the size of a walnut, but...it’s there. I’ll do my best for you, okay? Even if you know I can’t make any big promises.”
He doesn’t wait to hear me say “thanks.”
We don’t have that kind of vibe, even if he’s closer than anyone else to being that comic-book frenemy Callie teased me about.
Once our business is done, we disconnect, just in time for the Rolls to let us out on the sidewalk in front of the club.
