Boss Girl

"Okay," I said, lowering my voice a bit. They all leaned forward. "Last week he shows up at the hotel room after the Friday late newscast, just like always. Only this time he's got a dozen roses."

"Sounds like a real gentleman," said Neely.

"He also had a ring," I said.

"Oh, shit," said Rica. "An engagement ring?"

I nodded.

"What did you do?" asked Jillian.

"Well," I said, "let's just say that after I told him our working relationship was just that, he would have needed a tub of Viagra and a forklift."

"He really believes that you're romantically interested in him?" asked Jillian.

"Scott Harry is not exactly Stephen Hawking," I said. "One day I was talking about how you remember where you were on important days in history, like on 9/11 or the day Kennedy was shot. And he says, ‘Ted Kennedy got shot?'"

"Good God, what a complete moron," said Neely, who then added the Southern disclaimer. "Bless his little heart."

"What exactly does that mean anyway?" asked Rica, turning to face her.

"What?" asked Neely.

"The bless his little heart thing," said Rica. "You always say that."

"It's considered impolite in the South to say something bad about someone else," said Neely, "so you just add bless his little heart at the end and it cancels out the insult. Why, how would you say it?"

"He's a friggin' idiot," said Rica, just before taking a bite of a bagel.

Jillian started frantically waving her hands. "Can you two stop with the North and South stuff? We're dealing with some serious shit here. Syd's eaten two plates of pancakes because she's not getting any Y-chromosomes, and her main anchor is hopelessly lovesick while trying desperately to remember what the hell he was doing when Ted Kennedy was shot."

"If this convention were in Dallas, they'd turn that into a country song," said Neely.

"So what's his current status?" asked Jillian.

"His performance has slipped," I said.

Neely furrowed her brow. "You already told us he couldn't—"

"On air, for God's sake," I said, shaking my head. "He looks like a lost puppy."

"So waddaya gonna do?" asked Rica, spearing a sausage with her fork.

"He's got a two year contract," I said. "His ratings are great. There's really not much I can do."

* * *

You see trophy wives all the time in New York. The couple always looks the same. Rich old fart who could raise a "separated at birth" question with a Sunsweet prune, and a twenty-something vapid blonde on his arm. He only wants sex, she only wants money, bada bing, bada boom, let's draw up a pre-nup. She multitasks in the bedroom, either counting the cracks in the ceiling or the days till she can bail with enough for a Palm Beach condo.

Old joke about trophy wives:

Man walks into a bar and sits next to a really attractive woman. "Would you sleep with me for a million dollars?" he asks.

"Absolutely," she says, suddenly sitting up straight on her barstool.

"How about a hundred bucks?" he asks.

She gets indignant. "What kind of a girl do you think I am?"

"We've already established that," he says. "Now we're just haggling about the price."

So now I sorta know how a man feels, except, being a woman, I'm not as shallow. (Stop laughing. Stop! Okay, you got me.) While I need a trophy buck, actually sharing the rest of my life with someone who could moonlight for Chrysler as a crash dummy isn't on my to-do list.

Scott showed up at my townhouse after the late Friday newscast like nothing happened, the wrong head in control. He apparently (like any man would) thought that all I needed was a reminder of how much he belonged on my list.

Then I would come to my senses.

While my senses suffered the usual high-speed blowout on the sexual Autobahn, and the Zorro outfit he wore was a nice new wrinkle, I regained my faculties during re-entry.

"You look like you enjoyed that, Ms. Hack," he said, looking down at me while propped on one elbow.

I let my body melt into the five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets as my brain synapses continued to fire sparks. "That's an understatement." I closed my eyes, my face still flashing like a firefly, hoping he would just shut the hell up and let me—

"You can have that every night for the rest of your life."

Annnnnnd…. Cue the cold shower!

I slowly opened my eyes and saw the puppy dog with the granite body just inches from my face, about to kiss me. I sat up before he had the chance. "Scott, I thought we already resolved this."

"I thought you might miss me in Vegas and change your mind."

"No, I haven't changed my mind."

He leaned over to the cherry end table and picked up a glass that had a touch of scotch left in it. "Maybe you need some time to think." He downed the rest of the liquor.

"Maybe you need to remember who hired you." I leaned back against one of the four posts of the bed, which had moments before served as an impromptu stripper pole. "I'm your boss. Why do you call me Ms. Hack in the bedroom if you think I love you?"

"I thought it was part of the dominatrix thing you had going."

Dear God…

"So that's all I am to you? A piece of meat?"

Oh, man, I wish I'd had a camera rolling. Coming from a man that would have been the sound bite of the year.

Hey, great idea for cable… an entire network with older women and younger men.

But back to our regularly scheduled sexual encounter….

"In return you get to anchor in the number one market in America."

He threw back the covers, grabbed his underwear from the ceiling fan blade, and started to get dressed. "You've been leading me on."

"I've done no such thing, Scott. When I interviewed you, I told you that if you wanted the job you should come to my room."

"I thought you were attracted to me."

"I am, physically, but not in a romantic way."

The hurt in his eyes grew and he turned away. He finished getting dressed and started to head for the door. He stopped a few feet from it, picked his car keys off the dresser and turned to face me. "I want out of my contract," he said.

"Not gonna happen," I said.

"We'll see."

* * *

"So let me get this straight," said Jillian from the speakerphone. "Young man who has trouble spelling IQ is offered a job anchoring in New York City. But wait! There's more! As an added bonus, he got to sleep with his hot, red-headed boss to get the job. And there's a problem?"

"Apparently," I said, wishing they were in my office instead of just voices on the weekly Thursday conference call.

It was Neely's turn. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wouldn't most men jump at the chance for mind-altering sex on a regular basis while bypassing the usual dinner and courtship stuff?"

"Courtship? That still exists?" asked Rica.

"In the South it does," said Neely, turning on the drawl. I could almost see the dreamy, faraway look in her eyes.

Rica laughed. "In Brooklyn, courtship's when a guy says, ‘Meter's running. You wanna have sex, or what?'"

"Then most men are from Brooklyn, 'cause that's what they want," said Jillian. "No holding car doors open, no cuddling, no ‘so, what are you thinking?' questions, just clean-out-the-pipes-air-out-the-brain-blast-furnace-sex with a woman who looks like she needs a bail bondsman and a public defender."

An image of a black leather miniskirt and red platform heels that Scott liked flashed through my brain, along with a picture of a blast furnace blowing his hair out of place. I shoved it to the back burner for later.

"And guys say women are hard ta figure out," said Rica. "Fuhgeddaboudit."

"So what should I do?" I asked, looking at the speaker like it was some sexual magic 8-ball.

"Screw him," said Rica.

"She'd like to keep doing that," said Neely. I heard chuckles all around and couldn't help but smile.

"You know what I meant," said Rica.

"So what's the situation this week?" asked Jillian.

"He's not speaking to me," I said. "Though yesterday he went from brooding victim to looking like he's up to something."

"Think he'll show tomorrow night?" asked Jillian.

"We'll find out soon enough," I said.

* * *

Actually the answer swatted the front door of my townhouse around five in the morning on Friday. It arrived in the form of a New York tabloid, complete with a front page picture of Scott Harry and a headline that made my jaw hang open like a trophy bass.

Anchor Goes "Undercover" to Keep Job

Ho.

Lee.

Shit.

I dashed back inside the heavy oak front door, slammed it, and pressed my back against it like I was hiding from a firing squad. Then I quickly unfolded the paper.

It got worse.

Cougar Boss Turns Scott Into Dirty Harry

By Cassandra West

Apparently the news business is no longer couched in secrecy.

It's simply a couch.

Of the casting variety.

That's the story from local anchor Scott Harry, who claims that he was hired by News Director Sydney Hack in return for sex. Harry adds that weekly trysts with his boss are a requirement should he wish to keep his job.

"I've spent every Friday night with Ms. Hack at her home since I was hired, and I only got the job after sleeping with her," said Harry, who has pumped up ratings for the station since his arrival but has grown tired of the arrangement. "I recently asked to be released from my contract, but was told that providing sexual favors was part of my job description."

The attractive, copper-haired thirty-something Hack, known as both Neutron Syd or The Red Queen in the broadcasting industry, raised eyebrows when she hired twenty-nine-year-old Harry and paired him with middle-aged Caroline Jensen, creating what is often referred to in journalistic circles as The Cougar Report . Curiously enough, the biggest ratings increase for the station occurs in the middle-aged female demographic.

Hack could not be reached for comment.

"Yeah, you can't get a comment if you don't pick up the damn phone," I said aloud.

Just as the phone rang.

* * *

It was so quiet I could hear my pumps crunch the royal blue carpet that led to the CEO's office.

I could also hear my heart pounding in my head as I opened the glass door to the reception area.

"Ah, Ms. Hack," said Kendra, the young Asian receptionist who had been busy opening mail. "You're expected. Go right in."

"Thanks," I said.

Then Kendra did something I didn't expect to see at a career wake.

She smiled at me.

Okay, I've never done anything to this woman. She can't possibly be happy that I'm getting fired.

I knocked softly, opened the heavy mahogany door and entered the executioner's den. Thankfully the CEO was on the phone and I got a stay for a few minutes.

"Yes, thank you," said Madison Cartwright, the founder of the network. The slender forty-year-old blonde smiled at me and extended an open palm toward the chair in front of her desk. I took a seat in the red leather chair and hung on to the arms for dear life as she continued the conversation. Her pale blue eyes matched her silk blouse, both lit up by the bright sunlight that poured into the corner office through windows that offered a terrific view of the Chrysler. "Stroke of genius, if you ask me," she said, twirling a slim silver pen in her long manicured fingers. "She's here right now. I'll call you a little later." She hung up, brushed her shoulder-length hair back and looked at me. "Sydney, I'm sorry I didn't get to meet with you Friday but I had a family emergency." She slapped her hands face down on the desk. "All I can say is that I sure never expected something like this from you."

"I'm really sorry, Madison," I said. "I should have—"

"Actually I'm glad you didn't tell me because I'm terrible at keeping secrets." She leaned forward and lowered her voice, even though the office door was closed. "So tell me, how'd you get Scott to go along with it?"

Now I'm really confused.

"Go… along…"

"Syd, the phones have been ringing off the hook. Half the women calling are congratulating you and the other half want to know how to get into news management." Then she held up a printout that I recognized as the daily ratings chart. "And the overnights for this past Friday are through the roof."

"So, you mean, you're not—"

"What? Mad? Are you kidding? We're the talk of the industry. You proved that women don't have to be put out to pasture at forty." She flipped the ratings printout to me. "The young women love him, the old women love him, and they all love you for giving him a mature co-anchor and letting them know the rules can be the same for women as men. You've empowered us, Syd. You turned back the clock to the 1950s so we can make up for lost time and chase the cute men around the desk. Frankly, I'm wondering why the hell I have a female assistant."

I exhaled for perhaps the first time in three days.

"Just one more thing, Syd."

"Yes?"

"I know you were the one who found Scott and all, but I was wondering if—"

"Yeah?"

Madison's smile grew, bringing out her perfect cheekbones. "Maybe one Friday when you're out of town. Would you be willing to… share?"

* * *

I was done with Scott, having "given" him to Madison. So back to checking references.

The leading candidate to anchor our new five o'clock newscast weaved his way past the tables, leaving a trail of hanging female tongues in his wake. The dark gray pinstripe vest draped from Jason Deller's broad shoulders, while his slim hips carried him through the room.

Here we go again.

I sat up straight on my bar stool, crossing my left leg over my right to take advantage of the slit on that side of my royal blue dress.

Just in time for the six-foot-three slice of prime beef to notice.

He extended his hand as he reached the bar. "Sydney?"

"Yes," I said as I shook his hand.

"What's a nice News Director like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.

Good. Sense of humor.

"It's a good place to relax after work," I said.

His cobalt blue eyes stole a glance at my legs, then locked on my own, looking right into my soul and almost putting me in a hypnotic trance. He smiled, revealing dimples that ran like trenches along his rugged twenty-eight-year-old face that bristled with a three-day growth. A shock of coal black hair cascaded over his forehead. He hopped onto the bar stool next to mine and swung it around to face me. His knees gently brushed mine, sending an electric charge through my body.

Damn, he makes Scott Harry look like a Boy Scout.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"I hope that's good."

"Oh yeah."

"And you look good in clothes," I said.

His face flushed a bit as he shook his head. "I can't believe you actually saw that Off-Broadway disaster."

"Hey, Shakespeare in the nude wasn't all that bad."

"Right. That's why I'm still waiting tables uptown after playing opposite Lady McBare."

"Did you have a problem doing nudity on stage?"

"Nah. I just needed the work. At least I got discovered by you, right?"

"Right."

"I'm frankly surprised you'd actually consider an actor to be a news anchor."

"Well, we've had an actor as President and one was the Governor of California. It's all about being able to communicate. What's the difference?"

"True." He looked off to the side for a moment, then turned back to me. "I do have one question that we didn't cover during our phone conversation."

"Shoot."

He bit his lower lip, then fired away. "I've read the tabloids about your… hiring practices. And the regular weekly—"

"Let me answer your question with a question," I said.

"Okay."

I leaned forward and slid my hand on the smooth bar toward his so that our fingers lightly touched. "Hypothetically, mind you. If you were to be offered a job, a great job that paid really well, and one part of the interview process was to take care of the sexual needs of your future boss, how would you respond?

"Hypothetically?"

"Of course."

He shrugged. "Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On who the boss is. If the boss is some twenty-five-year-old ditsy blonde looking for a commitment, then I'm not the guy. Romance can't be part of the picture. If it's some wrinkled sixty-year-old prune, forget it." He looked around, then leaned closer while putting his hand on top of mine. "The boss would have to be, say, a very attractive tall redhead with a great pair of legs and spectacular eyes. It would also be nice if she were a little older than me. I like women who are… seasoned."

Well, rub some spices on me and toss me on the grill.

"So," he continued, "to answer your question. If I were to be offered a great job that required me to have sex with my hot boss, and no romantic strings attached, well…"

"Yes?"

"I'd jump on it."

Gulp. (I don't even want to describe the image that flashed through my head, but let's just call it the really Off-Off-Broadway nude production of Taming of the Shrew.)

"Really," I said, feigning surprise. "You wouldn't consider it any sort of sexual harassment?"

"Oh, please. Hell, I'd let her be in charge in the bedroom too. Great job, free sex, where do I sign? Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course," I said.

"You know, the service at this place is really slow," he said, looking around at the lack of empty tables. "I oughta know, I used to work here. And the food's not that great either."

"True." I reached into my beaded purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tossed it on the bar. "You know, I think we should continue our conversation elsewhere. I have a room at the Plaza."

"They have excellent room service there."

"They do. Are you hungry?"

He licked his lips, hungry eyes looking directly into mine. "I think I will be in a couple of hours."

He hopped off his stool and extended his hand. I took it and slid off the chair, then stood straight and tall, inches away from his face, breathing in his musky cologne.

"Oh, I do have one more question," he said.

Uh-oh. "Sure."

"All I have to do is read and look good, right? No reporting in the field, no journalism stuff, no writing. I mean, I'm an actor, not Edward R. Murrow."

"That's the deal. You're not a real news anchor, you just play one on TV."

"Okay."

"You only have to remember one thing, Jason," I said. "It's not brain surgery. It's just television news."

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