Boss Girl. Nic Tatano
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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