Money Shot (7 page)

It's Scott Harry, the trophy buck who helped
save our New York affiliate.

He's in love.

And you won't believe who the object of his
affections is.

***

"He's in
love?
With
you
?" asked
Jillian.

I bit my lower lip and nodded slowly. The
endless sound of slot machines provided audio wallpaper as I turned
my attention back to the casino buffet breakfast. I shoveled a
forkful of pancakes soaked with syrup into my mouth and savored the
rush of the sugary sponge. The conversation stopped, I looked up,
and saw three women who had stopped eating begging me for more
details with their eyes.

"You can't just drop news like that and go
back to your breakfast," said Neely.

"Details," said Rica. "Now."

I swallowed, took a sip of
water, and looked around to make sure we were out of earshot. Sin
City was crawling with television executives for the annual
convention, and news like this sure wouldn't stay in Vegas. Two
huge old women with fanny packs who had bathed in
Jean Nate
' occupied the
nearest table and were totally focused on their food, shoveling it
in so fast that sparks were probably imminent from their knives and
forks, so I figured we were safe.

"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 part of his job description,
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
to say something bad about someone else in the South," 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."

"What about your to-do list?" asked Jillian.
"Can you live with a blank one?"

The image of our last liaison flashed
through my brain and I felt a charge of electricity run through my
body. "Oh my God, it'll be tough," I said. "For both of us."

***

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 my 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 500 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."

"Yes, I missed our regular Friday night
encounter as you probably gathered. But 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…

I couldn't help but roll my eyes, wondering
how low the wattage on this bulb could be. "Scott, one of your
duties is to keep me satisfied in the bedroom. And you do that
extremely well."

"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 has to sleep with his hot redheaded boss once
a week. 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 were part of my job description."

The attractive, copper
haired thirty-something Hack, known as both
Neutron Syd
or
The Red Queen
in the broadcast
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."