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
