Not me.” When it came to picking up a man, Beth was as far from the coolly sophisticated Em as a virgin from a call girl.
She hung up and looked at her computer screen, the cursor pulsing like her own nervous heart. She pictured herself throwing on something slinky and marching into a bar, pickup radar pinging. No way. Not in a million years.
“THIS DOESN’T WORK for me, Beth,” Will told her, holding the printout of her revised-to-death column. He’d asked her to come in to talk it over. Not a good sign. “It’s too wooden, too cookbook. Like a kinder, gentler Cosmo anecdote.”
“Tell me what you really think,” she said glumly. The worst was, she knew he was right.
“Where’s the energy? The scrumptious detail that is Em’s trademark? Hell, your description of the wine is hotter than the bedroom stuff.”
“I had to change it at the last minute. I can do better.” Except her expertise was in reporting, observing and interpreting real experiences, not writing fiction.
Will grabbed a magazine from a pile on his desk— Man’s Man, she saw—the California-based cross between Esquire and Maxim whose parent company was about to take over Phoenix Rising. He opened it to a page he’d dog-eared, tapped it and turned it to her. “Man’s Man Gets Some” by Z. “This is what we want—our version of this Z writer.”
“This is a men’s magazine,” she said. “Phoenix Rising has women readers, too.” She tried to hand it back.
“Keep it for inspiration. Give me something I can work with, Em. We’re leaking readers all over the place. And women like to read about sex, too.”
She noticed deep worry creases in Will’s forehead and sweat rings staining his shirt. Something was worse than he was saying. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He sighed. “The thing is, the VP of Man’s Man editorial will be here next week to talk about the makeover. He’s going to reassign and refocus. The mantra at MM is edge, titillation, heat. I want to keep your column, but it’s got to deliver. You have to dazzle me—and him.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, her stomach twisting with tension.
“I know you will,” he said. “You can do it. Just, I don’t know, make it more vivid, more fresh, more real.”
Vivid, fresh, real? Right. Her heart heavy, Beth read over the Man’s Man column as she headed out of the building. It was sex, sex, sex—no warmth, no class, no sensitivity.
This was lame. And gross. A bunch of phallo-centric drivel. Which was the last thing Phoenix Rising readers needed, no matter what the Man’s Man hatchet man wanted.
She could do better. She had to. She couldn’t fake it, though. Not and make it vivid, fresh and real. There was only one way to do what she needed to do.
On the sidewalk outside the building, she shoved the magazine under her arm and hit speed dial three on her cell.
“Hello?” Sara said.
“Tell me everything I need to know about picking up a man.”
“Really?”
“No. Wait. Make that meeting a man. Talking, flirting, getting to know him, all that. Oh, hell, just help me, Sara.”
2
ADAM RAFAEL JARVIS, AJ to friends, Rafe to the world, pushed into the hotel lobby, his work for the day done. Thank God. He ran his fingers through his hair, weary to his bones. He’d been as gentle as he could with the staff at Phoenix Rising, but he’d given them the reality check they needed. No point ducking facts when they came with negative dollar signs. The pub’s circulation was in the toilet and the Man’s Man formula was its only hope.
He’d done his best to minimize the pain. There would be changes—more salespeople, fewer columnists, less news, more features—but if everyone went along with what he’d laid out, no one would lose a job.
He enjoyed working with the managing editor, Will Connell, a savvy guy and seasoned editor. Still, the staff’s pale faces and the tension in the air had drained him. He was getting soft in his old age. He was only thirty-five, but lately, that felt old.
He needed a drink, so he angled off to the bar for a quick Scotch to ease the tension of the day.
He sat at the end of the bar, where he could check out the clientele—an old reporter habit—and ordered a Scotch rocks.
The place was busy with conventioneers—identifiable by their plastic name badges—and locals from nearby offices, wearing business clothes, drawn by the happy-hour prices, no doubt. There were a few unattached women, he noticed—a cluster near the bar and a few in booths.
One woman in particular caught his eye. Dressed to kill in a clingy blue dress, she moved toward the restroom alcove with a determined stride, but wobbled in her heels, like a kid wearing her mother’s pumps. Driven, but shaky. Hmm.
Great curves, firm-looking breasts, her hair swept up in a style that invited a man’s hands, but as she passed, he saw it was held in place by a barrette in the shape of a cartoon kitty.
A hot babe with a child’s heart? Interesting contradiction. And a great ass, he saw, as she disappeared from view.
He turned his attention to a guy flirting sheepishly with three women at a booth. He was either married or their boss. Rafe would love to get close enough to eavesdrop and verify his hunch. He smiled at himself. More knee-jerk reporter stuff. He was obviously bored.
He took a drink, welcoming the smoky burn. He liked travel, liked visiting the other MM properties, liked making his mark on the magazines they snapped up. But the rest of his job was getting predictable and he was tired of charity events, stakeholder meetings and advertising revenue reports.
Strangely enough, he found he missed journalism. He’d been thinking a lot about his days at the Miami Tribune, where he’d been the lead reporter on an investigative project about funeral companies. He’d dug through piles of records, coaxed reluctant bureaucrats to spill, uncovered the kernel of the crime and then helped write the series that sparked an over-haul of the industry, new legislation and a Pulitzer nomination.
The work had been rewarding, but at the time, he hadn’t realized how much it meant to him. He’d been a restless guy in his twenties. A couple of feature assignments further raised his profile, and he’d gotten an offer at Man’s Man as a feature writer. The money was great and he liked the Bay area. Before long, he’d moved into editing, a new challenge, and then into management as a vice president.
Where he now felt stuck. He’d made his choices, though. The publisher counted on him. Maybe he was just going through a restless period that would pass.
He’d spend one more day in Phoenix, during which he’d go over details with Will and talk to the last writer—E.M. Samuels, the entertainment columnist, who was coming to the magazine offices for her check and mail.
He wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. The woman’s work epitomized what was wrong with the pub. She reported on food, wine and clubs with a sort of Town and Country flavor that was passé for the target demographic—and the times.
