Boss Girl

Then Neely took things a step further, deciding to ditch the traditional anchor desk and have both anchors stand during the entire newscast. Dawn barely came up to Nick's shoulder, and between his impressive stature and her killer legs, they looked like the top of a wedding cake. Dawn made it a habit to always sign off first at the end of the newscast, then turn and look up longingly at her co-anchor who told viewers, "Have a great night," before looking down and smiling at Dawn.

As always, a local tabloid managed to dig up pictures of Dawn on a cheerleader swimsuit calendar and Hallinger during a bare-chested weigh-in from a bowl game (there are those damned leaks again!). Under the headline Rah-Rah and Ga-Ga,the photo splash made the anchor team hotter in Dallas than jalapenos.

So at this point you're probably thinking, "Hey, Syd saved her job with great ratings and women over thirty all over the country are rethinking their sex lives." And you'd be right.

But given enough ointment, there's always a damned fly.

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 Naté, 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 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—