The Last Guy

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  “So . . . how was the date with Sissy?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “You mean the worm farmer, a detail you conveniently forgot to tell me?”

  She laughs. “I didn’t think it mattered what she did. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She left me for a Vulcan.”

  Trent snorts. “Dude. I’m confused. Why are you going out with this Sissy when you have the hots for Rebecca Fieldstone, monkey wrangler extraordinaire?”

  Mom perks up. “The girl on the news? Her video is everywhere!” A gleam grows in her eyes. “I like her. She does that little wink at the end of her broadcasts and her outfits are so stylish. I bet you’d make pretty babies.”

  Babies? FUCK.

  “I do not have the hots for her. She’s a professional career woman—”

  “Who wants to get in your pants.” Trent smirks as he tosses an arm around Mom’s shoulders and whispers conspiratorially. “When I had dinner with them at the station, they could barely keep their eyes off each other. Not that I blame him. If I were straight,”—he shoots a look at Dad—“I’d be all over that. We must invite her next Sunday. I suggest dinner at Raven. The lighting there is perfect for falling in love, plus the piano player is delish. I predict a marriage proposal by the spring.”

  Mom claps. “You always have the best ideas. Let’s do it. Text her and invite her for next week. Oh, better yet, see what she’s doing tonight!” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

  “Yes! Invite her!” Trent pipes in. “And ask Chas too!”

  My jaw tightens. “I’m not texting Stone.” She’s probably resting from our wild night of sexcapades, not to mention I don’t want her at the center of my family’s machinations to get us together.

  “Who’s this girl?” Dad asks, and we all turn to look at him as he stands a few feet behind Mom, fidgeting as he holds a cardboard tray with a tub of popcorn and two beers.

  He’s the outsider and knows it.

  “Rebecca Fieldstone,” Mom says. “She’s the reporter who flashed her boob to all of Houston—but Cade’s being all secretive about her.”

  I groan. “There are no secrets . . .” I stop. It’s no use explaining Stone to them. It would only make things worse.

  “Friction in the workplace?” she exclaims. “Sounds exciting.”

  I exhale. “Mom. Don’t get any ideas. Stone and I—it’s complicated. She’s trying to get an anchor spot.”

  Trent’s eyes are dancing. “You like her. Admit it. Call her.”

  I glare at him. “We aren’t in third grade, Trent. Plus, it’s too late to call.”

  “You’re probably right,” Mom says. “Anything this last minute is a booty call.”

  Trent laughs, and I just shake my head, steering the conversation to Deadrick and the football team.

  “You think they might win a championship?” Dad asks a bit loudly as he inserts himself in the conversation. He looks uncomfortable as hell. Good. It’s going to take more than one movie date to make me change my mind about letting him in our circle.

  “Undefeated so far,” I say. “I just wish I could do more for them. Those kids need everything: better security, laptops in class like the more affluent schools.” I think back to Marv’s comment about fundraising. “They need money.”

  “I can help with that,” he says.

  I arch my brow. Hill Global is worth billions, but the only charities the board supports are renowned research hospitals in Houston. I can’t see them jumping to help a forgotten school—not enough publicity involved.

  Mom ushers him farther into the little group we’ve unintentionally formed. “What are you thinking, Baron?”

  He pauses a moment, and I think I see a bead of sweat on his brow. “Well . . . we need to branch out with tax breaks and helping a local school seems advantageous, especially if my sons are involved.” His gaze flickers to Trent, and he clears his throat. “In fact, I think—and this is just off the top of my head—Trent would be a great help with getting a charity gala together for your school. He’s creative . . . that type of thing . . .” his voice dwindles and he fidgets, an unsure expression crossing his face—almost as if he’s surprised by his own words.

  We stare at him, and it’s quiet except for the bustle of moviegoers as they brush past us.

  Trent’s the first to speak. “Would I get paid?”

  Dad straightens. “Of course. You’d be in charge of the event, organizing it, being the liaison between the company and the school.”

  Sounds like a completely made-up position.

  “What’s your fucking game?” I ask.

  There. I say what I’ve been thinking since I walked in.

  He just blinks at me.

  Mom pops me on the arm. “Be nice and stop saying the F word.”

  Trent focuses on Dad. “You know I’m still gay, right? And no matter what you do for us—or me—I’ll still be gay.”

  He stares at his feet for a few ticks and then looks up. “I’m okay with that.”

  Am I in the right universe? What is up with my dad?

  Regrets?

  Mom?

  Terminal illness?

  I don’t know.

  An announcement lets us know the movies are about to start. Dad glances around nervously, his eyes bouncing off the various posters. “So, um, which show are we seeing?”

  I follow his gaze and check out the lineup of films. There are only three screens in the entire place—and it’s Gay Pride Month at the theatre.

  Trent smiles brightly. “It’s either Brokeback Mountain, Philadelphia, or Transamerica. I’m open. I love them all.”

  “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I quote from Brokeback Mountain.

  Trent grabs his chest. “Be still my heart. I love Jake Gyllenhall.”

  “Yes! I pick that one!” Mom takes Dad by the arm and steers him toward the screening area. “You’ll love it.” She pats his hand. “Probably. It has cowboys.”

  Trent and I fall in line behind them.

  “This is so fucking weird,” I say to Trent, watching them enter the darkened theatre and head for seats in the middle.

  “I’m bringing a date next time. I wanna see how he handles that,” is his reply as we take our seats next to Mom.

  I watch the promo for the coming attractions and my mind drifts to Stone . . . and babies . . . and surprisingly I don’t have a panic attack. I think about my dad and wonder if it’s possible for him to change.

  Life is strange and unpredictable.

  Who the fuck knows what tomorrow will bring?

  It’s ten o’clock Monday morning, and I’m on fire to see Stone. I dreamed about her hula dancing on my cock and woke up with a raging hard-on. It’s time for our monthly meeting with the board, and as I’m headed to the lobby elevator, Marv enters from the opposite entrance. He hoofs it to wait beside me in front of the shiny silver doors.

  “Morning,” I murmur, looking down at him. He’s at least a foot shorter than me, and I enjoy the shit out of it.

  “Cade.” He nods with a spaced-out expression, seeming lost in thought.

  Once the passengers exit, we slip inside the elevator. I push the button just as I hear Stone’s voice.

  “Hold it, please! I’m coming!”

  I’d heard those words a few times this weekend. I grin and hit the hold button.

  She shows up at the entrance and her eyes crash into mine. She’s fucking gorgeous in three-inch heels, a tight red skirt and a soft cream sweater that hugs those luscious curves. I want to eat her up. She dips her chin, a blush rising up her cheeks. I love that she’s got a shy streak in her.

  Her eyes scoot to my companion and she flinches. “Oh! Marv! I didn’t see you there. Good morning! How was your weekend? Mine was great. Awesome! So, so awesome!” She throws her hands up in exclamation.

  I grin.

  He scowls.

  She backs away.

  “Are you getting on or what, Rebecca?” he asks in an exasperated tone.


  I put my hand out to hold the door open. “Well?”

  She shakes her head. “No, no, that’s okay. I-I forgot something in the car. Bye!”

  And she’s gone, practically running away from the elevator.

  I sigh, my mind dancing back to our elevator interlude this weekend.

  “What are you smiling at?” Marv asks as the door swishes shut.

  “Just a beautiful day, Marv.”

  He grunts. “I have nothing to smile about. I’m still getting complaint emails about Rebecca and that damn monkey. She needs to be in production.”

  I stiffen, anger bubbling up. “If anything, it may have garnered us more viewers—like those eighteen to twenty-five-year-old males you’re so worried about. Plus, it was an accident.”

  He harrumphs. “Nothing with her is an accident. She probably planned it—”

  I cut him off. “She didn’t, and you know that. You’re being obtuse and frankly unprofessional. I don’t wish to discuss Stone with you.” My tone is haughty and domineering, and I don’t give a fuck.

  “Wish or not, I’m telling you now. I have the final say in who gets that anchor job, and it won’t be her.” A smug expression is on his thin face.

  “Who then?” I ask as a muscle ticks in my jaw.

  He shrugs and brushes lint off his navy sport coat. “Savannah. She’s young and malleable . . . damn perfect.”

  “So you’ve decided for sure?” My tone is angry. I can’t help it.

  He shoots me a steely look. “Didn’t think you cared about my department, Cade? Change of heart? You can help me present it to the board.”

  My mouth tightens. “I’m not helping you present anything. Savannah doesn’t have the brains to lead the news. She can’t even find Russia on the map.”

  His gaze hardens. “That’s for the board to decide, based on my recommendation.” The elevator door swishes open and we exit. He sends me a side-eye. “Trust me, Savannah is going to send our ratings sky high.”

  My hands clench and I resist the urge to shove him up against the wall.

  I think about what he just said, what he’s about to recommend to the board, and my stomach drops. This is going to crush Stone.

  Rebecca

  KEVIN’S LOUD SLURP fills the van, and I’m too excited to care if he gets diabetes. We’re headed to another live event, this time covering the mayor’s speech and press conference on the GreenStreet Grabber—or Grabbers, depending on if there’s more than one. It’s my golden shot at serious reporter redemption, and I couldn’t be happier.

  Vicky came through for me, giving me a sly thumbs-up when I arrived in the newsroom wearing my red pencil skirt and a cream short-sleeved sweater. No wardrobe malfunctions today!

  Marv’s acting way grumpier than normal, and I just know he’d planned to give this assignment to Savannah. Vicky cut him off at the pass, saying she needed someone who could think on her feet, and Savannah doesn’t have the gravity for a story like this.

  Of course, gravity has not been my friend lately. Still, I got the gig, and I won’t even be bothered by Marv’s parting jab about keeping my clothes on. Bastard.

  The mention of taking my clothes off sends my mind straight to Cade. I’d spent an hour last night filling Chassy in on all the details about the disastrous Hookup4Luv date—which I guess turned out to be a dream come true for Fantasy Phil . . . and me. Anyway, after we’d squealed and lay on the couch discussing all the details, the pros and cons of dating a co-worker, I’d floated to my room to sleep.

  A text from Cade was waiting on my phone: Sleep well, beautiful. I’ll be looking for a chance to get you alone tomorrow.

  It sent a charge straight to my hoo-hoo and made me giggle like a teenager before I slipped beneath the sheets to drift away on fantasies of tomorrow.

  We’d almost had our chance, but Marv had cock-blocked us in the elevator. I’d looked as dumb as Savannah trying to back out of that near-mess. I’m sure the elevator would have burst into flames if I’d ridden up beside Cade.

  I’d chosen this sweater because it hugs my curves in all the right places. I could see the appreciation in Cade’s eyes, and I could just imagine his large hands starting at the hem of my red skirt, sliding lightly up the sensitive skin of my thighs to my—

  “Why is your face all red?” Kevin’s obnoxious voice pops my daydream like a soap bubble.

  “It’s hot in here. Is it hot in here to you?” I reach forward and press the button to turn off the heater in the van.

  “It’s fifty degrees outside!”

  “You’re drinking a slushie. It’s hot in the sun.”

  Pressing my hands to my face, I banish the flush from daydreaming about my sexy lover.

  My luvah . . .

  Stop it, Rebecca. I have to be professional. This is my last shot at proving I’m the most worthy reporter for that anchor seat. Examining the printout, I study the plan for the mayor’s speech. Every news station will have a team at the event, even cable. These muggings have the entire downtown area on alert, and of course, the business community is up in arms.

  “They’re setting up the podium in the central courtyard near Forever 21,” I read aloud. “Mayor Newson will speak for approximately fifteen minutes then do a brief Q&A.”

  I’m scanning my questions, which cover increased police presence, business hours, tourism, when I glance up to see we’re right in front of the elaborately designed parking garage.

  “Get some B-roll of the garage,” I say, sliding out of the seat. “I think the last attack happened on the second level.”

  “On it.” Kevin takes off with his small Avid camera, and I’ve got my makeup bag on the passenger’s seat. No mistakes this time.

  Earlier, the crisp fall weather had helped my hair and makeup, but as the afternoon progresses, the heat and humidity continue to rise. We might have started the day in the fifties, but we’ll finish closer to eighty.

  “Why hello, Rebecca.” Brad Simpson from KLIV, our competing station, sidles up to me. “Great work on that petting zoo story last week. Although, it seems they edited later broadcasts of your . . . eye-popping report.”

  “Shut up, Brad,” I snip, which only makes him laugh.

  “You and I should go out for drinks sometime.”

  I can’t help it. I have to pause and glare at him. “Has anyone ever told you subtlety is not your strong suit?”

  “I noticed Matt’s doing every news show these days. Thought I might toss my hat in the ring for that weekend spot.”

  Ice filters down my spine. Marv would love another guy on staff. “Sick of being at the number two station in town?” I cover, hoping he doesn’t notice the color rushing from my cheeks.

  He only grins. “I’m serious about those drinks. I’ll call you later.”

  “Don’t waste your minutes,” I mutter, turning away, more determined than ever.

  “My plan is unlimited,” he quips.

  I’m sure it is. My heart’s beating faster, but this time, it’s not the excited nerves I love. This time, it’s straight-up fear. I’ve got to nail this.

  One last check in the mirror, and I step back, closing the door and smoothing my hands over my sweater and down my skirt. I couldn’t look any more put-together, and my recent efforts at exercising and eating right—Saturday night excluded, although all that wild sex had to burn some calories—seem to be working.

  Kevin’s back, setting up the antenna and the monitor box for the live feed. I make my way through the mob of reporters to a reserved spot near the front. I catch Mayor Newson’s eye, and I don’t miss his attempts to stifle a grin. Everybody has seen my boob. I have to own it, and put it behind me. With a lift of my chin, I get ready to process what this politician has to say.

  “Ready when you are, Becks,” Vicky says in my earpiece. “I’ve managed to snag you first question.”

  “You’re a rock star,” I say under my breath to my producer back at the station.

  It’s a similar setup as at th
e zoo. We’ll break in on scheduled programming to cover the mayor’s speech live. Kevin is on my left and to the front in the bank of cameras, and he’ll zoom in on me for my questions.

  “What show are we breaking?” I ask her.

  “We’ll cut in at the end of Jeopardy.”

  “They’re going to love that . . .”

  And we’re live. I’m listening closely to the mayor’s speech for any answers to my planned questions. Fifteen minutes passes fast, and I’m praying for no surprises.

  “Start with the increase in police force,” Vicky says in my ear. I’ve sent her a copy of my questions, and I know she’s jotting notes to use in voiceover for the anchors to read in later broadcasts.

  “I’ll now answer questions,” Newson says. “Miss Fieldstone.”

  “Thank you,” I speak loudly and clearly. “What are the plans for increasing police patrols until these muggers are caught?”

  He proceeds to answer, and I won’t have another chance for at least two more questions. Kevin’s recording, but I’m momentarily distracted by a kid in a gray hoodie lurking at the edge of the press pool.

  “Vicky,” I say softly once the mayor moves to the next reporter. “What would make the grabber happiest right now?”

  Seconds pass, and I listen with one ear to Brad asking if businesses are planning to reduce their evening hours. Scratch that one off my list.

  “What would make the grabber happiest?” Vicky repeats my question aloud. “I guess the notoriety, the media coverage.”

  The girl from cable is asking her question, and I know it’s my turn to jump in next. Still, I can’t take my eyes off the tall, skinny kid with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. An inappropriate smirk is on his face, and that little tickle is in my stomach.

  “You’re up,” Vicky says. “Go with tourism numbers.”

  My hand shoots up, and Newson acknowledges me. “Have we seen any decrease in the number of tourists visiting downtown Houston as a result of these burglaries?”

  Newson launches into his “the sky is not falling” prepared answer, but again, I’m only half listening.