“Yes I am, and no, I’m not fucking him, but he is my friend’s boyfriend.”
“I don’t buy it. Why are you really interested?”
Because he asked me, I want to say. Because it’s nice to feel needed, like I have the power to make a difference. And because, well, maybe because there is a hot piece of rugby playing ass attached to the deal.
“Because I just am,” I say. “Now can you write it up?”
“No,” he says.
I groan loudly and step away, throwing my hands dramatically in the air. “Why not? Please?”
“Kayla, honey, I’m swamped as it is. Why don’t you ask someone else?”
I look around me. Even though half the people in the office seem to be a big fan of Margarita Mondays and enjoy it when I have too many tequila sunrises and end up dancing on rickety tables, I don’t think they like me enough to write something I suggested. It’s kind of their job to come up with ideas, not mine.
“Or, why don’t you write it?” he suggests.
I glance at him, raising my brow. “Really? I said that to Joe but he laughed at me.”
“Joe laughs at everyone. It’s his thing. Along with being a grumpy old man who either needs to fuck or get fucked, I’m not sure which one.” I grimace. “I say write it anyway and hand it in. I’ll even help you with it, editing and all that. Clean it up. You said you went to school for journalism, didn’t you?”
“Communications,” I mutter. “Majoring in journalism.”
He waves his hand at me, stopping to admire his nails as they catch the light. “That’s good enough. Half the people in here don’t even have degrees. I don’t. Just blind luck and a pretty face.”
“Well.” I lean against his desk and give him a pleading look. “Can you give me some pointers?”
Neil spins around in his chair, hands folded at his stomach over his crisp, deep purple shirt. His lips twist into an amused smile and I’m reminded of a villain in a movie. “First, honey, you need an angle.”
“I just told you the angle. Rich guy does good.”
He makes a sound of disgust and throws his head back. “Boring!” he yells. Someone in the background yells at him to shut up but he just waves at them dismissively. He props his elbows on his knees and points his fingers at me. “No. No rich guy does good. No one cares about rich dudes, and unless they’re an Oscar-winning actress by the name of Susan Sarandon, people generally don’t care what rich people are doing, good or not.”
“Not true,” I point out. “All the gossip mags are about the rich and all they are doing wrong.”
“Find another angle,” he says.
I try and rack my brain. “The city needs this though. Everyone is always complaining about the lack of affordable housing. People all over the world poke fun at our homeless populations. This is a solution. It should be a good thing no matter who does it.”
“Look, there are tons of people doing good every day. Most people don’t care unless you make them care. We’re all too trained to shut down from all the shitty, shitty details of life and the billions it screws over. We’re all selfish and self-centered, serving our own needs until someone makes it affect us personally. So, how can you do that?”
Jeez. All these years I worked with Neil, partied with him at clubs, held his hand while he cried over some guy with a mustache, and he’s never seemed as smart as he is right now.
“Well, Bram is hot.”
“That helps…” he says, perking up noticeably.
“And his partner is even more so,” I tell him, and I find myself smiling dreamily as Lachlan filled my head. “He’s a rugby player from Scotland.”
He sat up straight. “Is he a big deal?”
“Oh,” I say with a smirk. “He’s big.”
“You know this personally? What about your vow?”
I exhale, loud and exaggerated. “No, I do not know this personally. I just saw him last night at the bar. And he…he’s…just such a man. I can’t explain it. He’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And he’s built like a redwood.”
“Like a North Cali redwood?” he asks excitedly.
“Just like,” I tell him, happy I have someone to talk about my sudden obsession with. “He’s covered in tattoos, he’s got money, he’s got lips you just want to suck on.”
“Amongst other things.”
“And I think someone mentioned he’s good at what he does. He was in the World Cup for Scotland a few times I think.”
“Shiiiiit,” Neil says with a grin, waving his hand in the air like he’s sprinkling pixie dust on me. “Kayla, there’s your angle. The hotness. And the celebrity.”
“You just said no one cares about celebs doing good. And I’m not sure he’s a celebrity just because he was in the World Cup of Rugby. No one watches that.”
“Well, he’s a celebrity back home, maybe. And if he’s not, you’ll write him as one. That’s always more interesting. Besides, you know the audience for this magazine—women and the gays.”
I smirk at him. “Has anyone ever told you that if you weren’t so gay and cute, you’d be totally offensive?”
“That’s how I get away with it,” he says with a wag of his brows. “So, go and do this. Interview him. Forget the other guy. And see if you can get some photos of Mr. Redwood. Nude, preferably. You know lots of rugby players pose for nude calendars. It’s, like, their thing.”