Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Maybe it’s the Southern accent, but Rikki Finch has scary charm, and I won’t fall for it.
“Thank you.” This is when years of smiling and saying little come in handy. “And I’m great, actually.”
“Oh.” She sounds like she’s feigning surprise. “Really?”
Hold on. Why wouldn’t I be good? Does she know something I don’t?
I double down with an “Absolutely.” She’s a predator, and everyone knows you don’t make any sudden moves with her kind.
“That is so good to hear. You can’t let all the ups and downs of this business get to you.” Her sympathy is a fat clue. She knows some bad news about me.
Great. Just great.
Flashing a fuchsia smile, she lifts her pink cocktail and takes a dainty sip.
Malcolm nods in solidarity. “Hear, hear.”
I’m dying to ask what they mean, but that would be a mistake. They’re trying to get a reaction from me or a scoop. The press always has an agenda. Rikki’s not here to make friends; she’s here to break stories.
I stay quiet, but Malcolm doesn’t. “I had to learn that too, TJ. You just can’t sweat the small stuff. When I started on satellite radio, a couple of douche canoes tried to rip me apart on Twitter and get me canceled. I learned to say fuck the haters.”
He’s right, and that irks me. I hate that fuck the haters is golden advice.
I wish I knew what their buddy-buddy act is about. As the bartender returns with my club soda, I debate excusing myself and ducking into the little boy’s room to Google my name and find out what they know that I don’t. But they’d just talk about me behind my back. So, I drink.
Malcolm jerks his head. “What? No toast?”
How about to gasbags? I lift the glass. “Vegas, baby, Vegas,” I say instead. That’s innocuous.
He clinks. “I will drink to that.”
Rikki joins in, tipping her glass to Malcolm’s then mine. “So how do you feel about the news?” she asks me after taking a sip.
And the answer is she’s angling for a comment for a story. I thank the twenty-three-year-old reporter in me for knowing enough to ask the next question. “Is this on the record?”
She lifts her glass. “Sweetie, if I have a drink in my hand, it’s OTR.” She stops, then adds, “Off the record.”
“I’m familiar with how acronyms work,” I say drily.
Malcolm snaps his fingers. “Burn!”
Ah, fuck. Maybe I did come across like a sarcastic ass.
But the honey badger doesn’t care. “So, off the record,” she prompts, “I wonder how many more revisions Webflix will commission on Top-Notch Boyfriend.”
Ah, so that’s the news.
My pulse surges, but I play it cool. “Always a good question,” I say non-committal, though now I’m dying to know more about my failing adaptation.
“My sources tell me the latest round is terrible,” she says, grabbing her phone. “I dropped the story an hour ago.”
She shoves the cell at me.
My heart climbs up my throat as I read.
Webflix Has the Revision Blues!
Will Webflix ever figure out the problem with Top-Notch Boyfriend? The smart money in Vegas is on a big, fat no. The latest round of revisions makes you wonder just how many more the streaming giant will tolerate before scrapping their marquee queer rom-com. C’mon Webflix, get it right! This gal is jonesing for some diversity on the air! But some projects can’t be saved.
My stomach drops.
Not only is my project a laughingstock again, but I’ve also got to deal with another I’m an ally person.
I paste on a smile as I give a bland response. “You know how it goes.”
Her phone buzzes, and she scans the screen and taps out a reply as she talks. “Don’t I ever.” Then she looks up and pats my hand. “Listen, I’ll let you two have your man talk. I need to skedaddle to see an LGO exec.”
My radar beeps. Jude’s show is on LGO. “About anything in particular?” I ask, nonchalant, though I am not. I’ve got to dig for any intel Rikki might have—for Jude’s sake.
She smiles sweetly. “Yes. A show premiering soon.”
Crap. That might be Jude’s series. I fish to ask more without giving away my motive, but I come up short.
The predator’s done with her meal anyway. Rikki hops off her stool and shoulders her bag. “What a treat to finally meet you, TJ. I feel like I know you. Your projects are a blast to cover. And you can call, email, or text me anytime round the clock. Tip me whenever,” she says as she slides a business card my way.
I take it with a thanks.
The difference between her and Malcolm is she works her ass off. No one could ever accuse Rikki of looking for a shortcut. She’s working it every day and every night, and I have to admire that as she takes off in a pink cloud of smoke and gunfire.