The Last Guy

Lorie speaks again in my earpiece, and I know this is all live. “So Rebecca, I hear the zoo is up for a few awards?”

“Yes, we just found that out today, Lorie—Oh!” A monkey hand is inside my blouse. It is on my boob. The monkey is gripping my boob, and I push her body with the mic. “No no!” My voice is still high, but like some freakishly strong nightmare-baby, Pixie won’t let me go. She’s pulling my shirt apart.

“Stop, Pixie!” I yank her primate wrist while still jabbing her with the mic. “Stop!” My entire boob is on display for all of Houston to see, and the monkey won’t let me go.

“Oh, my word!” Albert grabs Pixie around the waist and lifts her off me.

I have just enough time to jerk the material over my exposed breast before the segment ends. The camera is shaking violently with Kevin’s laughter. My hair is wild around my head, and I’m blinking fast, trying to remember my name.

“Well, that is exotic!” Matt’s voice is in my ear, and in the background, I can hear Lorie’s snorts.

My face is hot as a firecracker, but I’m a professional. I clear my throat and do my tag. “That’s just a little taste of what’s in store for you at the Houston petting zoo. I’m Rebecca Fieldstone, KHOT 5 news.”

The red light flickers off, and I collapse on the bench.

Cade

STONE HAS THE best tits in the state of Texas, but she didn’t intend to bare one to the city of Houston, population roughly two million. KHOT is the biggest affiliate here, so if only ten percent of viewers are watching (vastly underestimating) then two hundred thousand people just saw what happened.

Sure, it’s funny—if I hadn’t had my head between those glorious orbs two nights ago, and I didn’t know what a predicament she’s in. My lips flatten. Is it irrational to be pissed off and jealous at viewers seeing her tits? YES.

I’m not on air yet, but I watch from the side as the news unfolds after the live feed from Stone. From the anchor desk, Matt’s lips are twitching as he struggles to keep from laughing. He covers it—unsuccessfully—by adjusting the papers in front of him and clearing his throat. “That Rebecca . . . always monkeying around.”

Lori’s smile is overly bright. “Sorry folks. Not exactly the kind of petting zoo you might have been expecting.”

It’s Matt turn to speak. “And now here’s KHOT’s Cade Hill to keep us abreast of what’s up this weekend in sports . . .”

Matt gives me a look, as if expecting me to play along, but I ignore him and get down to business. “The headline this weekend is the big rivalry between Texas and Texas A&M. The teams haven’t played in six years—since Texas A&M joined the SEC—and you know I’ll be watching.” I hold up my pinkie and index finger for the Longhorns. “My blood runs orange for Texas.” I wrap up the weekend rundown as video footage rolls of the top teams in college football. I finish with the World Series playoffs, and Matt and Lorie take it back after I’m done.

A bit later, I head to the break room to grab something to eat before the ten o’clock broadcast. I pass by Marv’s office and glance over. With dissatisfaction plowing his brow, he’s glaring at a replay of the previous broadcast—specifically Stone. I knock on his open door and pop my head in. “Everything good, Marv?”

He starts, as if lost in his own thoughts, and spears me with a look. “Stone just bared her rack to our viewers—but trust me, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you, Hill.”

Ah there it is . . . the ol’ you waltzed in here and got a job you didn’t deserve routine. I nod, tucking my hands into my pockets. I want to antagonize him, and it has little to do with the animosity he harbors for me and a lot to do with how he’s been treating Stone.

“Should have given her the Smith story.” I pivot away before he can comment.

In the break room, several reporters are at a table enjoying takeout from Wang’s, a Chinese place down the street.

I walk to the back of the room to the ultramodern kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances, a granite island, and the best pots and pans on the market. The station films cooking segments for the weekend show there, but during the week, we use it.

I open the fridge and pull out the ingredients for a BBQ chicken quinoa salad. Trent bounces in the break room wearing a lanyard pegging him as a visitor. He’d called earlier and wanted to have dinner together.

He strides over to me wearing his skinny jeans, Converse, and his favorite The Lion King shirt from when the stage production had come to Houston and he’d snagged a bit part. His blue eyes are twinkling as he takes a seat on one of the stools at the island and scoops up a handful of almonds I’d set out to snack on.

“What’s up, bro? Haven’t heard from you since the Pussycat.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Did you go home with that hot little reporter? She was all over you on the dance floor.” He sings the bow-chicka-bow-wow song.

I wasn’t telling him shit. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want people gossiping about us.”

He shrugs. “Do you care?”

I scowl. I love Trent, but sometimes he can be obtuse. “Of course, I care. I don’t want to make any waves for Stone—or me.”

He thinks about it. “Fine then. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Carry on with your sautéing of the chicken. I’m hungry.”

I dish out the salad in two bowls, creating layers of quinoa, shredded BBQ chicken, leftover grilled corn, and black beans.

Trent dives in, talking between chews. “Have I told you lately how glad I am you love to cook healthy shit for me?”

“It’s not shit. It’s protein, vegetables, and spices.”

He waves me off. “You know what I mean. You make my gluten-free diet amazing. I’m feeling good, no numbness in the joints or IBS—I was an old man before they figured out my allergy. Love you, bro.” He pops a bite of avocado in his mouth.

“Just a recipe from my NFL days.” I’m not a fancy cook, but I know how to cook healthy.

Trent is guzzling down the salad just as Stone walks in the door. She looks like a pissed off porcupine, ready to pop off a spear if anyone says a word. Her hair is a jumbled mess as if she’s put it up and taken it down and few times.

And she’s still wearing that damn shirt the monkey busted open.

The entire break room turns to take her in. It’s like slo-mo.

Brace yourself, Stone, I mentally send her way, but of course, she isn’t a mind reader.

No one has spoken and it’s eerily quiet as she halts at the Wang table and runs her eyes over them. She raises her arms, her hands doing the come on gesture. “I know you’re dying. Let’s hear the smart ass remarks.”

“Quite the booby trap you landed in, Becks,” calls someone from the back.

“Hey Becks, you’re my new breast friend,” another one says on a snicker.

“That’s one lucky monkey,” someone else murmurs.

Savannah’s nose is turned up as if she smells bad fish. She stares at Stone. “Did you plan to expose yourself like that?”

Stone throws back her shoulders and glares at the reporter. “Seriously? You think I told the monkey to paw me in front of millions?” Her frustration is palpable as she heaves out a long sigh. “No is the answer, in case that wasn’t clear to you, Savannah.”