The Last Guy
“Oh, God,” I sigh, polishing off my third gin and tonic. I signal to the bartender for another just as a deep voice rolls through my insides.
“It’s not that bad,” Cade is at my side radiating heat.
Fuck a duck. The man is so close to me I can smell his citrusy aftershave and my traitorous body leans in for a better whiff. He props an elbow on the bar, and I give him a brief glance coupled with a nervous smile. After I’d left him standing in the restroom, I’d practically run to my car to put some distance between us. Comforting, concerned, protective Cade is dangerous.
“So you don’t agree with the insultants?”
“To put you behind the camera?” His tone draws my eyes to his. His brow is lowered and he actually seems angry. “Marv is a nitwit if he agrees with them. You’re one of the best reporters we’ve got.”
Oh. I blink. He’s being kind . . . again. For a minute, I only smile. His suit is long gone, and he’s dressed in jeans. The light blue dress shirt remains, sleeves still rolled up, muscular forearms still on display. Dark hair curls around his ears and ugh! I bemoan the fact that he is impossibly hot.
“Unexpected praise coming from you,” I tease . . . not flirt.
Cade is my coworker. I do not want to bone him.
Oh, yes I do!
“Of course, it’s nothing like the sports desk,” he says, and my eyes roll. There it is. The swagger.
“What are you having?” He nods to my drink.
“Gin and tonic with cucumber.”
“So you’re a Hendrick’s girl?”
“He is the most influential rock guitarist of all time.” I try to joke.
“First, Jimi Hendrix is psychedelic, second, Stevie Ray Vaughan is the most influential rock guitarist of all time, and third, he’s a Texas man.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so. His contribution to Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ modernized the sound of a legend and gave Bowie his first Top 40 hit in a decade.”
My jaw drops, and I can’t help but laugh.
“What? No comeback?”
“I-I was only teasing,” I confess. “I don’t really know that much about rock guitarists.”
The gloat on Cade’s face dissolves. “Oh.” He turns to the bartender and gives him a wave. “Now I’m just embarrassed.”
At that I really do laugh. “I never knew you were such a music nerd. What would the boys in the sports den say?”
“You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, Stone.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, but more laughter snorts out.
“That’s attractive.” His grin is teasing, and he hands the bartender a ten. “So what the hell are you doing here?”
Clearing my throat, I take another pull from the tiny straw in my cup. “I could ask the same of you. I would never have expected KHOT’s chief jock to be hanging out at the Pussycat.”
He does a little shrug and all traces of annoyance are gone. “It’s my little brother’s birthday. He always gets a kick out of taking me to his most fabulous hangouts.”
“Your brother?” I turn back to the group of young guys. “Which one is he?”
I feel Cade gesture beside me, and an attractive guy with blond hair and similar eyes and jawline perks up and waves back. I do a little wave.
“I would think going to a drag bar would be a hard limit for someone like you.” I take another sip.
“Hard limit?” His dark brow furrows and he glares down at me.
“It’s a Fifty . . . It’s a book reference.”
His eyes drift over me. “Into that BDSM shit, Stone?”
I flush. “No.”
Silence. He’s watching me intently.
“Are you?” I ask.
His face is smooth as glass. Not one iota of an expression is there—his reporter’s mask. “For the right girl, I’d do anything.”
I swallow and pretend I don’t hear him, but I can’t deny my heart is pounding a hell of a lot harder since he sat down.
He polishes off his scotch. “Anyway, back to my bro. He had a tough time growing up gay. Our dad is not the most . . . forgiving. Hell, Texas isn’t forgiving.”
“I take it your brother isn’t into football.”
That gets me a laugh, and I’m surprised at the warmth it spreads across my stomach. Don’t forget he’s an asshole! Or is he? I’m getting mixed up.
“Our father doesn’t believe in gays.”
I pull up short. “Doesn’t believe in them? He’s a gaytheist?”
Another laugh. “Good one. Gaytheist.” He signals for another drink before returning to me. “No, he says fags—his word, trust me, not mine—are either perverts or psychopaths, and in either case, they should be institutionalized.”
“Oh my God.” The words are out before I can stop them. “That’s . . . That’s . . .”
“Pretty disgusting,” Cade says under his breath, dimples gone. “Growing up, everything at our prep school revolved around sports, and if you weren’t good, then you’d better hope you were smart and funny. At least Trent’s funny.”
He smirks. “I’m kidding. He’s also smart as a whip. He’s . . . flamboyant, always has been, and Dad, well, he never took to it. Mom, though, she’s the one who loves us unconditionally.”
“What the hell is going on over here? It looks like an undertaker’s convention!” An arm is thrown over each of our shoulders, and Cade’s brother charges between us.
“Trent, I’d like you to meet my coworker, KHOT’s very own Rebecca Fieldstone.” Cade motions to me, and his brother steps back.
“Rebecca Fieldstone!” His voice has taken on the volume of someone celebrating. “That piece you did today on the mini beauty queens was fabulous!”
“Is that so?” I say through a laugh. “You should call my director and tell him.”
“Although, girl, you need to FIRE your makeup artist. That bitch let you down—ouch!” Trent jumps back, and I can only guess Cade gave him an elbow. “Well, anyway, it’s my birthday! Shots! Shots! Shots!”
His entourage soon joins his chanting, and the bartender is quick to comply. Six shot glasses are lined up in front of us.
“Oh, no,” Cade steps back holding up both hands. “I don’t have the flexible hours you keep. I have to be in the office tomorrow.”
“Bullshit! Stop being a workaholic and live a little,” Trent shouts, and a shot of Fireball is shoved into my hand. “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!”
Trent and Co. all lift their glasses and shoot the cinnamon whiskey, leaving only Cade and me staring at each other.
“He does have a point,” I note.
“You’re a bad influence, Stone. I’ll drink, but only if you do.”
“Do it! Do it! Do it!” The group is shouting.
Cade crashes his shot glass against mine. “Skal!” We both throw it back at the same time.
“Ahh!” I squeal as the cinnamon burns my throat. I’ve barely caught my breath when another shot is put in my hand. “Oh! I don’t know—”
I’m cut off by the loud blast of trumpets. Candi Staton’s “Young Hearts, Run Free,” begins, and it’s the start of Chas’s act. I quickly toss back the shot and cheer, twisting my hips and dancing as I rush to the stage.