Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

RHINOS AND HONEY BADGERS

TJ

The pipsqueak blonde sticks out a hand. “Hey there. I’ve been covering your story. I’m Rikki Finch.”

She’s got ovaries for days and an accent straight out of Georgia.

But she’s not the only one who can put two and two together.

“The woman who took my picture yesterday,” I say as I take her hand.

“Cell phone cameras have changed the world.” She holds tight for a few pumps before letting go. “Good pic, though, right? You guys were so stinking cute.”

“Thanks.” What’s she up to? She already called us “adorbs” in her post. Is she trying to butter me up for a story? Because I’ve got no problem saying no and no and no one more time.

“Seriously. The clicks on that image were a blogger’s dream.” She gives a chef’s kiss as I snag the empty stool.

“A wet dream,” Malcolm chimes in, chortling dude-bro style. He knocks back his drink then sets down the glass. “Where are my manners? What can I get you, TJ?”

“A club soda, thank you.”

Malcolm scoffs with his whole body. “C’mon. It’s Vegas. Live a little.”

No way will I loosen my lips with liquor around these two. One’s a rhino, the other’s a honey badger. I’ll keep all my wits, thank you very much. “I’m good,” I say.

“Fair enough. But just so you know, this doesn’t count as drinks.” He slaps a meaty paw onto my shoulder. He’s sweaty, and now my shoulder is damp. “You’ll owe me a proper scotch back in New York.”

That’s a hard pass.

But do I deal with Malcolm’s invite or fend off the reporter’s questions? I pick my poison and turn to the terrifying blonde in the pink blouse. She’s like one of those tiny pistols you’d keep in an equally small purse like the one she carries, also pink.

“So, what brings you to The Extravagant tonight, Rikki?” I know Malcolm’s agenda, but I don’t know hers.

“Stone’s concert, of course. Everyone’s here. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, and it is so much easier to get around this city than Los Angeles. But enough about me. How are you? I am loving your shirt. The chipmunks are super cute.”

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.

Malcolm points a thumb at her retreating figure, shuddering. “I wouldn’t want to run into her in a dark alley.”

Is he unnerved by Rikki too? Ugh. Now we have something in common. “She’s tough. A reporter should be,” I say begrudgingly. As much as I want to despise Rikki, I can’t.

He leans closer, whispers like a mafioso sharing wisdom. “That’s why I keep her in my back pocket. I always want someone that dangerous on my side.”

That’s pretty strategic. The fact that he has a brain behind his bluster is terrifying.

I drink more of the club soda, wishing it were scotch, wishing I weren’t learning about my project from The Man’s Man and the most feared reporter in Hollywood. “So, what’s on your mind, Malcolm?” I’m not in the mood to play games.

He narrows his dark eyes at me. “Talk to me about bloggers. They’re so powerful. I want to know how to use them to promo my book—The Man and His Main Squeeze. Don’t steal my title, okay?”

“It’s all yours.” Because I’m generous that way.

“I want to make a big splash when it’s done. Like a fat kid cannonballing into a pool.”

I cringe over the low-brow analogy. “Bloviators weigh more. Maybe use that as a metaphor next time.”

His eyes widen with gratitude. “Sweet. Appreciate the tip.” He taps out a note on his phone, talking under his breath. “Put bloviator joke in gym pickup scene.”

Oh, score! He doesn’t know what bloviator means.

Dear book gods and goddesses—please let him use “Bloviators weigh more” in his novel. I will burst from delight.

“Anyway, so when I finish it, I want to get in good with book bloggers. What broke you out? I bet it was going viral. Was that breakup staged for TV? You and the chicken guy. You planned that whole just love me for my chicken bit, right?”

Wow. I am speechless. I did not stage getting dumped on TV. “Nope. All real,” I say.

And all awful.

He gives me a c’mon look. “Just admit it. That stunt made your book soar. It was on TikTok and everything and you just took off,” he says, whistling like a rocket launching.

“It was not scripted.”

Malcolm winks. “Whatever you say. But dude. You’re so gonna do that with Jude, aren’t you? Have a nice public split to send your next book up the charts?”

My stomach twists in a sour knot. He’s hitting way too close to home. “No,” I bite out.

He wiggles his fingers, wanting more dirt. “Man to man. Just tell me. Because I’ll do it too. I will stage a split with my girl Belinda.”

This asshat has a girlfriend? I feel so sorry for Belinda. He snaps his fingers at a passing woman in a silver sequined dress, summoning her over.

“Hey there. What is it, MM?” she coos.

“You’ll break my heart on TikTok if it helps me sell my books, right, hon?”

“Course I will,” she says, then plants a loud kiss on his cheek. “You can even say I was using you for your money.”

“Perfect,” he says with an appreciative smile. “You’re so smart.”

She runs a lacquered nail down his arm. “Ooh! What if you play it up and say I ran off with another guy? Make me sound like a gold digger, MM.”

“Love the way you think,” he says, squeezing her butt. Then he looks at me, pleased. “She calls me MM. Makes me think of the candy.”

“Huh,” I deadpan. “MM does not make me think of candy.”

“TJ, maybe you need to bone up on your pop culture references,” he chuckles.

Yeah, I don’t think that’s the problem, pal.

Belinda gestures to the casino. “I’m going to play some more slots before the show.”

He hands her some dough, then she blows him a kiss and slinks off. He watches her go, then sighs contentedly. “Smart cookie. So many women are after us for our money, so everyone will buy that breakup line. Just like that dude iced you because you were too popular. So, I just need to stage a breakup like you did and I’m in the romance club?”

This guy takes callous to a new level.

And he’s not worth my time. I push back from the stool, grab some bills from my wallet, and toss them on the counter. I’m tired of his bloviating. I’m tired of his sexism. I’m tired of his veiled homophobia. “Malcolm, I appreciate your interest in the romance genre. But I didn’t stage a breakup with Flynn to sell books. It happened and it was embarrassing. You want a silver bullet for success? Here it is. Write a good book. Make your readers feel. Give them some conflict, some heart, some emotion. And maybe consider a new tagline because straight-up romance with a man’s touch makes you sound like both a sexist and a homophobe.” I take a big breath as if ten tons lighter. Guess I needed to get that off my chest. “Enjoy the show.”

I leave the bar feeling better, thanks to giving Malcolm a piece of my mind, and worse, courtesy of the news that my Webflix project needs a lifeboat.