Money Shot by N.J. Harlow (smart books to read TXT) 📕

black velvet. His fiveo'clock shadow is a light brush stroke of virility.

Members of my target demographic drool,posture dramatically improves as c-cups raise their hands forattention, and forks are suspended in midair over crème brulee ashe passes. I can see it in their eyes as they note my bar stool ishis destination.

He's ten years younger than her.

Why not me?

And I know he's the key to the ratings.

Damn, it's so simple. Robbing the cradle.Age inappropriate. Cougar newscast. Or call it whatever. Olderwoman, younger man.

I shove my long copper tangles back behindone ear, widen the eyes that have been dipped in the Caribbean(thanks to the kind folks at Eye-World, with several convenientlocations to serve you) and stand to greet him, my heels taking myfive-ten slender frame up to his level. I'm the long-stemmed RedQueen of the Garden.

Scott Harry extended his hand. "Good to seeyou again, Ms. Hack." His deep, smooth voice flowed, the edges ofthe words smoothed over as they segued into one another.

"Sydney, please," I said, sliding back ontothe stool. "Our table won't be ready for a half-hour. Would youlike a drink?"

"Never drink on a job interview," he said,smiling, dimples to match mine, then hopping up onto a bar stool.He leaned toward me, and the faint scent of his Polo colognefollowed.

"The interview was this afternoon," I said."This is the negotiation."

He tried to hold back a smile, but couldn't.The twenty-nine year old Ken-Doll didn't have a poker face. "So,you're making me an offer?"

"Well, I'm still considering two othercandidates." I paused, watched the color drain from his face as ifI had pulled a plug.

Gotcha.

I ran my eyes up and down his body. "But Ilike what I see." I turned my attention to my glass of bourbon andtook a sip. "Your agent tells me you've been looking for an anchorgig for awhile."

"The job market's tough."

"Well, to be brutally honest, your reportingskills aren't the best."

His head dropped.

Okay, he's ready toswallow the hook.

"But you're a decent enough anchor for ourpurposes." The head raised up, a hint of hope crept back into thosepowder blues. I downed the rest of the drink in one gulp andchecked my watch. "Tell you what, Scott. I don't feel like waitinghere thirty minutes for dinner, and the service is slow anyway. I’mthinking room service."

He furrowed his brow. "Huh?"

I reached into my beaded bag, pulled out aMont Blanc pen, and grabbed a cocktail napkin from the stack on thebar. "Tell you what, if you want to continue our negotiations,here's my room number at The Plaza." I wrote 1634 on the napkin andslid it over to him. "If not, well, I'm sure you'll have a nicecareer in Indianapolis."

His face remained a twisted puzzle. "Ms.Hack… are you--"

Geez, the man needs a roadmap.

But, if the other headworks and he can read a teleprompter, I'm good togo.

I slid my toe inside one cuff of his slacks,gently running it up his shin. "If you want the job, just bringyourself to my room. I need to check your… references."

I hopped off the barstool, smoothed my shortgreen halter dress and headed out, zigzagging through thetables.

Watching my target demographic look at melike I was nuts.

I had them.

And I was pretty sure I had him.

Two hours later, his references checkedout.

***

As an attractive 38-year-old woman, I didn'tneed focus groups or expensive research to know what women want ina newscast.

They sure as hell don't want a blondepageant fembot who is prettier than they are.

And they don't want to feel past theirprime.

So here's a newsflash for the nextgeneration. I'm giving them news delivered by a woman who is one ofthem. Middle aged, smart, experienced, attractive.

And for dessert on this news buffet, maleeye candy.

But not just any confection. They want alate twenty-something with a body so hard you could give him anhour-long massage and a bottle of wine and still bounce quartersoff his ass. A guy with a chiseled face and a smile that can melt aheart. Eyes that can look through the camera and caress a soul.Buffed shoulders that could easily carry you into the bedroom.

And they want that sitting on the anchordesk next to a woman…

Just.

Like.

Them.

They want to know a woman on the back ninestill has a chance against the fembots.

Yes, we're still interested in sex. We'remature, not crypt keepers.

Our drivers licenses may say we're overthirty, but the libido is still in high school.

For years, male news executives had theircasting couch.

Now it's our turn.

And when you've got an anchor in your stablelike Scott Harry, well, membership has its, uh… privileges.

Weekly.

***

The female-owned network that hired me asVice-President of the News Division gave me carte blanche my firstday, but thanks to the incredible ratings spike provided by ScottHarry in his first month, I've been upgraded to platinum.

The powers that be want me to take the womanon top theme co-anchor theme national, opening chapters in ourother three affiliates in Los Angeles, Chicago, and Dallas. (Theydon't know about my current "benefits package" that has Scott on myto-do list, and as long as the ratings stay up, they won'tcare.)

Thank goodness I was smart enough to hirewomen as News Directors for those stations.

All between 35 and 40.

All intelligent, attractive and single.

May as well give you a lineup card as I leadthe gals who will change the face of the news business into ourconference room, for those of you scoring at home. And if you'renot, you should be. (If there were a drummer in my office, I wouldcall for a rim shot after that one.)

"Tawk to me, Syd," said Rica,coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes searching my face for moreinformation and somehow getting female-only telemetry that I'dgotten an infusion of y-chromosomes the night before. "Did'ja havea pahty afta woik?" she asks, in an accent sharp enough to slice astale bagel. One perfectly plucked eyebrow goes up like an extraquestion mark. The girl does love details.

If a pastrami sandwichcould talk it would sound like Rica Carbone, who is the youngest atthirty-five and runs the chapter on the left coast. This petite,raven-haired Brooklyn paisancould slice Tony Soprano in two with her deathstare, and has enough confidence in her body that she once marchedup to a jukebox and played