Boss Girl. Nic TatanoЧитать онлайн книгу.
her beer. "Cute to the tenth power. Not scorching hot, but incredibly good looking with an underlying boy-next-door appeal. If the boy next door regularly showed up in your bedroom wearing a Chippendales outfit, carrying two cans of Reddi-wip and a riding crop."
"And hot damn is the same as scorching hot?" asked Jillian.
Neely nodded. "One and the same. Top of the line."
"Michael from California is next," I yelled, trying to bring order.
A blonde, blue-eyed anchor in a pastel suit filled the screen. He looked more suited to a surfboard than to a news desk.
"Eh, doable," said Rica.
"I was thinking exponentially cute," said Neely.
"Doable," said Rica and Jillian in unison, as I slid the tape the length of the table.
"Let's see if we can get two in a row," said Jillian.
"Say hello to Bill from Bristol, Tennessee," I said, as the tape rolled.
"Good face for radio," said Rica, about two seconds into the tape.
"Bless his little heart," cracked Jillian, getting into the Southern spirit of things.
"Edward from Florida," I said. The screen filled with an extremely tall, extremely skinny man.
"Looks like an advance man for a famine," said Neely. "Gong."
Twenty tapes later (including one which featured co-anchors that left some doubt as to which was the man and which was the woman and was followed by Neely's tomahawk jam of it into the dumpster) I finally popped in a tape and watched a glob of pizza almost fall out of Rica's mouth.
"Whoa," said Rica.
Twenty-seven-year-old Vance Hiller's face jumped off the screen and grabbed our undivided attention. With no anchoring experience, the tape featured the reporter out doing a variety of stories in the field, one of which included him in a pair of tight running shorts that revealed tan, sinewy legs. Tall, slender but well built, nearly black hair and piercing sea-foam green eyes which peered out of a face that was all angles and planes.
"Is he real or computer generated?" asked Jillian.
"Really, it looks like someone designed him," said Neely. "He's a virtual reporter. But I wouldn't mind checking his virtual references."
"Gongs?" I asked. (Kidding of course.)
"You outta your friggin' mind?" said Rica.
I slid the DVD down to Neely and she placed it in the "hot damn" box without any argument. She patted the box's first occupant for good measure.
By eleven thirty we'd gone through more than four hundred resume tapes, two large pizzas, two six packs of beer, and had seen Neely toss tapes into the dumpster with incredible flair. (We all agreed her jump shot was impressive, but the behind-the-back swish into the trash with an anchor from West Virginia could have been a hit on YouTube.)
"Done," I said, plopping down in the chair. The dumpster at the end of the room was overflowing with DVDs and VHS tapes.
"So where do we stand?" asked Jillian. "What's the grand total of the guys who are left?"
Neely looked through each box and began counting. "There are half a dozen hot damns… four exponentially cutes…. and twenty who were considered doable."
(It should be noted there would have been twenty-one doables but Neely unceremoniously dumped the first surfer dude when she found another California anchor she liked better.)
"So," said Jillian, "Where do we go from here?"
"Fly them all in as soon as possible and get rolling on the interviews," I said.
"Hang on a minute, guys," said Neely. "I'm a little concerned."
"About what?" asked Jillian.
Neely picked up a DVD from the doable box and held it up. "There is a great deal of quality that separates the hot damns and the exponentially cutes from the doables," she said. "If I know I can have someone from the first two boxes, I don't really want anything from the other box."
"You know, she's got a point," said Rica. "If I'm stuck in the Peoria airport, then a doable is… well, doable. But if there's lobster on the buffet, I sure as hell ain't eatin' tuna salad."
Jillian nodded. "So if I've got this straight, we should ditch the doable box or our viewers will be stuck eating tuna fish instead of fantasizing about someone who is exponentially cute."
"I'm not even gonna try to figure that out," I said. "So just dump the box."
Neely took the box and sent twenty careers careening into the dumpster.
Which left us with ten guys we really liked.
To fill twelve slots.
Do the math.
We're hittin' the streets.
* * *
"I heard you had a gong show last night."
I looked up and saw that my first visitor of the morning was Scott Harry, who was standing in my doorway, hands in pockets. What a surprise, he didn't look happy. "Hi, Scott. What can I do for you?"
(Oh, by the way, gong shows are no secrets among the rank and file. As for Scott, I know exactly what he wants, but I'm going to make him say it. He wants to be part of the network, so bad he can taste it, but we're keeping him right where he is, taking care of local… and his spot on Madison's to-do list. However, I can't let him know that he hasn't a prayer of getting on the network, so the carrot must be dangled at a discreet distance.)
"I assume you're getting around to staffing the new network."
"Yep," I said, pausing to take a sip of my coffee, which had gotten cold. "Lots of people to hire and not much time to do it."
Oh, you should see his face. It's killing him. He looks like a man who's been constipated for a week only to find out all the laxatives have been pulled off the market by the FDA.
"I…uh…" Scott stopped and walked into the office, taking the seat directly in front of my desk. (The chair is a low-boy, by the way, two inches shorter than normal. A little psychological advantage.)
"Yes? Something on your mind?" (I wear my best "playing dumb" look. All women are born with this innate capability. It's embedded in our DNA, just like the shoe chromosome. The equivalent for men is the not-listening, bobblehead nod.)
His shoulders were hunched and his neck taut as he looked at me with his now patented "wounded doe" face, despite his lack of brown eyes. "I was hoping to be considered for one of the anchor slots on the network. I mean, I love working local, (forced smile) but this is a great opportunity."
"Don't worry, Scott, you'll be considered." (I'll have to ask Neely what the penance is for a blatant lie.)
Scott exhaled and the tension melted from his body. "Thank you. I mean, I hadn't heard anything. So I assumed—"
Watch this. "So how are you enjoying your time with Madison?"
Ah, such a joy to watch the color drain from his face like the last strawberry Slurpee coming out of the machine at Seven-Eleven.
"She's very nice. But… I miss you."
Aw, shit. And the day had started off so well with Jason and I doing our little Cirque de Soleil number before breakfast.
I got up and walked around the desk, leaning on the edge and extending my legs so that they nearly touched his. If he was going to screw with my day, I was going to torture him. "Scott, we've been through this. Several times. Our relationship is purely professional."
"I just—"
"What are you gonna do, Scott? Try another trip to the tabloids? Did you really think anyone would see a man who has to sleep with his hot boss as a victim? Every guy in New York thought you