I roll my eyes. “Look, before we get all racist and crude—“
“Whatever, I’ve called you Sulu for the last five years. Just like you won’t stop calling me Diego. And I’m not even Hispanic.”
I ignore him. “I need a favor from you. Actually, I need a favor for a friend, but I’m having troubles, um, fulfilling it.”
“Ugh, favors,” he says. I take my hands away. “Don’t stop,” he commands, patting his shoulder quickly.
I keep massaging. “It’s a good deed.”
“Double ugh. And why are you doing good deeds?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, I just am. But I need your help.” For the third time that day, I explain Bram’s predicament.
“But this isn’t even the guy you’re fucking,” he points out. “Aren’t you still on that stupid vow of cocklessness?”
“Yes I am, and no, I’m not fucking him, but he is my friend’s boyfriend.”
“I don’t buy it. Why are you really interested?”
Because he asked me, I want to say. Because it’s nice to feel needed, like I have the power to make a difference. And because, well, maybe because there is a hot piece of rugby playing ass attached to the deal.
“Because I just am,” I say. “Now can you write it up?”
“No,” he says.
I groan loudly and step away, throwing my hands dramatically in the air. “Why not? Please?”
“Kayla, honey, I’m swamped as it is. Why don’t you ask someone else?”
I look around me. Even though half the people in the office seem to be a big fan of Margarita Mondays and enjoy it when I have too many tequila sunrises and end up dancing on rickety tables, I don’t think they like me enough to write something I suggested. It’s kind of their job to come up with ideas, not mine.
“Or, why don’t you write it?” he suggests.
I glance at him, raising my brow. “Really? I said that to Joe but he laughed at me.”
“Joe laughs at everyone. It’s his thing. Along with being a grumpy old man who either needs to fuck or get fucked, I’m not sure which one.” I grimace. “I say write it anyway and hand it in. I’ll even help you with it, editing and all that. Clean it up. You said you went to school for journalism, didn’t you?”
“Communications,” I mutter. “Majoring in journalism.”
He waves his hand at me, stopping to admire his nails as they catch the light. “That’s good enough. Half the people in here don’t even have degrees. I don’t. Just blind luck and a pretty face.”
“Well.” I lean against his desk and give him a pleading look. “Can you give me some pointers?”
Neil spins around in his chair, hands folded at his stomach over his crisp, deep purple shirt. His lips twist into an amused smile and I’m reminded of a villain in a movie. “First, honey, you need an angle.”
“I just told you the angle. Rich guy does good.”
He makes a sound of disgust and throws his head back. “Boring!” he yells. Someone in the background yells at him to shut up but he just waves at them dismissively. He props his elbows on his knees and points his fingers at me. “No. No rich guy does good. No one cares about rich dudes, and unless they’re an Oscar-winning actress by the name of Susan Sarandon, people generally don’t care what rich people are doing, good or not.”
“Not true,” I point out. “All the gossip mags are about the rich and all they are doing wrong.”
“Find another angle,” he says.
I try and rack my brain. “The city needs this though. Everyone is always complaining about the lack of affordable housing. People all over the world poke fun at our homeless populations. This is a solution. It should be a good thing no matter who does it.”