The Last Guy

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  I stand there and wait for the hallway to clear as I run the last few minutes through my head. Rebecca Fieldstone has seen my cock, told me off, cried on my shoulder, and then apologized. It’s the most personal interaction we’ve ever had.

  I make my way back to the den and into my private office. The contractors had just finished it a few weeks ago. Whole new offices were part of my requirements for coming onboard at KHOT. The board had agreed—not the usual for a sports guy—but then not everyone is Cade Hill. I could have gone anywhere I wanted, even SportsCenter, but Houston and this station are exactly where I want to be.

  I shut the double panel door quietly and stalk toward the plate-glass window that overlooks the parking lot. I want to make sure she gets to her car without any trouble. Our office is in the nice part of downtown but there have been a rash of muggings in parking garages lately. From witness reports, police think it’s the work of the same guy or the same group of guys.

  I watch her stomp out into the September night, legs flashing under her snug pencil skirt. She’s tall in her heels, about five feet eleven and curvy in all the right places, just how I like a woman.

  And I’m a fucking hypocrite for thinking about her like that. I push it down. I have better shit to focus on. Like work. I need to run through the line-up for the college football games tomorrow.

  Still, I stand at the window, my eyes following her.

  With a fast pace, she clutches her brown bag against her chest and moves toward her little green death machine, an electric Prius. People in Texas drive trucks or SUVs, but not Stone. Nope, she’s entirely different.

  She flings the door open and throws her stuff inside. Then with a quick spin, she turns back to face the red building and flips the bird with both hands.

  I laugh. I’m sure it’s for Marv . . . and the fucking insultants.

  Hell, maybe it’s for the whole damn system.

  She climbs in her car and cruises out into traffic quiet as a mouse. It’s not the tire-squealing exit I’m sure she wants, but at least she’s saving on gas.

  From behind me, my office door opens.

  Two things happen at once: an irritating giggle meets my ears and floral perfume assaults my senses. I turn to see Savannah standing there. Pretty, blonde, and bouncy, she’s been sending me signals that she’s available for a quick fuck since she was hired. She’s forever popping in here for some inane reason—without waiting for me to tell her to come in.

  “What?” My voice is sharp as I settle back in my chair and bring up the agenda for tonight on my computer.

  “Oops, sorry, Cade.” Another giggle. “I can’t seem to figure out this door. It just flies open.” She pauses and clears her throat. “Your fiancée is in the sports den asking for you.”

  My head rises slowly. I don’t have a fiancée, but I do have a slightly crazy ex. She has a habit of saying we’re engaged whenever it suits her. I frown. “Skinny platinum blonde with an attitude?”

  “Bingo.” She comes closer to my desk, her hips sashaying in a pair of tight black pants. “She says she isn’t leaving until you talk to her.”

  I rub my face. “Fuck.”

  Savannah gives me a view of her cleavage as she scoops up an empty coffee mug. “She said you might say that. She also said to tell you she’s going to be at your father’s dinner tonight.”

  My jaw tightens. Baron, my father, thinks Maggie Grace is perfect for me, especially since her elderly aunt is on the board of directors at Hill Global, our family’s investment company. With Maggie Grace set to inherit her aunt’s shares, she’s part of his master plan to get me settled down with a society wife and fully ensconced in his business as in-house counsel. I also own shares of Hill Global, but I want no part in the day-to-day of the business world. Football is my life, and being the sports director is as close as I can get right now to staying in the game.

  I am not Baron Hill, and I never will be.

  “Want me to tell her to leave?” A glint of glee lights Savannah’s eyes.

  I smirk. “Carry on, Savannah. I’ll handle this.”

  “Fine.” She shrugs, her gaze roaming over my shoulders before she quietly shuts the door.

  I exhale, button my jacket, and stand up from the desk.

  I’ve learned the hard way that when it comes to my dad and Maggie Grace, it’s best to meet my problems head on.

  Rebecca

  “OH, GIRL, NO. They did not pull that ageist shit on you!” My best, technically male friend and new roommate, the fabulous Chas-say McQueen is on the couch holding a pink Cosmo in her large brown hand, pinky finger out. “That’s why you should never do anything with kids or pets. First rule of showbiz.”

  “Last summer when I interviewed that professor and his thousand year-old bone, they couldn’t compliment me enough,” I grumble into my wine glass.

  “Mm . . .” Chas sips, dark doe-eyes circling around our small apartment. “A thousand year-old bone. I wonder what that’s like.”

  “Don’t. Make. Jokes,” I snap. “I’m pissed.”

  “You’re getting there.” Chas is in full drag-queen makeup, a large blue hibiscus over her left ear. “I watched the show. Those little girls were tight. Why didn’t you at least put a little powder on your nose?”

  My eyes go wide. “I didn’t have time to check a mirror! We were sent late, it was blazing hot, and Kevin didn’t even bother to tell me I looked like I’d just stepped out of a fucking steam room.”

  “Kevin wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Who’s your makeup artist?”

  I level my gaze. “You know it’s me.”

  “Well, there’s your problem right there.” Setting her drink on the side table, Chas goes to her bedroom, and I listen as she rakes hangers across the metal bar in her closet.

  She bounces back in the room with a blue-sequined dress in her hands. “What do you think about this? Too Cher?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Jazzy claims to be sick.” She rolls her eyes, “So I’m filling in for her tonight at the Pussycat Club.”

  “Oh.” I sink back into the couch taking another long sip of Chardonnay. “Who are you doing?”

  “RuPaul André Charles, of course!” Chas turns with a flourish, and with the makeup and wig, it’s pretty hard to tell her from her drag queen idol. “You should come. Wallowing is not good for your complexion.”

  My nose wrinkles, and I pull my knees closer into my chest. “I’m not in the mood for drag.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t you know drag was invented to shake off those blues? It’s about embracing the comedy in life, and flinging your burdens away in a manner that’s larger than where you are!” She throws her arms wide, and at her height, with her wingspan, it’s quite the exclamation.

  “You’ve been reading Fiercely You again.”

  “I’m becoming the me of my imagination. And you should too.”

  “I’m becoming the me who finishes this drink and goes to bed. Partying is not going to help with my crow’s feet.”

  “Girl, at this point only one thing is going to help with those crow’s feet.” Chas laughs, and I narrow my eyes. “It ain’t all that squintin’, either. You need the joy of life lighting up your face.”

  She disappears back into her room, and I stare at the oversized television above the space heater. It’s our joint splurge. Chas is as big a fan of the small screen as I am, although her favorite shows fall squarely in the reality-TV zone, which is what she’d been watching when I arrived home in a funk.

  I sit silently observing the reality series she has on mute. One of the Kardashians is lounging on her couch, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Her dark brow is lined, and she’s clearly talking about something distressing her. She holds a glass of white wine like me, and her sister K in the kitchen listens to her intently. It makes me think of Nancy and me.

  We were like sisters, and while Chas has always been our big brother-ish in a sort of t
wisted-sisters-from-another-mister kind of way, I still miss Nan so much. She would probably make me a clean, healthy meal right now, force me to bed early, and be sure I attended my Pilates class in the morning.

  The show continues with a very animated discussion where Kitchen K throws her hands up and waves them around as she shakes her highlighted head. Couch (Kouch?) K is clearly upset. She blinks rapidly, and the camera zooms in as she wipes an invisible tear away with her fingers. I gasp when she barely misses taking out an eye with those acrylic nails.

  The next cut is the two Ks wearing slinky dresses and sky-high heels as they dance among the flashing lights in a club. They both hold skinny flutes of champagne, and guys and girls twist and gyrate all around them. Everyone is smiling and joyous and shaking his or her hips, and I blink at the screen a few times. In that moment, I make a decision.

  Setting my wine glass on the end table I stand like a woman taking control of her destiny. Petal was right. If I want something, I have to go get it. I am not sitting home tonight and wallowing about being fat and wrinkled and possibly losing my job. Not when there is alcohol to be drunk, and I still have dance moves in me.

  “Chas!” I call out. “What time are we leaving?”

  A dark face topped with a huge platinum wig pops around the corner. “Whenever you’re ready, baby girl!” The rest of my roommate emerges, draped in blue sequins and skinny feathers. “I’ll do your eyes.”

  Cade

  I’M TENSE AS I stalk out of Luigi’s Italian Kitchen and into the warm night air. Behind me I hear the clacking of Maggie Grace’s heels as she hurries to catch up. I don’t wait for her but stride to the black and white uniformed valet and ask for my car.

  My father is still in the restaurant talking to an old oil crony. At least my monthly meal with him where we discuss my inherited holdings in Hill Global is over and done. Of course, he’d insisted on sticking to our regular schedule even though this meeting falls on my younger brother Trent’s birthday.

  My thoughts turn to Trent. He loves to celebrate, and there’s no telling where we’ll end up tonight. Last year he’d rented out a warehouse and organized an all-night rave for his twenty-fifth. I can only hope tonight will be on a smaller scale. I scoff. Who am I kidding? Trent never does anything small.

  I love the shit out of him. Too bad my father doesn’t.

  And just like that, familiar anger rushes to the surface.

  Growing up, Trent had been a soft-spoken kid who’d loved acting and music. He didn’t have a shot playing football with his slender frame, plus he couldn’t run for shit. Still, my father pushed him, signing him up to participate in anything athletic. Trent rebelled his senior year—by announcing he was gay to my parents. In the middle of my senior year as quarterback for the University of Texas, I’d dropped everything to come home and be the buffer for the drama between him and my father.

  It hadn’t worked.

  Dad demanded that if Trent wanted to live under his roof, he had to attend a camp where they got the gay out of you. That didn’t fly at all. I’d delved into my savings and paid for Trent to have an apartment close to home and attend an online high school.

  Now it’s eight years later, and any mention of Trent makes my father clam up.

  I shove those memories away. Forget your father. Focus on the birthday boy—who should have texted me by now with where he is with his mob of friends.

  As if he reads my mind, my phone pings with a text from him.

  Done eating with the Old Dragon? In a bad mood yet?

  Yes and yes. What’s the plan, birthday boy?

  He’d assured me earlier it was going to be low-key.

  I don’t believe him.

  Pussycat Club on 959 Highland Street in one hour. Leave your suit at home and bring some dolla bills.

  Pussycat? It doesn’t ring any bells. I picture a blinking neon sign outside with Girls, Girls, Girls flashing.

  This a strip club??

  I’m not necessarily opposed to a strip club, but now that I’m a sportscaster who delivers news to a mostly conservative audience, I have to think twice about where I make public appearances.

  He sends me a long string of the laughing/crying emojis. Even better. Drag show. Strip clubs are for jocks and straight men.

  Fucker. I grin.

  Why do I need dollar bills? I type.

  In case you want to tip your bartender. Get your head out of the gutter. Drag queens are classy.

  I bark out a laugh. I’m not sure about this place or if I should even go since I have to work tomorrow, yet part of me is amped up and ready to do something. Maybe it’s the run-in with Stone. I keep picturing her flouncing across that parking lot in her heels.

  Stop thinking about her.

  Right.

  I heave out a sigh, weighing my options for the evening. Trent is going to keep me up late, and there’d be copious amounts of alcohol involved. Maybe I should pass on the clubbing tonight and just chill at my place.

  A long slender hand curls around my bicep, and I gaze down at Maggie Grace.

  Tonight she’s dressed in a black lace cocktail dress and high heels. Her white blonde hair is swirled up in some fancy style and her lake blue eyes are studying my face.

  I assume she’s reading my stony What now? expression because she sighs. “Look, I’ve already apologized for crashing your dinner. But I happened to be in town for the day and your dad called me.” She pauses and stares at the ground. “And . . . I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to see you, Cade. It’s been weeks since we ran into each other at the polo match—”

  “We’re not getting back together, Maggie Grace. You’re just lonely because you broke up with someone.” Yeah. She’d been dumped a few weeks ago by some senator’s son.

  She blinks rapidly and a shimmer of tears appears. “We had a good thing. I miss it.”

  Fuck, what is it about me and women crying today?

  My mouth tightens as I remain firm at the sight, not wavering—which is clearly not what happened with Stone in the restroom earlier. Interesting.

  My eyes bounce off her and stay glued to the road and the missing valet. Where is my goddamn car?

  “We spent a year living together, Cade,” she says, a pleading tone in her voice. In typical Maggie Grace style, she’s not giving up.

  My teeth grind together.

  She blots at her eyes with a tissue she pulls from her clutch. “I’m set to inherit Aunt Anne’s shares at HG. We’re going to see each other at some point. I can’t help how I feel—”

  Frustration erupts, and I can’t stifle my groan. “Just stop orchestrating us bumping into each other. We are over. Go find another guy—or better yet, find yourself.”

  She inhales a sharp breath. “There’s a part of you that still cares about me, Cade.”

  I had loved her, but when I’d blown out my knee, things had gone haywire and within a few months of me being retired from the NFL, she’d left.

  I give her a hard look. “You walked out on me three years ago when I needed you the most.”

  She bites her lip and shakes her head as if the memory of it hurts. “Fine. I made mistakes. I was young and stupid, but I’ve grown up since then. I know that everything isn’t about me anymore. Can’t you forgive me?”

  I exhale, close my eyes, and then open them. I don’t want to encourage her, but . . . fuck . . . in the end, her ditching me had been for the best. The girl I want in my life isn’t anything like Maggie Grace. I want someone who doesn’t give a shit that I can’t run down a football field anymore.

  “Cade?”

  I rock on my heels, considering her.

  Maybe she needs closure.

  Anything to get the hell out of here.

  “Yes,” I say finally. “I forgive you for getting on with your life when you obviously weren’t happy. There. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “And we can be friends?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful.

  “Of course.” I nod rath
er absently, already checking my phone again to see if Trent texted me. “Friends.”

  I shift and ease myself away from her as I see the familiar headlights of my black Escalade. I step to the curb, ready to dart inside as soon as the wheels stop turning. I send her a small wave, feeling more magnanimous now that my escape route is here.

  “Look it was . . . nice . . .”—fuck, that’s a lie—“seeing you, but I have to go.”

  “Call me sometime,” she yells out as I walk away.

  I tip the valet a twenty as he opens the door for me and I slide inside. Heaving a sigh of relief that this part of my evening is over, I give her a nod and pull from the curb, headed to my penthouse a few blocks away.

  After parking in my reserved spot in the basement, I catch a ride up in the elevator to the twentieth floor.

  Because it’s been a stressful evening, I pop in the shower to relax. I’m just getting out when my phone pings—Trent again.

  HELLO? Where did you go? The show is on in half an hour. It has five stars on Trip Advisor. A “must see” in Houston.

  I grunt and type a reply. Bob’s BBQ has 5 stars and gave me food poisoning. Nearly put me in the hospital. I add a puking emoji.

  His reply is instant. This isn’t some redneck food joint, and you won’t be eating, you’ll be drinking. IT’S MY BIRTHDAY.

  I stare at my phone, pondering what to do. Trent has a way of making everyone around him happy, and after the shit dinner I’d had tonight . . .

  Maybe I need to let loose, even if it is a drag queen show. For the past few months, I’ve been working my ass off at KHOT. Things are finally falling in line like I want. I crack my neck and roll my shoulders, feeling how tight I am. No doubt about it, I haven’t let myself have a good time in a while.

  Besides . . .

  What else am I going to do? Sit around and watch TV? Think about work? Call Mom?

  And that thought makes me pause. Here I am thirty years old and contemplating calling my mother. Dude.

  I come to a decision. Fuck it. This is my only brother, and if he wants to throw down at a drag queen club, my ass is going to be there to cheer him on.