Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) (4 page)

“And maybe I will.”

Luis’s glasses slipped a notch. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“Think ratings, Luis. Think of the papers we’d sell.”

“Hmmmmm. I’ll reserve commentary until I see this week’s numbers.”

“By
the way, Luis,” Jen said, preparing to leave. “My brother Ellis is queer.”

Luis’s lower lip flapped open. He quickly composed himself. “I want readers to love
Dear Jenna,
” he said gruffly. “They should be hanging on to her every word. I’m grooming you to be the next Abby.”

His phone rang. “Luis Gomez. Sure, I’ll hold for the mayor.”

Jen had thought Luis Gomez was a wuss. Now she knew he was just playing the political game.

T
re held
the receiver away from his ear. For the last three minutes the station’s manager and owner had been yakking on and on, acting as if Tre was the best thing since pumpernickel.

Boris was an ex-army brat of bi-racial descent. He was the product of an African-American mother and a German father. The Germanic genes overrode the African. Boris was usually not this effusive. Something most definitely was up.

“Ratings are soaring. You’ve got Flamingo Beach hooked on WARP,” Boris gushed.

Perhaps
it was time to hit him up for a raise. No, he’d wait to do it face-to-face. Eyeball-to-eyeball.

“How about I come in a half an hour early before the show. We’ll talk then.”

“Wait! Wait!” Boris shouted. “We need more than a half an hour to formulate a plan. We need to keep this momentum going. Do what you need to do to get that columnist on the show. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Tre hung up thinking that any hope of getting some shut-eye before his show was impossible now. What did Boris mean by he would make it worth his while? Did it mean that he would finally get the coveted prime-time slot and would have his own syndicated show? Or did it mean that there would be some money coming his way?

Either way, the conversation had left Tre wound up and wired. He paced the spacious living room, circled around the sectional couch and crossed over to the French doors that led out to a balcony with an unfettered view of the ocean. This was what living in Florida was all about. This was what he had worked for.

There was a certain tranquility that came with living on the water. He even loved the briny ocean smell. Maybe a run would loosen him up. No, he
didn’t have time to cover his usual five miles today. He would just have to stand here taking everything in, breathe and enjoy it.

Several industrious souls were taking advantage of the cooler temperatures. The boardwalk was busy for that time of day, probably because the sunset promised to be a beauty. Teenagers whizzed by on skateboards and Rollerblades, almost knocking the pedestrians over. A few senior citizens, those who’d stood their ground refusing to move when gentrification rolled around, carried groceries in the baskets of their three-wheel bikes. Much as Tre sometimes groused about Flamingo Beach’s lack of sophistication, he had to admit he had it made.

He thought about earlier today when he’d allowed Jen St. George to push his buttons. He’d worked damn hard on controlling a temper that had often gotten him in trouble and he wasn’t going to let the ballsy woman undo all of his hard work.

He ran a hand over the closely cropped hair that his fans, mostly female, said made him look sexy and mysterious. They compared him to supermodel Ty Beckford. Must be the dark, shiny skin. Lines like that had once fed his ego. But his days of quick hits and meaningless sex were over with. He was looking
for something more substantial now. Maybe even marriage, but something longer lasting than the occasional fling.

Thoughts of sex made Jen St. George come to mind. Now she would be a woman he wouldn’t mind breaking his forced celibacy for. She intrigued him because she was not impressed or intimidated by him. He’d have to make sure he took her up on her lunch invitation and soon.

Right now he had a bigger challenge; how to get that
Dear Jenna
woman on his show. Ratings were everything. Ratings were what Boris understood. If he could persuade her to have a live debate he’d have it made. He’d get her on the air and make mincemeat of her.
Dear Jenna
could help get him where he needed to go.

He definitely had big plans for himself. One of them was moving up to an urban city where his hip way of talking and crass irreverence would be applauded and not misunderstood, where he would reach a bigger audience that was not necessarily white or black. He needed a major radio station that would recognize his talent and reward it accordingly.

Tre planned on holding his own with the likes of Howard Stern. A Northeast audience would get him. They were usually sophisticated and more worldly. His
voice could reach millions and not just the thousands it did today.

He imagined the rush of walking down the street and having people stop him to shake hands or maybe they’d just reach out to touch him. He would be an inspiration to his people, especially little black boys who’d strayed. He’d been kind of wayward himself growing up. Yes, New York City would be part of the plan. It was not an impossible goal if he played his cards right.

As Tre continued to fantasize about New York City and a growing fan base his eyelids grew heavy. He jolted awake at the sound of the alarm clock that luckily he’d remembered to set earlier on.

Jen had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapping her body in a fluffy towel when the doorbell rang. It played one of her favorite tunes. Jen groaned. Hopefully security would have called before letting Chere up.

The bell rang again. It sounded like her visitor had put an index finger to the spot and forgotten it. Fine, she wasn’t going to be given much of a choice. Her robe, the one she hadn’t worn in years, was still in a box in her closet. Whoever it was would have to deal with her the way she was.

She
took her time getting to the front door, and took another second pressing her eye to the peephole. She assessed the distorted image, trying to determine whether it was male or female.

Trestin Noisemaker had come to her. She hadn’t had to make that phone call to invite him to lunch. Jen made sure the bath towel was tightly tucked around her before opening the door a crack.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

“No you may not. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I came with a peace offering.”

“I invited you to lunch,” she tossed back. “That was my peace offering for parking in your spot.”

An arm thrust through the opening, holding something in a tissue wrapper.

“Uh-uh!” Jen said, closing the door an inch on that arm.

“It’s wine. Try it, you’ll like it,” Trestin sang.

“I can’t accept it.”

“Why not?”

She thought for a moment, her front teeth clamped down on her bottom lip. “Because, well because, I don’t accept gifts from men.”

“I’m not just any man. I’m your neighbor. I’ve kept you up at night. This is my way of saying I’m sorry.”

Camille
Lewis probably had an eye to the peephole. Most likely so did Ida. The entire building could be listening to her business.

“Can’t I come in for a minute?” Tre whined.

“I’m not dressed.” One hand gripped the top of the towel even as she stood aside, allowing him to enter.

Trestin placed one foot on the threshold, the other in the hallway. He was still holding the wine.

“I’ve never been accused of forcing myself on a woman,” he said, smiling at her unease.

“There’s always a first time.”

Trestin’s gaze swept over the living and dining space. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

Jen took the wine bottle from him and set it down on her sideboard.

“It’s a lovely cabernet,” Tre added. “Perhaps you can save it for when we have dinner.”

“In that case it might turn to vinegar. We are having lunch, not dinner,” she reminded him.

“Look,” Tre said, “I don’t have the time or inclination to turn this into a pissing contest. I’m on my way to work. Drink it alone and in good health.”

“I’ll accept your gift on one condition,” she surprised herself by saying.

He hiked an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“We
have our drink in public. And by that I don’t mean a cozy restaurant.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Neutral territory. We take the bottle to the beach or around the pool. Somewhere on the property where everyone can see us.”

“I’ll accept your invitation on one condition,” he now countered.

“And what is that?”

“You wear your sexiest bathing suit to the pool. While you think about that, I have to go.”

“What is it that you do?” Jen called to his disappearing back.

“Let’s just say I’m in communications,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“So am I.”

The moment she shut the door she marched over to where she’d set the bottle down. Curious to see if his taste matched hers, Jen removed the bottle of wine from its wrapper and checked out the label. The wine had to have set him back at least a twenty spot.

The annoying man actually had good taste.

Boris Schwartz, WARP’s owner and station manager, was seated in his office, a cooling mug of coffee in front of him as usual. Tre leaned his butt against
the doorjamb, fingered the diamond stud in his ear, and waited for Boris to look up.

“You’re ten minutes late,” he announced, glancing up and beckoning Tre to come in.

“Sorry. I got held up.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Have a seat.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

The Afro-German brought the mug to his lips. His eyes never left Tre’s. In one precise movement, he set the cup down on a desk that was painfully neat. “Get
Dear Jenna
on your show while the interest level is still there. It should happen in the next day or two. Understand?”

Tre felt like clicking his heels and saying “Aye, aye, sir.” Instead he said, “And if the woman won’t agree to come on?”

“Appeal to her ego. There’s something in this for both of you.” Boris’s index finger made a
rat-a-tat
sound on his desk. “There’s got to be some kind of carrot we can dangle to get her on WARP.”

“I have an idea,” Tre said, a smile creeping across his face. It was raw and unformed but it just might work. “I’ll call Chet Rabinowitz.”

“The
mayor’s son? The leader of the gay coalition or alliance or whatever it’s called.”

“Alliance. He’s an acquaintance of mine.”

Boris scrunched a nose that took up the majority of his face. “Where are you going with this?”

“Tell me what I can expect if these ratings continue the way they’ve been lately, and I’ll share with you what I have in mind.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

For the next fifteen minutes Boris spoke and Tre listened, interrupting occasionally to get specifics when he felt he might be getting snowed.

Tre left the station manager’s office feeling upbeat and positive. He was well on his way.

Now to get Chet Rabinowitz to agree to come on the air. If he dangled the promise of an on-air discussion of the
Dear Jenna
column, that might persuade the vocal activist to say yes. Chet was a publicity hound, especially if it would further the gay cause.

And, if these broadcasts went as Tre thought they would, D’Dawg would then invite Daddy, the mayor, to come on the show.

Tre rubbed his hands together gleefully. Yes! He was onto something. He was on a roll.

Chet
Rabinowitz was with a customer when the phone rang. His partner Harley hurried off to get it. Business had been slow lately and they needed a large order to help pay this month’s expenses.

“All About Flowers,” Harley, the alpha part of the twosome answered in his low baritone. “It’s for you, Chet,” he said, waving the phone at him.

Chet hurried to take the call, leaving Rico Catalban still debating over what color roses to send to his newly hired hostess at the Pink Flamingo. In a small town like Flamingo Beach where everyone knew each other, no employee would dare file sexual harassment charges if the romantic interest wasn’t reciprocated. Not if they knew what was good for them. They’d be laughed off the beach and most certainly would not be hired by any other local merchant, not even for a menial job.

“This is Chet,” the florist gushed.

Music played in the background but no one responded. Chet frowned. It was probably a solicitor, but maybe not—Harley would have hung up on her.

Chet covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Who’s looking for me?”

Harley shrugged. “I don’t know. The person was
well spoken. I thought it might be a reporter. We did send out that press release.”

Harley continued to make suggestions to the Catalban man, who was beautiful enough to be a woman, before he finally shouted over his shoulder, “On second thought, it might be the radio station. I think I heard WARP mentioned and that DJ with the canine name.”

“Oh!” Chet’s Kenneth Cole loafers now tapped out a beat. He’d had a secret crush on Tre Monroe. Too bad the DJ wasn’t into men. One perfectly manicured finger worried his long lashes. It felt wonderful to be fully out of the closet and able to openly admire someone of the same gender.

“D’Dawg calling for Charles Rabinowitz,” a deep male voice said.

“This is Chet, Tre. Long time no talk?” Was he being too familiar? They were really only nodding acquaintances, though privately Chet thought the African-American man was the buffest male he knew and the hottest. They worked out at the same health club. Tre’s dark-skinned good looks, sculptured features and soulful brown eyes belonged on a male model. Too bad he hadn’t chosen a profession where he could strut his stuff. He would have given Ty Beckford a run for his money.

“If
I were any better, I would be purring,” the sexy DJ said.

Chet loved the sound of his voice. It came from deep in his belly and reminded him of a popular R&B singer.

“Is there something that All About Flowers can do for you?” he asked.

Chet already had visions of gaining WARP’s exclusive account, maybe even being put on a retainer. The free publicity would be just what the store needed and if Tre only mentioned the flower shop once on the show they’d have it made.

“What are you doing tomorrow night, say around nine?” Tre asked.

Chet laid an open palm on his chest where his heart was supposed to be. Using his other hand, he crooked a finger at his lover and inhaled loudly. But Harley was already on a roll, explaining to Rico that some women liked a more subtle approach. He was busy recommending flowers that were classy and understated, suggesting calla lilies, orchids or even sunflowers as alternatives. “Why be like any other chap on the make sending the usual boring dozen roses?” Chet heard Harley ask.