“At least they got the right use of whom,” she said, when the look he shot her way had that “explain yourself right now” quality. “I’d invite a dead person for sure. Think of the interview opportunities from any of the great figures of history. I’d invite Jesus and ask him why he thought people keep seeing his face in their burnt toast.”
He blinked hard, as if what she’d said had come at him like a punch. “That’s your answer?”
She took a fry from the basket and waved it at him. “Why not?” He wasn’t going to do this for real—what did it matter what she said? She’d have to come clean with Shona in the morning and completely fail to recall Phil sitting a dozen yoga mats away in the restaurant part of the bar with a glamorous blonde woman in a shirt at least a size too small. That was one of her lessons about the city, more people, more politics, more secrets to keep.
“‘Question two. Would you like to be famous and what for?’” Jack held a hand up to stop her responding. “You’ll be famous for your Jesus dinner party and for solving the mystery of why he chooses to communicate through bread.”
She took another fry. Might as well go the whole hog, they were on him, and he could slaughter the whole ten questions in this first batch by himself if he wanted.
“‘Question three. Before making a phone call, do you rehearse what you’re going to say?’” Amusing how he could make his made-for-radio voice positively creak with disdain. He put his cell on the bar top. “I would rather let Madden strip me naked and flog me raw in the middle of the office than bother with this tripe.”
Holy hamburger. Way to make a girl’s mouth dry. Under Jack’s burlap underwear he’d have muscle, she could tell from the width of his shoulders, how his body narrowed to a slim waist, from the strong wrists and shift of muscle in his forearm where his sleeves were cuffed back. He had that ropy vein thing she liked. Jack twisting under a lash—would he cry out or be all stoic and heroic? Yeah, he’d be all hard jaw, straining neck muscles and edgy breathing.
“Christ, Honeywell, you like the idea of blood being spilled.”
“Um.” Sprung. Baggy burlap undies. Whatever she’d let show on her face was replaced by a swipe of paper napkin. What was the question? “I do rehearse important calls, especially because it’s so easy to hang up on me. I try to get it all out in the first few seconds. Bet that doesn’t happen to you. Bet you just say, ‘Haley—’” she did her best imitation of his clipped way of speaking “—and whoever you called starts blabbing.”
The fact that he tried not to smile and failed was the best. “Some people won’t take my call at all. Particularly anyone I’ve helped bankrupt, send to jail, or generally fucked with.”
“Does that mean you do rehearse?”
“It means I have to be sneaky about how I get to people.”
One last try at getting some of the Haley journalism magic to rub off on her. “Would you teach me the tricks?”
“Stick with the knitting, Honeywell. You don’t want to go annoying the kind of people I annoy. They play rough.”
Which was only slightly less insulting than what he’d said yesterday. “Meaning you don’t think I can write hard news like you. That’s so sexist.”
“It’s not sexist. I can name a dozen great reporters who happen to be women. It’s about experience and not getting death threats.”
He might’ve had a point there, a slim point, like a fine darning needle. “Is that why you do the fight club thing?”
“I’m more likely to need a lawyer than to throw a punch if someone decides to come after me.” She remembered hearing he was the Courier’s most sued reporter. “It’s getting late and—”
“You have aliens to investigate.”
“I do.”
“One more for the heck of it.” They both knew this wasn’t going anywhere. Despite not knowing how to take Jack Hayley since his dreadful underwear made him less terrifying, and the idea of him naked and gritting his teeth made her indigestion twist into an altogether more pleasant sensation, she didn’t give him time to walk away. She opened her email. He wasn’t someone she could trust—he’d ditch her, embarrass her, make her feel young and stupid without trying, but he’d stopped calling her Clickbait and she could stealth learn from him.
“‘Question four. When did you last sing to yourself or someone else and what was the song?’”
“That’s not a real question.” He leaned across and lifted her phone out of her hand.
“Hey!” she groused. He adjusted his glasses and read the question and handed the cell back. It was the real question. “I guess you don’t sing.”
“Nope.”
“Not even in the shower?”
“Nope.”
“Singing in the shower is too frivolous for the human headline. The great defender of the city does not hum.”
“I think you like the idea of me belting out show tunes, like I’m a terrible gay cliché. Don’t write clichés, Honeywell.”
The only reasonable response was a salute, which he didn’t catch because he’d looked away. Probably just as well, it wouldn’t be smart to get too comfortable with sassing him. “I sing. Badly. To myself. I don’t have anyone else to sing to.”