THATCHER
After my installation opening, I decide to just go home. I can't get my fight with my brother out of my head and I'm very aware the clock is ticking for me to find someone to agree to fool my family for a few weeks until after Ty's wedding. There has to be someone who isn't mad at me after we hooked up…
My assistant, Cody, comes back with me for a few beers. I decide to let him know what's going on to see if he knows anyone who can play a role for a while.
"Dude, you rolled up to your nephew's birthday party right from a one-night stand? That's crude, man." Cody takes a deep pull on his beer. "Hm. I honestly can't think of a woman you haven't already fucked. You even fuck all their roommates…you're pretty prolific."
I throw my beer cap at him. "There has to be someone. Someone left from art school? One of the new grad students at the Pittsburgh Glass Center?"
Cody rubs a hand across his chin, thinking. "Hey, what about that reporter chick from tonight?"
"What reporter?"
Cody's eyes go wide. "The redhead chick who came early to interview you."
"That fucking girl was a reporter? You made her sound like some groupie." I stand up and my stool tips over backward. "Fuck, Cody, I made a move on her. What paper was she with?" Don't say the Post.
Cody thinks for a minute and my heart sinks when he says, "She was there from the Post. You hit on her? Really?"
"You called her a 'chick' and said she was there to talk to me."
"Yeah. For the paper." Cody swigs down the rest of his beer and throws his bottle into the bin by the workbench. "Look, Thatch, it's late. I'm going to get on out of here. I'll be in--what? Thursday morning?"
I'm so pissed off I can only nod. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don't even ask first anymore. I mean, to be fair, 90 per cent of the women who want to talk to me are using 'talk' as a euphemism. It's just my luck that the one woman who actually wanted to talk was a fucking reporter.
That opening was a really big deal for me. I never did anything like that before, partnering with a conservatory. I worked for months with them, talking about the different plants that would be in bloom when the show opened, discussing different pieces to highlight at different times of day to catch the light. One day I was in there at sunrise taking pictures, sketching out my ideas. It kills me to think the work won't even get a fair review because I can't turn off…whatever it is that makes me do that shit with women.
I'll just have to kiss her ass before she turns in her draft. I look around my shelf of finished work and my eye settles on a bonsai. At least, it was supposed to be a bonsai. It never looked quite right to me, so I set it aside. But it's beautiful--clear roots and branches tipped with blues and blacks. I decide it will make a fine token of my apology.
In the morning, I shower slowly after a long run, making sure to condition my beard, comb my hair. I decide an apology calls for extra attention to how I look. I even stick a blazer on over my t-shirt. Apparently I needed a wakeup call to remember my manners. I've decided to drive into the Post, find whichever reporter I mauled, and offer my most sincere apology.
The sweet thing at reception is putty in my hands when I turn on the charm. I offer her my best smile--the one I save for when I really have to work for it with the ladies. I lean across the counter and check out her nametag. "Hey there, Mindy." My voice is smooth. I know I look good, smell good, and sound good. "I'm Thatcher Stag. Last night I got interrupted when one of your reporters was interviewing me at my art show, and I never got her card. Do you know how I could find her? Just to see if she had any more questions?"
"Last night? Gosh. Hm. It could have been anyone…" Mindy crinkles her nose and looks at a computer screen. "It was an art show? What did she look like?"
"She had red hair and green eyes," I say. "Maybe…this tall?" I hold my hand about mid-chest.
"Oh. That's Emma." Mindy sits back in her chair and looks down the hall. "She got called in to talk to Phil, though. I actually think she will be glad you're here." She stands and walks around the desk, nodding toward the doorway. "Come on. I'll take you back."
I can hear shouting from halfway down the hall. Mindy points to the door that says EDITOR and heads back up front to the desk. I give her a wink and move closer to the editor's office, and I hear someone shouting my name from inside.
"Jesus, Cheswick. Did you even fucking Google him? I told you I wanted a puff piece. I absolutely cannot print a scathing defamation of his character."
Then I hear a familiar voice, sounding about as angry as she was last night. "Nothing I wrote there is untrue. He is a smarmy creep, and I did talk about how his delicate glass pieces brought light to the conservatory, in contrast to his awful personality."
I hear someone pound on the desk. "Damn it, Emma. Do you know who owns this paper?"
"Lash? What's that got to do with anything?"
The editor sighs. "Do you know who represents Lash, legally? Who is a major donor to our paper and likely funds the majority of your entry-level reporter salary?" He waits a beat. "Tim Stag. Older brother of Thatcher Stag, who I told you to write a fucking puff piece about."
"Phil, that feels inappropriate."
"It's not above the fold on the front page, Emma. It's Arts and Culture. If I wanted an exposé on Stag as a womanizer, I'd send you out to report the hell out of that story. But I want a nice, glowing review of the art show. Did you look at the art? Did you read the PR materials? Ok, then. Get the hell out of here and don't come back until you've got something I can work with. And get me a fucking quote!"
I can't help but smile, even if I am irritated that my brother's name gets evoked whenever I try to do anything. Emma's going to have to talk to me. When the office door flies open I lean back against the opposite wall, holding out my olive branch. She growls when she sees me standing there and her eyes fly wide open. "What the hell are you doing here?" She practically hisses at me.
"Sounds like I'm saving your ass, sweetheart."