The Rom Con(15)

“This is Jack Bradford, founder of Brawler.”

Her eyes go silver dollar–wide. “Whaaat? Seriously?”

“Wish I was kidding.”

Jack’s starting to look pissed now. Good. We’ll match. “I’ll repeat—is there a problem?”

“Yeah, Brawler’s my problem. And by extension, you are now my problem.” Natalia hoots and takes a noisy slurp of her cocktail.

I am righteously indignant. I’m standing up for wronged women everywhere. He has no idea what’s about to hit him. I might even break out my Z-snap.

He stares at me impassively, a parent humoring a tantruming child. “So this is about the history between us and Siren? How is my friend Cynthia, anyway?”

I bristle. “She is not your friend.”

He grins, clearly enjoying ruffling my feathers. He juts out his chin, and I have to talk myself out of socking his perfectly chiseled jaw. “Oh come on, we all benefit from this little feud. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Cynthia knows that better than anyone.” His eyes light in recognition. “Wait, I know who you are now. Cassidy Sutton. I’ve read your work.” He nods approvingly, like I’ve passed some sort of test I didn’t know I was taking. “It’s good.”

“Thanks, I’ve been awaiting your validation,” I say sarcastically.

“You know, you should run a photo with your byline,” he says, bypassing my hostility completely, and I narrow my eyes. “You’d get a lot more clicks.”

Oh, gross. “Maybe I don’t want those kinds of clicks.”

He raises a finger. “Now, that statement would be a fireable offense at Brawler. Clicks are king. I would think you’d know that.”

“I’ll take my dignity over clicks, thank you.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Of course, that kind of emotional decision-making is probably why Siren’s traffic has stagnated.”

“Hey!” Natalia is affronted.

I raise a hand to her as if to say, I’ve got this. “You know, you’re every bit as obnoxious as I imagined you’d be.”

The insult seems to amuse him. “Funny, my partner’s usually called the obnoxious one. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t think I was so bad a minute ago.” There’s a lascivious edge to his smirk, like he’s seen me naked. I huff and tug my blazer closed.

“Wait, what happened a minute ago?” Nat asks, trying to keep up.

“He attempted to blackmail me into a date. I almost fell for it, too.”

“So this is the thanks I get for helping you out, huh?” He shakes his head, but he’s still wearing that stupid smirk, like my ire entertains him. And it probably does, since life’s all a big game to men like him. They can behave however they please and never face any real consequences. They can act like a cocky asshole at a bar and still walk away with a girl’s phone number. They can get away with murder and the world will say, May I offer you another victim? “I hand-delivered you Eric Jessup’s first on-the-record comments about his engagement, but somehow I’m the villain here? Please tell me, how exactly have I wronged you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go there, buddy,” Nat warns.

My blistering laugh could strip paint from the walls. “How have you wronged me? Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the constant stream of misogynistic articles you publish, many of which come at Siren’s expense? Or perhaps it’s that your site brands all women as either nagging harpies or sex objects? Or maybe”—I snap my fingers—“it’s that you’ve inspired an entire generation of men to shout their chauvinism from the rooftops.”

“I warned you,” Nat singsongs.

Jack regards me calmly, his expression unfazed, almost bored. I’m having the exact inverse reaction—the more unruffled he appears, the more agitated I’m getting. “Brawler is a site where men can be men. You know, almost exactly like the website you work for?”

“The site we work for doesn’t encourage its readers to troll and harass anyone who disagrees with them.”

“We don’t encourage harassment.”

“You don’t condemn it, either.”

“I’m not responsible for the behavior of our readers any more than you’re responsible for yours.”

Our gazes collide in a fiery clash. I’m so frustrated, I could flay the skin off his bones.

I flog him with my words instead. “I can’t believe you’re actually defending what you do. You’re shameless.”

He’s quiet for a beat, eyes narrowed, considering me. “You seem to be harboring some sort of personal grudge against me, but as a reminder, I haven’t done anything to you.”

“Oh no? Then I guess I must have just imagined the guy who told me last week that he couldn’t attend my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party because ‘Saturdays are for the bros,’?” I spit with derisive air quotes. “But I suppose that’s not your fault, either, right? You’re not responsible for any of the harmful ideas you put out on the internet to your little band of brainwashed sycophants.”

My insult doesn’t hit its target like I thought it would. In fact, Jack’s eyes soften—and when I realize why, I immediately regret revealing that detail of my personal life. I don’t want his pity.