He wants to agree, I can tell he does, but still he waffles. Behind those navy eyes I can see his mind working, the gears spinning as he tries to make sense of my one-eighty. He’s at war with his own intuition.
A lightning bolt of inspiration strikes me. Men like him—masters of the universe, kings of all they see—love a challenge. Appeal to his manhood.
“Of course, that’s if you think you can handle me,” I say suggestively, throwing him a sly grin and a wink for good measure. I’m daring him to claim me.
It does the trick. “Consider yourself handled.” His eyes gleam and I know I’ve got him. “It’s a date.”
Chapter 4
So then it dawned on me—Jack is my story. These tips are just begging to be tested on him.”
It’s the next morning and I’m in Cynthia’s office, relaying every sordid detail of my run-in with Jack while Nat provides pithy commentary from Cynthia’s blush-colored love seat. Behind her, a wall of glass provides an unobstructed view of the newsroom floor, a hive of worker bees orbiting their queen, their low buzz of activity throwing off a lulling ambient noise. If I were the boss I’d want a little more privacy—good luck picking so much as a wedgie without someone seeing—but I think she gets off on surveying her kingdom like Mufasa.
“You should’ve seen how she had him eating out of her hand by the end of it,” Nat reports gleefully, swilling her coffee. “Not an actress, eh? Could’ve fooled me.”
I flush with equal amounts of pride and embarrassment. “Honestly, I don’t even know where it came from. I felt possessed.”
After I somehow managed to convince Jack to hop aboard the crazy train, I practically threw my number at him while Natalia made some excuse and we hightailed it out of there as fast as our heels could carry us. Back at the apartment （and after I explained myself）， Nat and I spent the rest of the night workshopping my new-and-improved plan for the vintage dating story. When we finally called it a night, I spent hours blinking at the ceiling, my brain racing with ideas, too keyed up to sleep. I woke up blurry with fatigue, yet somehow so jittery I was forced to eschew my morning coffee. An EKG machine would have a field day.
“I’ll tell you where it came from,” Cynthia says, matter-of-fact. “Your reporter’s instinct. You recognized a once-in-a-lifetime story and went for it.”
“What can you tell me about Jack?” I ask her, leaning forward in my chair. “We weren’t able to find all that much by googling.”
It’s an understatement; “virtually nothing” would be more accurate. In an attempt to know thine enemy, my first order of business was to comb the internet for background information—past interviews, photos, anything I could use to paint a clearer picture of Jack Bradford—but for someone in such a prominent role at a highly publicized company, Jack’s basically an internet ghost. He doesn’t actually write for Brawler, so no past bylines to dissect. I couldn’t find any public social media profiles （or private ones, for that matter）。 He’s rarely quoted on Brawler’s scandals du jour, instead leaving that dirty work to his cofounder and college BFF Tom “the Tomcat” Bartlett （who, to be fair, seems responsible for most of the dustups）。 From what I can gather, Jack seems to maintain a shadowy existence behind the scenes, pulling strings and operating beyond the glare of the media spotlight. How very Wizard of Oz of him.
The only in-depth profile I was able to find mainly recounted Brawler’s inception and meteoric rise. It’s an origin story we’ve all heard a million times before—two guys in a dorm room, blah blah blah—but it also included some rare personal details about the founders and friends. I learn that Jack, along with an older brother, was born and raised here in the city and earned his degree from Penn’s Wharton School of business, where he met Tom his freshman year after they were randomly paired up as roommates. It’s heavily implied that the Brawler seed money came from Jack’s father, a wealthy hedge fund manager, corroborating something I already suspected: Jack is used to getting what he wants.
“We cross paths every so often,” Cynthia says, leaning back in her chair and raking her fingers through her chic black bob. “I’d say our relationship has been fairly cordial, all things considered. It’s his horrible partner I avoid like the plague.” Her face pinches in distaste. “Jack’s always seemed pretty reserved to me, though I suppose it’s easy to maintain a low profile when your Tweedledum cofounder is sucking all the air out of the room.”
“Well, he definitely wasn’t reserved last night,” I tell her, remembering how smugly he called me out on my faux fall. “In fact, he was the cockiest guy I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. It’s like he thinks he’s the king of New York or something. I kept waiting for him to say, ‘I’m Chuck Bass.’？”
Nat snorts.
“So tell me what you’re thinking here,” Cynthia says, tapping the end of her pen on the desk. “How exactly would this work?”
I stand and begin to circuit the room, a prosecutor delivering her opening statement. “According to Brawler, the perfect woman is beautiful but compliant. She challenges a man just enough to keep him interested, but not so much that he has to try very hard. She’s spirited and playful, but always defers to his judgment. She can be smart, but only in a nonthreatening way. They want the ‘cool girl’ who can hang with the guys but would never dream of talking back to her man.”
I pause to survey my audience. Both Nat and Cynthia are leaned forward in rapt attention, on the literal edge of their seats. Perfect.
“For Brawler bros, women fall into one of two categories,” I continue, drawing out the suspense. “Hysterical, uptight feminazis like yours truly”—I vogue with my hands framing my face—“or vapid, brainless arm candy who’ll shut up and look pretty. Coincidentally, the 1950s housewife portrayed in that column matches up almost seamlessly with Brawler’s ideal female archetype: polite, devoted, and submissive, leaving the male to assume the traditional dominant, decision-maker role. Really, these tips couldn’t have fallen into my lap at a better time.”
I stop at the glass window and peer out at the newsroom, observing my Siren coworkers: Some are on the phone or hammering away at keyboards, while others weave through the maze of cubicles or collaborate in small groups. These are my colleagues, my friends. They’re clever and driven and impressive, the most inspiring group of women I know. No matter what Jack says about their site being “satire,” Brawler has done real damage to these women in both obvious and insidious ways. I can’t let him get away with it.
I spin around and lock eyes with Cynthia. “Jack thinks women should be seen and not heard? Well, he is in for a real treat, because I’m about to give him exactly what he wants: the perfect trophy girlfriend. And once he’s fallen for it hook, line, and sinker?” I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m going to expose him for the misogynist he is.”
Natalia holds out her arm. “I just got chills.”
I see the exact moment it all slots into place on Cynthia’s face. “A takedown of the founder of the most sexist site in journalism.”