The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy. Nic Tatano
any way, shape or form physically resemble the legendary reporter. I’m actually a slender redhead with emerald-green eyes, classic high cheekbones with a constellation of freckles, little dimples when I smile, and a whiskey voice that sounds like it lives in a smoky bar and channels Demi Moore. Tonight it’s all packaged in a brown-paper wrapper consisting of a bulky sweater and pants, while my hair is up (as it always is) in a tight bun and my eyes peer through Coke-bottle glasses. Gotta maintain the journalistic credibility. If you wanna be taken seriously as a woman in my business, you can’t play the glamour card.
But as for the Mike Wallace comment, I am the city’s most recognizable and feared investigative reporter who channels the 60 Minutes icon every chance I get.
So I sorta get what the guy’s saying, but then again I don’t. Does he mean that he admires my work as much as that of the broadcasting legend? Or that when he kisses me he’ll be thinking of an eighty-year-old guy who’s dead?
So I said, “I’m not sure how to take that.”
He leaned forward and I felt his knee gently brush mine, sending a subtle jolt of electricity through my body. “Oh, it’s a compliment,” he said with a smile. “I mean, everyone knows you’re the best reporter in town.”
I tried to hold back a smile but couldn’t as I looked at this Greek god with the chiseled jawline sitting before me in a dark-gray windowpane suit. The rest of the bar faded to grayscale as he provided the only color in the room. His deep-blue eyes became beacons as I caught a faint whiff of Fendi cologne. A subliminal daydream whipped through my mind and I saw myself being carried to the bedroom by those broad shoulders, my legs wrapped around his slim hips.
However, given enough ointment, there’s always a fly.
“But … ” he said.
Oh shit, here it comes.
Again.
“I just know if I asked you out you’d probably run a background check on me and unearth any skeletons I have in my closet. And I would never be able to lie to you. I mean, no one lies to Belinda Carson and gets away with it.”
Investigative reporter red flag alert. “Does that mean you lie to all the women you date?”
“I didn’t say that—”
I leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “But you have lied to women before or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Your previous statement implies that you have been less than truthful with previous girlfriends. What aren’t you telling me?”
He looked to one side, flashed a crooked smile. “Geez, lady, turn it off.”
“Turn off what?”
“The investigative reporter thing. What’s next, hot lights and thumb screws?” He downed the rest of his drink and stood up. “Look, I don’t think this is gonna work. It was nice meeting you, Belinda.” He shook his head and smiled. “Wait till I tell the guys at the office I got interrogated by the Brass Cupcake.”
Yeah, that’s my nickname in the Big Apple, courtesy of those clever headline writers at The Post. Great for journalism, a killer when trying to meet men.
The colors returned to normal in the trendy watering hole. Half the crowd leaned against the brass rail running the length of the dark oak bar, while the Tiffany lamps above the small round tables provided subdued light to the other half. My best friend Ariel Baymont slid her tall, willowy frame into the next chair and quickly noticed the previously occupied seat at our table was now empty. “What happened to the total package who was here five minutes ago?”
I exhaled, shook my head and looked down into my nearly empty glass.
“You did it again, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, then slugged down the remainder of my rum concoction.
“Trying to drown your sorrows?”
“I would, but the little bastards have learned how to swim.”
She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and I leaned my head on hers. “Aw, sweetie, we’re going to have to work on your bedside manner.”
“You’re assuming a man has been remotely close to my bed.”
She pulled back and gave me a soulful look with her ice-blue eyes. “Well, all is not lost. We’ll try again this weekend. Anyway, the cute guy who was hitting on me earlier wants to go someplace where we can talk.”
“So you’re taking him home.”
She shrugged, then started to twirl her honey-blonde hair with one finger. “We can talk there as well as anyplace.”
I raised one eyebrow. “Talk. Right.”
“You know, I can see why you’re such a good reporter. You really are a human lie detector.”
“Yeah, I might as well change my name to Polly Graph.”
“Cute. Anyway, we still on for Saturday night?”
“Thanks to my aforementioned bedside manner, my dance card is clear.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the side of the head. “Great. I’ll see you then. Hang in there, Wing Girl.”
***
Before we go any farther, I should explain the “Wing Girl” concept and how it applies to me, since that is my current after-hours nickname.
As most women know, a good-looking guy will often cruise the bars with a “wing man” at his side, the theory being that men in pairs can separate women in mismatched pairs (one attractive, one not), using a divide and conquer tactic designed to liberate the good-looking woman from the skank. This presumes that the hot girl will not take off and leave her unattractive friend to fend for herself. The wing man swoops in like a dog after a pork chop and takes one for the team, chatting up the skank while his friend moves in on aforementioned hottie, who no longer feels obligated to keep her homely friend company and is thereby freed to engage in extracurricular activities.
It’s a little different for those without a Y chromosome, and totally opposite in my case. Here’s the deal. When it comes to attracting the opposite sex, I am to my friends what a puppy is to a single guy.
Ariel and my circle of friends have dubbed me “Wing Girl” because I end up taking one for the team every time. However, the strategy my friends use is backwards. Since I am a very recognizable member of the media, it’s a case of moths, meet flame. I’m not sure if it’s the fame thing or the challenge of possibly nailing the Brass Cupcake, but it works, drawing in attractive men who I naturally turn off, leaving my friends with very delectable leftovers. My friends always end up with positive results while I finish the evening without so much as a request for a phone number. My Wing Girl moniker started out as a term of endearment, something fun, but lately it’s beginning to wear thin.
I don’t mean to repel men like a Star Trek force field. Really, I don’t. But as I approach the big three-oh, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever be able to drop my “prosecutor from hell” persona when I’m off the clock. And I really want to. Before that other clock, the biological one that’s ticking louder every day, strikes twelve.
Because, and don’t ever tell my boss this, beneath the brass lies a real cupcake looking for her perfect icing.
***
“Cupcake, you really nailed the Senator last night.”
My boss, the grizzled Harry Coyne, whose face is so wrinkled it would tie up a dry cleaner for a day, smiled as I took a seat at the conference room table for the morning meeting, his daily sit-down with the dozen reporters on the dayside staff.
“Thanks,” I said.
Now, before we get the PC police involved in this, let me explain a little about