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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Last Guy

  Copyright © Ilsa-Louise Books, 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by:

  Shanoff Formats

  Photography by:

  Wander Aguiar

  David Wills, cover model

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  The Last Guy

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Read More by Ilsa & Tia

  Read an Excerpt from Fake Fiancée by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Read an Excerpt from The Prince & The Player by Tia Louise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  For best friends, lovers, and true believers.

  And RuPaul.

  Rebecca

  SCRATCHY PINK TULLE hits me square in the face, and I jerk away as a shrieking tornado of blonde curls bolts past me. I am in hell, more specifically pageant hell, the deepest and darkest level.

  “Petal Boo Bishop! PETAL BOO BISHOP!” A large woman stomps after the child, shoving me as I dodge to avoid being tackled. “Get back here and put your tutu on this minute!”

  My camera-guy Kevin snorts as I regain my footing. He gets a brief, snappy glare. Let him try interviewing tiny humans in the middle of chaos.

  Clearing my throat, I smile and hold the mic down to the four-foot beauty queen I’d been addressing before the interruption. “And what will you do if you win Miss Planetary Princess, Kaitlyn?”

  She pushes her helmet of golden-brown hair away from her face. It’s bigger than her head and strong enough to withstand any climatological distress. My hair, by contrast, is completely wilted and flat in the Houston humidity that blasts through the room every time a door opens.

  “First, I wanna eat chicken nuggets then pizza with pineapple and a Coke—oh, and some taco bells. I haven’t had a taco since I was three years old. Mama says tacos are bad for business.”

  Mama gives Kaitlyn a warning look.

  “That sounds like my kind of fun!” I laugh, giving her a fist bump and then winking at the camera. The wink is my trademark, along with my pencil skirts.

  Kaitlyn’s mama charges me, putting her hand on the mic alongside mine and giving it a tug. I tug back—while pretending I’m not—as I smile through clenched teeth. I refuse to let go, and she hunches in front of me to speak.

  “After we win here, we’re heading to Little Miss Galaxy at the San Francisco Zoo,” she states. “We’ll go straight to catwalk training and poise. The girls in Little Miss Galaxy come from all over the country, you know. Their bodies are streamlined and toned—no baby fat. We’re on a healthy but strict diet.”

  I blink in horror as I absorb her speech. Think about the anchor job, Rebecca. Smile. “Wow. That seems rigorous for a five-year-old.”

  Mama rakes her eyes over me. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about it.”

  I jerk the mic away, ignoring her body shaming. “Kaitlyn, how do you feel about being Miss Galaxy?”

  “Little Miss Galaxy,” her mother corrects.

  Huge brown eyes gaze up at me. “I’ll be Princess Leia!”

  Mama bursts out laughing. “With that honey-bun hair! You are not Princess Leia. Except for maybe those chubby cheeks, but we’re working on that.”

  The child’s eyes land on her shoes, and I swallow the knot of anger in my throat. I might be a hard-boiled newswoman, but I’m fighting a deep desire to steal this little cutie and give her a normal childhood—tacos and all.

  Looking straight into Kevin’s lens, I do the wrap. “There you have it, folks. Miss Planetary Princess is just the latest preschool pageant feeding into the Miss USA circuit. Catch all the taco-worthy drama tomorrow night at eight, right here at the Houston Expo Center. I’m Rebecca Fieldstone, KHOT News.”

  I hold the smile a beat longer until Kevin gives me the signal. “We’re clear.”

  He lowers the camera, and my shoulders drop. This assignment is soul sucking.

  I need to get back to the station and edit the story, but I can’t help sneaking a last look at Kaitlyn. Her shoulders are also slumped, and her mom steers her in the direction of the Channel 8 news team set up in the corner across from us. I hope she gets a taco soon.

  “You ready?” I tuck the mic under my arm and pick up my bag.

  “Miss? Excuse me, miss?” The large woman who had almost knocked me down earlier touches my shoulder.

  I don’t stop walking.

  The woman keeps my pace, breathing heavily as she jogs. “Sorry about earlier, but you haven’t talked to Petal Boo. We’d really like to have her on camera for her résumé.”

  Not another one, I groan inwardly. “I’m sorry. I can’t guarantee what goes on air—”

  The lady shoots out a hand and grips my arm, stopping me. “Oh, you’ll want to talk to Petal. She’s not like the rest.”

  My eyebrow arches, and she releases me. Still, her face is pleading. “Just take a look. Please?”

  Something about her gives me pause. Maybe it’s the sweat lining her brow—I can totally relate. As per usual, it’s a steamy late-September day in southeast Texas, and I left my blotting papers back in the news van. I’m sure my face looks like a red Solo cup right now.

  Giving Kevin a quick nod, we follow her. My mic is out, the light goes on, and Kevin points the camera at a fluffy little girl in a white-blonde wig styled with long ringlets around her oval face.

  “Hi, there,” I say with a smile. “What’s your name?”

  She throws back her shoulder and tilts her chin. “My name is Petal Boo Bishop, and I’m from Meridian, Mississippi!” She’s practically shouting in her clipped country accent, but her execution is polished. “I got started in the pageant circuit after I won the Beautiful Child competition. You’ve probably heard of the Beautiful Child pageant. It’s famous.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t—”

  “From To Kill a Mockingbird? You haven’t read To Kill a Mockingbird?” Her tone is astonished disapproval.

  The camera trembles with Kevin’s suppressed laughter, and I smile, knowing good footage when I see it. I bend down to her level, sucking in my gut. From this angle, it’s more of a challenge to hide the extra few pounds I’ve picked up these last couple months.

  “It’s been a while,” I say, and she charges on
.

  “It’s been voted one of the greatest novels of all time. It concerns the evils of racism.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Petal. How old were you when you won Beautiful Child?”

  Her face snaps to the camera. “I was four years old when I won my first contest. After that my mama said I could win a bunch of money in pageants, so we hit the road. We’ve been to Atlanta, Tampa, Nashville, Baton Rouge, and now we’re here in the great state of Texas to claim Miss Planetary Princess.” Her arm goes straight up, victory style, and she says it all without even pausing for breath.

  “Okay, then.” I stand, taking the pressure off my back. “Good luck to you, Petal.”

  “Thank you, Miss Fieldstone.”

  This kid knows my name? “How old are you now?”

  “Seven and a half. I’m right slap in the middle of the playing field.” She does a little hip-cock—as much as possible in her fluffy pink dress. “This is gonna be my year, just you wait and see. I’m gonna take home the tiara.”

  Her mother rocks back on her heels, arms crossed, beaming with pride.

  “In that case, I’ll be watching for you, as will Houston tonight at six and ten. Do you have a special message for our Channel 5 viewers?”

  “You bet your butt I do.” She looks into the camera. “People of Texas and the world, don’t settle. You deserve the best, just like me. Work as hard as you can and have some fun too.” She gives the camera a thumbs-up. “Y’all take care now!”

  I watch her prance off, tutu flouncing with every step, and I confess, I’m a little envious of her confidence. That’s exactly the kind of attitude I need when it comes to getting the weekend anchor position. It’s been on my radar ever since Maryanne announced she isn’t coming back from maternity leave. She wants to start a family, and her decision is my chance to get off this underpaying, exhausting reporter’s beat. Please, God, I pray silently. I need that anchor job.

  Back in the van, I flip down the visor and lean forward to check my appearance as Kevin races us to the studio. We’ve got exactly forty-five minutes to get this package together for the six o’clock news.

  “My nose looks like an oil slick, and I’ve got mascara specks under my eyes.” Shit! My gaze cuts to Kevin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Kevin takes a loud slurp from his Big Gulp. With frizzy brown hair and two-inch thick glasses, he’s the consummate tech geek, wrinkled shirt and all. “I didn’t notice. Petal was more interesting.”

  I groan and dig through my oversized purse, pulling out a small compact of pressed powder to blot my face. Why didn’t I check the mirror before that stupid segment?

  Marv, our overbearing news director, could catch a speck of pepper in your back teeth. I’m dead. Glancing out the window, I wonder if we could possibly get back and do a re-shoot . . . Who am I kidding? No telling where Petal Boo is now, and depending on the downtown traffic, we barely have time to get to the station.

  “You look fine, Becks.” Kevin takes another slurp. “You’re always too hard on your appearance.”

  I glare at him, and he shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. Fine doesn’t cut it these days. You have to be young and pretty much perfect to land an anchor gig. They’re the top-paying, most visible spots in the broadcast-news food chain.

  We’re finally at the studio, and I dash to the editing booth to pick the video clips and put the story together. Most of Kaitlyn’s interview ends up on the cutting-room floor in favor of scene-stealer Petal Boo. It’s sad, but I can’t help grinning as I realize Petal might be the one bright spot of my week. Even though I look like a disheveled mess standing next to the tiny, spray-tanned beauty queen, I don’t mind so much. She’s got loads of personality, and she’s definitely one to watch.

  I record my voice-over and layer it on top of B-roll of little girls teasing hair the size of Texas and twirling around in thousand-dollar sequined evening gowns, bedazzled cowgirl boots, and glittering one-piece swimsuits. The entire package is ready to go as the Channel 5 theme music begins.

  “Becks! I need that story now!” Vicky, our executive producer, waves at me from the end of the short hall where the editing booths are located.

  I punch Save and give her the thumbs-up. “It’s on the server ready to roll!”

  Leaning back in my chair, I think about the old days when a kid with a cart full of tapes would run the stories to the control room. It’s so much easier now that digital has replaced film.

  Standing, I don’t even bother tucking my white blouse into my skirt. Hell, it’s too tight anyway. My shoes are in my hand, and I collect my jacket and purse ready to call it a day. I’ve been at the station since nine, just in time to catch the morning show wrap up before heading out on my assignment. I’ll stop by my desk and check my emails before I leave.

  Of course, my path takes me right past the sports den, a newly renovated space consisting of desks and computers arranged in the shape of an octagon, like an MMA fighting arena. I don’t even try to suppress my eye roll. Still . . . the one thing that stops them rolling is our new sports director.

  With wavy dark hair and steel-blue eyes, Cade Hill has been here less than three months, and already he’s revamped the entire department into a slick, SportsCenter-style man-paradise.

  He’s an ex-NFL superstar, son of a millionaire, and infuriating as hell. After retiring from the Atlanta Falcons, where he was the starting quarterback before blowing out his knee, he came here and was immediately put in charge of sports. He has zero experience, and he thinks he’s a newsman. Please. It takes more than a sexy physique to tell a story on air.

  Lucky for me, he’s bending over a co-worker’s computer, giving me the full, amazing view of his tight ass. I have two weaknesses in life: a muscular backside so toned you could bounce a quarter off it and Mexican food, and I’m sure not thinking about guacamole right now.

  As if he can sense my eyes on him, he turns and catches me staring. My cheeks heat, and he grins that infuriatingly cocky grin with those deep dimples that actually make my panties wet. He rises to his six-foot-four height, and I pick up the pace, hoping to avoid speaking.

  Get it together, Becks. Cade Hill is the last guy I would ever let ruin my plans for stardom.

  “Truly Earth-shaking reporting today, Stone,” he says, stepping to the open doorway.

  I summon my inner goddess and put my nose in the air as I continue to the newsroom. “Stereotypical male response to a female-dominated profession, Hill.”

  The butterflies in my stomach do somersaults when I feel the heat of his body right behind me, but I don’t slow down.

  “Profession?” he says, and I hear that grin still in his voice. “What did I miss?”

  “Charitable organization,” I reply. “The Miss USA pageant awards more than 350 thousand dollars in scholarships every year.”

  “You know, we could use your hustle on the sports team,” he says, and when I do stop, he extends a finger as if he’ll touch my cheek. I inhale a sharp breath. “Picked up a little shine there.”

  He did not just mention my oily face . . . Oh, he did. “For your information, the humidity in downtown Houston was a thousand percent this afternoon.”

  “Funny, Pat’s weather report said it was only ninety-eight percent.”

  “Pat wasn’t there, and neither were you.” My eyes glide down his blue cotton shirt, cuffed at the elbows to show off his muscular forearms, to his Armani slacks. “It’s a good thing. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to ruin that ridiculously expensive suit.”

  “Thanks for noticing.” He veers off, heading in the direction of the control room and giving me another view of that ass, but for whatever reason, he pauses and looks back. “You seem upset, Stone. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  Yes. He’d brushed against me in the break room once, and the sizzle had nearly given me a seizure. Okay, I exaggerate, but I had spilt my coffee down my skirt, all the way to my brand new knock-off Louboutin pumps.

  “I’m a p
rofessional. I am not uncomfortable around anyone.”

  Lies, all lies! Cade Hill is the sexiest, most intimidating man I know, with a beard I might have imagined between my thighs more than once. Shake it off.

  He chuckles and continues walking. I step over to my computer, quickly scan my inbox, and decide everything can wait until tomorrow. The six o’clock news is done, and I’m ready to get home, whip off my bra, and kick back. I’m passing our news director’s office when I hear Marv call me from inside his glass-walled box. “Rebecca! Can you step inside for just a moment?”

  Marv is old school, and I give my disheveled appearance a quick survey. Shirt out, shoes off, makeup melted—I’ve had better days. Still, I’ve been at KHOT five years. These guys know me.

  Dropping my shoes, I step into them as I stuff the front of my blouse into my skirt. “Just heading home . . .” I pause when I see Cade sitting inside the door, his back to the wall. He seems confused, but I put on a smile as I focus on Marv. “How’d we do in the lineup?”

  “CBS led with the plant explosion in Texas City. NBC stayed with us and covered the cellular strike blocking up traffic on the north side,” he replies, glancing at three big-screen televisions mounted on the wall—all tuned to our competing local affiliates.

  “Thank God we didn’t get stuck in that.” I drop into a chair opposite Cade.

  “It was a tight turnaround, but I appreciate your hustle.” He takes a pencil off his desk and rolls it in his fingers. “Watched your bit. It was decent.”

  Decent? I’d rocked the hell out of a silly human-interest story, but Marv can be hard to please. I take his criticism with a nod. Working for the top local affiliate in the fourth-largest city in the U.S. isn’t for the thin-skinned. “Viewers will love Petal.”

  He doesn’t look as confident, and a prickle of misgiving zips down my spine. Petal might have been spot-on, but my appearance was iffy.

  A noise of heels clicking outside the door captures his attention. “Vicky!” Marv shouts. “Could you step in here a minute?”

  Vicky, too? Now my throat is tight.