Into the Fire - Leslie Kelly [5]
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"Not to self. Next time you attend a rich man's cocktail party, bring your Game Boy."
Nate Logan clicked off his microcassette recorder and tucked it into the pocket of his black tux. Since everyone he worked with knew he always carried the thing around with him, making observations for use in columns, no one would have been surprised to see him talking to himself. Not that it mattered, anyway, since he was alone. Completely, blissfully alone.
He'd finally cut out of J.T. Birmingham's party after enduring about twenty-five minutes of insipid conversation with colleagues who'd love to see him fall flat on his face. Grabbing a few bottles of beer from the bar, he'd slipped out a patio door and made his way around the lawn, searching for a place to sit down and drain a cold one.
Nate's exploration of the well-manicured grounds led him to a secluded pool area. The pool ran right up to the edge of the house, and he imagined there was another section inside for bad-weather swimming. Curious to see what it looked like, he tested the handle of a nearby door and found himself inside a recreation room, complete with gym and spa. A light in a far corner illuminated some pricey workout equipment, including weight-training centers, stair steppers, treadmills, even a trampoline. The enclosed pool took up the other half of the massive chamber.
"The magazine business must be doing very well, indeed," he mused as he moved a lounge chair right up to the edge of the pool. He took a seat, then leaned over the armrest to test the water with his fingers, liking the coolness against his skin. Damn, it was a miserably hot night, particularly for early June. The crowded party had made it that much more so.
He twisted off the cap of a bottle, took a long pull of cold beer and settled back in the chair. He would have loosened the stupid bow tie at his neck but knew there was no way he'd be able to tie it again without a mirror, so he left it alone.
All in all, the evening was proving to be a total waste. Hobnobbing with the rich and famous of Baltimore was not exactly Nate's thing. Most of the women he'd met tonight either stared icicles or came at him with enough heat to melt iron, each thinking she might be the one to transform the sexist bad boy she knew from the pages of Men's World.
As if that Nate Logan really existed.
Well, okay, maybe he existed to some extent. Yes, Nate's writing style reflected his personality—a little smart-alecky, a lot tongue in cheek. But the rest didn't. As much as readers—and female columnists—might argue it, Nate was not a sexist jerk. He didn't dislike women. Far from it! So he didn't particularly care to be exposed to a bunch of female readers who wanted to either smack him or seduce him.
It wasn't as if he bashed women. He wrote a column for men in a men's magazine. When he wrote, he pictured himself just talking to a bunch of guys. All guys-single or married, committed or on the make, young and eager or old and reminiscent—talked about women. What women did. What women said. What women wore. What women wanted. Particularly what women wanted. Mainly how the hell a man was supposed to figure out what women wanted!
He viewed his writing as a just-between-us-men, talking-after-a-workout kind of thing. Unfortunately, some women had started eavesdropping on the conversation and weren't too happy about it. As if he, Nate Logan, had invented the concept of men griping about the opposite sex. Ridiculous, unless one also subscribed to the theory that women never indulged in man bashing. Which was, of course, complete bullshit.
This was where his startlingly sudden success in the publishing world had gotten him. A great job, a terrific salary, the freedom to express the views of the average man on the street. Oh, and a big, fat, pig-shaped target on his head.
He didn't like his sudden notoriety. Sure, he'd had fun with it the first few months, until he realized not everyone was in on the joke.