Broken Lion(133)

By: Devon Hartford

So, how to get rid of her?

Usually, I like the direct approach.

“You need to go,” I grunt.



Romeo leans his ear against the door, “I don’t hear anyone inside. Do you have a drinking glass?”


“So I can hear better. Don’t you watch spy movies?” he hisses.

“Not really.”

“Which celebrity do you think he looks like?” Romeo muses gleefully, his ear still glued to the door.

“I have no idea.” Nor do I care. My kind of man has a career path. Soft porn modeling is not a career path. Nothing gets me going like a suit and tie. Not that I’ve had anything going on in the boyfriend or the bedroom department since forever. I’m focused on being a journalist, not meaningless flings.

“Whatever he looks like,” Romeo swoons, “I bet he’s gorgeous. I’m picturing chiseled cheek bones, a brooding brow, smoldering eyes, and a rugged stubbled jaw.”

I smirk, “That sounds like a caveman or a neanderthal. Does he wear a leopard skin for a loincloth and carry a club too?”

“I hope so,” Romeo grins, his eyes dreamy. “Then he can pound me with his club, take me back to his cave, and pound me with his human club from behi—”

“Stop!” I bark.

“Never mind me,” he giggles. “A serious woman like you is only interested in serious information, right?”

“What makes you think I’m serious?” I ask defensively.

His eyes sweep up and down my outfit. One of his eyebrows arches dramatically and his face says, Have you looked in a mirror lately? But his mouth says, “Please, girlfriend. Your outfit was on the cover of the latest issue of Business Matron’s Monthly.”

I hide my scowl as I look down my nose at him through my stylish eyeglasses. “That’s not even a real magazine.” My long auburn hair may be pinned up in a conservative bun, but I look good in my pumps, pencil skirt, and blouse. I always dress my best so people take me seriously.

“We’ll work on tomorrow’s look later,” he smiles. “But we can do something about that uptight hair of yours.” He reaches for my bun like he’s going to fiddle with it, or worse, let it down completely. “Your hair bun is so tight it’s giving you a facelift.”

“Hands off!” I growl, pulling back defensively. He thinks he can give me fashion advice? He looks like a cartoon character. I resist the urge to kick his shins with my pointed pumps.

He drops his arm to his side, “Loosen up, girl. I’m just trying to help.”

“What do you know about women’s fashion? Look at your outfit! I didn’t realize sci-fi emo was still a thing,” I spit. “And what’s with that stupid monocle?”

With practiced flair, he flips the monocle up with a flick of his wrist and squinches it in his cheek. He stares at me through it, the monocled eye comically magnified. “Perhaps you need a personality makeover, darling,” he mutters before letting the monocle tumble free.

I’m about to give him a tongue lashing when I stop myself. I admit it. I’m very sensitive about my looks, my personality, everything. Let’s face it. I’m just plain sensitive. I blame four years of high school torment from Connor Hughes. That asshole left me scarred.

That’s when the hotel room door suddenly whips open and my chest locks down tight, stopping my breath.

It’s him.

Connor Hughes.

No. Fucking. Way.