Page 9 of No More Billionaires

“So, Kenley, how’d you like to share a lunch table with a pleasant-smelling guy today?” he asked when we both received our trays of food.

“Sure. Why not?”

We found a two-top and sat down. We chatted easily all the way through the meal. He asked me first about my job, nodding when I told him I worked at WNN.

“Yeah—I figured you for a newsy—so serious.”

“What about you?”

“I’m a Tooney. I work in master control there, which means I basically watch cartoons for a living.”

“Ah, it’s all starting to make sense now,” I said.

The Toons Network shared the building with WNN’s Atlanta headquarters, both entities owned by the same quirky media mogul, Tom Thompson.

“So what do y’all do all day long over there? Smoke pot and pull whoopee cushion pranks?” I asked.

“Pretty much. What do you newsies do—voodoo rituals to conjure natural disasters, blood, and twisted metal?”

“Pretty much.” I smiled, liking him. “No seriously—is broadcasting what you went to school for?”

“Heck no. I was an English history major. I went to school to prepare for a successful career in serving up gas-inducing barbeque sandwiches. I was lucky to get this job. I mean, the prospect of living in my parents’ guest room for the next forty years isn’t too exciting, but the work’s not bad so far. How about you—go to J school?”

I nodded, taking a sip of my soda. “I declared journalism as my major freshman year and never looked back. Got a job anchoring and reporting in a tiny market in East Georgia right after graduation and worked there a couple of years before moving back here.”

“You’re so lucky you knew what you wanted to do. I’m still trying to figure it out. So what made you want to go into TV?”

I felt my face heat in an instant blush. I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Come on. Yes you do.”

“Well, I actually wasn’t too sure about what I wanted to do. TV is sort of what everyone told me I should do.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing, really—and I know it’s hard to believe—but people were always saying things like, ‘You’re so pretty, you should be on TV.’”

I wrinkled my nose, remembering. “My mom used to take me to modeling gigs and commercials and stuff when I was a kid, but then I stopped growing at five-seven—too short to model, so she sort of pushed me to do TV news.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can see that,” he said, being nice. “Nothing wrong with working what you got.”

He cocked his elbow, placing one hand behind his head and fluttered his eyelashes in a ridiculous-looking model pose.

I laughed. “No, really itiswrong. That’s no reason to get into news. I mean, I’m ashamed of it now. Thankfully, it turned out I really loved covering stories and writing for newscasts. And I was pretty good at it. The behind-the-scenes stuff felt better to me—more like I earned my job or something. And that’s what I do now—I’m not on camera anymore. But I’m sure you could tell that.”

“No. If you’d said you anchored at WNN, I totally would’ve believed you.”

“Shut up.” I looked down at my plate.

“No seriously. You’re not all tarted up and stuff with the makeup and the tight clothes.” He paused and pointed at me. “Don’t get me wrong—you’d be smokin’ like that, but you’re still hot.”

I crumpled my sandwich wrapper. “Okay seriously—shut up. I’m not hot.”

“Fine. You’re a heifer. Totally hideous. Want to go out tonight after work?”

Jason took an enormous bite of his sandwich, chewing vigorously as he awaited my answer.

I stared at him for a minute, my grin developing from the inside out. He was silly and fun and definitely not rich.

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