Marcia King-Gamble - Flamingo Place

He hiked an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“We have our drink in public. And by that I don’t mean a cozy restaurant.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Neutral territory. We take the bottle to the beach or around the pool. Somewhere on the property where everyone can see us.”

“I’ll accept your invitation on one condition,” he now countered.

“And what is that?”

“You wear your sexiest bathing suit to the pool. While you think about that, I have to go.”

“What is it that you do?” Jen called to his disappearing back.

“Let’s just say I’m in communications,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“So am I.”

The moment she shut the door she marched over to where she’d set the bottle down. Curious to see if his taste matched hers, Jen removed the bottle of wine from its wrapper and checked out the label. The wine had to have set him back at least a twenty spot.

The annoying man actually had good taste.

Boris Schwartz, WARP’s owner and station manager, was seated in his office, a cooling mug of coffee in front of him as usual. Tre leaned his butt against the doorjamb, fingered the diamond stud in his ear, and waited for Boris to look up.

“You’re ten minutes late,” he announced, glancing up and beckoning Tre to come in.

“Sorry. I got held up.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Have a seat.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

The Afro-German brought the mug to his lips. His eyes never left Tre’s. In one precise movement, he set the cup down on a desk that was painfully neat. “Get Dear Jenna on your show while the interest level is still there. It should happen in the next day or two. Understand?”

Tre felt like clicking his heels and saying “Aye, aye, sir.” Instead he said, “And if the woman won’t agree to come on?”

“Appeal to her ego. There’s something in this for both of you.” Boris’s index finger made a rat-a-tat sound on his desk. “There’s got to be some kind of carrot we can dangle to get her on WARP.”

“I have an idea,” Tre said, a smile creeping across his face. It was raw and unformed but it just might work. “I’ll call Chet Rabinowitz.”

“The mayor’s son? The leader of the gay coalition or alliance or whatever it’s called.”

“Alliance. He’s an acquaintance of mine.”

Boris scrunched a nose that took up the majority of his face. “Where are you going with this?”

“Tell me what I can expect if these ratings continue the way they’ve been lately, and I’ll share with you what I have in mind.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

For the next fifteen minutes Boris spoke and Tre listened, interrupting occasionally to get specifics when he felt he might be getting snowed.

Tre left the station manager’s office feeling upbeat and positive. He was well on his way.

Now to get Chet Rabinowitz to agree to come on the air. If he dangled the promise of an on-air discussion of the Dear Jenna column, that might persuade the vocal activist to say yes. Chet was a publicity hound, especially if it would further the gay cause.

And, if these broadcasts went as Tre thought they would, D’Dawg would then invite Daddy, the mayor, to come on the show.

Tre rubbed his hands together gleefully. Yes! He was onto something. He was on a roll.

Chet Rabinowitz was with a customer when the phone rang. His partner Harley hurried off to get it. Business had been slow lately and they needed a large order to help pay this month’s expenses.

“All About Flowers,” Harley, the alpha part of the twosome answered in his low baritone. “It’s for you, Chet,” he said, waving the phone at him.

Chet hurried to take the call, leaving Rico Catalban still debating over what color roses to send to his newly hired hostess at the Pink Flamingo. In a small town like Flamingo Beach where everyone knew each other, no employee would dare file sexual harassment charges if the romantic interest wasn’t reciprocated. Not if they knew what was good for them. They’d be laughed off the beach and most certainly would not be hired by any other local merchant, not even for a menial job.

“This is Chet,” the florist gushed.

Music played in the background but no one responded. Chet frowned. It was probably a solicitor, but maybe not—Harley would have hung up on her.

Chet covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Who’s looking for me?”

Harley shrugged. “I don’t know. The person was well spoken. I thought it might be a reporter. We did send out that press release.”

Harley continued to make suggestions to the Catalban man, who was beautiful enough to be a woman, before he finally shouted over his shoulder, “On second thought, it might be the radio station. I think I heard WARP mentioned and that DJ with the canine name.”

“Oh!” Chet’s Kenneth Cole loafers now tapped out a beat. He’d had a secret crush on Tre Monroe. Too bad the DJ wasn’t into men. One perfectly manicured finger worried his long lashes. It felt wonderful to be fully out of the closet and able to openly admire someone of the same gender.

“D’Dawg calling for Charles Rabinowitz,” a deep male voice said.

“This is Chet, Tre. Long time no talk?” Was he being too familiar? They were really only nodding acquaintances, though privately Chet thought the African-American man was the buffest male he knew and the hottest. They worked out at the same health club. Tre’s dark-skinned good looks, sculptured features and soulful brown eyes belonged on a male model. Too bad he hadn’t chosen a profession where he could strut his stuff. He would have given Ty Beckford a run for his money.

“If I were any better, I would be purring,” the sexy DJ said.

Chet loved the sound of his voice. It came from deep in his belly and reminded him of a popular R&B singer.

“Is there something that All About Flowers can do for you?” he asked.

Chet already had visions of gaining WARP’s exclusive account, maybe even being put on a retainer. The free publicity would be just what the store needed and if Tre only mentioned the flower shop once on the show they’d have it made.

“What are you doing tomorrow night, say around nine?” Tre asked.

Chet laid an open palm on his chest where his heart was supposed to be. Using his other hand, he crooked a finger at his lover and inhaled loudly. But Harley was already on a roll, explaining to Rico that some women liked a more subtle approach. He was busy recommending flowers that were classy and understated, suggesting calla lilies, orchids or even sunflowers as alternatives. “Why be like any other chap on the make sending the usual boring dozen roses?” Chet heard Harley ask.

“What did you have in mind?” Chet countered, focusing on his caller again.

“Come be a guest on my show. You can plug your flower shop as much as you like.”

“Why?”

Oh, my Gawd! This was a dream come true. It was an opportunity no one in his right mind would pass up!

“I’m interested in your reaction to Dear Jenna’s advice. I want to know what the community thinks of her using the word queer. And I want to know what your group would like to see happen.”

“The word queer is—”

“Yeah, I know. Offensive. You’re gay. You’ve worked hard to earn respect. You enjoy an alternative lifestyle. Use my show to straighten out the lady. She’s new in town. We can’t allow some upstart to get away with offending upstanding citizens.”

“Good point!” Chet was swept along with the excitement. Being asked on the D’Dawg show was an honor. He would be a fool to miss out on the opportunity to increase business for the flower shop.