Bro-mance 101 (3 page)

A horn blared as a car nearly side-swiped her. 

“
Asshole!”
Zhané
yelled
as the driver whizzed by. 

Through a
watery
back window,
Zhané
could see the
driver
flip her the bird.
A
bumper sticker
with the words KLUV Studios
was
plastered to the car’s
back fender.  That was the
radio
station for
Bro-mance
101. 
Figures.
  H
e was probably one of those sanctimonious idiots
who’d sworn off women, but still frequented the strip club so he could objectify
females
.

Zhané
grab
bed a Kleenex from the glove box and blew her nose as s
he replayed the conversation she’d had
with
Malik
less than an
hour ago.  How could she have been so blind?  She’d
spent
half a year on a relationship only to have her man leave her
because Devlin Hart inspired him to do so. 
Devlin Hart.
  Did
that man
even
ha
v
e a heart
?
 
Did he know what true love was? 
Did he have a woman? 
His show was respon
sible
for
breaking
hearts and
ruining
relationships.  The man was a meddler, plain and simple. 

The more she stewed, the more convinced she became that s
he should go
to the KLUV radio station and
give
that
fool
a pi
e
ce of her mind. 
Out of curiosity, she t
yped
KLUV Studios
into her GPS.
  She’d seen the billboards
for
Bro-mance
101
on Highway
59, not far from where she worked.
The boards boasted no p
hoto, but proudly
displayed
navy
and gold lettering with the show’s tagline
,
Bro-mance
101:
Don’t Get Got!
That shit s
ounded
like a Lil’ Rascals
slogan
. 

The GPS indicated the studio was closer than she thought
. 
She took the ne
xt
exit, and t
en minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the six-story building where KLUV
S
tudios was located.  By the time she found a
parking
spot and
sprinted to the
front door, she was drench
ed by the pouring
rain
. 
She didn’t cringe whe
n
the heel of her stiletto
almost became
stuck in a grate near the
double glass
door
s
. 
It was worth battling the elements
and any other potential hazards
to meet the
troublemaker
who was
responsible for
her
misery
.

Zhané
entered the building and quickly surveyed her surroundings.  E
arlier in the day
,
throngs of people might have walked on the slate gray floor or passed by the
pastel
watercolors decorating the putty colored walls.
But right now, the first floor was deserted. 
She
walked
past the empty security desk and found a
ladies’ roo
m. 
Once inside, s
he tilted the old-
school electric hand dryer
upward to dry her face, then downward to dry her bare legs.  After taking a quick look in the mirror to
slick her hair into a ponytail and
repair the smudged eyeliner that outlined her hazel eyes
, she
was ready
.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she stormed down the hallway.  It was time
to meet Mr. Devlin Hart. 

THREE

Devlin
ended his broadcast the same way each day. 
“That’s my time, folks
,” he spoke into the microphone.  “
I’m h
umbled
that you
took the time to
tune into
Bro-mance
101
,
and
I’m
honored to be your guide
in navigating th
e rough waters of relationships.
  I’ll be back tomorrow
–same time, same line. 
Don’t Get Got!
See
y
a
soon
.” 

Ironically,
Devlin w
asn’t seeing
his listeners
, but hearing them.  His quote had led blog followers to request that he install a
web cam or
hook up to S
kype so listeners could interact
visually with him
. 
Ma
y
b
e
one
day, but for now, he enjoyed his privacy.

He closed up shop, shutting down
the switchboard,
turning the sliders off
on the audio console
, and logging off the computer
program
that housed the show’s digital software. 
He made sure the voicemail
recording
for
Bro-mance
101 was on, and
then
he
gr
abbed his
cell phone
and car keys from
the
desk drawer. 
He g
lanced out the window
, as he’d done every
ten
minutes since
Ramon
left
over
an hour ago.  It was pitch-black
outside now
.  He wished he’d had the foresight to bring an umbrella today. 
The
relentless rain that pummeled the window
s
outside the station
would easily soak the chinos and white t-shirt he wore.  At least his leather loafers would hold up. 

D
e
vlin
emerged from the sound-proof studio to empty halls.  Friday evenings were usually like Grand Central Station around here, but it seemed everyone had bailed
in order
to avoid the storm. 
H
e passed the abandoned offices and
made his way
to
the
elevator. 
Ramon
’s office was on the sixth floor, but he hung out
on this floor
so much, Devlin often joked he should get a bed and put it in the hallway.

He wondered if Ramon had started his private happy hour yet.  Devlin was a social drinker
; he really didn’t go out much.  He’d r
ather spend his time
on fixer-upper projects.  With a thirty-year old ho
use
, there was always something
in need of repair
. 
A week ago, he’d
started preparations to add a
back
deck. 
To him, t
here was
nothing more satisfying than
smelling fresh lumber and feeling
the
wood in his hands as he shaped it into something beautiful.  All that sawing, drilling, and loud hammerin
g was bound to get on his neigh
bor’s nerves, but it could be worse.  He could be blasting hard core funk music all day long. 
They just didn’t know how lucky they were.
Mr. Heinz, his nosey, elderly neighbor was always asking if Devlin had any girlfriends. 
Years ago, h
e went so far as to make a comment that still
lingered in
Devlin
’s mind
to this day: 
‘You’
re not one of th
em queer boys, are y
ou
?’

Devlin shook his head.  Tha
t was
how rumors got started. 
People might
find
it interesting to know that he gave relations
h
ip advice, yet he’d been single for five years.  Every
time he thought about plunging back into the d
ating waters, he got hives.
  Women were so demanding. 
The only ones he
felt he
could trust were the ones waiting at home for him, his two bull terriers, Sasha and
Mika
.  He
rescued both of them from a shelte
r five years ago–aroun
d the exact same time he went through a bad breakup.  He guessed he needed his dogs and they needed him. 

Zhané
stared at the words engraved
o
n the gold plate on the solid
wood door. 
Ramon
Aiello,
KLUV Station Manager
. 
The building’s directory indicated that the administrative offices for KLUV were on the sixth floor. 
She was hoping the man could direct her to Devlin. 
However,
Ramon
did not answer her knock.  She
jiggled
the
door
knob. 
L
ocked.  Apparently, that
type of luck
only worked in the movies
when some amateur sleuth accidentally stumbled
upon a dead body
.
Goosebumps
bloomed on
her bare arms.  She didn’
t want to find a corpse
,
although she
wouldn’t mind
Devlin Hart’s head on a platter. 

She looked around, feeling like an observer in a ghost town.  Maybe
everyone had gone for the day
.
Maybe this was a sign
that
she needed to
get her butt home too
. 
A frustrated sigh escaped her lips.  She’d come so far only to have the wind let out of her sails. 
As she stood in the spacious lobby wondering what to do, a loud clap of thunder splintered the air, nearly making her jump out of her four-inch platforms. 

Okay, that’s it.
I’m out of here!
 

She
hurried toward
the
elevator.  T
he
sounds of her heels e
choed
loudly against the fancy hardwood floors. 
E
xecutives got all the perks.  Even at her company,
burgundy
B
erber carpet lined the floors
where the peons sat, while the top floor that housed the V.P.s
was laid out in black marble tile. 
She didn’t dwell on décor.  Besides, she didn’t plan to be
in her current office
for long.  Her ambitions were limitless. 
She couldn’t say what drove her.  Maybe growing up
with a
widowed
father who preferred late-night bars to staying home with his three kids was her impetus. 
After her mother passed away from Cancer
, daddy
gave up on life and simply
drank himself to death. 

Zhané
battled against the resurrection of those bad memories, banishing them to the
safety of her subconscious.  She didn’t want to think about her father right now. 
She pressed the
button
to go back
down
to the first floor.  She needed to
head straight for her condo
. 
She had a lot of p
ent
-
up frustration right now
, and she
h
ad to unleash
it
on something. 
It was a perfect night to
slip into her pajamas,
play a game of
Xbox Saints Row,
and shoot up some shit.  With the
mood she was in, it
was either that or
call
Malik
.  There was no
telling what she’d end up saying to him.