Page 52 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

D enzil drained the last of his Lucozade, screwed the cap back onto the bottle, and flung it into the bin by his desk. Nothing but net. It was only Monday morning, but there were about five other bottles in there. Denzil consumed so much sugar that when he opened his mouth, I could hear his teeth screaming to be released.

“Early ratings are in, you smashed it,” Denzil said, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, showing the full width of his back and the sheer bulk of his biceps. That the fabric of his Oxford shirt hadn’t burst open at every seam defied the laws of physics. Whoever made it had to be a Time Lord, because that shirt was definitely bigger on the inside.

“Thank you,” Nick and I said in unison.

“How did you go with Cole? Have you fixed it?”

I stumbled over my reply. “There’s been some defrosting.”

“Defrosting?” Nick said. “If things defrosted any faster, the pair of them would be surrounded by a gaggle of concerned climate scientists.”

I glared at Nick.

“Good,” Denzil said, “because the Cardiff interview on Thursday cannot be a repeat of Glasgow. We clear, my brothers?”

We nodded.

“We’ve got the board and the big swinging dicks from The Sentinel landing on us this Friday to talk about the takeover. Now that the board has definitely decided to sell us, the last thing I need is grief because Toby’s picked a fight with the guy whose cheque is the only thing keeping us on air. Capisce?”

“ The Sentinel ain’t going to shut us down, are they, Denz?” I asked, suddenly worried I’d set in train our own destruction.

“No idea. I’ll know more on Friday. But, one, they’re a media company, and, two, they’re British—which is about as good as we can hope for. Speaking straight, I think they’re mostly interested in TalkUK, so they might even leave us alone to get on with it. But I wouldn’t swear on a souvenir pair of Cardi B’s knickers that that’s what’ll happen.”

“I’m not sure Cardi B wear?—”

Nick cut me off. “If they wanted to spend some money, I wouldn’t complain. This place is falling apart.”

“It’s not that bad.” Denzil looked affronted.

“Every time I flush the disabled toilet, I get an electric shock.”

“That’s to stop you doing coke off the toilet seat,” I said.

“Can we stay on track, please?” Denzil looked frustrated. “Between us, since the takeover hit the news, other potential buyers have been sniffing around. And believe me, they’re not the sorts of motherfuckers we want buying the network. We can’t give The Sentinel any excuse to think we’re a bad investment. I can do without any hint of scandal. This thing needs to be a hit. We need the good publicity, the credibility, the cultural clout, and Cole’s million quid to grease the wheels of this deal.”

“So, I need to cosy up to my ex, or we’re still all out on our arses?” I summarised. “No pressure, then.”

“How are you holding up, Tobes?” Denzil asked. “It must be mad weird.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s been an emotional week.”

“Bringing back a lot of old feelings, I bet.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Toby’s absolutely fine,” Nick said. “No meltdowns at all. We’ve started calling him the Iron Homosexual.”

I slapped him on the arm. “Quit it.”

Denzil looked at us suspiciously. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“Only that I will not fail in my mission,” I said. “Nothing will pierce my resolve.”

“It’s not your resolve he’ll be piercing,” Nick said.

I slapped his arm again. “I’ll slash your tyres in a minute.”

“Any hope of…” Denzil waggled his finger in the air, hopefully.

“I’m not getting back together with my ex so you can sell a radio station.”

“Fair enough, bruv.” Denzil spun around, plucked a bottle of Lucozade out of his bar fridge, cracked the lid, and took a swig. “But do you think you could see your way clear to maybe being photographed together, at least?”

“There’ll be publicity shots from the interview,” I said, blood pressure rising.

“Yeah, but I mean, like, if you happened to get photographed going into a restaurant together or something…” Denzil waved a hand around casually. “Nothing untoward. Maybe a hug? Within range of the paparazzi.”

“I’m not doing it, Denz.”

“No, of course not. But, if you did , for example, happen to get photographed walking down the street with Cole’s arm around your shoulder. I’m just saying, I would not be upset about it. So we’re clear.”

“Are you having a laugh?”

“I’m saying we’d have your back, that’s all. It would be OK with us. With Pure. And with the board. During this difficult time.”

Denzil smiled.

“Are you ordering me to get photographed with Cole Kennedy?”

“Of course not.” Denzil raised his hands. “I’m certainly not suggesting that you fake date a pop star to save the network. I’m saying if you happened to start dating a pop star, or if the public somehow got the impression you were, it wouldn’t hurt our figures. The network would support you, and we’d find a way to deal with all the amazing publicity.”

Nick laughed. I was speechless. Denzil unscrewed the cap of his Lucozade and took a swig, all without dropping eye contact. As he screwed the lid back on, he popped one pec muscle, then the other, then both pecs back and forth in quick succession. The Lucozade people were missing a trick not using him in their advertising.

I stood and stabbed my finger into his desk. “It’s too much, Denz. I’m not doing it. Interviewing Cole in a professional setting is one thing. But I would never put myself in a situation where his fans, or the press, might think for even a millisecond that there’s anything personal going on between Cole and me.”

Denzil leaned back in his chair.

“Because that is the fastest way I know to ruin every single part of my life,” I said. “And I might love this station, but I won’t destroy my life to save it.”

“Tobes, I hear you. I’m not asking you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“Good.”

“But if you do do something you’re uncomfortable with, just make sure it’s on camera.”

I roared in frustration, turned on my heels, and stormed out of the building.