Never had I heard something quite so odd yet make so much sense. I just nodded.
“Now, what do you want? Treat’s on me. I know you’re not making bank as a journalist, no matter how many eyeballs ogle you on the five o’clock news.”
I ordered a six-inch turkey club sandwich, while Satan ordered the eighteen-inch Philly cheesesteak sandwich. I turned to him with a bemused look on my face.
“I’m not broke, and I know it’s not like you guys are making bank either. Last I checked, blue-collar jobs aren’t making six figures.”
“Not to the IRS’ knowledge, anyway,” Satan said with a wink.
I just decided that not all questions were worth asking.
“Some things are best kept on the down-low,” he growled as he moved in toward me, placing his hands on my lower back. So much warmth radiated from his touch that I almost felt hot enough to take…well, to expose the skin. Which I suppose was giving him what he wanted.
Maybe this was closer to happening than I had anticipated.
We moved to the table, his hand never leaving my body, the warmth flaring up and setting off all sorts of alarms. The reminder to stay professional was constantly getting shut out by everything else; it felt like no matter how much I tried to think about being professional, either I’d ignore it or Satan would make a move to push it to the side.
“You seem like a smart gal,” Satan said once we’d finally sat down and he’d taken his hand off me. “At least, smarter than me, though that’s not a fucking high bar to clear. The hell you become a journalist?”
I finished the bite of food I had. I was appreciative I had to do that because this was a question that was much easier asked than answered these days.
“I always thought I’d be the one to unearth critical stories,” I said. “I thought I’d be exposing corrupt politicians, unethical businesses, crime, you know, making a difference in the community.”
“And are you?”
I sighed.
“My boss makes all these dumb analogies that all boil down to the idea that we need to make sure not only are we sharing the news, but we’re also doing so in an entertaining fashion. There’s a business side to it that I didn’t see before. And it fucking sucks.”
“Welcome to life.”
I thought I heard a shred of sympathy in Satan’s voice. Not that he’d ever admit to it, and not that I’d probably get to it again. But perhaps we had a little more in common than I realized, a little more between us than just the connection of an investigative report.
“I know,” I said as I took another bite of my sandwich. “I guess I didn’t think being an adult would be so…grinding. So wearing. So endlessly numbing.”
Satan chuckled.
“Is it any fucking wonder that men come to the Devil’s Patriots?”
Well, put that way, maybe it didn’t.
“Sonny and I grew up in a blue-collar world. I’ve always been around war, bikes, tough shit. The idea of working in an office is about as appealing as it would be for you to eat a cockroach right now. But that ain’t the case for all our prospects and members.”
“Oh?”
Satan nodded.
“I’m not saying we secretly got a bunch of CEOs and senators in the club. But you’d be surprised the background of some of the folks here.”
“Strange, because—”
“You think we’re all just a bunch of white male assholes?” Satan said with a glare that suggested he wasn’t joking.
I’d seen the reports elsewhere.
“I’d rather you not report on us at all, but since I want to fuck you and you seem like you’ve got at least a respectable head on your shoulders, you know damn well the difference between the truth and a narrative.”
Well, he just put that right out there as honestly as he could, huh?
