I shake my head, turning back to Cynthia. “Anyway, tonight’s covered.”
“Great.” She taps a few more keys, then turns to our relationships editor. “Jordan, ‘Across the aisle to down the aisle: How I found love with my political polar opposite.’ How’s that going?”
“Great. I’m interviewing this adorable couple, they work as rival Senate staffers in DC and their story is so entertaining, I swear it deserves its own book...”
I tune out as the meeting spools on, taking the opportunity to respond to some emails and approve a product roundup from one of our contract writers. A text pops up from Natalia:Legit starving. Placing a Serafina’s order now. You want in?I text back in the affirmative as Cynthia starts recapping our stats from last week, a signal the meeting’s wrapping up.
“Last week’s biggest hit and the winner of this week’s bonus is Daniela, with her piece about influencers inflatingtheir numbers. Excellent work, Daniela,” Cynthia says to the spunky brunette lifestyle editor, who preens and waves the crisp hundred-dollar bill in the air. “Shares were way up, it saw huge numbers on social and got a lot of pickups. If anyone has any follow-on story ideas there, don’t be shy. Influencers behaving badly always performs.” She mouse-clicks a few times and squints at her screen. “The equal pay for equal work story got a big traffic spike on Wednesday. Unfortunately, we have our friends at Brawler to thank for the assist with their classy rebuttal: ‘But do women work equally as hard between the sheets? From the boardroom to the bedroom, by the numbers.’ ” Jordan snickers under her breath and Cynthia gives her the hairy eyeball.
Ugh, Brawler—Siren’s nemesis and the thorn in our collective side. Just hearing the word spikes my blood with adrenaline, bringing with it the memory of Brett’s rejection like a fresh, still-stinging wound.
Originally founded a decade ago by a pair of college roommates as a site focused mainly on sports betting, Brawler unwittingly stumbled upon a substantial—and lucrative—untapped market: emotionally stunted man-children hungry for validation of their sports- and sex-obsessed lifestyles. Once the site’s scope was broadened to a more comprehensive “by men for men” format, they quickly amassed an army of rabid fans and never looked back. The content they churn out is about what you’d expect: sports scandals, toilet humor, click-through galleries of scantily clad coeds. With its provocative, clickbait-y headlines and misogynistic editorials designed to drum up as much controversy as possible, Brawler lives up to its name—and then some.
Siren’s long-running feud with Brawler dates back yearsbefore I worked here, and legend has it it’s all because of George Clooney.
Here’s the backstory: Not too long after Cynthia founded Siren, George proposed to Amal, and they married later that year in a splashy, star-studded Italian wedding. Their nuptials dominated entertainment news, with every outlet running near-identical versions of the headline A-LISTACTORANDNOTORIOUSBACHELORGEORGECLOONEYMARRIESLAWYER. Despite an accomplished life and impressive résumé, Amal was relegated to a nameless footnote, her identity immaterial, her only noteworthy accomplishment apparently taming an untamable man. Galled by the slight, Cynthia penned a wedding announcement of her own: TRILINGUAL,INTERNATIONALLYRENOWNEDHUMANRIGHTSLAWYERANDFORMERADVISERTOUNSECRETARYGENERALAMALALAMUDDINMARRIESSOMEACTOR.
Overnight, Cynthia was crowned journalism’s latest “It” girl, the feminist voice of the digital media generation, putting her and Siren squarely on the map. But just as her fledgling website was enjoying the warm glow of the spotlight, Brawler wrenched it back by publishing their own snarky hot take: bachelor George Clooney’sobituary. And since the media loves nothing more than a feud, the headline tug-of-war and resulting press frenzy catapulted both sites into a battle of the sexes so intense, we’ve been locked in a death match ever since.
Cynthia slams her laptop shut with more force than necessary. “I hate them, but traffic is traffic. So let’s all thank Brawler for spreading our message,” she says, raising her hand to the window in a one-finger salute.
“Speaking of Brawler, have any of you heard of ‘Sacred Saturdays’?” I ask as everyone starts gathering their things.
“Ugh, yes,” Kara, a petite, freckled blonde and one of our beauty editors, groans from across the table. “My boyfriend thinks it’s hilarious. News flash: You sound like an asshole.”
“I made the mistake of dating a ‘Brawler Bro’ once,” Jordan says as she twists her hair into a bun. “Worst few weeks of my life. He forced me to tag along with him one weekend when he went back to hang at his frat house. He was twenty-seven.” She grabs her laptop and stands. “Never again.”
“Thank you for validating me.” I briefly summarize my run-in with Brett the buffoon and am gratified by their appropriately outraged reactions. “I guess I didn’t realize Sacred Saturdays was a Brawler thing, but I googled around, and get this: They’vetrademarkedit.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Cynthia tosses over her shoulder, scrolling through her phone as she heads out the door. “If there’s one thing those lowlifes at Brawler have figured out, it’s how to monetize being a Neanderthal.” She waves as she exits, her harried assistant rushing to keep up with her.
“They’re like a cult,” I muse to Natalia as the rest of the women file out. “With an army of brainwashed followers. Why does everyone pretend they’re a legitimate news organization?”
“Because if you go after them, their fans go afteryou,” she points out, looping an arm through mine and tugging me toward the door. “It’s not worth the hassle.”
“They’re basically encouraging an entire generation of men to be the worst versions of themselves, and no one’s going to call them out on it?”
“That’s about the long and short of it,” she says blithely.“Listen, I’m seriously about to gnaw off my own arm. Can we go?”
“DO YOU THINKthis dress sends the right message?” Nat asks later that afternoon, pirouetting on the pavement as we wait to get checked in. “I’m going forI’m bold and beguiling, but won’t upstage you in the press.”
I fan myself, trying not to melt in the city’s muggy late-August heat. “I think it saysI’m single and ready to mingle, which you most certainly arenot,” I respond dryly, thanking the publicist as she waves us inside. “Does Gabriel know you talk this way?”
“Are you kidding? I sent him a selfie before we left and reminded him that Eric Jessup is number one on my hall pass list. A little jealousy goes a long way.” She checks out her reflection in the mirrored glass walls as we walk past. “Can’t have him getting complacent.”
I chuckle, knowing her outrageousness is (mostly) for show and she’d never cheat on Gabriel, her devoted boyfriend of more than a year. They’re so into each other, it’s actually kind of disgusting. In fact, I’ve often wondered if she wishes she’d moved in with him instead of me, though at the time her rent was hiked and I found myself searching for yet another new roommate, it was too early in their relationship for cohabitation. Natalia Kimura was my best work friend prior to becoming roommates, and while I initially worried we might get sick of each other, her frequent sleepovers at Gabriel’s quickly negated that concern—and despite our differing personality types, our living situation has proven surprisingly harmonious.
She’s bold and brash to my measured and thoughtful; uninhibited to my introverted. I talk her down from flights of fancy, while she’s the devil on my shoulder. We’re opposite but complementary, like flip sides of the same coin. Even our appearances are a study in contrasts. Nat paints herself in loud colors and samples every trend; I stick to neutral palettes and pride myself on the capsule closet of sophisticated basics I’ve built over time. Her olive skin and dark features are the perfect canvas for every shade of lipstick; my fair skin burns even on cloudy days.
If her half-Japanese features are distinctive, I think of my own as distinctly in-between. My wavy hair falls somewhere between curly and straight, in a shade of burnished copper that’s neither brown nor red. In some lighting my eyes trend toward green; in others, hazel. I’m neither short nor tall at five foot six, and I’m trim and toned but just shy of curvy (or at least lacking the generous bust my sister inherited). My most striking attributes are my wide smile and hearty laugh, which have been called Julia Roberts–esque—a comparison I pretend to be embarrassed by but secretly love.
While Natalia’s fire-engine red dress is meant to draw attention, tonight I’m wearing my version of a work uniform: fitted black cigarette pants, my favorite trusty nude pumps, and a white blazer with the sleeves scrunched to the elbows. It’s my own personal brand of New York chic, my sartorial suit of armor, appropriate for any and every industry event I’m called to cover.
I survey the restaurant, getting the lay of the land while the chill of the air-conditioning cools my skin. We’re early, so the vibe is still relatively relaxed, with most attendees standing around awkwardly sipping the Jessup Julep,tonight’s signature cocktail. Moody blue spotlights project the wordsFORCE BY ERIC JESSUPonto every available surface. Centerpieces featuring cologne bottles perched atop tiered glass pillars anchor each table, alongside spherical glass bowls crammed full of baseballs (for ambience or autograph signing, I’m not sure which). The room positivelyreeksof cologne. While the scent might be fine in moderation, the olfactory-straining superdose saturating the enclosed space is more potent than a sixth-grade stink bomb.
It’s the calm before the storm, though I know that’ll change the second Eric shows up and everyone’s forced to jockey for exclusive sound bites. I tend to see the same group of familiar faces at these events—entertainment reporters, lifestyle bloggers, colleagues from our competitors Refinery29 and Bustle—but this crowd’s different, skewing heavily male. Likely a bunch of sports writers coerced into covering the athletic-adjacent event—and not thrilled about it, judging by the restless looks on their faces.
“Hellooo, sausage fest,” Nat says, nodding at a guy who very obviously checks us out as he walks past. “I’m a-likin’ these odds.”
