“It means, I have a lead on a story and I’m not letting you in on it till I’ve got it solid. So get ready.” For a moment she remembered that feeling, the satisfaction of being on a killer story.

“Stay tuned,” Dasha said and nodded. “Is good.”

When the TV cut to commercial, the group got silent and Natalie suspected they were all having the same thought: how nice it’d be to chase down a real lead on a real story. For example, they could be investigating where the First Lady really went. Her mind flashed to an image of herself walking in slow motion, coat flapping behind her, hair perfectly silky, through the streets of the First Lady’s hometown of Maraicabo, hunting down clues to her disappearance. Watch out, people, reporter on the case.

“All right, cell phones out, everyone,” Matt ordered, interrupting the reverie as he spun around on his barstool. “Time to research the opposition. We need to know just how strong the opponent is. We’ll devise a strategy for attack.”

Acquiescing, Natalie pulled up her social media accounts but she already knew what she’d find: a total ass-whooping by Team Ryan.

On Twitter #McChesty was trending; a Facebook page called Ryan Raw had 13,200 followers; and he’d already inspired a BuzzFeed listicle of the top topless photos of the decade.

“It hasn’t even been a full five hours,” Matt marveled, looking at a POPSUGAR slideshow of screenshots of his bare chest which they’d edited into a montage over the song “I Don’t Know How to Love Him.”

“He’s a genius,” Natalie murmured. “He’s made himself a victim, a sex symbol, and an advocate all at once.” She shook her head. “An absolute genius.”

Dasha, who had been staring at the pictures of Ryan, grunted. “Too many muscles. Why chest so shiny? Why hair so greasy?” she sneered. “This is boy, not man.”

The waiter came by to take their orders.

“Who’s ready for shots? Tequila?” Matt asked.

“I’m not drinking,” Natalie said.

“Come on, Savage. Don’t be a bore. We all need a drink. It’s the only move.”

“We bond,” Dasha said, knocking on the bar. “We drink.”

“Nah, I don’t drink,” Natalie said firmly.

“What do you mean you don’t drink?” Matt looked bewildered. “All reporters drink. It’s mandatory.”

“Where I am from, many people maskünem. Is okay,” Dasha said and mimed taking a shot in an imitation of a drunk.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Natalie shot back, more sharply than she’d intended. Then, feeling she’d been rude to Dasha, added, quietly, “My dad was.”

Stop this at once, young lady, she heard her mother’s voice in her head. There is no need to air the family’s dirty laundry in front of everyone.

“I am sorry,” Dasha said, with a softness that surprised Natalie.