Chapter 3

The studio booth of The Zara Cole Show buzzed with a strange energy as Zara leaned into her mic, her green eyes sparkling under the lights. She’d ditched the sweaters for a tight white t-shirt, the fabric stretched taut over her full C-cup breasts, her nipples faintly outlined, her ivory skin glowing against the snug fit. A pair of denim cutoffs clung to her firm ass, the frayed edges riding high to flaunt her long, lean legs, crossed casually under the desk. Makeup—her first time on her own show—painted her face: bold red lips, smoky shadow, mascara making her lashes pop. She loved it—loved how it sharpened her cheekbones, made her look hot, fierce, alive. Her dark waves tumbled loose, and she felt every inch the siren Rex had named her, a thrill she couldn’t deny.

Across the desk, Naomi Ruiz sat rigid, her mousy bob limp, her beige cardigan sagging over her stocky frame. Her warm brown eyes glared behind chunky glasses, her freckled face tight with disbelief as Zara preened. The red light blinked—live—and Naomi’s voice cut in, strained. “Welcome to The Zara Cole Show. I’m Naomi Ruiz with Zara Cole, talking immigration—again. Let’s dive in.”

Zara smiled, her tone light, almost playful. “Yeah, immigration’s a mess. Borders matter—keep things orderly. Undocumented folks? They’re breaking laws, taking jobs, draining resources. We need a wall, plain and simple.”

Naomi’s jaw dropped, her pen clattering, but before she could speak, the producer patched in a caller. “Line one—Mike,” he said through the headset.

“Hey, Zara,” a male voice drawled, thick with lust. “Caught you on Tanner’s show—damn, you’re hot in that t-shirt and shorts. Legs for days.”

Zara giggled—actually giggled—her plush lips curving as she twirled a lock of dark hair around one finger. “Thanks, Mike! Glad you’re watching.” Her green eyes sparkled, her chest puffing slightly, loving the praise, the heat it sparked low in her belly.

Naomi’s face darkened, her voice sharp. “Okay, Mike, bye. Zara—what the hell? Borders? Walls? You’re parroting Rex Tanner now? You’re a sell-out—full-on!”

Zara’s giggle faded, her green eyes narrowing as she tossed her head, haughty and unbothered by the on-air call-out. “Sell-out? No, Naomi—I’ve seen the light. Immigration’s a problem, and I’m not afraid to say it. Rex has a point—America first. And speaking of...” She leaned closer to the mic, her voice smug. “This is the last Zara Cole Show, folks. It’s been fun, but I’m done here—moving on to co-host The Tanner Take with Rex. Equal partners, bigger stage.”

Naomi’s breath hitched, shock slamming her, her freckles stark against her paling skin. “What? You’re—you’re ditching us? For him? Zara, this is a huge mistake—you’re throwing everything away!”

Zara smirked, crossing her arms, her t-shirt straining over her tits. “Mistake? Hardly. I’m leveling up—you should try it sometime, instead of clinging to your dreary little crusade.”

Naomi’s restraint snapped, her voice rising, raw and venomous. “Leveling up? You’re a slut, Zara—a brain-dead bimbo whoring out for Rex’s ratings! Look at you—tits out, giggling like a cheap tramp!”

Zara’s green eyes blazed, her plush lips curling as she fired back, venom dripping. “Oh, fuck off, Naomi—you’re just a jealous hag! A frumpy, ugly cow mad ‘cause no one’s ever looked at your saggy ass twice! I’m hot, I’m smart, and I’m done with your sanctimonious bullshit!”

Naomi leaned forward, her glasses fogging with rage. “Smart? You’re a drooling skank, Zara—a cum-stained sellout sucking Rex’s dick for clout! You’re a disgrace to everything we built!”

Zara laughed, cold and cutting, her dark waves bouncing. “Disgrace? You’re a bitter troll, Naomi—a lumpy, sexless shrew screeching ‘cause you can’t handle me shining! Go knit a pussy hat and cry about it!”

The booth crackled with their venom, the mic catching every filthy barb as the producer scrambled—”Cut to break!”—but the damage was done. Naomi slumped back, fuming, her brown eyes wet with fury and betrayal, while Zara sat tall, her t-shirt tight, her cutoffs riding up, her victory hollow but sharp.

The redesigned studio of The Tanner Take gleamed under a fresh coat of polish, all sharp angles and bold reds, whites, and blues—a patriotic shrine with a desk that sat Rex Tanner and Zara Cole side by side, closer than ever. Zara felt the heat of his broad shoulder brushing hers, the tight space amplifying his presence as she perched on her stool, her long legs dangling in a glittery powder-blue minidress. The fabric hugged her full C-cup breasts, the neckline plunging to flaunt her cleavage, the hem riding high to showcase her toned thighs. High heels—strappy, silver—clicked nervously against the floor, accentuating her calves.

She’d taken Rex’s words to heart—hot as hell, sexy as sin—and leaned into her looks, both for the show’s success and his approval, that hunger gnawing deeper. Her dark hair, grown out and straightened, fell in a sleek, sexy cascade past her shoulders, Trish’s makeup—bold red lips, smoky eyes—turning her into a vision she barely recognized but secretly loved. Her green eyes flickered with nerves, her plush lips parting as she adjusted to the spotlight.

Rex sat beside her, his 6’2” frame a wall of muscle in a crisp red button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to show his thick forearms, his buzzcut sharp, his stubbled jaw set with that cocky grin. The cameras rolled, the theme music kicked in—brassy, triumphant—and he leaned into his mic, his piercing blue eyes glinting. “Welcome, patriots, to the premiere of Liberty and Legs! I’m Rex Tanner, your voice of truth, and this—” He gestured to Zara, his hand hovering near her bare thigh, “—is Zara Cole, our leggy lefty co-host, lookin’ fine as hell. Today’s topic: gender pay imbalance—let’s tear it up.”

Zara blinked, her breath catching. Liberty and Legs? Gender pay? She’d had no heads-up—Rex hadn’t told her the name, the topic, nothing. Her mind spun, flustered, as the opening montage flared on the screens behind them. It started with a bald eagle soaring over amber waves, the Liberty Bell tolling, a flag snapping in the wind—Rex’s turf, shots of him looking tough, fists clenched, jaw firm. Then it shifted: slow pans of female flesh—long legs in heels, a curvy ass in denim, cleavage spilling from a bikini—cheesecake shots of hot girls, Zara’s own thighs and lips spliced in, a blatant pivot to sex. Her cheeks burned, her green eyes wide—she hadn’t signed up for this, had she?—but the studio roared with cheers, and Rex’s grin widened.

He launched in, his voice a battering ram. “Pay gap’s a myth, folks—women don’t earn less ‘cause of bias, they earn less ‘cause they work less. Part-time gigs, mommy tracks—men grind, women whine. Equal pay for equal work? Already got it.”

Zara’s stomach twisted, blindsided and unsure, her glittery dress suddenly too tight, too exposed. She tried to rally, her voice shaky but game. “That’s not true, Rex—studies show women get paid 82 cents to a man’s dollar, even in the same roles. It’s systemic, not effort. Bias keeps us down.”

Rex turned, his blue eyes raking her—tits, legs, back up—his smirk cutting. “Systemic? Nah, darlin’, it’s choices. You’re sittin’ here lookin’ like a million bucks—hell, those legs could sell anything—but you’re flounderin’ already. Can’t keep up, can you?”

Her plush lips parted, her rebuttal stumbling. “It’s not—I mean, the data—” His gaze lingered on her cleavage, and her nipples stiffened under the dress, her pussy warming despite her fury. She pressed on, flustered. “Women face discrimination—hiring, promotions—it’s not just hours—”

He steamrolled her, relentless. “Discrimination? Bullshit. Men take risks, work OT—women cry ‘fairness’ when they don’t measure up. Look at you, Zara—sputterin’ like a broke engine. That’s why I’m makin’ more than you right now—skill, not sexism.”

Zara froze, stunned, her green eyes wide as his words landed like a slap. More than me? Her mind blanked—data, stats, gone—her thighs shifting, the minidress riding higher under his stare. “That’s—that’s not—” she stammered, her voice cracking, her body betraying her with a flush down her neck, her arousal clashing with her shock.

Rex leaned back, triumphant. “See, folks? She’s hot, but she’s lost. Pay gap’s a whiny feminist myth, baby—commercial in ten!”

The producer’s voice barked—”Break!”—and the screens cut to ads, leaving Zara reeling, her glittery dress glinting, her heart pounding as Rex’s jab echoed: why I’m making more than you.

The studio lights dimmed slightly as Liberty and Legs cut to commercial, the jingle blaring through the redesigned set. Zara’s long legs trembled as she turned to Rex, her green eyes flashing with a mix of shock and indignation, her plush red lips quivering. “Rex, what the hell? You’re paying me less? For this—co-hosting, equal say?”

Rex leaned back, his 6’2” frame relaxed, his red button-down straining over his thick chest as he smirked, his piercing blue eyes glinting. “Calm down, darlin’. It’s more than you were pullin’ on that little woke show of yours. You’re in the big leagues now—be grateful.”

Zara’s cheeks burned, her dark, straightened hair swishing as she shook her head. “More? That’s not the point—it’s not fair! We’re supposed to be equals here!” But even to herself, she sounded whiny, petulant, her protest thin against his smug assurance. Her nipples pressed against the minidress, her pussy still warm from the debate, and she hated how small she felt.

Rex waved a beefy hand, his stubble catching the light. “We’ll hash it out after taping, Zara. Focus—show’s back in ten.” His tone was final, his smirk daring her to push, and she slumped, flustered, her high heels tapping nervously as the countdown ticked.

The lights flared, the jingle faded, and Rex’s gravelly drawl filled the air. “We’re back, patriots—Liberty and Legs, Rex Tanner and Zara Cole, tearin’ into the pay gap myth. Let’s take some callers—line one, go.”

A gruff voice crackled through, thick with leer. “Hey, Rex—Zara, damn, girl, that dress is killin’ it. Tits poppin’, legs like a wet dream—worth every penny just to watch you.”

Zara blushed, her ivory skin flushing pink down her neck, her green eyes darting as she forced a laugh, trying to deflect. “Uh—thanks, I guess, but that’s not what I’m here for. I want to debate the issues—pay gap’s real, not a myth.” Her voice wavered, her minidress suddenly too tight, too revealing under the caller’s words.

Rex grinned, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing hers. “Come on, Zara—guy’s got a point. You’re sittin’ there in that sparkly number, tits and legs on parade—can’t dress like that and not expect some male appreciation. Right, caller?”

The man chuckled. “Hell yeah, Rex—she’s a fuckin’ fantasy.”

Zara’s flush deepened, confusion swirling—anger, shame, a traitorous thrill. “I—I mean, sure, I get that, but—” she conceded, her resolve crumbling, her need for validation flickering as Rex’s gaze roamed her. She opened her mouth to argue—82 cents, systemic bias—but he cut her off, his voice a command.

“Stand up, Zara,” Rex said, his blue eyes glinting. “Turn around—show yourself off for the camera. Give the folks what they want.”

Her heart thudded, her green eyes widening. She didn’t want to—I’m here for ideas, not this—but that flush of arousal surged, her pussy pulsing, her nipples hardening to pebbles under the glittery fabric. Rex’s approval, the caller’s lust, the male eyes she’d craved since her dad left—they pulled her like a tide. She hesitated, then stood, her high heels clicking, tossing her thick, dark hair with a forced bravado. She did a slow turn, her minidress shimmering, her legs stretching long, her ass tight under the hem as the camera zoomed in.