The disc jockey getting off the air was dark-haired, good-looking, and clearly aware of it. "Hi." He started the next song. "I'm Rob Gibbons."
"I'm Christie Becker," she said, trying to take some strength from the sound of her air name.
Rob turned away to pull a few CDs from the shelf above the counter, adding them to a stack he'd already started. Resting a hand on the discs, he turned back to her. "There's your first hour."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Part of the job. Just make sure you do the same for McKeon before he comes in, or he'll chew you up." Christie hadn't heard much about Mark McKeon, the morning show host, but Yvonne had warned her not to step on his toes.
Rob aimed a smile at her. "Rick's hiring them cuter," he said, watching unabashedly for her reaction.
She decided to play it light, matching the tone in which it was offered. "Thank you, Mr. Gibbons."
Rob shrugged good-naturedly and slipped into a bulky black jacket. Clearly, he wasn't interested in sticking around to hold her hand when she started. Just as well. She wasn't sure just what else a hand-holding from Rob might entail. He stepped around to the outside of the counter. "It's all yours."
She'd waited nearly two years for this, and now she was scared to death. It must have shown. Rob stopped on his way out the door. "This your first radio gig?"
She nodded.
"Two words," he told her.
"Top Ramen?"
"How'd you know?"
He closed the door behind him, and she was alone in the studio.
Christie stepped behind the counter. It felt different, bigger than it had these past two days when she'd sat next to Yvonne. Christie started the next song on schedule, and watched the time count backward on the CD player's digital display. When it was over, it would be time for her to talk.
With a minute to go, she put her headphones on. She was so nervous she could feel the black foam cushions shaking on her ears.
The song was fading. Show time.
Christie took a deep breath and turned on the microphone. "KYOR-your station for the best songs of yesterday and today," she said, relieved when the voice in her headphones came back at her warm and full, instead of small and scared. "This is Christie Becker, with you 'til 6 A.M.," she went on, pushing the button for the next song. It started up behind her, slow and sultry. The music steadied her, reminding her what she was here for. She rode the volume level as she continued. "So whatever you're up doing tonight, I'll do it with you." A few seconds left of the song intro. She timed it out with the beat of the song. "It's five past midnight. Here's Sheryl Crow." Up with the music, off with the microphone.
So far, so good. She pulled her headphones down around her neck with a huge sigh of relief.
Now, that's a first break, Rick thought.
He'd told himself he wasn't going to listen. A jock's first shift at any new station was bound to be rough. Better to tune in a few nights later, after she'd gotten her sea legs. But he hadn't been able to resist. It was her first shift anywhere, except the broadcasting school station, which really didn't count. He had to see how it went.
And he had to admit, Christie sounded just fine. The first break between songs was smooth; he noticed again that she had nice timing. But he'd known that from her tape. He didn't have to stay up past midnight to find that out.
Not that he was in the habit of getting to bed early. His air shift didn't end until 7 P.M. and he was rarely out of the station before eight. Often it was a lot later. Which led to late dinners, and then the often lengthy process of unwinding. Most nights, three things in his apartment's crowded living room competed for his attention: the piano at one end, the exercise treadmill at the other, and the television set smack in the center. The treadmill ran a distant third.
Christie did her next break when she was supposed to, not succumbing to a new jock's temptation to open the microphone at every opportunity, not trying to be the next generation's answer to Rick Dees. She stuck to the basics, but her basics were solid. Christie didn't sound nearly as green as her resume, or even her tape, had led him to expect.
"Santa Moreno's best mix," she purred a moment later. Her voice had a nice quality, not husky, but with a certain sexy texture to it. The male audience would like her. Whatever kids, drunks and truckers were listening at this hour. Or divorced program directors. Rick left the stereo on as he headed down the hall to get ready for bed.
He was brushing his teeth when it happened. The song stuck, and Rick heard the familiar thrumming noise of a CD stuck in the player. He started counting the seconds until she recovered; it was an automatic reflex. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...