"Just on my way back to it. What are you doing here this time of night?"
This wasn't how she'd planned on approaching him. Their first real, face-to-face contact since she'd started, and it was a head-on collision. "I-" She couldn't think. "I wanted to run something by you. If you have time." She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. "And I thought I'd mop up some coffee."
"It's a deal." Rick moved toward the hallway, but his eyes were locked on hers. Was there a little unease on his side, too? "I've just got one commercial left to cut. Meet me in my office in ten minutes?"
Christie used the ten minutes to take care of the spill as best she could with paper towels, while she got her heart to slow down. Just shaken up, she told herself, although getting whirled around by Rick had been more enjoyable than she cared to think about. I need to get out more.
At least he seemed to be in a good mood. And his shirt had smelled good.
The break room floor's thin carpet bore plenty of evidence of past spills. When Christie was satisfied that the latest splatters weren't any worse than the others, she went to Rick's office. He'd beaten her there, and she wondered how long it would be before she could whip out a commercial in less than ten minutes.
Christie had a sense of deja vu as she sat down, once again, in "The Chair." She tried to forget that crashing into him had been like running into a warm wall.
A warm wall. It wasn't a bad description. Rick wasn't exactly cold, but he wasn't exactly approachable either. He leaned back again in the big chair as he listened to her. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but the watchful gray eyes told her otherwise. It was hard to read those eyes as she described what she had in mind: audition a couple of songs a night and take calls from the listeners. She would get their reactionsanything from a simple tally of which song they preferred, to more detailed comments, if they had any. It seemed, to her, like a good way to get a sense of what the listeners would like to hear on the station.
The idea was simple enough. Maybe he'd thought of it before. Maybe that was why he showed almost no expression until she finished.
"Christie-" he said when she was done. He fingered the handle of the omnipresent black coffee cup, and sighed. "Time for a lesson in Ugly Radio Reality."
She had the feeling he'd be able to mop her up like so much spilled coffee by the time this was over.
Rick tried not to notice the vulnerable look on her face, or the way her light green sweater brought out the burnished shades of her hair. He cleared his throat.
"Radio stations," he said, "are programmed a certain way. We actually have more freedom here than they do in Los Angeles. There, it's all done by consultants. The program director gets the play list-boom. Done. That's why those L.A. stations have that uniform sound."
"With the same few songs. It drives me nuts."
"But it works. The ugly truth is, people want to hear the familiar. They'll say they want more variety, but if they hear something they don't know, their first urge is to change the station. Which is exactly what we don't want them to do."
"You're saying new songs scare people away?" The idea visibly incensed her.
Rick nodded. "I don't like it any better than you do. But it's true."
"So that's why most of what we play is at least ten years old."
"You got it."
Christie moved forward slightly in her chair, her hair just brushing the shoulders of the soft-looking sweater. "But we do add new songs eventually."
"And ever so carefully."
"So what's wrong with me prescreening a couple? Wouldn't that help give you an idea which songs the listeners are more receptive to?"
Her eyes were full of purpose, and hope. Yvonne was right. Christie was sharp. But it was her determination that would take her far. Unfortunately, all that ambition had to be tempered with reality. And he had the dirty job of dishing it out.
"We have the trade magazines for that. And-"
"And?"
With another deep sigh, he leaned back in his chair, reluctantly meeting her eyes as he prepared to give her another dose of disillusionment. "Ugly Radio Truth Number Two. Have you noticed what kind of listeners call on your shift?"
Rick watched her wince, and knew he'd hit home. The overnight audience consisted largely of drunks, depressed people with no lives, and a lot more who were just plain-strange. "Overnight listeners are a different breed. They're not really... representative of our main audience."
"So what are overnights for?" She didn't quite hide the frustration in her voice, but it was a good try.
He looked at the pretty redhead perched on the chair in front of him. No wonder he'd avoided her. She was a fascinating mix of determination and vulnerability. He admired the determination, but the vulnerability killed him.