I still had fifteen minutes, so I cruised by my dusty desk and saw that I had a bright yellow memo from Upstairs tossed onto the top. So did everyone else. As I snatched up the sheet, Milo breezed in and called a hearty good morning. I grunted something back, caught up in reading. The station had done a quick phone research study to garner impressions of the two new morning shows.
As expected, my ratings had stomped all over Milo’s. What made this news so stellar was just how much his top-forty-format Crew had been mashed into the mud. Jensen and I had almost double the audience that Milo did.
These were preliminary numbers, but still—holy shitballs.
“Hey, Milo, who was supposed to be giving whom a run for their money in the mornings?” I know I smirked. I couldn’t help it.
“Of course they’re going to tune in. She’s new, and with that sex-and-stilettos voice of hers, they’re all fantasizing about what she looks like.”
I shot him the stink-eye. The listeners could think that about Jensen. I was allowed to think she was ear-porn. Milo, in no way, shape or form, was entitled to that opinion. She was my co-host.
And he wasn’t any more.
What the fuck? I was feeling defensive of Jensen and I was pretty sure I didn’t even like her.
She was too presumptive, excessively bouncy, overly friendly, and just too damn happy.
I noticed Jen’s memo was still on her desk. I grabbed it and went looking for Little Miss Sunshine.
She was hanging out in the hall outside the studio door, leaning in to listen to something the overnight guy was saying.
I sent up a prayer that there’d be no throaty laugh while her ass was practically wagging in my face. I had no idea what she thought was work-appropriate attire, but that short, flared black skirt wasn’t it. Not that I was going to complain about her showing all that leg.
Oh, shit. Her hand was going over her mouth. She was arching her spine and throwing her head back.
Three-
Two-
Fucked me on the One. Hello, Frankencock. I was hoping we wouldn’t meet so early today.
“Hey, Jen,” I said, hoping she’d turn around and stop flaunting her ass.
With one hand still holding the doorframe, she spun and her skirt swirled. I swear I didn’t try to see if the bottom of her butt was visible—it presented itself. Her skirt had bottoms sewn in, like a cheerleader outfit.
Don’t ask me how I know what those look like and we’ll continue to get along.
She met me with a grin so wide I thought the corners would meet ‘round back and make the top of her head fall off.
I had no idea what I did to merit such a greeting. I smiled back. Only because I was holding good news in my right hand.
“Good morning, Tack!” She bounced again and for a minute there, I thought she was going to start clapping and shouting Go, Team, Go!
I smiled a little wider. “Are you hiding your pom-poms somewhere?”
Her burst of laughter was loud enough to make the overnighter flinch. “Oh, this old thing? I was a cheerleader in college.”
“And you’re wearing it today… why?”
Jen sidled closer. “It’s amazingly warm here for April and I needed something I wouldn’t roast in. I started digging through a box and found it,” she said in a much lower, un-Jensen-like tone.
“Still waiting to hear why you thought we needed a cheerleader.”
“I was curious if it still fit, so I pulled it on. Wasn’t easy, either.”
I waited, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it.
“And I can’t get it back off. I’m stuck. I don’t want to take scissors to it, and I ran out of time and had to leave. So…”
I felt the corners of my smile twitch. Imagining just how flexible my little skater-pixie must be, visions of her in various bendy positions came fast and furious. Frankencock pulsed out his approval.
“Hey, Tack, are you okay? You look a little funny.”
She skipped most of her morning coffee so she wouldn’t have to try to get out of the skirt to pee, and by the end of our shift, she was decidedly un-perky. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone flee to their car quite that fast in a cheerleader outfit.
It was a nice view, her running away like that, all flying legs and bouncing skirt...
And I never did talk to her about the survey figures.
Thank you, Lord, it was finally Wednesday night. Tack Junior needed more company than just my hand. And before you start in on me with the pervert-she’s-your-cohost shit, that was two days ago. And medically necessary.
I was in the mood for gritty and headed to Vamp’d, where the music was loud and the girls were dirty. When I spotted a pair of blonde possibilities seated side-by-side at the bar, I knew I’d be giving Jen her wakeup call from my car on the way home, and after a night spent boning the hell out of these two, her voice shouldn’t faze me at all.