“Good evening, Beautiful and Lovely,” I said when I insinuated myself between them and nodded at each, in turn.
“Well, if it isn’t Tack Morgan,” Lovely said.
“We were just talking about you,” Beautiful added.
I hit them with my Magazine Cover Smile. “I hope it was flattering. Or at least depraved.”
“Oh, it was both,” said Lovely as she dragged her fingers up my thigh.
“We were discussing whether one of us could be your new co-host if we fucked you better than she did,” Beautiful said.
Instant war in my head. If they were hoping some tag-team action would net them consideration for a job that was already filled… well, I never liked to turn down a sure thing. I could always say they weren’t good enough. On the other hand, I didn’t like their assumption that Jensen had screwed her way onto my morning show.
Sex didn’t matter enough for that. It’s more of a sport. Or a hobby.
I had to set them straight or my head just wouldn’t be in the game. “It wasn’t like that. My boss found her. We didn’t even meet until just before the show on Monday morning.”
“So you’re saying we need to shag your boss, then?”
“No, you don’t need to shag anybody.” Wait, that came out wrong. “I mean sex won’t get you anywhere.”
I was getting in deeper and they were looking at me like I was a few IQ points above drooling on myself in the corner.
“How ‘bout I just buy the next round and we change the subject?”
The band got louder, and Lovely had to near-shout to be heard above them. At least that’s what I told myself to explain why she suddenly sounded so harsh. “Plying us with alcohol won’t get you anywhere, either, Tack.”
I paid for the round anyway, left my beer untouched on the bar, and took off.
Undeterred, I thought I’d see what was doing at the Hard Rock. Several pretty faces and two unconsumed beers later, all I’d had were more questions about Jensen. What did she look like? Had she screwed her way into the job? Was I sleeping with her now?
Did people really have that low of an opinion of her?
I packed it in and went home.
My balls were now bluer than the Caribbean. I tried to talk myself into waiting it out. Surely the ache would be gone by morning.
Yeah. Morning. When it would start all over again as soon as I stepped foot into the studio.
I went to the freezer to ruin another package of vegetables.
Unfortunately, slapping them on Frankencock and the Twins had turned every last bag into Birds Eye mush over the last few days. I eyed the lumpy bag of French fries, reconsidered, and closed the freezer door.
It was still early (for me). I piled up the pillows on the bed, called Lita up to cuddle, and found Blade 3 (an oldie, but the best of the Blade movies) on Showtime.
It ended about an hour before I had to give Jen her wake-up call, and I put the time to good use. It was already six-thirty on the east coast and the news stories were starting to hit the net.
Jensen’s newness was wearing off—for me at least—and it was high time to get back to normal in the morning. That meant current affairs and near-news just this side of stupid. I trolled until I found a story of a guy who wrote a hold-up note on the back of his paystub. That led me to one about a bank robber suing the bank because he stuffed the money—with the dye puck—down the front of his pants as he ran out the door, and when the dye charge exploded, it nearly took his balls off.
I did the shower and pot of coffee thing, texted Jen to see if she was awake (she was), swapped the smelly towel in my workout bag for a fresh one, and hit the road.
I circled the building twice. No white Highlander.
My balls were feeling better already.
And strictly in the spirit of teamwork, I told the overnight guy that I’d cover the last twenty minutes of his shift. He was happy to leave, and I was happy to have the coffeemaker to myself for a little while.
Didn’t last, though. Five minutes into my bliss and a voice calls down the hall, “Hey, Chuck!”
I knew that voice, but who’s Chuck?
A couple of seconds later, Pixie Cockblocker shoved her head through the door. “Good morning!”
I tossed a smile over my shoulder and went back to reading my business email.
Jensen tromped in—dressed normally this time—and tossed her purse into the under-counter nook where the feet of a normal-height person would go. “Hi, Tack. Where’s Chuck?”
“Who?” I sipped again, she-will-not-get-to-me in a mantra-loop in my head.
She grabbed her mug from next to the Proctor-Silex. “The night guy?”
Let me state here and now that I did not appreciate the way she was looking at me. “Oh, is that his name?”