“I never talk to myself. But I was frustrated this morning, because Jen knocked a box of promo photos out of my hands and so I kissed her.” Oh hell no, I did not just say that.
“You kissed your co-host this morning? Is that your normal response to someone making you drop something?” She grabbed a legal pad and wrote something on it that I couldn’t make out upside-down.
“God, no. Look, can I talk to you for a moment, man to woman, off the record?”
“Since you’re new at this, yes. This one time.” She turned off the little recorder I hadn’t even noticed was there.
“I’ve been wracking my brain all morning, trying to figure out why I kissed her. All I can come up with is misplaced passion. I was so pissed, and all I could think was kill her or kiss her. So I picked the one that was least likely to land me in jail.” I looked up at the ceiling tiles again and dragged a hand through my hair. “And yet, here I am anyway.”
“You’re a free man, Spartacus.”
I put both feet on the floor then, and leaned forward. “Call me Tack.”
“Why? You don’t like Spartacus?”
“Tell me something, honey – if your name was Spartacus, would you?”
“But I’m a woman. And don’t call me that.”
“Call you what—Spartacus? No problem there. I don’t even call myself that.”
“No, don’t call me honey.”
“How ‘bout Beautiful?”
“No. Doctor will do.”
“Doc Beautiful? I can handle that.”
“Stop it.” She paused. “Spartacus.”
“See? You’re like talking to my mother. Or any other woman. They find what you don’t like and use it against you whenever the mood strikes.”
This time I was sure I heard a nearly inaudible growling from the other side of the desk. She looked at her watch and declared our time was over. She turned the recorder back on before she said, “I’m setting you up for two p.m. every Wednesday and Friday, including this one.”
Now I was the one grumbling, but I took the card with the appointment time noted on the back and tucked it into my wallet.
Chapter 8
*Don’t Go Away Mad*
Thursday morning, and Jensen arrived in wrinkled sweats a couple minutes before six.
It was the first morning that I hadn’t called or texted to make sure she was awake.
She huffed and tossed her purse into a corner, yanked on the cord for her headphones to pull them from their cubby on the wall, and tugged them on, skewing her kid-sized ponytail in the process.
She poured a mug of coffee, brought it and the sugar to the counter under her suspended microphone, and proceeded to upend the container into her mug.
I stared, she glared back with eyes that looked puffy, and the sugar kept on going. Pretty soon she’d be eating that coffee with a spoon. I popped a brow, waited one more beat, and went back to laying out the first playlist of the morning, all the while not saying a word.
Sure, I was feeling angry and immature, but not without reason. For at least the next six weeks, my life was upheaved and rearranged, and I was going to be forced to talk about my sex life with a stranger.
Wait, that last part wasn’t anything unusual or objectionable.
Still, I should be choosing which strangers were lucky enough to listen and learn.
I glanced at the clock. It was straight-up six, which was my cue. “Gooood morning, Las Vegans! Vegassers? Whatever you are, there’s just one day left until the weekend, and Jensen and I are here to make sure you get there in one piece. Let’s start off this fine morning with a song for my stylish and captivating co-host. You ready, Jen?”
I snapped off the microphone and Motley Crue’s ‘Looks That Kill’ blasted through the studio before I turned down our internal feed.
She had finally stopped with the C&H canister and was doing her best impression of the song before slugging down some of the contents of her mug. The grimace I blamed on too much sweetener, but the narrowed eyes I knew were for me alone.
“You let me oversleep.” She was a little more quiet and hoarse than usual and I wondered how long she’d been awake.
“You got me sent to the principal’s office.” I busied myself with rearranging the first set of songs.
She cleared her throat. “Look, about that—I tried to talk to BK about what he overheard and he said it was the last straw on an overloaded camel’s back.” I glanced over and she looked down at her mug, running a finger down its handle. For some inexplicable reason, that little motion was erotic as hell. “I’m really sorry, Tack.”
“I know you are. Doesn’t change the situation, though, so don’t expect my happy-happy joy-joy face to make an appearance too often. And we can just put on hold any thought of pushing your sexiness as a promotional tool.”