She made a face at her coffee and hopped off her stool. As she diluted the sugarball in her mug with straight-up black from the carafe, she said, “So you think I’m sexy, then?”
She’d tossed the remark over her shoulder, and I glared at the back of her shirt. “Maybe not so much this morning. But I kissed you, didn’t I?” I immediately regretted bringing it up, so I went on, “And about that—”
“Well, yeah,” Jen interrupted, turning around and rolling her eyes. “But I thought it was just something that you did, like when dogs pee on fire hydrants.”
The apology evaporated from my lips. “So now I’m a dog?”
With a few mouse-clicks, I replaced the next song in the queue and turned up the volume in the studio a few notches.
“I said as much yesterday.”
The current song ended, and ‘Communication Breakdown’ by Led Zeppelin flared briefly through the speakers. Jensen had finally finishing doctoring her coffee and gave me a look that I couldn’t quite figure out.
I cranked the volume back down to our usual level and decided that since she wasn’t taking it seriously, I wouldn’t either. “Whatever. I’m not allowed to talk about it anymore.”
Jen climbed back onto her stool. “Don’t be silly, Tack. You can talk about anything you want when it’s just you and me. I don’t offend easily.” She blew on her coffee and took a tentative sip. I pointedly ignored her pursed lips.
Yeah, sure I did.
“Jensen, I could lose my job. This is serious shit. Besides, ‘just you and me talking’ yesterday has me in counseling today for sexual harassment. Get it now?” My frustration was mounting and the response came out harsher than I’d originally intended.
“Of course I do. Still, I didn’t expect you to do a one-eighty and become a total prude.”
Okay, now that one stung. “Prude? I’ve done more varied things, with more partners, than you can ever even imagine.”
Jen choked on her coffee. “Your mother must be so proud. Is there a can of Lysol in here, ‘cause we need to sanitize the studio.” She made a show of rubbing her hands on her sweatpants. “Wait a minute—you were in my condo. You even used my bathroom. Eew. Now I have to VD germ-bomb the place to get rid of your cooties.”
“Cooties? How old are you?”
***
After the major cold-shoulder routine for the rest of Thursday’s show (she didn’t even rise to the song-title bait I was throwing out like buckets of chum), I caved and dialed the wake-up call on Friday morning. I swear, I only did it for the ratings—we couldn’t have the listeners thinking we aren’t getting along.
Anyway, it was convenient; I had my phone in my hand already after shutting off its wake-up chirp. It’d been years since I had an actual alarm clock. Staying up all night and sleeping the day away didn’t call for one, and I refused to invest in something so temporary. My life would be going back to normal in six more weeks.
So when she arrived looking her usual spiffy self, I couldn’t resist just a little wholesome, non-sexual needling (Dr. Cheska would’ve been impressed. If I ever bothered to tell her).
“You clean up well.”
Jensen narrowed her eyes, but didn’t say anything. She’d been a little cranky when I woke her up by blowing a coach’s whistle through the phone, but I thought she’d have been over it by now.
No going back to sleep on my watch, missy.
I tried again. “It’s amazing what a little soap and water can do.”
Her eyes squinched a little more. She almost looked angry. “Bite me.”
I wagged a finger in her face. “None of that talk. You’ll get two more weeks added onto my sentence.”
“What? I can’t hear you. Some nutjob exploded my eardrum this morning.”
I ignored that and dove into the morning set-up. “So who’s the Trash Talk fodder today?”
Jensen sighed, loud and exaggerated. Now what? “It’s the Rubbish Report, Tack, not Trash Talk. And today, it’s Justin Bieber doing something douchy at the Anne Frank House.”
“When isn’t he a teenaged douche bag?”
“He’s almost old enough to drink now.”
“And he’s still around? Jesus.”
“Amazing, isn’t it? He’s completely defied the pop-star odds.” She went back to work on her laptop.
“Jensen?”
“Yeah, Tack?” she said without looking up.
“I stand corrected on the name of your segment.” She shrugged like it was no less than what she’d expected. “And I’m sorry about the whistle.”