Waking Up in Vegas(7)

She stopped laughing long enough to say, “I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

“Here? At this ungodly hour? Honey, whoever it is can’t be safe.” Maybe I should ask her to wait inside. The sun wasn’t even up yet, and she was a tiny little thing.

“I’ve been told he’s safe enough, as long as I keep my clothes on.”

I just stared.

“I’m looking for Tack Morgan. Tell me, is he a total manwhore, or are the rumors exaggerating?”

My brains, minus their usual bonus mug of coffee on the drive in, scrambled to place her. Did I sleep with this woman? Is she here for some sort of blackmail? Or worse, to serve me with a paternity suit?

No way. I’ve always used protection.

Well, if worse came to worst, I could get through the door in a flash or make a break for my car. If she was here to serve me, it would be less embarrassing to do it now rather than coming in through the lobby later with the receptionist as a witness.

“I’m Tack Morgan.” I held out my hand for whatever paperwork she had to give me.

To my surprise, that laugh reappeared. “I know. I was just messing with you.” She grasped my hand in hers and shook it. Her skin was soft and warm. “Jensen MacKenzie.”

My mouth gaped open, more shocked than had she just told me we’d gotten married while I was sleeping. She had to fight to get her hand back. I remember making a few noises, but coherent words were beyond my capability.

“Funny. I thought you’d be a much smoother talker.” She picked up a canvas tote that I hadn’t noticed was by her feet. “Being that you’re in radio and all. Shouldn’t we get inside? I’m dying for some coffee.”



I’m going to kill my boss. He must not realize how easy it still is to contract a hit in Las Vegas. Or so I’ve heard.



I played Tour Guide, since we had half an hour ‘til we took the booth. When we walked into the DJ desk suite—which we mostly don’t use—she squealed when she saw someone had put up a ‘Welcome Jensen’ sign. The balloons were pink and white, and the O in welcome was a heart. Did everyone here but me know Jensen was a woman?

So not funny.

I wondered if hitmen offered group-target discounts.

Her door badge was on her desk, with a note to bring a current photo to have laminated to it.

I’d been looking at her on the sly. After her smartass comment about my reputation, I didn’t want her getting any ideas that I was sizing her up. Which I actually was, but not for what you’re thinking. I was trying to get a feel for her (minds out of the gutter, people) so we’d have things to talk about on-air.

She barely reached the level of my chin. Every part of her was tiny (except for the aforementioned tits). And the sparkling amber eyes were made even larger by the caramel-colored bangs dragging in her eyelashes.

She set her bag on the desk and pulled out a gigantic pair of padded headphones. She dropped them around her neck, tucked the plug into her front pocket, and said, “You promised coffee. My chipper is wearing off fast this morning.”

“So I did. Are you ready to see the booth?”

“I’ve been ready all week. I had to drive here from Kansas City and it took a while.”

I said, “That’s just a one-day drive. Two if you take it slow.”

Jensen laughed. “It’s four when you have a car-sick dachshund. So I didn’t get here until yesterday.”

I added likes dogs to the shiny new Jensen MacKenzie catalog in my head. She officially had a second redeeming quality. Two guesses on the first one on the list…

“Is she okay now?”

“He is fine. Settling in and hopefully not chewing all the moving boxes I didn’t get to unpack yet.” I heard her mumble, Which would be most of them.



As the coffeemaker rumbled, Jensen nosed around the studio, raised the seat on her chair, dragged her microphone as low as it would go, then for some reason went trotting out into the hall.

She came back brandishing an AC/DC coffee mug.

We had five minutes to air, so as she poured her coffee and put in more sugar than I’ve ever seen a person consume in one sitting, I asked her what she felt comfortable talking about, and how she wanted me to introduce her.

“I generally go by Mac on the air, but Tack and Mac sounds like a greasy blueplate special, so I’ll use Jensen. Let them wonder if it’s my first or last name.”

“How about I introduce you, you tell a bit about yourself, then roll right into the readable promos?”

“Sounds great. Are you following with music or ads, so I know how to wrap?”

I glanced at the promo copy. “Music. Three songs, then you’ll do your first traffic report.”