Waking Up in Vegas(72)

Jen launched into the road report without even looking at me once.

I guess that was all the feedback I’d be getting.

When she was done, she pointed at me without so much as an intro; I read off a couple of concert promotions and put on some Avenged Sevenfold so no one would come running in to see what the hell was going on in our booth besides the rare blasting of the in-room speakers.

Cue the mug of sugar with a splash of coffee.

So the little pixie wasn’t immune–or deaf–after all.

Good to know.

The next personal song was actually not verboten: ‘Thinking About You’ from Puddle of Mudd. We played that one heavily when it first came out, and it still managed to surface from time to time.

Jen tossed her phone up on the counter and it immediately started vibrating across the smooth surface to signal a new text. She typed a short reply and went back to studying the sweet sludge in her coffee cup. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was frowning. The classic Pissed-Off Jen face, which made no damn sense to me, because she was getting what she wanted.

I clicked a couple more forgettable songs into the lineup and left the studio. I hoped Carmen was in so I wouldn’t have to figure out where the house-speaker control panel was hidden.

I intended to blast our last morning show together throughout the entire building.

Go big or go home, right?

After all my deviations this morning from our catalogue, I just might be going home.

For good.

I was willing to take that chance.

Halfway to Carmen in reception, the music in the hallway changed and the KLVR Rocks Your Face Off station ID–the one we play at the top of the hour–hit me square in the ears.

Holy crap. It was seven o’clock already, and Carmen must have made the switch herself.

Whoa. A quarter of our last show gone.

And what had I accomplished?

Not a goddamn thing.

I remembered what else seven a.m. meant–the first Rubbish Report of the morning.

Jen had an open mic and the booth all to herself.

I spun and sprinted back to the studio, trying to make out what she was saying above the pounding of my feet.

I heard Phoenix and leaving just as I arrived. I threw the door open so hard the doorknob got stuck in the wall.

“Don’t say another word!” I thundered, not giving shit one that her microphone was picking me up.

“Well, apparently, Tack is sensitive to any bad news about Joaquin Phoenix’s love life,” Jen drawled, giving me the stink-eye. “What about all of you? Do you care that he’s dating a much younger woman? Chime in on my Facebook page and let me know. We’ll be back to the music after we run a few ads to pay our bills.”

My vision was shaky around the edges, and I couldn’t tell if the cause was my chest heaving from the hallway marathon or because I was half a step away from insanity.

Jensen slid her headphones down around her neck and cocked an eyebrow at me. Before she could say anything, her phone buzzed again; she glanced at it, mumbling, “Not now,” then went back to the dirty look. “That was uncalled for.”

My voice came out a little louder and a lot more unsteady than I’d intended. That’ll teach me to skip the daily runs. “I’m sorry, Jen. But when I heard you say Phoenix–”

“You decided not to trust me.” Her eyes were locked on mine and didn’t waver.

“What? No,” I said, taking two steps into the booth. Strangely, I couldn’t seem to get a handle on my breathing and everything I said was a shout. “I didn’t make any decision at all.”

“So you inherently don’t trust me, then.”

This was coming out all wrong. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“Then how would you put it?” A muscle in her jaw twitched and that flying eyebrow crashed down to mirror the other, angry, one. “Oh, wait, you wouldn’t put it any way at all. Not Tack Morgan, the notorious ladies’ man. No explanations and no second dates, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I stalked closer, barely resisting the urge to stomp my way over like a two-year-old.

“Every day when I get home, I keep waiting for the delivery of yellow roses at the door. That’s how you do it, isn’t it? You clam up and let the florist do your dirty work.”

Who told her about that? Like it even mattered right then. “If I wanted to blow you off with flowers, I’d just hand them to you myself, Jen. You live in my house.” At long last, my voice came out even and quiet, although, in my head, I was bellowing at a billion decibels. If only the little pixie actually knew how much self-control I had…

“Not for much longer.”

I rolled my eyes. “And you know how I feel about that.”