by Sara Whitney
Twelve
Jake got to the station early on Monday, although he was only early by normal-person standards, not Mabel’s and Dave’s. Since it was seven a.m., nobody other than the morning-show duo was around. He was dying to stop by the studio to check in on Mabel, but he forced himself instead to head straight to his office and boot up his laptop. After a miserable ten minutes, he admitted that he couldn’t concentrate on work. What awful fucking luck. They’d finally been alone on Saturday and had actually admitted that they were desperate for each other, and he’d been so turned on he couldn’t see straight. He’d had no idea she was so tipsy when they left the bar; it wasn’t until he saw her stumbling into the living room and fumbling with the light switch that he’d started to put it all together. What kind of guy would he be if he hadn’t gotten her safely to bed, patted her cat’s head (not a euphemism, sadly), and shown himself out?
Turns out he was the kind of guy who went back to his lonely hotel room, got himself off in the shower, and then ended up staring at his laptop screen thirty-six hours later, desperately fighting the urge to burst through Mabel’s door to demand a do-over of Saturday night that ended with both of them satisfied and smiling.
Searching for a distraction, his eyes drifted across the spray of paperwork on Brandon’s desk, which pulled his mind back to the real problem facing him. “Goddammit.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket as if it were the cause of his current frustration.
The coat, of course, was blameless; what was threatening to choke him was residual guilt over not telling Mabel what Brandon was planning. He’d been pushing the concern aside as much as he could, reasoning that he was professionally obligated not to get involved. But the guilt was expanding and getting heavier, like a wool blanket soaking up water. He’d tasted her lips on Saturday. He’d experienced her want, seen her vulnerable, curled a hand around the nape of her neck briefly as she’d sunk into sleep. And he’d been so turned on the whole time that he had no idea how he’d had any blood in the rest of his body to walk himself out of her house for the drive back to his hotel.
He hadn’t been lying when he told her at the bar that he’d never been more turned on in his life. Mabel made him light up, made everything in his body fire at once: his brain, his heart, his dick. He was counting the minutes until he could touch her again, but before that, he had to either get this secret off his chest or bury the guilt in the farthest reaches of his fevered brain.
He was staring into space, reminding himself that his entire career relied on him keeping his mouth shut about Brandon’s plans, when he heard a rustle and a click and looked up to see Mabel easing the office door shut behind her. She was dressed in a plain, fitted black T-shirt and jeans, her long hair plaited into two braids.
“Hi,” she said, sounding a little cautious. “I’ve got eight minutes. Dave’s playing ‘American Pie.’ It was the longest song we could think of.”
“Smart,” he said lamely, content to simply drink in the sight of her.
Their brief silence was broken when they both started to speak at once.
Mabel laughed and plowed ahead. “I am so sorry about Saturday. I swear, I don’t usually end my nights stumbling around like that. I can’t believe you had to babysit my drunk ass.”
Jake stood and came around the desk to stand in front of her.
“Consider me on call for all your drunk babysitting needs.” He reached out to take her hands. “And I apologize for everything that went down at your place. I don’t want you to think that I’d ever take advantage of a woman who’s been drinking, or—”
“Jake.” She cut him off with a groan. “You barely got to second base, and then you watched the world’s saddest strip show and went home alone. I think that’s the opposite of taking advantage.”
She grinned sheepishly, and the pressure constricting his chest slowly loosened.
“So we’re okay?”
Mabel stepped closer and tightened her fingers around his. “We’ll be okay once we finish what we started on Saturday.”
And with that he was fully erect, which Mabel clearly discovered when she leaned against him for a kiss. She gave a satisfied hmmmm and rocked her hips forward.
Jake groaned. “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop that, we’re going to finish what we started right now, and I don’t think Don McLean writes a song long enough for that.”
Still, he wasn’t ready to quit kissing her, so he tugged her back and sank into the softness of her mouth until Mabel pulled away, breathing unsteadily. She dropped her head to his shoulder, giving it a quick, sharp bite through his shirt. He hissed and thrust against her again, wishing for her tight heat all around him. Why hadn’t they both called in to work today for a do-over?
She took a step back and toyed with the end of one blond braid. “Want to get dinner tonight? Not lunch, and not at the office. Dinner, in public. And then other stuff in private.”
He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more.
“My evening is yours. Although I’m guessing your dinnertime is more like late afternoon thanks to your sleep schedule.”
“You’ll get used to my rock ’n’ roll lifestyle,” she teased, dancing forward for one more quick kiss. “I love being able to do that.”
“Agreed.” He hooked a finger into the waistband of her jeans and pulled her into him again. Good Lord, the things that woman could do with her tongue.
“Who would’ve thought I’d meet such a good guy during a corporate takeover?” She laughed as she slithered out of his arms, sounding so carefree that something in Jake’s chest shifted.
He grabbed for her hand, turning her back toward him, and opened his mouth before he could have second or third or tenth thoughts. “We need to talk,” he blurted. “There are things I need to tell you. About me, about us. About your—”
She gently tugged her hand away. “Sorry, but I have to go. Song’s ending.” She pointed at the speaker over his shoulder on the wall.
An uncomfortable mix of relief and queasiness swamped him; she’d cut him off before he could say the word job, which would’ve skated him right up to the edge of professional malpractice. And now he had a few more hours to decide whether to jeopardize his own job for her.
“Okay. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Okay.” She smiled and slipped away, and sixty seconds later her cheerful voice came through the wall speaker, teasing Dave about the groupies he’d attracted at the show on Saturday night.
Jake managed to resume his work with more focus this time, until the door opened again and Brandon breezed in, setting down his briefcase.
“Good news, buddy. Today’s the day we shake things up. I’ve already called the staff in for a meeting as soon as the morning show’s over. You’ll join, right?” Not pausing for an answer, Brandon barreled on. “It’s all the changes we’ve been discussing. I’ve already talked to Roman, and it’s all coming together. By the way, you’ve got the final numbers on the trip, right?”
Jake’s stomach dropped. Today? This was really goddamn happening today, when he was on the cusp of starting something real with Mabel? When he’d just come this close to violating every ethical obligation he had to warn her about what was waiting for her? His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he stared numbly at the feckless rich boy in front of him until Brandon snapped his fingers impatiently. The sound jolted him to life, and he flipped through folders on his desk until he found the one with the projections he’d worked up.
Brandon flipped it open and ran his eyes down the rows of figures. “Looks great. Thanks.”
“Don’t do this, man.”
Brandon lifted his brows in surprise at Jake’s rushed words, but fuck, he had to try one more time to convince him to change his mind. Given Brandon’s general obliviousness about the emotional nuances of anyone but himself, he almost certainly had no idea that Jake and Mabel were anything more than lunch buddies, and Jake preferred to keep it that way. With effort, he adopted a just-us-guys tone. “I
mean, think about it. All these changes aren’t going to be good for—”
“Nah, I got this.” Brandon’s voice was final. “You do the numbers, I do the radio, remember? Trust me.”
That was that. Discussion over.
Brandon pulled out his phone to take a call while Jake’s mind spun in circles, chasing a solution. Something drastic. He could quit the account. Resign in protest.
The thought—so tempting, so decisive—danced across his frontal lobe before he dismissed it with a jerk of his head. Where the actual fuck had that come from? Quit the account? Jeopardize his job, his promotion, his future? He slumped back in his chair, clenching his head in his hands. None of the decisions he’d made since he came to Beaucoeur would make any sense to anyone who knew him in Chicago. Taking long lunches. Losing his focus. Considering quitting over a woman he’d known for a couple of months.
Get a fucking grip, man. This wasn’t the end of the world. Sure, Mabel wouldn’t be happy with the changes, but she’d understand that the decision hadn’t involved him. And they were in a good place. At dinner tonight, he’d explain that his job literally forbade him from giving her a warning and that Brandon had brushed off his attempts to change his mind.
It would work out. It had to.
Thirteen
Having been summoned by a nervous, sweaty Skip, Mabel and Dave walked into the conference room, which was filled with their grim-faced coworkers. Brandon sat at the head of the table, finishing a phone call, Jake to his right.
As she and Dave slid into seats at the opposite end of the room, she bit back a smile at Jake’s somber, I’m-a-fancy-big-city-accountant expression. He was so damn cute. Relief that they were still moving in the same direction after the tumult of Saturday night displaced her apprehension over this meeting. Maybe she could convince him to skip dinner entirely and go straight to her place after work.
With an obnoxious clearing of his throat, Brandon called the meeting to order and interrupted her pleasant train of thought.
“Thank you for coming in this morning, and Skip, thanks for voice tracking the next hour so we can all meet. As you all know, I’ve been acting as the general manager since Lowell Consolidated Media officially acquired this radio station back in July, and I’ll continue to do so for the next few months until I hire a full-time replacement and return to Lowell headquarters in Detroit.” His gaze swept the room, taking in the expectant faces of his new employees one by one. Then his voice sharpened. “Now, let’s talk about some changes.”
Mabel gripped her hands together tightly in her lap and exchanged nervous glances with her coworkers. Their period of post-sale calm was about to end. The question they’d all been worried about for months was how much turmoil Brandon was about to introduce.
“Starting this week,” Brandon said, “we’ll put out a recruiting call for female fans of the show to join our team of Brick Babes. They’ll dress in station shirts, show up at our public events, mingle with the fans, give everyone a good time.”
The implication of what Brandon was saying moved slowly through Mabel’s brain. “Wait, so—”
Brandon interrupted her. “The Babe program is a huge success at several of our other stations, particularly with male listeners. We can increase the number of station appearances, drive up overall attendance, goose alcohol sales at the bar events. It’ll be a crucial extension of the station brand.”
Dave sniffed from the seat next to her. “Let me guess,” he said. “Only the hottest women need apply? No T-shirts larger than an extra small will be available?”
“You got it.” Brandon pointed a jaunty finger gun at him. “It’s pandering, but dammit, it works.”
Tracy, the raven-haired overnight deejay, leaned forward now, tatted-up arms crossed over her chest. “Are you saying we’re going to pack our events with women in tight T-shirts to get more men to show up?” Disdain dripped from her voice.
“Now, now, no judgment. Nothing wrong with a group of attractive ladies mingling with fans. Men are our main listener demographic after all.” Brandon beamed like a barker at a carnival. “Tell your friends at the body-piercing studio. Our listeners love a good septum ring.”
Tracy’s hand flew up to cover the barbell in her nose. She and Mabel exchanged appalled glances as one of the advertising staff muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Brandon plowed ahead. “The Brick Babes are a key part of this next bit of exciting news. The station’s organizing a trip to Jamaica in January for its listeners. The Babes will go, and some of the deejays too, interacting with listeners for the five-day trip. Lowell has arranged events like this for its other stations, and it’s always a huge success. The station splits the profits with the travel agency that organizes it, we give away an all-expenses-paid trip for one or two lucky listeners while the rest of them book at a set rate. Our ratings go up, our fans get access to their favorite deejays and a bevy of hot women in a tropical climate, and a lucky few of you will get a paid vacation in January. It’s win-win.”
Brandon looked around the table, obviously expecting enthusiasm. But Skip looked like he was witnessing a slow-motion car crash, and Dave was so tense that Mabel could practically feel him vibrating in his chair.
“And what about playlist control?” Dave asked. “Will we still be choosing our own music?”
Brandon hesitated, which Mabel took as a bad sign. “Within reason,” he said finally. “But before I answer that, I want to talk about some staffing changes.”
The tension around the room ratcheted even higher, including with Jake, if Mabel was reading the strain around his eyes correctly.
“You’ve all met Jake by now.” Brandon gestured to the man at his side, and yep, Mabel had read his expression correctly. He was braced for something bad. Oh God. “For the past several weeks I’ve had Jake combing through the station’s numbers: ratings, polling results, ad dollars, appearances. You name it, he’s looked at it, quantified it, and put it in reports for me. I can tell who’s performing well and who could be better. So let’s start with Roman. Would you like to make your announcement?”
Across the table from her, the afternoon-drive deejay stood up and ran a trembling hand over his suspiciously black hair. “I’m calling it quits, boys and girls. I’ve had thirty-two good years at this station, and I’ll miss you all. But Mr. Lowell”—venom crept into Roman’s voice as he cut his eyes to Brandon—“made it clear that the station’s heading in a direction that I just can’t follow. Good luck, pals. It’s been a joy.”
With that, the Brick’s longest employee turned and left the conference room, squeezing Tracy’s shoulder on his way by.
Tracy was the one to break the stunned silence. “So who’s going on afternoon drive?”
Their resident black-clad curmudgeon sounded uncharacteristically hopeful, which Mabel understood immediately. Tracy liked the night shift, which suited her hard-edged persona, but this would be a higher-profile gig and better hours to boot, so of course she’d be interested.
“Well, let’s start with who’s staying put. Tracy, we’re increasing your on-air time, so you’ll start broadcasting at seven p.m. rather than eight p.m., and you’ll run until midnight. Skip, your shift will end at three p.m. rather than four p.m. But the big change we’re making is splitting up Dave and Mabel, keeping Dave on mornings and moving Mabel to afternoon drive, three to seven p.m.”
That announcement prompted gasps around the table followed by a heavy silence, which Mabel broke a few seconds later with a sharp laugh. She glanced at Dave, expecting him to join in her incredulity over what was obviously a bad joke, but his stricken face dried up her laughter. She whipped around to face Brandon.
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, Dave and I are a team,” she said, flicking a finger back and forth between the two of them. “We’re the morning show. It’s what we were hired to do.”
“Not kidding,” Brandon said. “And as a reminder, your contracts don’t specify what shows, shifts, or par
tners you’re assigned to, only that you’re an at-will employee of WNCB who’s got a two-year noncompete with any competitor broadcast outlet in a forty-mile radius.”
Mabel’s jaw dropped as the reality of what Brandon was saying sank its claws into her brain while he kept talking.
“Jake’s analysis showed that you and Dave draw the highest ad dollars and appearance fees. It just makes sense to share that wealth and have one of you anchoring each of our key time slots.”
She slowly swiveled her head around to look at Jake, whose face had leached of all color.
“Jake’s analysis led to this decision,” she said woodenly.
His shoulders lifted as he took a deep breath. Looking directly at her, he said, “I’m the accountant on the job, and I ran the numbers, yes. It was Brandon who—”
She recoiled from his words as Dave cut him off.
“It doesn’t matter what the numbers say. Mabel and I were hired as a team, to be a team, and to think that either of us will be as strong without the other is shortsighted.”
Brandon’s calm mask finally slipped, and he spoke with a clipped tone. “Dave and Mabel, we’re not done. The rest of you I’ll meet with one-on-one at a later date to discuss any additional changes.”
Like rabbits sprung from a snare, the dismissed staff bolted from the room, happy to be clear of the storm that was about to burst. Skip paused in the doorway with such a sympathetic look on his hangdog face that she could barely control the sob threatening to tear from her throat.
It was now two against two, Brandon and Jake at one end of the table, Mabel and Dave at the other end, and she realized too late that this was how those relationships should have stayed from the beginning. Us versus them. Corporate versus employees. Suits versus jeans. Maybe then she’d only have her anger to deal with, because the added lash of betrayal made everything so much worse. And the most horrible part was, she knew better. She’d already learned this lesson once. Who was to blame but herself?
