Waking Up in Vegas

by Stephanie Kisner

  I reminded myself that she was not my pet project. Then I reminded myself that I needed a coherent and happy co-host and dropped the carton into the handbasket. It is not my fault that there was a whole display of Pop Tarts on the way to the checkout and a couple of boxes fell into my basket.

  I love Pop Tarts.

  She squealed, jumped on her toes a few times, and hugged me for the pastries. Turns out she hadn’t food-shopped yet. I went home feeling like I should have kissed her on the forehead because she was so damned adorable.

  No. Not adorable.

  And absolutely not sexy.

  It would have been just a simple thank-you between friends for bouncing that rack of hers where I got to watch.

  Chapter 5

  *Losing My Religion*

  Tuesday morning and I was the groggy one. Jensen called at four-fifteen to say she’d stayed up all night to finish unpacking. Good thing she had—I’d dozed off watching Ted on HBO.

  I love that movie. It’s funny as hell, and in the end, the girl comes to her senses and figures out that she can’t change the guy.

  It was around the halfway point of our show when something just felt… wrong. I tried to write it off to bad sleep on Monday and being irritable. Quite possibly from the semi I’ve endured while hearing her talk for the last two hours. I congratulated myself on becoming more immune to her sex-kitten voice.

  But—

  Jen was acting like we actually knew each other. Half a pizza and unboxing a kitchen did not make us chums. Neither did giving her all of my Pop Tarts.

  I grumped (off the air) while she chippered, and once again, ten a.m. could not come soon enough.

  She pounced again when I held the studio door for her to exit.

  “Do you want to come by for dinner around five?” I must have looked even grouchier, because her voice faltered a little when she explained, “Just to say thank you for fixing my couch.”

  I know I was curt when I told her that I normally slept during the day and wouldn’t be up, but I didn’t care. I was tired. My balls still hurt. Or were hurting again; I wasn’t certain which.

  Wednesday was better.

  Sort of. At first.

  Jensen sent me a Good Morning text right when I was picking up my cell to call and wake her up. I thanked whatever gods there were that I didn’t have to take a shower half hard. I was sure to be getting enough of that torture later.

  Once again, she was at work before me. And like yesterday, I heard her laughter before I steeled myself (not that way, so shut up) to the sound of her. I really needed to figure out where she parked her Highlander so I could scope out when the coast was clear and when it wasn’t.

  Yes, we both drove Toyota hybrids. I refused to make anything of it other than escalating fuel prices. I don’t know how she could see over the steering wheel in that behemoth.

  I still had fifteen minutes, so I cruised by my dusty desk and saw that I had a bright yellow memo from Upstairs tossed onto the top. So did everyone else. As I snatched up the sheet, Milo breezed in and called a hearty good morning. I grunted something back, caught up in reading. The station had done a quick phone research study to garner impressions of the two new morning shows.

  As expected, my ratings had stomped all over Milo’s. What made this news so stellar was just how much his top-forty-format Crew had been mashed into the mud. Jensen and I had almost double the audience that Milo did.

  These were preliminary numbers, but still—holy shitballs.

  “Hey, Milo, who was supposed to be giving whom a run for their money in the mornings?” I know I smirked. I couldn’t help it.

  “Of course they’re going to tune in. She’s new, and with that sex-and-stilettos voice of hers, they’re all fantasizing about what she looks like.”

  I shot him the stink-eye. The listeners could think that about Jensen. I was allowed to think she was ear-porn. Milo, in no way, shape or form, was entitled to that opinion. She was my co-host.

  And he wasn’t any more.

  What the fuck? I was feeling defensive of Jensen and I was pretty sure I didn’t even like her.

  She was too presumptive, excessively bouncy, overly friendly, and just too damn happy.

  I noticed Jen’s memo was still on her desk. I grabbed it and went looking for Little Miss Sunshine.

  She was hanging out in the hall outside the studio door, leaning in to listen to something the overnight guy was saying.

  I sent up a prayer that there’d be no throaty laugh while her ass was practically wagging in my face. I had no idea what she thought was work-appropriate attire, but that short, flared black skirt wasn’t it. Not that I was going to complain about her showing all that leg.

  Oh, shit. Her hand was going over her mouth. She was arching her spine and throwing her head back.

  Three-

  Two-

  Fucked me on the One. Hello, Frankencock. I was hoping we wouldn’t meet so early today.

  “Hey, Jen,” I said, hoping she’d turn around and stop flaunting her ass.

  With one hand still holding the doorframe, she spun and her skirt swirled. I swear I didn’t try to see if the bottom of her butt was visible—it presented itself. Her skirt had bottoms sewn in, like a cheerleader outfit.

  Don’t ask me how I know what those look like and we’ll continue to get along.

  She met me with a grin so wide I thought the corners would meet ‘round back and make the top of her head fall off.

  I had no idea what I did to merit such a greeting. I smiled back. Only because I was holding good news in my right hand.

  “Good morning, Tack!” She bounced again and for a minute there, I thought she was going to start clapping and shouting Go, Team, Go!

  I smiled a little wider. “Are you hiding your pom-poms somewhere?”

  Her burst of laughter was loud enough to make the overnighter flinch. “Oh, this old thing? I was a cheerleader in college.”

  “And you’re wearing it today… why?”

  Jen sidled closer. “It’s amazingly warm here for April and I needed something I wouldn’t roast in. I started digging through a box and found it,” she said in a much lower, un-Jensen-like tone.

  “Still waiting to hear why you thought we needed a cheerleader.”

  “I was curious if it still fit, so I pulled it on. Wasn’t easy, either.”

  I waited, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it.

  “And I can’t get it back off. I’m stuck. I don’t want to take scissors to it, and I ran out of time and had to leave. So…”

  I felt the corners of my smile twitch. Imagining just how flexible my little skater-pixie must be, visions of her in various bendy positions came fast and furious. Frankencock pulsed out his approval.

  “Hey, Tack, are you okay? You look a little funny.”

  She skipped most of her morning coffee so she wouldn’t have to try to get out of the skirt to pee, and by the end of our shift, she was decidedly un-perky. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone flee to their car quite that fast in a cheerleader outfit.

  It was a nice view, her running away like that, all flying legs and bouncing skirt...

  And I never did talk to her about the survey figures.

  Thank you, Lord, it was finally Wednesday night. Tack Junior needed more company than just my hand. And before you start in on me with the pervert-she’s-your-cohost shit, that was two days ago. And medically necessary.

  I was in the mood for gritty and headed to Vamp’d, where the music was loud and the girls were dirty. When I spotted a pair of blonde possibilities seated side-by-side at the bar, I knew I’d be giving Jen her wakeup call from my car on the way home, and after a night spent boning the hell out of these two, her voice shouldn’t faze me at all.

  “Good evening, Beautiful and Lovely,” I said when I insinuated myself between them and nodded at each, in turn.

  “Well, if it isn’t Tack Morgan,” Lovely said.

  “We were just talking about
you,” Beautiful added.

  I hit them with my Magazine Cover Smile. “I hope it was flattering. Or at least depraved.”

  “Oh, it was both,” said Lovely as she dragged her fingers up my thigh.

  “We were discussing whether one of us could be your new co-host if we fucked you better than she did,” Beautiful said.

  Instant war in my head. If they were hoping some tag-team action would net them consideration for a job that was already filled… well, I never liked to turn down a sure thing. I could always say they weren’t good enough. On the other hand, I didn’t like their assumption that Jensen had screwed her way onto my morning show.

  Sex didn’t matter enough for that. It’s more of a sport. Or a hobby.

  I had to set them straight or my head just wouldn’t be in the game. “It wasn’t like that. My boss found her. We didn’t even meet until just before the show on Monday morning.”

  “So you’re saying we need to shag your boss, then?”

  “No, you don’t need to shag anybody.” Wait, that came out wrong. “I mean sex won’t get you anywhere.”

  I was getting in deeper and they were looking at me like I was a few IQ points above drooling on myself in the corner.

  “How ‘bout I just buy the next round and we change the subject?”

  The band got louder, and Lovely had to near-shout to be heard above them. At least that’s what I told myself to explain why she suddenly sounded so harsh. “Plying us with alcohol won’t get you anywhere, either, Tack.”

  I paid for the round anyway, left my beer untouched on the bar, and took off.

  Undeterred, I thought I’d see what was doing at the Hard Rock. Several pretty faces and two unconsumed beers later, all I’d had were more questions about Jensen. What did she look like? Had she screwed her way into the job? Was I sleeping with her now?

  Did people really have that low of an opinion of her?

  I packed it in and went home.

  My balls were now bluer than the Caribbean. I tried to talk myself into waiting it out. Surely the ache would be gone by morning.

  Yeah. Morning. When it would start all over again as soon as I stepped foot into the studio.

  I went to the freezer to ruin another package of vegetables.

  Unfortunately, slapping them on Frankencock and the Twins had turned every last bag into Birds Eye mush over the last few days. I eyed the lumpy bag of French fries, reconsidered, and closed the freezer door.

  It was still early (for me). I piled up the pillows on the bed, called Lita up to cuddle, and found Blade 3 (an oldie, but the best of the Blade movies) on Showtime.

  It ended about an hour before I had to give Jen her wake-up call, and I put the time to good use. It was already six-thirty on the east coast and the news stories were starting to hit the net.

  Jensen’s newness was wearing off—for me at least—and it was high time to get back to normal in the morning. That meant current affairs and near-news just this side of stupid. I trolled until I found a story of a guy who wrote a hold-up note on the back of his paystub. That led me to one about a bank robber suing the bank because he stuffed the money—with the dye puck—down the front of his pants as he ran out the door, and when the dye charge exploded, it nearly took his balls off.

  I did the shower and pot of coffee thing, texted Jen to see if she was awake (she was), swapped the smelly towel in my workout bag for a fresh one, and hit the road.

  I circled the building twice. No white Highlander.

  My balls were feeling better already.

  And strictly in the spirit of teamwork, I told the overnight guy that I’d cover the last twenty minutes of his shift. He was happy to leave, and I was happy to have the coffeemaker to myself for a little while.

  Didn’t last, though. Five minutes into my bliss and a voice calls down the hall, “Hey, Chuck!”

  I knew that voice, but who’s Chuck?

  A couple of seconds later, Pixie Cockblocker shoved her head through the door. “Good morning!”

  I tossed a smile over my shoulder and went back to reading my business email.

  Jensen tromped in—dressed normally this time—and tossed her purse into the under-counter nook where the feet of a normal-height person would go. “Hi, Tack. Where’s Chuck?”

  “Who?” I sipped again, she-will-not-get-to-me in a mantra-loop in my head.

  She grabbed her mug from next to the Proctor-Silex. “The night guy?”

  Let me state here and now that I did not appreciate the way she was looking at me. “Oh, is that his name?”

  “You’ve worked here for how long, and you don’t know his name?”

  I swear, I heard her eyes roll. “I’ve been here five years doing the morning drive. But he’s new. We can’t seem to keep overnight jocks for very long.”

  She slammed her mug down, slopping a little coffee on her side of the counter. “Tack, he’s been here for two years.”

  I was in too good of a mood to argue, despite the distinct lack of nookie the night before. Must’ve been the mantra. So I shrugged and changed the subject. “Feeling settled in yet?”

  She blinked a lot and seemed to choke on her coffee. “What?”

  “I thought we might start getting back to what the listeners expect in the morning. Idiot criminal stories, funny news, toss in a couple of real news stories… we need to give them more than traffic and music on their commute.”

  “I’ve wanted to talk to you since I got here about some ideas I have. But you keep running out the door like you’re about to die.”

  Babydoll, if only you knew.

  “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we start. Hit me with them now.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked like she wanted to hit me with something else. Luckily for me, there was nothing handy.

  “What do you think of celebrity gossip? Like sarcastic trash-talking. But only for the ones who are total media hogs and can’t stop screwing up.”

  I pondered that one. We get a lot of actors and rock stars in for interviews, and alienating them would be bad business.

  She tacked on, “Don’t glower. I don’t want anything too overboard. I’m not suggesting attacks, just a why don’t you wise up approach, like when Lindsay Lohan appeared in court in pajama pants.”

  “I wasn’t glowering.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “I was thinking.”

  She blew out a breath. “Who cares how your face looked? What did you think about the idea?”

  I was thinking it was a lawsuit waiting to happen. But… “Where would you get the stories?”

  “Google celebrity news, People online, Rolling Stone… reputable sources who would take the fall before we would for simply repeating what they said. No blogs, no National Enquirer, none of the exploiters and hearsay sites.”

  I sipped my coffee with one hand and drummed the fingers of the other on the Formica. I didn’t want the show to go too girly. But, those preliminary ratings were encouraging. In her favor. Good thing I’d never shown them to her.

  “I’m only talking about once or twice per morning, depending on who’s in the news. And it’s a great sponsorship opportunity to up our ad revenue. Bill Kalani thought it was a fabulous idea.”

  “You talked to The Big Kahuna about this before you talked to me?” Now she was getting more than my glower face.

  “Actually, I—”

  “That’s insulting.”

  “But—”

  “You have my cell number. You could have called me any time.”

  “Maybe, but you don’t—”

  “And I’m very approachable.”

  “Jesus, Tack! BK and I discussed this when he offered me the job.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was my signature feature in Kansas City.”

  “Really?”

  “I had a waiting list of sponsors.”

  “Oh.” Great. I had been reduced to single words.

  “We have one minute to air.” She slipped on he
r headphones and pulled the mic in range.

  When had this conversation shifted to be about her? I realized my headphones were nowhere in sight and scrambled to find them. Their usual peg on the wall was empty, too. She spun the laptop on the counter and made a couple clicks.

  “Good morning, Las Vegas! Jensen here in your ears as my partner Tack hunts down his headphones. Let’s start off the morning with something sure to wake you up: AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck.’” She switched her mic off, and I still couldn’t find my damn cans.

  “Have you checked your desk?”

  “No, why would they be there? I never go to my desk after shift.”

  “I saw them in your drawer. Yesterday. They were under a yellow sheet of survey results that had my name written across the top.”

  Chapter 6

  *Semi Charmed Life*

  I didn’t get a word out before she held up her hand like she was stopping traffic.

  “I don’t care what excuse you have, Tack. People were congratulating me and there I was, asking why and looking stupid. Milo finally gave me his copy. I remembered you waving a piece of paper around that was the same color yellow¸ so I looked in your desk. And lo and behold—there it was.” Her hand was still up, and I’m pretty sure I felt the skin on my forehead starting to smolder under that glare.

  “I meant to—”

  “The only thing I want to hear from your face right now is I’m sorry, Jen.”

  All five feet of her was shaking and when her eyes flashed at me this time, I saw danger. I said what she wanted to hear, but only to keep that hand from slugging me.

  “Apology accepted. Provided you never embarrass me like that again. Now go get your headphones.”

  It occurred to me, as I walked down the hall to my desk, that not only had I been dismissed, I’d accepted it without question. That was weird. Although, she had reminded me of my mother just then, all tiny and pissed off.

  When I got back, Little Miss Sunshine was firmly back in place, and the rest of the show went smoothly. Frankencock was also feeling duly chastised and didn’t rear his head again. Maybe I should make her mad every morning.