The good doctor squirmed in her seat and dropped her eyes back down to the sheet in her hands.
“You, on the other hand, have a nice—and real, I hope—ass, Doc. But getting back to the issue of my staring; I wanted to see if it moved when she walked. I wondered if it looked natural.”
Her eyes flipped back to mine. “And did it?”
“See? I’m not the only one who’s curious about padded panties. And believe it or not, it looked okay. But I told her that once she took her clothes off, whoever she was with was going to be disappointed and she’d be much better off presenting herself as she actually was.”
Dr. Cheska scribbled something in the margin of the paper, saying, “That would explain the next remark, then. He told me it’s not nice to go around with bait under my skirt.”
“Well, yeah. Say she hooks up with a guy who loves a full, succulent ass—once her clothes come off, and he finds out hers is made of memory foam, he’ll most likely finish having sex with her, but he won’t care if she gets off and he definitely won’t be calling her again.”
“You don’t need to illustrate with hand gestures, Mr. Morgan.” She cleared her throat with a dainty ahem. “Are you trying to tell me that all men are that shallow?”
“All? No, but I can tell you this: if you go fishing with fake bait and the trout snaps your line, he may have the rubber worm, but he’s not exactly getting the meal. He’s just sore where the hook gouged him and he learns to be more cautious in the future when something looks good enough to eat.”
I wouldn’t place a bet on it, but I think I heard a faint growling sound as she flipped to another page in the stack.
“Explain this one, please.” She glanced up at me, then returned her eyes to the page. “Mr. Morgan groped my breasts.”
“Who wrote that?”
“Would there be more than one person with this complaint?”
She had me there and I just shrugged.
“And?”
I sat back, crossing an ankle over my knee. “Can we agree that, second only to Los Angeles, we live in the most body-conscious city in the United States?”
“With all the people vying to be performers here? Yes, I can concede that.”
“That makes plastic surgery cheap here, and plentiful. I work with three women who’ve had augmentation done. At one time, there were five, all floating their fake titties around the station.”
“They’re called breasts, Mr. Morgan. And women talking about their breast enlargements still does not give you the right to grab them.” She’d started tapping the top of her pen on the sheaf of complaints. Guess I’d better be more careful with the language.
“Ah, but that’s just the point. They want everyone to see, touch, and admire their high-priced acquisitions. On any given day, there are bare breasts being flashed in that building at least twice. In my defense, I never touched one fake tata uninvited.”
“Then why would anyone complain?”
“I may have, on occasion, done more than the polite one-finger poke.”
“Why, if that’s what everyone else was doing?” The pen-tap sped up to cha-cha tempo.
“They would ask if they felt real. Now, I don’t know what kind of foreplay you’re into, but for me, poking a woman’s breast with my index finger is not even on the list. So…”
“So you groped them.”
“I prefer to call it a reality check.”
She made another note in another margin, then shuffled the pages until she came to one with the corner folded down.
“Explain having sex in the women’s bathroom.”
“What, like the mechanics of it?”
She hit me with a one-browed glare and I guess that was all the answer she was going to give. I tried a different question. “Was Alex the one who wrote that? Because it was her last day, and she was on her lunch break. So technically, she was off the clock.”
She responded without checking the sheet that was lying in front of her. “No. The complaint was from someone who walked in on it.”
“And that would be harassing that other woman… how?”
“She was unable to use the bathroom.”
“There are three other bathrooms in that building.”
“It’s still inappropriate.”
“It’s not like we invited her to watch, or participate. We were two consenting adults, entertaining ourselves on our own time, behind a locked handicap stall door.” Her eyes narrowed and I could see I was not winning this argument. “I don’t normally even date the women I work with, let alone have sex with them. This was a one-off, and it was her last day, so Alex doesn’t count.”
“In your book.”
“In my book, yes.”
“Let’s get to the reason you’ve been sent here, shall we? You called your co-host a porn star, in front of other people.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’d tend to believe Bill Kalani over you at this point, and he heard you say it.”
“I may have said it, but it wasn’t me calling her that.”
She just looked at me and blinked a few times.
“She said that she thought that I thought she sounded like a porn star, and I repeated it. This is all a huge misunderstanding.”
“Where would Jensen get such an idea?”
“I may have mumbled something that she overheard.”
“Does it happen often, this thinking out loud? Because while you are free to think what you like, when you say it to others, that is where it becomes harassment.”
“I never talk to myself. But I was frustrated this morning, because Jen knocked a box of promo photos out of my hands and so I kissed her.” Oh hell no, I did not just say that.
“You kissed your co-host this morning? Is that your normal response to someone making you drop something?” She grabbed a legal pad and wrote something on it that I couldn’t make out upside-down.
“God, no. Look, can I talk to you for a moment, man to woman, off the record?”
“Since you’re new at this, yes. This one time.” She turned off the little recorder I hadn’t even noticed was there.
“I’ve been wracking my brain all morning, trying to figure out why I kissed her. All I can come up with is misplaced passion. I was so pissed, and all I could think was kill her or kiss her. So I picked the one that was least likely to land me in jail.” I looked up at the ceiling tiles again and dragged a hand through my hair. “And yet, here I am anyway.”
“You’re a free man, Spartacus.”
I put both feet on the floor then, and leaned forward. “Call me Tack.”
“Why? You don’t like Spartacus?”
“Tell me something, honey – if your name was Spartacus, would you?”
“But I’m a woman. And don’t call me that.”
“Call you what—Spartacus? No problem there. I don’t even call myself that.”
“No, don’t call me honey.”
“How ‘bout Beautiful?”
“No. Doctor will do.”
“Doc Beautiful? I can handle that.”
“Stop it.” She paused. “Spartacus.”
“See? You’re like talking to my mother. Or any other woman. They find what you don’t like and use it against you whenever the mood strikes.”
This time I was sure I heard a nearly inaudible growling from the other side of the desk. She looked at her watch and declared our time was over. She turned the recorder back on before she said, “I’m setting you up for two p.m. every Wednesday and Friday, including this one.”
Now I was the one grumbling, but I took the card with the appointment time noted on the back and tucked it into my wallet.
Chapter 8
*Don’t Go Away Mad*
Thursday morning, and Jensen arrived in wrinkled sweats a couple minutes before six.
It was the first morning that I hadn’t called or texted to make sure she was awake.
She huffed and tossed her purse into a corner, yanked on the cord
for her headphones to pull them from their cubby on the wall, and tugged them on, skewing her kid-sized ponytail in the process.
She poured a mug of coffee, brought it and the sugar to the counter under her suspended microphone, and proceeded to upend the container into her mug.
I stared, she glared back with eyes that looked puffy, and the sugar kept on going. Pretty soon she’d be eating that coffee with a spoon. I popped a brow, waited one more beat, and went back to laying out the first playlist of the morning, all the while not saying a word.
Sure, I was feeling angry and immature, but not without reason. For at least the next six weeks, my life was upheaved and rearranged, and I was going to be forced to talk about my sex life with a stranger.
Wait, that last part wasn’t anything unusual or objectionable.
Still, I should be choosing which strangers were lucky enough to listen and learn.
I glanced at the clock. It was straight-up six, which was my cue. “Gooood morning, Las Vegans! Vegassers? Whatever you are, there’s just one day left until the weekend, and Jensen and I are here to make sure you get there in one piece. Let’s start off this fine morning with a song for my stylish and captivating co-host. You ready, Jen?”
I snapped off the microphone and Motley Crue’s ‘Looks That Kill’ blasted through the studio before I turned down our internal feed.
She had finally stopped with the C&H canister and was doing her best impression of the song before slugging down some of the contents of her mug. The grimace I blamed on too much sweetener, but the narrowed eyes I knew were for me alone.
“You let me oversleep.” She was a little more quiet and hoarse than usual and I wondered how long she’d been awake.
“You got me sent to the principal’s office.” I busied myself with rearranging the first set of songs.
She cleared her throat. “Look, about that—I tried to talk to BK about what he overheard and he said it was the last straw on an overloaded camel’s back.” I glanced over and she looked down at her mug, running a finger down its handle. For some inexplicable reason, that little motion was erotic as hell. “I’m really sorry, Tack.”
“I know you are. Doesn’t change the situation, though, so don’t expect my happy-happy joy-joy face to make an appearance too often. And we can just put on hold any thought of pushing your sexiness as a promotional tool.”
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.”
She looked up, wearing that little Jensen half-smile. “I deserved it, after splatting your pictures all over the place. But thanks for saying so.” Then she dug a finger in her ear and crossed her eyes. I couldn’t fight the laugh, and everything was okay again. I hadn’t even realized that I was worried that it wasn’t.
My second counseling appointment was just as awkward as the first. Seriously, who just sits down and talks about their problems? Besides women, I mean. They’ll yak your damn ear off, not want your input on how to solve the whatever-it-is they’re getting on about, and end by either laughing or crying. Unless you’re dumb enough to try to offer advice a second time during their ramble. Then it’ll end with stomping and slammed doors and screaming about how you just don’t get it.
Except I do get it.
Women are crazy.
Even the head-shrinking ones, only they hide it better.
So when Dr. Cheska launched into a lecture about how I needed to talk more about my feelings and motivations and do less play-by-play of events, I just had to put a stop
to it.
“I’d be more comfortable talking to you if you’d have sex with me.”
“No.” She said this with a straight face. Impressive.
I leaned back in the chair and crossed my arms. “Come on. You know you want to.”
She put down the papers she’d been looking through for more ammo, folded her hands on top of the stack and looked me dead in the eyes. Double-impressive that she didn’t need a fidget-prop. Now I really wanted to fuck her.
“It won’t work that way for me. Plus, you need to learn to communicate with women in non-sex related ways, or you’ll be here forever.”
Whatever. Her loss. Not that the stiffy I’d sprouted a moment ago took notice of the declined invite. He was still hopeful. Too bad, pal.
The doc broke eye contact to look into the drawer she’d just opened. She pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and slid it across the desk at me. She tapped a finger on the cover and said, “I’m going to change the subject here, Tack. You need to start keeping a journal. It’ll help you with recognizing when you’re wandering into sexual territory in your communications, and also help you put things in perspective.”
All this talk about what she thought I needed was driving me up the wall. “I don’t need perspective. I need to get laid. It’s been weeks, for chrissake.”
“Tack—”
“Not with you. I concede defeat there. But tonight…”
Tonight.
I had intentions. It was, after all, Friday in Las Vegas. I was heading to Club Pure where I was to be a featured star, and I’d be stone sober while the beautiful ladies got a head start and loosened up with their cocktails of choice.
Things were looking up.
And, sweetheart, this time your gutter-thoughts are right on. The one-eyed trouser snake was most definitely looking up, too.
Thank God I arrived first; it had totally slipped my mind to call my mother beforehand. Most of the station knew she’d been running Pure (and all of its varying incarnations and names) since the beginning of time. Most of them also knew the name she’d saddled me with from birth, since she insisted on calling me by it every time the station did a promo there. My co-workers had been threatened with drawn-out, painful deaths if they ever told a living soul what Tack was short for. Jensen was clueless (unless someone had spilled) and I was too raw after the doc-session to either explain or take her ribbing.
Waking Up in Vegas Page 7
