Actually, so am I.
Which is why I kifed it to take to the jewelers. I asked him to locate pink and black diamonds in the exact shades of the crystals in the keychain.
No, I’m not stupid enough to put them in a keyfob.
I was thinking more along the lines of something circular and platinum, instead.
The keychain will ‘magically’ reappear in the couch cushions in a few days, when the jeweler’s done comparing gems. He said something about the bright fuchsia being hard to match, but whatever. It has to be perfect.
Just like Jen.
…And there she goes again, turning the entire damn house upside-down, trying to find it.
I almost feel bad for her.
Then I remember how I nearly lost her because I was a consummate ass, and how damn lucky I am that she loved me enough to trick me into revealing my own heart.
To her and myself.
So while she doesn’t deserve the worry of thinking her sparkly ‘gems’ are missing, the payoff will be more than worth it.
Especially when she reads the engraving inside:
Wake up next to me forever.
*
Three months later, and it seems my infuriating little pixie was right about fate working things out the way they were meant to be. Because however it was that Jen found a way into my heart, the fact of the matter was, that’s where we both knew she belonged.
I laughed after she clicked off the mic—we were both way more careful about that these days—and said, “Look at those phone lines lighting up. Again.”
Jensen laughed, too, as I swept her into my arms for a kiss that curled my toes and left my Levi’s too tight in the zipper.
Our spirits were riding high, in spite of—actually because of—Jensen’s goodbye to our audience.
See, we have a surprise for Listener Land that I’m amazed we were able to keep out of the media.
We have yet another bait-and-switch deception enacted by this amazing and gorgeous woman in my arms, and this time, our unsuspecting fans are the ones who’re being fooled.
Just because Jensen MacKenzie won’t be part of this show anymore, it doesn’t mean she won’t be part of my life. My enchanting co-host will indeed be back at six a.m. on Monday, sitting in her usual, extra-tall seat across from me.
But by then, she’ll be wearing a ring encrusted with pink and black diamonds—and she’ll be waking up Las Vegas as Jensen Morgan.
Off the Air
Giving thanks:
To Monica at If These Boobs Could Talk, and Miranda at Mommy’s A Book Whore, you both have astounded me with your generosity to this little ol’ indie author. For your belief and all-around-loveliness, I thank you.
To all the bloggers who participated in Tack’s cover reveal, all those months ago when I was younger and dumber and really thought I could knock this book out in four months… gracias. If it weren’t for you, putting the cover out there for readers to see, I think only my mother and my editor would have even known this book existed.
Even though it only half-existed for far too long.
A huge shout-out to Donna Cox and Lori Lockie. During the times when I thought I was beyond formulating sentences anymore, you kept up the support until I regained my vocabulary.
For my friend, fellow author, and editor above-and-beyond, Tina Torrest: I am eternally grateful for the encouragement, the prodding, the ass-kicking, the commas, the phrasing when I was lost, and lastly, for your superior red-penmanship. Without you, Tack’s book would be a mess of changing tenses and far too many pronouns. I’m still waiting to collect that drink – maybe after this book, we can finally share one or two or twelve. (Did the aneurism kick in yet from the spaces surrounding the em-dash? Heh heh heh.) I love you, bitch.
And if you haven’t checked out Tina’s Remember When Trilogy yet, I can’t recommend it highly enough (written as T. Torrest). It’s alternately hot and sweet, and completely laugh-out-loud hilarious.
Oh, and the final-final read-through was my own, so if there are any typos or other errors, they are completely my own. Although if anybody sees any and wants to point them out to me so I can fix them, you’ll have my never-ending gratitude.
To Yellow Tail Moscato, both pink and original, g’day, Roo. You seriously gave the Kinky-n-Diet Mountain Dew a run for its money.
To Mom K, thanks for asking every damn day if I was done yet, and for your most excellent proofing skills.
For Ed: No matter what was going through your head, babe, you made sure I had time to get these words down almost every day.
For Mason, thank you for the extra hours you put in at our business when I was feeling under the weather and/or trying to get Tack’s ramblings down. You are absolutely an integral part of this thing getting done, and of it (hopefully) being funny.
And…
Thank YOU for reading Tack’s little diary. I hope you liked it. And if you did, or even if you didn’t, please leave a review at your favorite bookseller. We indies live and die by your reviews and feedback.
About the Author
I’ve been writing stuff for other people to see since I was just shy of five years old and read my cousin’s copy of ‘Charlotte’s Web.’ I wrote my glowing opinion (and a few study questions) all over the nice tan hardcover. *singing* I got to keep it, I got to keep it… (and, get this, I still have it. Somewhere.)
I’ll read anything. Books, magazines, cereal boxes, shampoo bottles, whatever catches my eye on the Internets… and liner notes. Boy howdy on the liner notes! I’m a total rock music junkie, and collect old vinyl, ‘cause nothing beats the intricate details you can see on a twelve-by-twelve album cover. But I won’t discriminate—you can’t pry my mp3 out of my hands most days.
When I’m not reading, I’m writing (both into the wee hours of the morning) and have an unfettered love affair with caffeine in all its magical forms.
I grew up in and around Cleveland, spent most of a decade in Sacramento (and consider that home), and currently live in a suburb of Albuquerque, New Mexico with my husband and college-student son.
Where you can find me: Facebook is a giant timesuck, and I love it there (StevieKisner), and you can also find separate (and still useless) ramblings on StevieKisner.com. If you pop over to Goodreads, I’m on there, too, and love making new book-friends.
Other books by Stevie Kisner:
Stagepass (Prequel novella to the Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll series)
Dream Me Off My Feet (Book One in the Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll series)
Check out some of my favorite reads:
Remember When by T. Torrest
I'm sure I don't need to tell you who Trip Wiley is. But on the off chance you've been living under a rock for the past decade, just know that these days, he's the bad boy actor found at the top of every casting director's wish list. My name is Layla Warren, and years before he could be seen on movie screens, the insanely gorgeous Trip Wiley could be seen sitting in the desk behind me in my high school English class…
Rocked by Taryn Elliott and Cari Quinn
Love definitely wasn't on the setlist.
Opening for their idols on their first tour, Oblivion is living the dream. Mostly. Frustrated at being shoved out of his mediator role by their new manager, Deacon McCoy loses himself in brutal workouts. He only comes up for air long enough to refuel—and to tease the deliciously cute chef who makes him crave a lot more than what she's offering on her serving plate.
And coming summer 2014:
Down the Shore
A rock-and-roll romantic comedy by T. Torrest
She’s looking for a fling.
He’s looking for forever.
It’s gonna be one helluva summer.
Find it here on Goodreads.
If you liked the glimpse of JT Blackwood you saw in Tack’s radio booth, turn the page to see how his and Kori’s story began…
Dream Me Off My Feet
Chapter One
“That her?�
� one man said to the other.
“Now, how in the hell should I know that? I’ve never met her. This is where the concierge said she worked, so, maybe it’s her, maybe it’s not.” The taller man was irritated with his companion, making his Yorkshire burr more pronounced. They were staying at the Hyatt resort just minutes away. It was a rather long ride to the show venue, but was close to the soccer fields where they were to play in a charity match in a few days, had its own golf course, and was only thirty minutes to Santa Fe, which Paul Ross, their lead guitarist, had insisted they visit this time. Something about wanting to see an unsupported spiral staircase in some old church. Bloody tourist, he was.
They played with the sunglasses in the rack near the front of the drugstore, surreptitiously watching her work in the on-site photo lab. Didn’t want to embarrass themselves if she didn’t know who they were, or cause a stir if she did.
The concierge said she was on the short side; she looked to be about five-foot-four. And blonde--she had the right hair, too. The concierge made a point about her eyes: big, round, denim-blue, but with a piercing, assessing gaze. He also told them she was ‘solidly built,’ whatever that meant. And she was always singing along to something playing in the back of the lab, but the volume was kept too low to hear exactly what it was.
He wished she’d look up. He could only see the top of her head over the half-wall which divided her work area from the rest of the store. She was looking down at something, and it was obvious she was bopping her head slightly to some unheard beat.
As if she heard his thoughts, she looked up, glancing around to see if there was anyone waiting for service. Well, there were those blue eyes. Noticing no one, she looked back down, nodding her head once to a particularly strong beat.
He wondered what music she was listening to, and found himself hoping it was theirs. “Hey, Clay, let’s get a little closer. She’s singing along to something, and I want to hear it. Besides, I see some certificates hanging on that wall. With pictures on them. Maybe one of ‘em’s her.”
At that moment, an ancient stoop-shouldered woman with blue-rinsed hair shuffled up to the photo counter and said something. The blonde looked up and smiled, nodding. She emerged from behind the half-wall.
The first thing JT noticed was the oversized lab coat that reached to her knees. Couldn’t really tell what she looked like under there, but her black denim-clad calves were either stout or rather muscular.
“Huh. She’s a bit chubby for your tastes, isn’t she, JT?” Clay leaned closer to mumble his comment.
JT rolled his eyes. “We’re here to look for a photographer while Russell is down with the flu, remember? I’m not tryin’ to get laid.” Both pairs of eyes watched her as she walked toward the back of the store.
“Now’s our chance to look at those pictures,” JT said, already heading toward them. Clay trailed a few steps behind, walking slowly. He sighed, wondering why they couldn’t just ask her.
JT pushed back his baseball cap and lowered his sunglasses, peering at the plaques over the tops of the lenses. “Well, there’s the name--Korina Conner. But that picture sure doesn’t look like that woman who was just here.” It was true--the photo showed a younger, heavier woman with almost-brown hair. But the eyes looked the same.
“Shit. Here she comes. She could be a roadie--look at her!” The phototech emerged from a side door carrying five cardboard-encased twelve packs of soda. One in each hand, plus two tucked and balanced under one arm, one more under the other. She put them into the elderly woman’s shopping cart. “So maybe she’s not fat, she’s just strong. Wouldn’t mind a pretty face loading my kit in and out. She sure looks better than the fugly, smelly guys we got now,” Clay finished.
The pair had retreated toward the front wall when they saw her approaching, loaded down with Dr. Pepper and Diet Pepsi. They watched as she placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder and gave her a light hug. “It’s no problem, Mrs. Suazo. Anything else you need for your granddaughter’s birthday party, you just ask me,” she smiled. She didn’t sound breathless at all from the load she had been carrying. Her voice was low with a sultry roughness around the edges. They watched as she turned and stepped lightly back toward her photo equipment.
And tripped over air. Pinwheeling her arms, she caught her balance before she could truly stumble; the men had to hold in their laughter as she looked accusingly at the floor, trying to find what tripped her. Seeing nothing but dust, she shook her head and continued into the lab area. “Still want her carrying your kit, Clay?” JT smirked. Graceful she definitely was not. But she carried it off with aplomb. Not everyone could look klutzy yet poised at the same time. She must have had a lot of practice.
Clay considered her. “Ah, no. Not unless she carries only one piece at a time. Still, she’s gotta smell better than the roadies do.” He took a step back and brushed against something on the wall. It was a photograph attached to a sign. It read This is what 400 speed film can do. It was a close-up shot of a bassist they knew, Jules Scott, standing under a red spotlight. “Oh, man, Paul would love this,” he murmured, peeling it down from the sign. On the back was a handwritten copyright: KConner, 9-29-08. “Whoa, this was taken right before the car accident that killed him.” Clay tucked the picture into his pocket.
“What’d you take that for? I’m sure she’d have just given it to you, if you asked her,” JT admonished.
“It’s for Paul. Jules was his friend. And we’re not here to talk to her, remember? Just to find out if it’s her, if she’s the same one Stu is giving the photo pass to tomorrow. She is good.”
JT noticed another photo on a sign above the 800-speed film. This one appeared to be David Lee Roth with a receding hairline, backlit by pink and yellow spots. It was a close-up shot of his face, hair blowing in the breeze; it looked like a miniature poster. He twisted the paper to see the back: copyright KConner, 8-30-08. “Yeah, she is good. Very good.” He hoped for similar shots of himself and the rest of the band. He yanked down the picture and slid it into the back pocket of his shorts.
“What’d you do that for?” Clay asked. “You just gave me shit for taking one, and now you go and do it yourself!”
“I’m considering this her audition. I want to show it to the guys, so they know what she can do. That’s all. C’mon, Clay, this is Dave Roth--I mean, who’s gonna miss him?” Clay grinned.
They decided to do a bit of necessity shopping; after all, this was a drugstore, and so far, they’d been left to themselves. Clay snagged a cart and headed for the shampoo. JT decided to sidle closer and try to hear what she was singing. Besides, having lost several cheap digitals, he needed another throw-away-type camera for the photo bit he always did before performing “Snapshots and Memories.” He really did take pictures of the audience, and he really did have them developed. He liked having his own mementos of those happy crowds.
She was back behind the half-wall, and it looked as though she was wearing black sleeves pulled halfway up her arms, but hands-first backwards. She was looking down and singing softly. He still couldn’t hear what the song was, but he watched her mouth, watched her move her head to what seemed to be a varying beat. Whatever it was, she was very into it. Moving like she was the singer, expressions crossing her features as she sang. Suddenly her face sobered, all traces of enjoying a song erased. “I’ll be with you in just a minute, as soon as I’m done in the darkroom bag,” she called out over the wall without looking up. So she had noticed him after all. Crap.
She pulled her arms out of the bag’s black sleeves then reached out to something on the counter. The music flared louder; it was a song from their latest release, TripleX. Well, maybe we have the right woman, after all.
“Oops, sorry,” she smiled, turning the volume back down. “Now, how can I---” She looked around. There was nobody there.
JT had ducked down a side aisle, not wanting to be seen. She would probably recognize him, and if not him, most certainly Clay. It was hard to hide the curly-hair
ed drummer with the infectious smile when he chose to ignore their tour manager’s directive and go out in public without so much as a baseball hat for a disguise.
“Huh. That’s odd,” she mumbled, still looking around. Damn! Somebody stole my example shots again. Good thing I copyright them. Assholes. She pulled two more copies out of a drawer, signed and copyrighted them, and affixed them where the missing ones had been.
“Althea?” she called to a tall woman walking by. “I’d like to take a quick break this afternoon. Do you mind baby-sitting the processor?”
“No, go have your nicotine. Is there any film cooking?”
“Nah. You know that most people shoot digital. Except die-hards like me. And I just loaded a new roll of photo paper. It’s still on the counter in the darkroom bag. I’ll put it away when I get back.”
“Good. You lug that heavy thing around like it was nothing. I hate picking them up. I always break a fingernail.”
“They aren’t nails, Althea. They’re tools. And they grow back.” Korina shed her lab coat and hung it on a hook after fishing the embossed metal cigarette case from one of the pockets. “Wimp,” she said as she walked past. Althea stuck out her tongue.
JT noticed her walk by the end of his aisle. Under the lab coat, she wore a form-fitting sleeveless shirt. No, she’s just muscular, although the photo looked like she used to be pudgy. The term “solid as a brick shithouse” comes to mind, for some reason. Another plus. If she’s going to follow us around for a few days, she’d have to be sturdy and tough. This was no assignment for a waif who simpered and worried about breaking a nail. Listen to me, I’m thinking like she’s already said she’d fill in, and I have yet to even say hello. He felt the sudden urge for a cigarette himself. And she’s got a working lighter...
He went out the door, looking down both sides of the building. He found her sitting in the shade of the furthest pillar from the door, staring blankly at the passing traffic. He walked closer and squatted down next to her. “ ‘Scuse me, but can I borrow a light?”
Waking Up in Vegas Page 23
