give us a call now and then to let us know you’re there. Now how about a little music?” Kay pushed a button and music filled the control room.
While the sound of Linda Ronstadt’s voice permeated the air, Kay checked the time, wrote it on the FCC log and turned to hunt for the tape for the first scheduled commercial. Sullivan, once again leaning back in his chair, grudgingly admired her. The correct commercial located, she pulled a record from its jacket and expertly cued it on the turntable. That done, she turned and stole a glance at her partner.
Sullivan looked into those dazzling blue eyes, slowly leaned forward and softly said, “Let me help.” For one heart-stopping moment his big hand covered her trembling one and Kay felt his strength, his warmth.
“Th—thank you,” she stammered when that strong, male hand gently squeezed hers.
“You’re welcome, Kay.” His voice was low, sincere. “We’ll do it together, hon, uh, Kay.” His hand left hers and a long arm shot out behind her to pull several color-coded tapes from the carousel. “These are some of the best, I think. Be good for the first segment of the show.” He smiled at her and Kay felt her heart take wing.
Half an hour later, the phone in the control booth began ringing off the wall. Raves poured in. Listeners loved the easy banter and great rapport between the man and woman talking to each other in a relaxed and often humorous manner. Their timing was perfect, as though they’d never been apart. They could practically read one another’s minds. One would begin a sentence; the other would finish. While they joked, two wide sky-blue eyes were often locked with a pair of blazing black ones.
The fire between them still burned.
At least in the control room of the radio station. Both felt the powerful electricity flowing from one to the other and both experienced a physical charge from it. Pushing each other higher and higher, they delighted in the playful challenge of their verbal duel. Both felt gloriously awake and vitally stimulated by the all-or-nothing contest as each strove to be on par, if not to surpass, the wit and repartee of the other.
Adding to the exciting exercise of keen intellects, an undeniable physical attraction still existed between them. It not only filled the tiny space they occupied, making both Sullivan and Kay feel warm, animated, titillated; it magically transmitted itself over the airwaves and into homes and cars. Listeners felt they were experiencing a very special happening and they delighted in it.
Sullivan and Kay took turns answering the busy phones, cuing the records, logging the commercials and talking into their mikes. The four-hour show flew past and Kay was shocked when Sullivan said, “Lead ’em into the last song, Kay, it’s two minutes till ten.”
Smiling at him, Kay complied and when the last record came up in volume, she turned to him; happy, relieved, longing for his approval.
“You’re good, Kay. Very good, better than ever,” he said, shaking his dark head.
Kay instinctively reached out and put a hand on his dark forearm. “I should be,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you taught me all I know.”
Feeling the ripple of hard, taut muscles beneath his shirt sleeve, Kay drew a sharp breath when Sullivan, ignoring her accolade, asked casually, “Have you got anything planned for this coming Saturday morning?”
They didn’t work on Saturdays. Kay’s fingers tightened a little on Sullivan’s arm as excitement filled her small body.
“Why, no, I don’t, Sullivan,” she said in a whisper. “I’ve nothing at all planned, nothing to do.”
“Good,” he responded dryly, brushing her hand from his arm. “There’s to be a charity touch-football game Saturday morning at ten between Q102 and channel ten television. Be a good idea if you’d agree to play.”
Disappointed, Kay stared up at him and stammered, “I…why, sure, I’ll be glad to do it.”
Sullivan walked
While the sound of Linda Ronstadt’s voice permeated the air, Kay checked the time, wrote it on the FCC log and turned to hunt for the tape for the first scheduled commercial. Sullivan, once again leaning back in his chair, grudgingly admired her. The correct commercial located, she pulled a record from its jacket and expertly cued it on the turntable. That done, she turned and stole a glance at her partner.
Sullivan looked into those dazzling blue eyes, slowly leaned forward and softly said, “Let me help.” For one heart-stopping moment his big hand covered her trembling one and Kay felt his strength, his warmth.
“Th—thank you,” she stammered when that strong, male hand gently squeezed hers.
“You’re welcome, Kay.” His voice was low, sincere. “We’ll do it together, hon, uh, Kay.” His hand left hers and a long arm shot out behind her to pull several color-coded tapes from the carousel. “These are some of the best, I think. Be good for the first segment of the show.” He smiled at her and Kay felt her heart take wing.
Half an hour later, the phone in the control booth began ringing off the wall. Raves poured in. Listeners loved the easy banter and great rapport between the man and woman talking to each other in a relaxed and often humorous manner. Their timing was perfect, as though they’d never been apart. They could practically read one another’s minds. One would begin a sentence; the other would finish. While they joked, two wide sky-blue eyes were often locked with a pair of blazing black ones.
The fire between them still burned.
At least in the control room of the radio station. Both felt the powerful electricity flowing from one to the other and both experienced a physical charge from it. Pushing each other higher and higher, they delighted in the playful challenge of their verbal duel. Both felt gloriously awake and vitally stimulated by the all-or-nothing contest as each strove to be on par, if not to surpass, the wit and repartee of the other.
Adding to the exciting exercise of keen intellects, an undeniable physical attraction still existed between them. It not only filled the tiny space they occupied, making both Sullivan and Kay feel warm, animated, titillated; it magically transmitted itself over the airwaves and into homes and cars. Listeners felt they were experiencing a very special happening and they delighted in it.
Sullivan and Kay took turns answering the busy phones, cuing the records, logging the commercials and talking into their mikes. The four-hour show flew past and Kay was shocked when Sullivan said, “Lead ’em into the last song, Kay, it’s two minutes till ten.”
Smiling at him, Kay complied and when the last record came up in volume, she turned to him; happy, relieved, longing for his approval.
“You’re good, Kay. Very good, better than ever,” he said, shaking his dark head.
Kay instinctively reached out and put a hand on his dark forearm. “I should be,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “you taught me all I know.”
Feeling the ripple of hard, taut muscles beneath his shirt sleeve, Kay drew a sharp breath when Sullivan, ignoring her accolade, asked casually, “Have you got anything planned for this coming Saturday morning?”
They didn’t work on Saturdays. Kay’s fingers tightened a little on Sullivan’s arm as excitement filled her small body.
“Why, no, I don’t, Sullivan,” she said in a whisper. “I’ve nothing at all planned, nothing to do.”
“Good,” he responded dryly, brushing her hand from his arm. “There’s to be a charity touch-football game Saturday morning at ten between Q102 and channel ten television. Be a good idea if you’d agree to play.”
Disappointed, Kay stared up at him and stammered, “I…why, sure, I’ll be glad to do it.”
Sullivan walked
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