“So, we’re eclectic.”
“We’re open-minded.”
She leaned back a moment. “You’re a surprise, Fletcher. I guess I figured you for the loving-and-hurting, drinking-and-cheating type.”
“In music appreciation or personality?”
“Both.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s showtime.”
Wild Bob Williams, who had the 6-to-10 slot, was just finishing up his show. He was short, paunchy and middle-aged, with the voice of a twenty-year-old stud. He gave Cilla a brief salute as she began sorting through 45s and albums.
“Mmm, the long-legged filly just walked in.” He hit a switch that had an echoing heartbeat pounding. “Get ready out there in KHIP land, your midnight star’s rising. I’m leaving you with this blast from the past.” He potted up “Honky Tonk Woman.”
He swung out of his chair and stretched his rubbery leg muscles. “Hey, honey, you okay?”
“Sure.” She set her first cut on the turntable and adjusted the needle.
“I caught the paper.”
“No big deal, Bob.”
“Hey, we’re family around here.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “We’re behind you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re the cop?” he asked Boyd.
“That’s right.”
“Get this guy soon. He’s got us all shaking.” He gave Cilla another squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.”
She didn’t want to think about it, couldn’t afford to think about it, with thirty seconds to air. Taking her seat, she adjusted the mike, took a series of long, deep breaths, ran a one-two-three voice check, then opened her mike.
“All right, Denver, this is Cilla O’Roarke coming to you on number one, KHIP. You’ve got me from 10 till 2 in the a.m. We’re going to start off giving away one hundred and nine dollars. We’ve got the mystery record coming up. If you can give me the title, the artist and the year, you’ve got yourself a fistful of cash. That number is 555–5447. Stand by, ’cause we’re going to rock.”
The music blasted out, pleasing her. She was in control again.
“Elton John,” Boyd said from behind her. “‘Honky Cat.’ Nineteen seventy- … two.”
She turned in her chair to face him. He was looking damned pleased with himself, she thought. That half grin on his face, his hands in his pockets. It was a shame he was so attractive, a bloody crying shame. “Well, well, you surprise me, Slick. Remind me to put you down for a free T-shirt.”
“I’d rather have a dinner.”
“And I’d rather have a Porsche. But there you go— Hey,” she said when he took her hand.
“You’ve been biting your nails.” He skimmed a thumb over her knuckles and watched her eyes change. “Another bad habit.”
“I’ve got lots more.”
“Good.” Instead of sitting back in the corner, he chose a chair beside her. “I didn’t have time to get a book,” he explained. “Why don’t I watch you work?”
“Why don’t you—” She swore, then punched a button on the phone. He’d nearly made her miss her cue. “KHIP. Can you name the mystery record?”
It took five calls before she had a winner. Trying to ignore Boyd, she put on another cut while she took the winner’s name and address.
As if she didn’t have enough on her mind, she thought. How was she supposed to concentrate on her show when he was all but sitting on top of her? Close enough, she realized, that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the mountains to mind one moment and quiet, intimate nights the next.
She wasn’t interested in either, she reminded herself. All she wanted was to get through this crisis and get her life back on an even keel. Attractive men came and went, she knew. But success stayed—as long as you were willing to sweat for it.
She shifted, stretching out to select a new record. Their thighs brushed. His were long and as hard as rock. Determined not to jolt, she turned her head to look into his eyes. Inches apart, challenge meeting challenge.
“We’re open-minded.”
She leaned back a moment. “You’re a surprise, Fletcher. I guess I figured you for the loving-and-hurting, drinking-and-cheating type.”
“In music appreciation or personality?”
“Both.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s showtime.”
Wild Bob Williams, who had the 6-to-10 slot, was just finishing up his show. He was short, paunchy and middle-aged, with the voice of a twenty-year-old stud. He gave Cilla a brief salute as she began sorting through 45s and albums.
“Mmm, the long-legged filly just walked in.” He hit a switch that had an echoing heartbeat pounding. “Get ready out there in KHIP land, your midnight star’s rising. I’m leaving you with this blast from the past.” He potted up “Honky Tonk Woman.”
He swung out of his chair and stretched his rubbery leg muscles. “Hey, honey, you okay?”
“Sure.” She set her first cut on the turntable and adjusted the needle.
“I caught the paper.”
“No big deal, Bob.”
“Hey, we’re family around here.” He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “We’re behind you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re the cop?” he asked Boyd.
“That’s right.”
“Get this guy soon. He’s got us all shaking.” He gave Cilla another squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.”
She didn’t want to think about it, couldn’t afford to think about it, with thirty seconds to air. Taking her seat, she adjusted the mike, took a series of long, deep breaths, ran a one-two-three voice check, then opened her mike.
“All right, Denver, this is Cilla O’Roarke coming to you on number one, KHIP. You’ve got me from 10 till 2 in the a.m. We’re going to start off giving away one hundred and nine dollars. We’ve got the mystery record coming up. If you can give me the title, the artist and the year, you’ve got yourself a fistful of cash. That number is 555–5447. Stand by, ’cause we’re going to rock.”
The music blasted out, pleasing her. She was in control again.
“Elton John,” Boyd said from behind her. “‘Honky Cat.’ Nineteen seventy- … two.”
She turned in her chair to face him. He was looking damned pleased with himself, she thought. That half grin on his face, his hands in his pockets. It was a shame he was so attractive, a bloody crying shame. “Well, well, you surprise me, Slick. Remind me to put you down for a free T-shirt.”
“I’d rather have a dinner.”
“And I’d rather have a Porsche. But there you go— Hey,” she said when he took her hand.
“You’ve been biting your nails.” He skimmed a thumb over her knuckles and watched her eyes change. “Another bad habit.”
“I’ve got lots more.”
“Good.” Instead of sitting back in the corner, he chose a chair beside her. “I didn’t have time to get a book,” he explained. “Why don’t I watch you work?”
“Why don’t you—” She swore, then punched a button on the phone. He’d nearly made her miss her cue. “KHIP. Can you name the mystery record?”
It took five calls before she had a winner. Trying to ignore Boyd, she put on another cut while she took the winner’s name and address.
As if she didn’t have enough on her mind, she thought. How was she supposed to concentrate on her show when he was all but sitting on top of her? Close enough, she realized, that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the mountains to mind one moment and quiet, intimate nights the next.
She wasn’t interested in either, she reminded herself. All she wanted was to get through this crisis and get her life back on an even keel. Attractive men came and went, she knew. But success stayed—as long as you were willing to sweat for it.
She shifted, stretching out to select a new record. Their thighs brushed. His were long and as hard as rock. Determined not to jolt, she turned her head to look into his eyes. Inches apart, challenge meeting challenge.
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