Morning Man

by Barbara Kellyn

  He nodded as the stylist turned on the clippers to work on his beard. “Uh-huh. Thanks, kid.”

  “No problem. Good luck with the shoot.” He gave them a parting wave and left.

  The makeup artist pointed to the disk. “We have a CD player if you want to play that. Would you like me to bring it over?”

  Dayna nodded. “Thanks very much.”

  “Why don’t you just kiss him too?” Tack muttered.

  She plucked the CD from the jewel case, slid it into the player and turned it up.

  Music: DUM-DE-DE-DUM, DE-DE-DUM-DE-DE-DUM…

  Slick announcer voice: Monday morning, Hot Country One-oh-three turns up the heat at the crack of dawn.

  Clip of Tack: “I get up long before the rooster crows.”

  Music up: Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!

  Slick announcer: Waking up every morning with Tack and Dayna is going to give whole new meaning to…

  Clip of Tack: “Rise and grind.”

  Sound effect: Rooster crowing loud and proud

  Clip of Dayna: “Safe to say, you’re a morning man in more ways than one?”

  Slick announcer: Early risers, get set to roll over and Wake Up with Tack and Dayna, weekday mornings from six to ten on Hot Country One-oh-three.

  Clip of Tack talking: “I can’t think of anything sexier.”

  Music up: Save a horse, ride a cowboy!

  Clip of Dayna: “Well, well, well. Talk about your breakfast sausages!”

  Dayna’s expression fell from shocked to mortified. “Oh. My. God. Bonnie pimped us out.”

  Tack snorted with laughter. “Well, I think it’s great.”

  “Of course you do. It’s been edited to sound as if I’m fawning over your enormous pecker.”

  He pressed his hand flat to his chest. “Sugar, hearing that come out of your sweet mouth was even better than a kiss.”

  She turned to the others. “What did you guys think?”

  “I think it’s cheeky,” said the makeup artist with a playful wiggle of his brow.

  “Me too,” echoed the stylist. “I’m definitely tuning in on Monday to hear what you two are going to be up to.”

  The makeup artist handed her a bottle of vodka. “Sex sells, honey. And with a hot commercial like that, you might even get me listening to country.”

  Dayna twisted off the cap and took a swig, screwing up her face as she swallowed. “God help me. What have I gotten myself into?”

  * * * *

  Dayna sat wedged in the corner of her makeshift dressing room, downing her second mini-bottle and debating whether she should crack the seal on a third.

  Tack knocked on the partition wall. “How you doin’ in there?”

  “No worries, my good man,” she said with slight slur. “It’s all good in the ’hood.”

  He chuckled. “Sounds like someone might be getting a little tipsy, hmm?”

  “I’m working on it.” She grinned, definitely not feeling any pain.

  “Are you dressed yet?”

  The big, black garment bag still hanged ominously on her door. “Nope.”

  “What’s taking so long?” he asked.

  “I’ll get dressed when I’m damn good and ready,” she replied, slugging back another gulp of liquid courage.

  “Jeez, I didn’t peg you to be so high maintenance.”

  “I’m not high maintenance,” she said, dabbing at her mouth. “I’m a handful.”

  His laugh echoed through the studio. “Well, Little Miss Handful, we’re waiting on you, so hurry up,” he said. “I’m going to play a few tunes. Let’s have some fun.”

  With a sigh, she unsnapped her jeans and peeled them down to the floor before lifting her shirt over her head, careful not to smudge any makeup. Standing barefoot in her underwear, she reached up and unzipped the nylon bag. What? No. Someone’s gotta be pulling my leg. “Uh, hey Tack?” she called out. “I think part of my outfit’s missing.”

  * * * *

  The stylist lightly tapped Tack’s arm with the hairbrush. “I’ll go help her.”

  He had to hand it to Bonnie, she was pretty savvy when it came to marketing. And this crazy new scheme she’d cooked up had to be one of her finest to date. It would be a damn shame if Dayna let inhibition get in the way of going through with it. Of course, the boss lady was always on top of her game, likely why she’d smartly loaded up her errand boy with enough booze to ply the knickers off a nun. With Dayna’s new MP3 player firmly implanted in the system’s docking station, he scrolled through the playlists and cranked the volume on the party tunes.

  The photographer’s assistant walked up to him. “Could I get you over to the set so we can check the lighting?”

  He ducked and stepped his way around various tripods, lighting reflectors and umbrellas surrounding the only piece of furniture on the sparsely-decorated set: a brass daybed piled high with fluffy white pillows. “Where do you want me?”

  “Have a seat anywhere,” the assistant said, gesturing toward the bed. “We just need to get the settings right.”

  Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Tack squinted up at the ceiling lights emitting white-hot rays from high above. The assistant stuck a digital light meter in his face and took a reading, then disappeared behind the glare of the lights to consult with the photographer. He couldn’t quite make out what they were conferring about, but by all the intense whispering, he figured his modeling career was over before it began.

  The assistant stepped forward again. “I’m afraid you can’t wear that,” he said, pointing a finger at Tack’s gray t-shirt. “It has to go.”

  He gulped, suddenly a little shy and a whole lot self-conscious. If he’d known he was expected to strip, he would’ve hit the gym during the past month or six. “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to spoil the visual effect we have to achieve,” the assistant said. “Mrs. McMulland was very specific about the kind of shots she wants.”

  It suddenly became painfully obvious why Bonnie had supplied alcohol. He cursed not keeping a bottle within reach.

  “Come on, cowboy, show us those abs,” Dayna commanded with a giggle somewhere on the dark edge of the set. “If I have to do this, then so do you.”

  He got up and moved out from under the lights until she came into view. His breath hitched in his throat when he saw her, wearing nothing but a red-striped pajama top that skimmed her womanly curves and floated mid-thigh, revealing beautiful, shapely legs. The starched collar of her shirt was turned up and her hair had been mercilessly teased like she’d just rolled out of bed. Or a Whitesnake video. Gulp.

  * * * *

  Dayna nibbled her bottom lip, pleased to field a response from the one straight man in the room who’d bothered to notice she was parading around half naked. “So that’s where the other half of my outfit went.” She eyed Tack’s matching striped lounge pants. “Nice PJs. But I agree, the shirt’s definitely gotta go.”

  He shrugged. With a smile, he reached around and tugged the shirt up over his head, exposing a massive chest and thick, well-muscled shoulders. As he freed himself from the garment and the silver chain around his neck, her gaze roamed over the silky coat of dark flaxen hair across his pecs, trailing down his flexing stomach and tapering under his waistband. Gulp.

  The stylist patted her shoulder. “I’ll go get you the rest of that drink.”

  * * * *

  The photographer’s assistant slid a pillow under Tack to prop him into an unnatural position engineered to look completely natural. “Now climb up and straddle his left leg,” he directed Dayna. At first, posing in front of a group of strangers had been too awkward to be arousing, despite the nearness of her. But now, as they relaxed and forgot all about the camera, every touch, every smile, everything about her tested his resolve.

  She moved over him and leaned in, offering a mouth-watering glimpse of cleavage as her shirt draped open. “Betcha Casey Kasem never had to do this.”

  “Betcha he didn’t.” He adjusted hi
s position. “Little did he know what he was missing.”

  The assistant instructed her to clutch a pillow before turning his focus to Tack. “Now, you grab the other opposite edges so it looks as if you’re both struggling for it.”

  “Why? Is she going to hold it over my face?”

  The assistant planted both hands on his hips and grimaced. “No silly, like you’re having a pillow fight.”

  “Stop teasing him and just go with it.” She giggled and flipped her flirty hair, only to have it swing back and fall loosely in her face.

  “I got this,” Tack said, brushing away the silken strand covering her beautiful brown eyes. She smiled down at him and it took his breath away. Capital T Trouble.

  “Thanks, partner. Am I hurting you at all?”

  He shook his head and grasped both sides of the pillow. “I’m comfortable. You?”

  She rolled her hips forward. Oh jeez, don’t do that.

  “There, that’s better,” she said with a relaxed sigh.

  “Over here, please.” The photographer snapped his fingers to get their attention and the shutter began clicking. “Good. Now, Dayna, lift your chin and tilt your head to the right. A little more…and yes! Right there. Hold it. Great.”

  “Just so you know, this set up has given me a great deal of respect for you,” she said through her pearly smile, her eyes still trained on the camera lens. “I mean, here you are with a semi-nude woman in your lap and you’ve been nothing but a gentleman.”

  “Trust me,” he grumbled, “I’m digging deep to think about anything but you being on top of me right now.”

  Her voice turned husky. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Changing the oil in my truck. Big, hairy spiders. Susan Boyle. Roadkill. Republicans.”

  She laughed and the photographer shrieked with delight. “Yes! That’s it! Whatever you two are doing, keep it up.”

  Tack gritted his teeth. “That’s exactly what I’m trying not to do.”

  She writhed again, mercilessly sliding her bare leg up the inside of his thigh and inching precariously close to the danger zone.

  “Now cut that out, will ya?”

  Her bottom lip slid out in a pout. “You telling me you don’t like it?”

  “I wouldn’t be reciting the entire Cleveland Browns’ roster backward in my head if I didn’t like it. But this is neither the time nor the place.”

  Big & Rich started blasting from the CD player and her eyes flashed with recognition. “Hey, Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy. They’re playing our song.”

  She rocked her hips to the beat and terror filled Tack, realizing that she was as drunk on the sexual power her current position wielded as she was from vodka.

  “You know what I really love about being a girl?” she purred.

  Moldy cheese. Ingrown toenails. Richard Fucking Simmons in a leotard.

  She stretched out and put her candy-apple red lips up to his ear. “Unlike you, we can get really turned on and it stays our little secret. A nice, warm, tingly little secret.”

  Kapow.

  He sneered and quickly grabbed the pillow to sandwich between them. “Woman, you’re pure evil, you know that?”

  She tossed her head back and let out a carefree laugh as the camera’s shutter continued to click. “I probably should’ve warned you, but I’m real good at being bad.”

  Chapter 4

  Dayna was rudely awakened from a deep, restful sleep by a loud clatter in the kitchen, followed by a crash and glass tinkling. She lifted a corner of her sleep mask and cast a bleary eye at the clock next to the couch. Eleven twenty-five. Her heavy head flopped back to the pillow and she rolled over, hoping to get back to the precise spot of the warm, dreamy slumber she’d left behind.

  Rattle. Bang!

  “CJ! What the hell?”

  “I’m almost done,” he said, making more racket before the back door finally squeaked opened and slammed shut.

  She let out an exasperated sigh to aspirate the tension, then hunkered down again. Surrounded by a blanket of silence and darkness, she focused on the hypnotic pattern of her breathing and let her mind wander back to fuzzy, soothing thoughts. She was nearly where she’d left off when a sonic bomb blast jolted her upright.

  Love in an elevator! Lovin’ it up ’til I hit the ground!

  She heaved off the covers and flipped up her sleep mask, furiously fumbling for her robe. Haphazardly, she threw on her robe over her tank top and boyshorts and stormed from the living room, through the kitchen and out to the Aerosmith concert in the backyard. There were a half-dozen guys camped out in lawn chairs, drinking beer around the fire pit.

  “CJ?” she called out, straining above the teeth-rattling decibels thumping from the trunk of his precious Firebird. “CJ!”

  “What?” he hollered back.

  “It’s eleven-thirty. Turn that fucking music down or I swear, I’ll get a sledgehammer and do it for you.”

  “Ooh.” One of his buddies mocked him. “Better do what yo mama tells you, boy.”

  “C’mon, Day, it’s not that loud. Go back to bed.”

  Another loser wearing a shirt that said All You Can Eat tipped his beer in her direction. “I’ll help you find your way back if you like, sweetie.”

  Dayna immediately shut her robe and scowled. “I mean it, CJ. I need to get up for work in four hours. Turn it down right now or I’m calling the cops.”

  “Go ahead, see if I care.” He lip curled arrogantly. “They’ll tell you I can play it as loud as I want for another half an hour. They can’t touch me ’til midnight.”

  “Who is this chick anyway?” asked the first buddy as he fisted a handful of barbecue potato chips.

  CJ dismissed her presence with an indifferent wave. “No one, it’s just my ex.”

  “Thank the Lord for that,” she said. “Now turn the music down.”

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten what good music is, now that you’re only listening to that country shit.”

  “As if you would know good music, playing Celine Dion twice a shift.” She snarled. “I don’t care whether you’re blasting Metallica or Hank Williams. It’s too loud and I’m asking you to have some respect and turn it down.”

  He glared at her with defiance. “If you want to talk respect, then you’d better respect the fact that this is my place. I make the rules and I can do what I want.”

  “For the time being, it’s my place too. So stop being a child, set the volume to a reasonable level and I’ll get off your back.” Her eye twitched, but she fought back and successfully blinked it away as if battling a stray eyelash.

  “You really are a bitch, you know that?” He hissed, then stomped off to the parking pad and leaned in through the car window. The volume instantly lowered.

  “Thank you.” She turned her back and opened the door. As she stepped one foot inside the kitchen, there was a roar of jeering laughter behind her. “Assholes,” she muttered, finding her way back to bed in the dark.

  Dayna didn’t stir again until the beep of her alarm’s wakeup call at three-thirty. She made up her bed, refolding the couch and replacing the cushions without a peep, then crept upstairs to shower as quickly as possible without disturbing CJ sleeping across the hall. Like a ghost, she tiptoed back down to change her clothes and finish doing her hair. She grabbed a banana, silently scarfing it down while packing her bag with notes and magazine clippings for that week’s shows.

  With car keys gripped firmly in hand, she quietly edged open the front door and was about to exit the house when it suddenly occurred to her that she’d forgotten something. Slinking back into the kitchen, she flipped on the radio and set the dial to 103. Then she cranked up the volume as loud as it would go and left for work.

  * * * *

  Tack was accustomed to seeing Dub’s car already in the station parking lot, but that morning, all the stalls were deserted except the one occupied by the overnight operator’s Jeep. He backed into a spot and scooped up his drive-thru coffee before clim
bing out. One press of the remote key lock secured his truck as he sauntered to the front door, where the morning papers were scattered in firelog-sized bundles. He stooped to pick one up at the entrance when he heard a ruckus coming from the alley. Probably just a rat or raccoon rummaging through the Dumpster, he thought. But then the raccoon coughed.

  “Hello?” He called out. “Someone back there?”

  The rummaging stopped.

  Chalking it up to random pre-dawn noises, he went back to gathering the newspapers, tucking them under his arm while balancing his coffee. Standing upright, he slid in his door key to unlock the deadbolt when he heard the shuffling again. There was definitely someone behind the station. “I said, who’s back there?”

  The noise abruptly halted and Tack wasn’t about to ask for identification a third time. He put down all the papers except one and skulked around the corner to inspect. One of the advantages of being built like a brick house was that stature afforded one a certain amount of courage in stupid situations, and treading alone into a dark alley armed with nothing but a rolled up newspaper and a cup of coffee certainly qualified as stupid. He jumped up and roared. “Ah-ha!”

  “I swear, didn’t take nothin’ mister,” said a shadowy figure, holding up two trembling hands.

  Tack stayed a safe distance back as he tried to make out the face shielded by a baggy hood. Other than being able to tell that it was a small, slender black man, his features remained largely a mystery. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Nothin’.” The stranger’s voice shook as he stepped back, giving Tack a better view of his shabby, army surplus-style jacket and jeans. “Don’t call the cops. I’m leaving.” He turned around and started pushing a wobbly shopping cart clattering with aluminum cans, bottles and several bulging garbage bags.

  “No wait, you don’t have to go,” Tack called out, realizing that he likely looked the more menacing threat of the two. “I just heard something back here and thought someone was making trouble. But you don’t look like trouble to me.”

  “I don’t mean no trouble,” the man said.

  “I see that. I just heard a strange noise and…” His voice trailed off. He lowered the fierce newspaper he’d been wielding down to his side, feeling foolish for scaring a homeless guy who’d probably been looking for a few empties to cash in. “Here,” he said, handing over his untouched coffee. “No hard feelings, okay pal?”