Talk Dirty to Me

by Lulu Wright

  She raises an eyebrow. “Please. Like I don’t recognize your pleasesex-me-now voice by this point, girl.”

  “OK, OK.” I laugh and try to shake off my surprise. “I just can’t believe TMZ is playing this.”

  She shoots me a WTF expression. “Uh, hello? Mark Carrington is only the hottest sports player right now. Even I know who he is and I’ve never seen a baseball game in my life.”

  “But TMZ, that’s huge…”

  “Dude, it’s not just TMZ. It’s everywhere. Everyone is talking about doping in sports and the show and everything. Look at this…”

  She pulls up another site, SportsScoop.com, which is discussing Mark’s argument with Charlie. From there, she sends me to another page, one of the celebrity gossip rags’ online forums, where there are several very long message board threads dedicated to the chemistry between the Bad Boy of Baseball and the mysterious sexy voice known only as Rose.

  “She shoots she scores.” Geo holds up her fist. I tap it without much heart. “Aw,” she pouts. “Come on, even if he’s not that great a lay, this is good for your station, right?”

  “Oh, totally. It’s awesome publicity.” I force a smile.

  She taps my arm with her still closed fist, completely not fooled. “What happened, homie?”

  I collapse my shoulders in a shrug. “You know I went to high school with him, right?”

  “Mark Carrington?”

  I nod and Geo bursts out laughing. She throws herself back on the couch, barely catching her laptop from falling on the floor.

  “No. Way,” she gasps when she recovers from her laughing fit. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you know him back then? I can’t imagine he was in the Audio Visual club. Or was he? Oh my god, was he a nerd?”

  I crinkle my nose. “Nah, still a total jock, even back then.”

  “Okay, so spill. How’d you, queen of all things uber-dorky, know this proto-superstar?” She stares at me, waiting, and I can’t resist her open, earnest face.

  My cheeks burn as I admit it. “We sort of kind of made out in the library. Twice. And in his car a few times. Okay, a few dozen times…”

  Her eyes pop and her jaw drops. “Get out. You dated Mark Carrington in high school?”

  I snort. “I’d hardly call it dating. We were partners in our drama class. Occasionally one thing led to another.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Did he or did he not meet your family?”

  “I…” I grimace. “It was high school—the rules were different back then!”

  “Totally dated.” She laughs.

  “Whatever,” I grumble, rubbing my temples hard. “Sure, I guess we kind of went out.”

  “And now, what, you guys are rekindling that high school flame?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Oh my god, that makes a cuter story than freaking Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis, you know.”

  I take a moment before I shake my head hard. “It’s not like that.”

  Geo squints. “Why not?”

  I shake my head again. “He dumped me for a cheerleader and took her to prom. He’s the same now as he was back then—he’s into supermodels, actresses. Not…you know.” I make a sweeping gesture at my torn rock band T-shirt and my messy leggings.

  Geo rolls her eyes. “Please. You’re as hot as any model. Besides, didn’t you ever wonder what you…”

  I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL

  Thank god Joan Jett has interrupted the inquisition. I know Geo and she was about to go deep, way too deep for me at this moment.

  My relief only lasts for half a second, however. My phone screen announces that it’s Doc Bing calling. “Shit, it’s the big boss,” I tell Geo.

  Great. Now what? His calls never mean anything good. Maybe he’s pissed I had to interrupt the show earlier to save Mark. Maybe I’m going to get a lashing for failing to prep Mark well enough in advance for the author interview. Oh, fuck. My skin gets clammy and my heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.

  I stand up, take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Doc.”

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he coos.

  Sweetheart? I almost drop the phone. For a second I wonder if he’s possessed, or if someone else is calling from his number. But no, I recognize that bored drawl of his; I’d know it anywhere. I’ve just never heard him call me—or anyone, for that matter—anything as sappy as “sweetheart.”

  “Uh, hello,” I finally stammer. “You know this is Rose, right?” Maybe he thinks he called Becks. She’s his favorite—being the one who brings in the cold hard cash and all.

  I hear the yap of Robert E. Lee before Doc Bing starts yapping himself. “Fantastic job today, Miss Taylor. Really great start to our new segment. Exactly the kind of pickup I was hoping for. Becks says she’s signed more ads this week than the last year combined.”

  “Oh, great,” I say, catching my breath. Geo is shooting me a confused look, torn between excitement and asking me WTF with her eyes. I shrug wildly back at her in response. In all the time I’ve worked with him, I’ve never been called by Doc for anything other than a blowup. This praise is throwing me off my game.

  Then I hear Doc clear his throat, and part of me relaxes. Right. Here it comes. “I’m going to need more,” he says.

  Well that’s helpful, I think. Totally clears that right up. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I reply, “More?”

  “You have great chemistry with that Yankee. The news outlets have been eating it up. Radio sexpot and the Bad Boy. Everyone wants more, more, more.” He clears his throat again, and I can practically hear his shark-like smile. “Congratulations, Miss Taylor. You’re Mark Carrington’s new co-host.”

  For a solid minute, I can’t reply. I can’t even think straight. My eyes must be bugging straight out of my head. Now Geo looks more concerned than confused. I wave her off, and shake my head at the same time, then realize Doc can’t see me, of course. I clear my throat hard. “But…”

  “Glad that’s settled. Got to run now, sweetheart. Toodle’oo!”

  I hear a click on his end of the phone. He’s gone, just like that. But I know there would be no arguing with him even if he was still on the line. I just blink at Geo with my mouth hanging open.

  “What?” she finally prompts.

  “I know absolutely nothing about sports.”

  “Duh. Last time we went to a sports bar for a basketball tournament, you yelled ‘touchdown’ for every basket.”

  I sit down next to her with a heavy thump. “Doc wants me to be Mark’s co-host for his morning show. The entirety of which is sports talk, and nothing but.”

  Geo rubs my arm. “You were great today. Just keep doing that.”

  “What, imitating Scarlett Johansson and flirting with our guests?”

  “Well, the audience ate it up this time. Why not?”

  “I’m going to make a complete fool of myself! I’ll be written off as just another dumb radio show blonde getting by on my looks and my ability to fake a sexy voice. Not to mention, what will happen to all our regular listeners if they start to think the whole station is full of bimbos like me?”

  Geo rolls her eyes and shoves to her feet. “You’re overthinking this, girl. It’s a good thing, trust me. The whole internet is blowing up with rumors about you and a hot as hell sports star, you’re going to become radio famous, and you’re worried about sounding a little ditzy?”

  I bite my lower lip and sigh. “I guess when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad…”

  “Damn straight it doesn’t.” She leans in to tousle my hair. “Now, I know just the way to celebrate your promotion.”

  “It’s not a promo—”

  “S’mores!” she announces, bouncing away toward the kitchen before I finish protesting.

  Well. Can’t argue with that. However this radio show is gonna go, be it a success or a disaster, s’mores will help take my mind off worrying.

  But as we stand in our little kitchen and watch the microwave rotate, heating up our marshmallowy snacks,
my mind drifts back to the bonfire I went to before Homecoming my senior year. The party where Mark first locked eyes with me across a busy crowd of high schoolers, and winked. I blushed bright red, even as I rolled my eyes at the stupid jock, thinking he could flirt his way in with me, of all people.

  That memory, though, brings up a zillion others, hot on its heels. Pretty soon I’m lost in thought, remembering the DJ booth this morning, his strong, chiseled chest inches from mine, his eyes on my face, our lips so close that if I’d only tilted my head upright, we would’ve kissed…

  I shake my head and distract myself by thinking about prom. Senior year prom. The one to which he brought Katie Cross, head cheerleader, instead of me. I skipped it, because hell if I was going to stand around moping after him when he pulled that kind of shit. But even though I was in the middle of a hella epic Rancid show at Irving Plaza, my eyes were glued to Twitter all night. Watching update after update post to the #DHSProm thread, and I swear he was the only student getting his damn photo taken. Katie was leaning all over him in every single one.

  “So I bet this all helped with the line-up, huh?”

  “Huh?” I echo, blinking back into reality. Geo is staring at me, a plate of freshly heated s’mores cooling on her palm. I pick one off the plate and try to focus.

  “Frightened Rabbit. You were going to talk to them about the line-up for our podcast.” Her brown eyes are wide and innocent and that makes me feel worse for dropping the ball on reaching out to the band’s management.

  I grimace. “Geo, I’m sorry…”

  “You forgot.” Those wide brown eyes stay just as wide and empty of feeling, but I can see a vein ticking in her forehead, and a sour pool of guilt churns in my stomach. The fact that she’s not angry makes it even worse.

  “Things got a little crazy at the station today. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to them.”

  “You know we have less than a week before our first episode launches, right?”

  “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  She watches me for a long, quiet moment. Then she finally nods, and sets the plate down. “Come on, let’s work on our soundtrack queue again.”

  I push Mark out of my mind and give Geo—my understanding, s’mores making, good-hearted activist bestie—my full attention for the rest of the night. If I can’t stop obsessing over him, I can at least remember to obsess over the right people in my life, too.

  8

  Mark

  A week into the show, I already want to throw in the towel.

  I thought this would be an easy gig. Some little two-bit show that I put in an hour a day on. But lately, it’s been all I can think about, even when I’m not in the DJ booth recording, or reading the million emails, schedules, books and memorandums about the damn show that Rose keeps sending me. I swear she’s doing this on purpose. High school all over again—she was not the kind of girl who’d let me copy her homework the day of just to get on my good side. She always made me work for it, and hard.

  Right now, though, I can’t say the hard work has been all terrible. It has been a lot more fun than I care to admit being on air, especially in the segments where Rose and I work together. We tag-team our guests—I ask the hardball sports questions, and she chats them up, flirts in that sultry, sexy voice of hers (which I swear sounds even better than it did back in high school), and butters them up so I can swoop in for the kill.

  Yeah, we make a good team. And we aren’t the only ones who have noticed—the whole ‘net is exploding with rumors about us. But at the end of the day, this isn’t my passion. I don’t want to become another washed-up has-been star who spends the rest of his life talking about the damn game instead of playing it.

  Which means I need to cut this radio success off at the pass, before it starts to really impact my career. Before people start to think of me as a disc jockey first and a regular jockey second.

  I’m at my usual masseuse, getting my back broken in half by Miranda, when my phone rings. It takes me a second to register the name, because it’s been so long since my good-for-nothing pissed-off agent called.

  “Uh, Stanley…” is all I manage to get out before Miranda kneels on my back with her whole body weight and I groan.

  “You’re going to a kid’s charity thing tonight. So is your co-host. Wear a tux.”

  That’s it? I think. No greeting? No hey how’s it going? No sorry I haven’t called you every other day like I normally do? I scowl at my phone and wait for Miranda to ease up a little. “Where?” I ask. “And what charity?”

  “The Meadowlands,” he says. “Little Sluggers.”

  I do like the Little Sluggers. It’s a really cool charity that encourages special needs kids to play baseball. It’s one of my favorite do-good things because the people who host it are really devoted to their jobs and the kids are so great. But even mention of my favorite charity doesn’t lighten my mood right now. “I’m sure it’ll be a great photo op,” I grunt between punches from Miranda.

  “Especially considering we’re going to get one of you and Tommy Pizza both.”

  I feel my back pop in knots, then Miranda pushes them down. “Deep breath,” she purrs.

  Too late for deep breaths. “You have got to be kidding,” I spit. “What, this entire fucking apology tour isn’t enough for you?”

  “Be there at 6,” Stanley interrupts. The line goes dead in my hand, and Miranda punches my shoulder blade hard in response.

  Fuck. 100, 99, 98…

  Miranda was tough on me today. A hot, tiny brunette, she has the hands of the Incredible Hulk. I think she beats out her life aggravations on my glutes. She’s offered twice now to give me a happy ending, but frankly, I don’t trust that monster grip of hers on my dick.

  After I pull my truck into VIP parking at the Meadowlands, I hop out to stretch the aches that little lady inflicted on my back and ass. Just then, I see Rose pull up in her old beat up Mustang. A cloud of black exhaust drifts around her car—just like it always has. I can’t believe she’s still driving that hunk of junk. How is it even legal to drive that beater on the NJ Turnpike?

  “Hey,” I call out as she climbs out of her car. She sees me and frowns immediately. “Nice to see you too,” I mutter, even though she’s too far away to hear me.

  She pops her trunk without making eye contact. “Come help me unload these T-shirts.”

  “Shouldn’t someone from the station come to—”

  “Jesus, is lifting one finger to help me so far beneath the great and mighty ballplayer? Pick up a bag, Mark. Please?”

  I stalk over to her ‘stang and sling a bag over my shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant who’s coming from W-ALT for this event?”

  She shakes her head. “No one. U2 is playing at Madison Square Garden, so everyone else from the station bailed.” She slams her trunk. “Who’s coming on your side?”

  I turn my back to her so she can’t see my disappointment. “Some intern from my agent’s office.” Because suddenly, Stanley is too good to come to my events himself. Suddenly, I barely merit a damn intern for assistance.

  As we make our way across the parking lot, I notice Rose struggling with the other bag. I grasp the strap to take that one too, but she pulls away. “You said you wanted help,” I point out. “Let me.”

  With obvious reluctance, she lets go of the strap and allows me to slide the second bag onto my shoulder. “Thanks,” she says, but the way her voice clamps around that single word, you’d think she was cursing me out.

  The instant we hit the main floor of the Meadowlands, the kids are on me like white on rice. Some of them even try to climb me like I’m a man tree. I surrender and let the giggle monsters have control, catching a couple on their way up my leg to flip them upside-down and tickle their ankles. “Are we here to play at being monkeys, or are we here to play ball?” I ask them, as more kids tug at my jeans.

  “Play ball!” they chorus, and I grin and hoist one of the kids onto my back to head over to the cages. />
  I catch Rose grinning at me and the kids, but when I grin back she just rolls her eyes and pulls out her cell phone. “I’m going to call the station and set up the radio line.”

  We’ll be live on the radio every half hour during the three hour event to raise awareness for the Little Sluggers on W-ALT too. We have a Go Fund Me site set up just for tonight. The goal is to raise 10k in three hours. These diehards better come through, because I’ve pledged to match that amount if they hit the donation cap. Least my fans can do is put their money where their oversized mouths are for these kids.

  Rose gives me a nod and a piece of paper with copy before she hands me the phone. I read the words and give a shout out to the fans about where to go online to drop their dukes.

  “And I’ll tell you what,” I add. Rose waves her arms, giving me the cut sign. She hates when I go off script. That only makes me smile wider. “Forget matching this. I’m gonna tell you diehards what, for every dollar you guys put in I will put in ten. Got it? Do it.”

  I hand the phone back to Rose and to my surprise, for a split second before she turns her back to me to finish doing whatever she needs to do with the station people, I spot another real live smile on her face. The way that grin lights up her whole face, I could stare at her all day long.

  Predictably, an hour into the three hour stint, Tommy fucking Pizza shows up, late as ever. I’m in the middle of signing some donation autographs for a couple dreamy-eyed (and more than a little attractive) MILFs when the flash of Tommy’s paparazzi tail illuminates the area. I glance over the sea of kids and fawning adults and spy him surrounded by an entourage of agents, PR reps and fans.

  There is nothing less in the world that I want to do than make a public appearance with this asshole. But Stanley insisted I needed to convince the world we’ve put bygones behind us. For Stanley, I can swallow my pride and put up with this shit for ten seconds.

  Flashbulbs pop frantically as Tommy reaches me. He extends a hand, but fuck that, I’m going all in, if for no other reason than to throw him off his stride. I grab his hand in a tighter than necessary grip, and pull him in for a back-slapping bro-hug. The smile on my face is a total shit-eating grin, and my back-slap is more like a series of punches.