At the front entrance, Rick stopped. "One more thing. Before I forget." He rested a hand over the frame of the glass door, and his blue shirt stretched taut over a lean, firm-looking waist. She had to stop noticing things like that. Rick's words pulled her back. "I had one other reservation about hiring you, and I should have mentioned it before. I've never had a woman working nights, and I'm not crazy about it, for security reasons. I want you to be careful. You probably noticed the outside wall of the studio is one big window. Keep the blinds closed. When you're walking to your car, have your keys ready, and make sure you park under a light. We've never had any problems, but I don't want you to be the first."
The serious look had returned to his gray eyes. He was about six-two, nearly a foot taller than Christie, and for a moment she felt absurdly sheltered as he stood over her. She could almost kid herself that his protective attitude was more than gentlemanly concern.
It didn't matter. He was her boss, not her boyfriend, and she could take care of herself. She decided to let him know that. "And if someone does come after me," she said, "I go for the eyes and groin."
He stared at her for half a second. "Remind me not to mess with you." He swung the door open, and once again he was all business. "Bring the forms back to personnel when you get a chance, and I'll see you in two weeks."
This time, once again, Christie made sure not to look back as she walked out. Last time it had been to preserve her dignity. This time, she was fighting the urge to see if two gray eyes were looking after her.
She'd dated very little since she'd started work at the loan office. Her job didn't put her in contact with many men, except the ones who were half of a married couple trying to finance a house. She'd gone out with one fellow student from broadcasting school, but he'd been so vain and shallow he'd bored her to tears. Maybe that explained her reaction to Rick Fox. Boring he wasn't. Conservative, maybe, but interesting, especially that streak of humor.
It didn't matter. Christie wasn't about to be sidetracked. With her goal at hand, her new boss was the last man in the world she was going to get involved with.
"So keep it here on KYOR-your station for the best songs of yesterday and today." Yvonne turned and nodded to Christie, who was already hitting the button to shut off the microphone. The music, which had been automatically muted when the microphone was on, came back on in the studio.
It was Christie's second day of training. Yesterday, she had watched. Today, when Christie walked in, Yvonne had announced the board was hers. Yvonne still did the talking on the air, but Christie was in charge of all the buttons and sliders-starting the songs, controlling the volume, turning the microphone on and off.
Yvonne gave her a thumbs-up. "You're doing great." She picked up her cup of noodles, which had been steaming under its paper lid for the last several minutes. Apparently Rick hadn't been kidding about Top Ramen.
"So, do you lose weight eating that stuff?"
Yvonne shook her head. "No, because it makes you so thirsty you drink twice as much soda." She hoisted a can of cola toward Christie to attest.
The real studio at KYOR was much more daunting than the broadcasting school's miniature version, with about three times the number of controls to worry about. Then there was the EAS binder, the notebook to turn to in case of a signal from the Emergency Alert System. Christie lived in fear of a fire or flood her first night on the air, but Yvonne assured her she'd never known anyone who'd received a real emergency alert. The important thing was a passing familiarity with the book, in case of a surprise inspection by the FCC.
Somehow, that wasn't very reassuring.
A few minutes later, Christie fired the next song, and they were assaulted by a barrage of hard rock chords. For the first time, Yvonne took over, hastily reaching past Christie to advance the CD player a few tracks ahead. A softer track came on, and KYOR's light adult contemporary sound was restored.
"Sorry." Yvonne patted her shoulder. "I had to get that off in a hurry. We don't want people in offices diving under their desks." She pointed to the CD player. "Remember to double-check which song you have cued up after you load in the disc. These are compilation CDs. Most of the songs fit our format, but every once in a while you'll get an ancient oldie, or something that can peel paint, like that one."
"I'm sorry," Christie said. "I just hope you have an audience left after today."
"Oh, shut up." Yvonne waved her off. "That's what today is all about-getting some of the kinks out." She sipped her soda. "Nervous about tonight?"
Christie nodded. "I've wanted this for so long, and I'm afraid if I don't do it right-" She cringed, still hearing those heavy metal chords in her head.
"Then there's tomorrow night. This isn't do or die, sweetie. I'll tell you right now, you're going to make mistakes." She scooped another bite of noodles from the styrofoam cup. "The great thing about radio," she said, "is it's always going forward. No one remembers if you screwed up your last break."
"Sounds like another Rick-ism."
Yvonne nodded. "And what's the worst thing a jock can do?"
They said it together: "Dead air." And laughed.
Christie had heard a lot of the Gospel According to Rick these past two days, but she'd seen very little of the man himself. He was still a mystery. When she did see him, he seemed to have reverted back to the man she'd met on her first interview-polite, but preoccupied. Both mornings, he'd poked his head into the studio for a brief greeting that included both Yvonne and herself. Other than that, he spent most of the time in his office, and while the door was always open, Christie wasn't going to venture into that inner sanctum without a clear-cut invitation. There seemed to be at least two Rick Foxes: the cool, remote one she'd interviewed with the first time, and the one whose legs had nearly buckled laughing at her joke in the hallway. Christie didn't want to worry about which one she was going to get, and as long as she did her job well, she told herself it didn't matter.
"So," Christie said, "if you do get dead air, what happens?"
"Are you kidding?" Yvonne looked horrified. "He'll kill you."
"Really?"
Yvonne laughed. "Yes, really. Haven't you noticed all the severed heads hanging out there in the hallway?" She squeezed Christie's arm. "Sorry. But you've got to lighten up, honey. You'll do fine."
Christie went in an hour before her air shift and recorded the commercials that had been assigned to her. Then she headed into the studio, trying to feel as if she did it every night of her life.
The disc jockey getting off the air was dark-haired, good-looking, and clearly aware of it. "Hi." He started the next song. "I'm Rob Gibbons."
"I'm Christie Becker," she said, trying to take some strength from the sound of her air name.
Rob turned away to pull a few CDs from the shelf above the counter, adding them to a stack he'd already started. Resting a hand on the discs, he turned back to her. "There's your first hour."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Part of the job. Just make sure you do the same for McKeon before he comes in, or he'll chew you up." Christie hadn't heard much about Mark McKeon, the morning show host, but Yvonne had warned her not to step on his toes.
Rob aimed a smile at her. "Rick's hiring them cuter," he said, watching unabashedly for her reaction.
She decided to play it light, matching the tone in which it was offered. "Thank you, Mr. Gibbons."
Rob shrugged good-naturedly and slipped into a bulky black jacket. Clearly, he wasn't interested in sticking around to hold her hand when she started. Just as well. She wasn't sure just what else a hand-holding from Rob might entail. He stepped around to the outside of the counter. "It's all yours."
She'd waited nearly two years for this, and now she was scared to death. It must have shown. Rob stopped on his way out the door. "This your first radio gig?"
She nodded.
"Two words," he told her.
"Top Ramen?"
"How'd you know?"
He closed the
door behind him, and she was alone in the studio.
Christie stepped behind the counter. It felt different, bigger than it had these past two days when she'd sat next to Yvonne. Christie started the next song on schedule, and watched the time count backward on the CD player's digital display. When it was over, it would be time for her to talk.
With a minute to go, she put her headphones on. She was so nervous she could feel the black foam cushions shaking on her ears.
The song was fading. Show time.
Christie took a deep breath and turned on the microphone. "KYOR-your station for the best songs of yesterday and today," she said, relieved when the voice in her headphones came back at her warm and full, instead of small and scared. "This is Christie Becker, with you 'til 6 A.M.," she went on, pushing the button for the next song. It started up behind her, slow and sultry. The music steadied her, reminding her what she was here for. She rode the volume level as she continued. "So whatever you're up doing tonight, I'll do it with you." A few seconds left of the song intro. She timed it out with the beat of the song. "It's five past midnight. Here's Sheryl Crow." Up with the music, off with the microphone.
So far, so good. She pulled her headphones down around her neck with a huge sigh of relief.
Now, that's a first break, Rick thought.
He'd told himself he wasn't going to listen. A jock's first shift at any new station was bound to be rough. Better to tune in a few nights later, after she'd gotten her sea legs. But he hadn't been able to resist. It was her first shift anywhere, except the broadcasting school station, which really didn't count. He had to see how it went.
And he had to admit, Christie sounded just fine. The first break between songs was smooth; he noticed again that she had nice timing. But he'd known that from her tape. He didn't have to stay up past midnight to find that out.
Not that he was in the habit of getting to bed early. His air shift didn't end until 7 P.M. and he was rarely out of the station before eight. Often it was a lot later. Which led to late dinners, and then the often lengthy process of unwinding. Most nights, three things in his apartment's crowded living room competed for his attention: the piano at one end, the exercise treadmill at the other, and the television set smack in the center. The treadmill ran a distant third.
Christie did her next break when she was supposed to, not succumbing to a new jock's temptation to open the microphone at every opportunity, not trying to be the next generation's answer to Rick Dees. She stuck to the basics, but her basics were solid. Christie didn't sound nearly as green as her resume, or even her tape, had led him to expect.
"Santa Moreno's best mix," she purred a moment later. Her voice had a nice quality, not husky, but with a certain sexy texture to it. The male audience would like her. Whatever kids, drunks and truckers were listening at this hour. Or divorced program directors. Rick left the stereo on as he headed down the hall to get ready for bed.
He was brushing his teeth when it happened. The song stuck, and Rick heard the familiar thrumming noise of a CD stuck in the player. He started counting the seconds until she recovered; it was an automatic reflex. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...
Come on, he thought, you can do it.
..five-one thousand, six...
Christie grabbed the next CD from the top of the stack and slid it into the player labeled CD-3. A moment later, she was rewarded with the chords of an old Bryan Adams song. Not the next song on the printed music log, but way better than that thrumming noise. Quickly, she pulled the volume down on the stalled CD player. I should have done that before.
She tried to pull the failed disc out of CD-2. It wouldn't come out. Uh-oh. Tell me I didn't break it.
The phone rang, one more note for the symphony of her jangled nerves. She went to pick it up, then thought, wait. She cued the next song in CD-1, careful to set it for the right track, so she'd be ready for the next break. Then she answered the phone.
"KYOR," she said in her best professional radio voice. Belatedly she noticed the call had come in on the hotline, the one reserved for on-air business.
"Is it CD-2 again?" She recognized Rick's voice, not that he bothered to identify himself. Well, hello to you too.
"Yes."
"It does that," he said. "We just got it back from the repair shop last week. Either they didn't do the job right, or it's really on its last legs. Use a butter knife."
"What?"
"A butter knife. Slip in a butter knife from the kitchen and you can get the disc out. I wouldn't bother trying to use the player again tonight, though."
"Thanks." She looked at the display, counting the time backward on the song, trying to calculate whether she had time for a run down the hall to the kitchen before her next song. 3:06 to go.
"Oh, and Christie?" She heard a little edge of humor creep into the deep voice.
"What?" How am I doing?
"That song isn't on the play list."
Rats. She started to grope for another disc.
"Go ahead and leave it on. It's not out of format."
"Okay," she said. 2:37 to go.
"And Christie?"
She shut her eyes tight and braced herself. "What?"
"You sound good."
A ton of bricks fell off her shoulders. "Thanks." It was the first nice thing she could remember him saying to her since the day she was hired, and she was annoyed at how gratifying it felt. "I'd better get that butter knife."
"You do that. Have a good night."
She hung up, refusing to ponder the nuance of his words like a lovesick sophomore. She sprinted to the kitchen, opened a few drawers and found a butter knife sharing a drawer with a million plastic forks, a few stray napkins, and a slew of fast-food salsa packets.
She returned to the studio just before her song faded. As she cued the other CD player and tried to free the jammed disc, she glanced above the shelf to see a butter knife that had clearly been left there for just that purpose.
"Way to tell me about the butter knife," she said to Yvonne the next afternoon.
Yvonne spun around on the studio's tall stool. "Oh, hon, I'm sorry. I didn't think. We just got the thing back from the shop. I thought it was okay." She made a face. "If it's any consolation, it did the same thing to me this morning."
"Mark didn't tell you? I warned him."
Yvonne shrugged. "That's McKeon for you." Mark McKeon had been every bit as pleasant as Rob had led her to expect, with barely two words of greeting for her and no introduction. "So, other than that, how'd it go?"
"I made it through. I don't think I did any permanent damage, at least."
"I'm sure you were fine. So what brings you back here so soon, anyway? You're about ten hours early for your next shift."
"Well, really, I wondered if there was anything I could do for you. I'm not used to having so many hours free during the day, and-" Christie broke off. "Oh, heck, who am I kidding? I just couldn't stay away. I'll help you with anything I can get my hands on. As long as I'm not getting in your way."
"Beginner's fever?" Something glinted in Yvonne's eyes, and Christie could see her considering the possibilities. Then the hot line rang. "Hang on. Rick's out on a live broadcast." She flipped the switch that let her use the microphone to talk over the phone line. "Hey, babe. How's it going out there?" Hearing the casual familiarity gave Christie a prickly little feeling that she didn't like.
"Running out of prizes." Rick's voice boomed cheerily out of the monitor speakers overhead. "And we've got an hour to go. I was thinking about holding a drawing for the station van. Or Ed's Mercedes. What do you think?"
Yvonne chuckled. "It's your funeral." She started the machine to record the break. "Ready when you are."
Rick's voice shifted into full-on announcer mode. "Hi, Yvonne, I'm here at the grand opening of Mich elle's Crafts and Collectibles, here on Fifth and Hancock, where they've got ..."
Rick went on with his professional spiel, and Christie tried to examine that prickly feeling. Or
smother it. Why should she care if Yvonne flirted with Rick, or whether there was anything behind it? That kind of jealousy was kid stuff, and she'd outgrown it a long time ago. There was no call for it now. Anyway, Christie reminded herself, Yvonne was always calling her "hon." And wouldn't she be a little more discreet if there was really something going on?
"...We'll be out here 'til three, so stop on by. This is Rick Fox with KYOR, your station for the best songs of yesterday and today."
Yvonne stopped the recording. "Thanks, handsome."
"You got it, gorgeous." Christie prickled again. "Wish me luck out here."
"Luck out there." Unexpectedly, Yvonne turned the microphone in Christie's direction. "Hey, say hi to Christie."
"Christie?" His tone changed abruptly. "What's she doing there?"
Yvonne looked startled. She grimaced at Christie, who quietly pushed the microphone back toward Yvonne. "She just dropped by, wanted to see if she could help out. I thought I'd show her some stuff when I get off the air. Maybe straighten up that mess we call a production room."
"Okay just make sure you get your own work done."
Yvonne blinked at the monitor speakers. "Not a problem. Talk to you later." She cut off the phone with a frown.
Christie said, "Is he always like that?"
Yvonne shook her head, still frowning at the speakers. "No. Never." She set the machine to play back Rick's recorded break after the next song. "He must be having a bad day."
"It didn't sound like it, until my name came up. Do you think I got on his bad side somehow?"
"In three days? Don't be silly. Anyway, you've hardly been around him."
"He's always like that with me. I mean, he goes back and forth. Like when he called last night-"
Love on the Air Page 3