I drove over to the Hard Rock to see what bands were playing in the clubs inside. I didn’t recognize any of the names, but none of them were techno, so it was all good.
Now, what flavor was I interested in this evening? Dark-haired? Blonde? Maybe a fiery redhead? I grabbed a beer and scanned the bodies dancing in front of the low stage.
How a woman moves to music tells a lot about how she is as a lover. Is she shy and barely moving? Pass. Is she wild and gangly and enthusiastic? I don’t want to lose a testicle, so pass on her, too. The ones who fall in-between those two ends of the spectrum are the ladies I’m watching for.
And there she was. Shoulder-length hair a shade darker than mine, with a short skirt covering an ass I could eat breakfast off of, swaying perfectly with the beat. Moving her arms in unique ways, but not too out-there. Encroaching on other people’s space just a little, making it her own. What her face looked like didn’t matter to me; all women are beautiful in their way. Thin or Rubenesque, tall or short–I don’t really have a ‘type.’
She picked up a nearly-empty Corona from the edge of the stage and drank, then set the bottle back down, now just wispy foam and a slice of lime.
I hoped that the way she was owning a tiny slice of the stage didn’t mean she was here with the band. I’d never know if I didn’t talk to her. And it would be rude to let the owner of an ass like that go thirsty.
I polished off my own beer and waved the bartender over.
Less than a minute later, I was holding a matched set of Coronas and heading over to play Waterboy.
I walked up behind her and leaned in, dragging my arm across her waist to set the beer on the stage next to her empty. She jumped when my chest brushed her back, turning her head so fast that if I were shorter, I’d be sporting a broken nose right now.
Her irritated scowl relaxed when she saw my face. (I get that a lot). I’d kept my hand on her beer, and she leaned back into my outstretched arm. “Are you the new waiter?”
“That depends,” I smirked. “Are you a good tipper?”
“I’ve been known to… tip well,” she said with one brow arching over her lust-filled eyes. It was a look I knew well.
“In that case, I’ll be your waiter. All night long.”
Her name was… irrelevant, actually. I honestly can’t remember. I’m sure she told me, but devoting more than one brain cell to remembering it wasn’t worth it. She was definitely only a fuck, no possibility of oral. If that makes me a dog, so be it. She didn’t seem to mind that I called her honey and baby and beautiful. She knew my name without me having to tell her. Then again, anyone who buys groceries in this town would probably recognize me, since I’m currently staring out at them from the magazine rack at the checkout counter.
That meant, of course, that we would be going back to her place. It’s not that I was afraid to have people in general know where I live, but I was a little concerned that women with whom I’ve been naked and whose names I don’t recall know where my house is. And since it’s a house, and since it has a mortgage, that means I can’t just up and move if some pleasant diversion becomes obsessed and/or decides that she is destined to become Mrs. Tack Morgan.
Frankly, the thought of anyone having that title gave me the skeevies.
But back to my dick and its spelunking expedition.
We drank, we danced—mostly, it was her doing the shimmy on my zipper—and when we’d both had enough of her rubbing her ass on the boner I’d had since the moment I bought her a beer, she suggested I follow her back to her apartment for a nightcap.
Perfect.
When we got to her complex, she parked in a numbered spot and I hunted for a space marked for visitors. By the time I’d checked my wallet condom supply and gotten out of the car, she was waiting under a sidewalk lamp, twirling something on her index finger. When I got closer, I saw it was her panties.
We almost didn’t make it to her apartment.
I did my best to hold it together. We got on the elevator and before the doors shut, I’d slammed her into the back wall, one hand riding up her thigh, the other pulling her tightly against my hard-on as I explored her tonsils with my tongue.
Thank God it was a short elevator ride, because she already had my fly open by the time the car stopped moving. If she had lived on the twentieth floor, one of those condoms would have already seen the light of day. Or the light of the overhead domes, as it were.
Turns out I was wrong about the oral. That woman possessed some major skills.
By sunrise, her eyelids were droopy and I was spent. I pulled the covers up to her chin, thanked her for a fantastic evening, and kissed her goodnight.
I’m not sure if she was still awake when I shut the locked door behind me.
Sorry to disappoint on the details, but frankly, I don’t remember them. Once the sex is over, it’s as easily forgotten as the women I have it with.
I slept the daylight away and put Saturday night on Friday repeat. This time, the girl named Honey Beautiful had short red hair and a pair of very tight, very low-cut jeans.
Chapter 3
*Dancing With Myself*
Happy ever-loving Monday morning. My shift went fast, since I couldn’t screw around while the music played. I had to skim the news for items of interest, and for stories that made me wonder what in the hell people were thinking. I had to fetch the traffic reports myself because the morning station runner had called off sick. There was a plethora of promo spots that had to be read on every break, and some non-tree-hugger had decided to print each one on separate station letterhead, then mixed up the stack so some were backwards or upside-down.
I ran into Milo in the hall when I went to get the final traffic report. He looked happier than I’d ever seen him in my booth. He said The Morning Crew was a riot, and that they kept forgetting to play music because they were so busy talking and taking calls.
It’s draining to be entertaining all by yourself.
When I got off the air, I made a stab at talking to BK about my new partner. He was in a sales meeting. I decided to wait, and since I was fighting to stay awake, headed to the KLVR booth for some decent coffee. And to mess with Scott, who follows me on air with the ten-to-three.
Scott’s our music director, and it’s like some industry rule that all radio station music directors work the midday slot so they can take the all-request lunch-hour calls. This effectively cuts their work in half. The listeners tell the guy what songs they want to hear and he makes note of the requests. Sprinkle in enough of the new releases, and ta-da: you have a station’s playlist. All you really need in order to be a good music director is a great memory and legible handwriting.
Scott wasn’t in the booth when I got there, and Elton John’s ‘Funeral For a Friend’ was playing. Seven-minute songs like this one were primarily designed for DJs to go to the can, and I was sure that’s where he was.
I poured the last of his potful into my mug and doctored it up just right. He still wasn’t back. So I fucked with the stack of promo sheets so they were more messed up than when I got them.
Me and my cup of awake juice went back upstairs.
Only to be told that the boss had exited the meeting and started another.
I guzzled the rest of my coffee and brought the mug with me to my car. Not because I was trying to avoid the booth where Scott was griping about his paperwork—I could hear him all the way out in the lobby—but because that java cup had some serious funk and needed a good sanitizing run through the dishwasher.
There were still four days left to find out who the boss was sticking me with.
Tuesday and Wednesday were easier (the bored night jock cut up all the promos and taped them onto two sheets of paper), but I still could not get in to see Bill Kalani. If I thought he saw me as more than the station’s bottomless ATM machine (or even had a vague idea what I looked like), I’d seriously wonder if he was avoiding me on purpose. So I left a note with his secretary mentioning that it would be nice to at
least know my new co-host’s name, so I would let in the right guy on Monday morning.
The clubs reopened for night-time business on Wednesdays, and Lita knew my routine. She got all my attention for the first half of the week, and the clubs and the ladies got the other half. She only whined a little when I was leaving.
As my car practically autopiloted toward the neon skyline, I felt a bite of guilt at leaving her alone again. Tomorrow, I’d skip the clubs (Thursdays are hit-or-miss, anyway) and take her to the park to play Frisbee before the sun went down.
Now that my conscience was satisfied, it was time for the rest of me to get that way. Wednesdays were always like this… three days of being Mr. Homebody gave me a bad case of blueballs and I was horny as all fuck. I needed to find a soft and welcoming body to take it out on. Especially since I’d decided to be a monk tomorrow.
The Bourbon Room at the Venetian had just the dirty blonde I was looking for.
Four a.m., and I’m on my way home. I need to shower off her overly-sweet perfume and down a pot of coffee before it’s time to wake up the city.
When I got to work, there was a note with a name on it taped to the booth door. Jensen MacKenzie was all it said. I hoped that was the name of my new partner in crime and not the highbrow law firm the station uses. I’d hate to think that I’m, for some reason, in deep shit.
I used up the spare moments during my shift thinking up new names for the morning show. Tack and Jensen sounded too much like an outdoor outfitter, and Morgan and MacKenzie is not only a mouthful, it made me think of an accounting firm. Too bad my new partner isn’t a Jennifer MacKenzie… Tack and Jen has a nice rhythm.
And though BK may be corporate-brained, he’s not stupid. He would never hire a woman to work on my show. That’d be like dumping goldfish in a tank full of piranhas.
Thinking up names for our morning show should make for a nice ice-breaker when this Jensen MacKenzie arrives on Monday morning. I hoped the whole last-name-for-a-first-name thing has made him cool and funny. I don’t want to spend five mornings a week with a dick.
I got up a little earlier than usual, so Lita and I could spend some good quality time at the park. The poor dog must have missed running around; she was so wild and excited that she ran right into a brunette who was out for a sunset walk. Lita smashed the poor girl’s pedometer.
I made it up to her with a late dinner.
And a little hair-pie for dessert.
She had to work in the morning, so we called it an evening at midnight. I went home with her name stuck in my head and her number in my cellphone. Unusual? Yes, absolutely. But so was Mona. At the risk of sounding full of myself—oh to hell with it, I know I’m good—I made her live up to her name.
We set up another date for Friday, which I’d blamed on our night ending so early. I don’t know why I found her intriguing. She was funny and intelligent, but so are many of the women I meet.
I’m sure it was only because we hadn’t had actual sex. Yet.
Mona and I danced and drank for a while at the Hard Rock, then went back to her place for a night of naked oral exploration. Saturday, we stayed in, drank wine, and screwed like bunnies.
Then she had to go and wreck the evening by asking about plans for Sunday. I told her I had plans already (I did—my back yard won’t mow itself). On Sunday morning, I had to put in an emergency call to my usual florist for a rush delivery. He’s a great guy—he already knew what I needed, and what the note should say.
A dozen yellow roses with a card stuck inside, thanking her for a memorable weekend and an apology that things won’t work out.
And they won’t.
Mostly because I don’t want them to. Playing the field suits me just fine. No boredom that way.
I’m glad I never gave her my cell number.
Sunday was my usual—gym time, yardwork, and laundry.
Quit snickering; washing machines are not a mystery to men. It’s just that if women are around, there are many things we can avoid doing if we do them wrong often enough and badly enough. Loading the dishwasher backwards, putting pots and pans away in the wrong places (I perfected this trick with my mother); turning everything in the dryer into toddler clothes (that one didn’t work—she made me wear the pink underwear and the too-short tees), and any number of other things.
We don’t do it because we’re sexist. Straight up? We’re lazy and doing that shit’s boring. Things around the house that require power tools or loud gasoline engines? We’re there. But tell me to sew a few stitches that ripped out of the hem in my pants, and I’ll get out the duct tape.
It’ll even stick through several washes.
I can’t think of a single thing that you can’t mend with a strip of duct tape.
Chapter 4
*Just a Girl*
I arrived at the radio station on Monday morning at five-fifteen. By six, I discovered the one thing that duct tape couldn’t fix.
Unless maybe I used the whole roll.
But once again, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Jensen MacKenzie seems to have had that effect on me from the beginning.
Starting over:
I arrived at the radio station on Monday at five-fifteen. I had intended to welcome my new bud and co-host with a fresh pot of coffee, since bonding over beer and hot wings was frowned upon in the workplace. Besides, I’d somehow run out of java at home and couldn’t find my back-up bag.
As I headed up the walkway to the security entrance that we use after hours, I saw someone looking through the tinted glass of the door, holding a hand over his eyes to cut the glare from the overhead light.
With the shoulder-length hair, short stature, khakis, hoodie, and white athletic shoes, I figured it had to be one of the usual punky kids who occasionally came by, trying to use our parking lot as a skate park. He was probably trying to see if there was anyone inside who might stop him. Awful early for a high-schooler to be out, but hey, this was Las Vegas.
“Hey, kid!”
The figure straightened and turned around slowly.
The first thing I registered was the sizable rack visible under the unzipped hoodie. Oh, calm yourself. Guys notice these things. Besides, her shirt hugged her all the way down to the hips.
Christ. Reminding myself that I was ogling a (rather overdeveloped) teenager, I dragged my eyes up to her face.
By then, I was close enough to see that, while she was young, she was definitely not a kid.
With her big eyes and pointed chin, she looked like a skater-pixie. Especially with the way she was pursing her lips while she looked at me.
“The station won’t open ‘til eight. There’s a Starbucks just down the street you can camp out in ‘til the receptionist gets here to give you whatever is that you’ve won.”
Those lips unpuckered, spreading into a wide grin. She threw back her head and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that, for some odd reason, made me think of mahogany.
Or maybe it was because the throaty edge to her voice gave me some serious wood.
I was now a few steps away from the door, reluctant to swipe my access card in case she tried to duck under my arm and get inside. I also wasn’t quite sure I wanted to end this odd conversation. Even though it had been completely one-sided.
She stopped laughing long enough to say, “I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
“Here? At this ungodly hour? Honey, whoever it is can’t be safe.” Maybe I should ask her to wait inside. The sun wasn’t even up yet, and she was a tiny little thing.
“I’ve been told he’s safe enough, as long as I keep my clothes on.”
I just stared.
“I’m looking for Tack Morgan. Tell me, is he a total manwhore, or are the rumors exaggerating?”
My brains, minus their usual bonus mug of coffee on the drive in, scrambled to place her. Did I sleep with this woman? Is she here for some sort of blackmail? Or worse, to serve me with a paternity suit?
No way. I’ve always used pro
tection.
Well, if worse came to worst, I could get through the door in a flash or make a break for my car. If she was here to serve me, it would be less embarrassing to do it now rather than coming in through the lobby later with the receptionist as a witness.
“I’m Tack Morgan.” I held out my hand for whatever paperwork she had to give me.
To my surprise, that laugh reappeared. “I know. I was just messing with you.” She grasped my hand in hers and shook it. Her skin was soft and warm. “Jensen MacKenzie.”
My mouth gaped open, more shocked than had she just told me we’d gotten married while I was sleeping. She had to fight to get her hand back. I remember making a few noises, but coherent words were beyond my capability.
“Funny. I thought you’d be a much smoother talker.” She picked up a canvas tote that I hadn’t noticed was by her feet. “Being that you’re in radio and all. Shouldn’t we get inside? I’m dying for some coffee.”
I’m going to kill my boss. He must not realize how easy it still is to contract a hit in Las Vegas. Or so I’ve heard.
I played Tour Guide, since we had half an hour ‘til we took the booth. When we walked into the DJ desk suite—which we mostly don’t use—she squealed when she saw someone had put up a ‘Welcome Jensen’ sign. The balloons were pink and white, and the O in welcome was a heart. Did everyone here but me know Jensen was a woman?
So not funny.
I wondered if hitmen offered group-target discounts.
Her door badge was on her desk, with a note to bring a current photo to have laminated to it.
I’d been looking at her on the sly. After her smartass comment about my reputation, I didn’t want her getting any ideas that I was sizing her up. Which I actually was, but not for what you’re thinking. I was trying to get a feel for her (minds out of the gutter, people) so we’d have things to talk about on-air.
Waking Up in Vegas Page 2