As we were heading out of the booth at ten, I asked Jen if she wanted to discuss her new celebrity report before we left. She said she had an appointment at ten-thirty, so she couldn’t.
It was just as well. I sort of had an appointment myself—I’d taken a pass on the gym all week and needed to keep today’s scheduled rendezvous with the barbells and a treadmill.
I nearly crushed my larynx. Thank God for my spotter. I was just starting my second set of bench presses when that goddamn laugh hit me squarely between the eyes. My grip slipped and if it weren’t for my workout buddy, Chris, I’d be learning sign language.
He helped me rack the bar and I just couldn’t stop myself. I sat up and looked around; there was Jensen, in shorts and a tee shirt that would have been baggy on me, touring the gym with one of the trainers. I noticed a bright green member tag swinging from an elastic on her wrist.
Well, fuck me sideways.
Maybe she wouldn’t stay for a workout. I’d been trying to hook up with Tessa, the Pilates instructor, for weeks but our schedules kept clashing. I’d heard her telling one of her students that she was looking forward to the weekend because she finally had some downtime. They’d been strolling through the weight training area, and just happened to stop right next to the leg press machine I was using. Her eyes slid over to me as she talked, so I knew the whole conversation was orchestrated for me to overhear.
My weight lifting mojo was now shot, so while I stretched during my cooldown, I glanced around the gym. Whattayaknow, the treadmill to the left of Pilates Tessa just had someone step off it. And since I always ended my workout with one of the treadmill cardio programs, the fact that that particular machine was now open seemed more than serendipitous.
I said hi to Tessa as I settled my water bottle in the holder and hit the button for a varying-speed cycle. She smiled back but since the belt on her own machine had her at near-jog, she waited to speak until the program beeped and slowed back down. I couldn’t blame her; nobody sounds sexy when they’re breathless.
Unless they’re horizontal and naked.
“So what are your weekend plans, Tack?” she asked, oh-so-casually. “Besides making up for your missed workouts this week.”
Nice. She’d noticed I wasn’t here. “Nothing set in stone yet, Tessa. And no command performances for KLVR until next weekend. How ‘bout yourself?”
“I have a standing movie-date with my girlfriends on Friday. We’re still arguing over which one, though.”
“And Saturday?”
“No plans.” She smiled wide. “So far.”
My machine beeped its thirty-second warning that it would be speeding up, so I spoke quickly. “How about we plan to spend our no-plans Saturday together? Maybe some dancing—”
“Hi, Tack!”
That familiar voice came from my other side, and so help me God, I wanted to pretend I was deaf in that ear.
“Did I hear you say you have no plans for Saturday? ‘Cause that’s the only day I have more than an hour free so we can discuss the new celebrity report.”
I swiveled my head and threw Jen a look that told her to die.
“If we want to start it on Monday, we need to talk,” she continued.
“What’s to talk ab—” I heard a loud pop and then my face was heading for the moving tread that, until a moment ago, was under my feet. The belt threw me off the end before Tessa could reach over and turn it off.
I lay in an undignified heap with a throbbing left leg. I tried a tentative movement and was rewarded with a knee that felt like a rubber band about to snap. The first person at my side was… you just go ahead and guess.
“Gee, Tack, are you okay? Your treadmill just sped up all of a sudden.”
Of course it had. I’d forgotten all about the warning beep while I was busy having an aneurism because the evil little woman had just cockblocked my Saturday.
“I’m fine,” I said as I unfolded. That knee hurt like a sonofabitch. “Let me get up and walk it off.”
Tessa was suddenly under my left arm, leveraging me up. Jen tried to help on the right, but I shook her off. Being helped to my feet by one woman was bad enough. Two would be irrecoverable. Especially if one of them was Jen. I had the feeling she’d never let me live it down.
A couple excruciating steps later and I all but fell onto the nearest weight bench.
“I know what it is,” Jensen said from behind me. She’d shadowed Tessa and I all two steps. “I’ve seen this before, in my squad in college. You’ve hyperextended the tendon.”
Thank you, Dr. Chastity Rah-Rah. “I’ve seen performers at my mother’s club do the same thing. I just need ice, an Ace bandage, and a couple days of not using it.”
Hear that? The sound of my weekend swirling down the toilet? Yeah, me, too.
Friday morning found me hobbling and stiff. Not that way, thank God. I was in pain and too distracted for once.
Jensen hovered, fetching me coffee and acting strange. She hardly talked to me when we weren’t broadcasting and, much as I appreciated the quiet so I could escape inside my head and numb the pain, she was beginning to freak me out. I’d only known the woman five days. Why was I thinking she was acting out of character?
For all I knew, she was quiet and solicitous every Friday for religious reasons.
At the end of our shift, Jen was holding the door for me to leave the studio this time. That felt weird enough, but then she said my name in the meekest voice I’ve ever heard from her.
Good old instincts. I could always trust them where women were concerned.
I said yeah on a gruff sigh, expecting her to apologize since it was because of her that I’d taken a header yesterday. Truly, though, my knee was my own damn fault and not hers. I didn’t want her feeling responsible for anything but me missing out on a date with Miss Pilates this weekend. And the lack of ensuing poontang.
“I owe you an apology.” Yup, here we go. I shook my head to shush her, but she pressed on. “The day I found my memo in your desk? You had a new memo on yours, and I hid it. I meant it as a practical joke, but now…”
“Now… what? Please do not tell me that I have to go to some club tonight for the station.” I bit back a flare of temper that I wasn’t sure she deserved to get burned by. Then again, maybe she did.
“No. But we–” she flapped her hand around to indicate the two of us, “have an appointment tomorrow afternoon to get new promo photos taken.”
Was that all? “So we reschedule. No biggie.”
“The memo said they’re for autographing at next weekend’s club appearance, so we can’t.”
Hell.
It didn’t matter how much I’d iced and rested my damn knee; I was not going to be able to contort into the positions the photographer wanted us to in order for the both of us to fit into the shot. We settled for Jen sitting on my lap. Under his direction, she kept goofing, kicking her feet up, leaning one way or the other—every time she moved, my leg shifted and it was agony. I was actually grateful for the pain, though. Under normal circumstances, having a sweet little ass rubbing all over my zipper would have me hard as stone. Not the kind of photos management was looking for, I think, and I definitely didn’t want Jensen getting the impression that she had that kind of effect on me.
Because she didn’t.
Any guy would have that response to physical contact.
Instead, I had almost no reaction (stress the almost) and I think my smile was actually a grimace of pain in half the pictures.
We got to see the digital proofs when we were done. To my amazement, Jen and I both liked the same photo. The guy behind the lens apparently never stopped snapping, and there was this one where Jen was backing up to sit on my lap and she’d stumbled. She was landing on me, arms and legs all akimbo, and we were both laughing. That was right before I’d howled when she ultimately slammed into my knee and I’d shoved her off onto the floor.
She laughed so hard she actually snorted.
He’d
opted to do our individual shots right after that, and had insisted we change shirts—Jen into black, me into white. It’s a damn good thing my smile is so practiced, ‘cause the last thing I felt like doing by then was showing my teeth unless it was in a snarl. The least awful of the bunch had me looking fake and stiff and I checked the box to select that one for the promo run.
Jen did not let me see which one she picked, and I didn’t ask.
We had yet to cover the new segment. It didn’t even have a name yet. We decided to talk over dinner at Jen’s condo. I hobbled through Vons for a bottle of wine, she nuked a Stouffer’s lasagna.
Angus seemed to remember me and only barked once before inviting himself into my lap for a nap. Jen laughed and said not to read too much into it. “He’s always cold, so he’ll jump on anyone who sits still long enough.”
So much for feeling special.
Jen handed me a glass of wine and curled up on the opposite end of the couch from me. “So,” she said, “I was thinking of calling it The Rubbish Report. Whatcha think?”
“That’s better than anything I could come up with.” Which was the truth. I hadn’t been able to think of a single thing. Not that I’d really tried too hard. “One thing we absolutely have to discuss, though, is who we talk about.”
“You mean who’s free game and who’s off-limits? BK and I kind of covered that, but he said you and I should discuss the final points.”
I had a sip of wine and shifted a little to stretch out my knee. Angus resettled with a sigh and my hand scratched behind his ear, all on its own. “We get a lot of bands, actors, and actresses in for interviews. We absolutely can’t take the chance of alienating any of them.”
“If we follow how I did it in KC, ninety-five percent of the stories won’t involve anyone who’s actively working. So I don’t think that’ll be a problem. But to be safe, I’ll run them by you every morning and nix any you object to. There’s always plenty to use as backups.”
So, after all that build-up, we were done before the lasagna was.
And I wasn’t leaving before I got some.
Lasagna.
Minds out of the gutter, ladies. For Christ’s sake, she’s my fricking co-host. Thou shalt not dabble and all that.
Jensen popped up from her end of the couch and went into the kitchen. She called out, “Ten more minutes.” As she came back in with the wine bottle, she said, “And about another ten for it to cool. So, what do you want to talk about while we wait?” She refilled my glass without asking.
“I’m curious why you’d move here for a job offer without ever having met your co-host. So let’s talk about Jensen, the cheerleader-turned-radio-personality.”
She plopped back down into her couch-corner and pulled her knees up under her chin. My own knee twinged jealously.
She seemed to be caught in a stare at nothing, her eyes fixed on some unknown point as she sipped her wine and didn’t answer.
“Jen? Am I prying?”
She shook it off and smiled faintly. “Not at all. I was just trying to figure out where to start.”
“I find the beginning is usually a good spot.”
She rolled her eyes and smirked. “My parents thought they’d never have kids. So I was a late-life surprise. Once I graduated from college, they sold their house in Lenexa and retired to Phoenix to get away from the snow. I’ve been trying to get out of Kansas City ever since.”
“So working at Rock 108 in Vegas is just a stepping stone to Phoenix?”
She popped a brow. “Are you kidding? Las Vegas is a much bigger market, career-wise. My folks are only a couple hours away; it’s close enough.” She laughed softly. “Sorry, Tack. You’re stuck with me.”
And your little dog, too, I thought as Angus started the doggie-dreaming twitch on my lap.
I stayed around for the polite amount of time after dinner, although I was itching to leave halfway through my second helping. And before you go thinking I pigged out, Jensen brought it to me—like the wine, without asking—when she got her own second slice.
That–that, right there, is why I had to leave. She’s getting too damned comfortable. Not that I want her on edge, but Jesus! Am I that easily read? Or does she just tromp all over boundaries, no matter whose?
***
There’s not much to say about the beginning of the week; the first two days of The Rubbish Report were an enormous success, based on Jen’s Facebook feedback. And on the number of sponsors lining up to have their name added as Presented By. And damn her if she didn’t beat me to the punch again.
She sweet-talked the photo studio into emailing her the new photo so she could plaster it all over the place online. They even couriered over her box of black-and-whites on Tuesday morning.
What’s that, you asked? What about mine?
I had to pick them up after work.
Which is why I was juggling the flimsier-than-a-cheesy-Christmas-shirtbox of photos, the rest of my travel mug of coffee, a package of black Sharpies, and my door badge, all while trying to avoid the swathe of muck all over the sidewalk from the sprinklers.
I have no idea why the stupid things were even on—it’s been raining off and on for the last two days, turning anything that wasn’t paved into a muddy quagmire. This is the desert and water’s practically a form of currency here. You’d think someone would remember that and flip the switch on the sprinkler timer.
To top it off, I was limping, ‘cause my knee was only seventy-five percent back to normal, and I had a suspicion the low-hanging stormclouds were making it feel worse.
Add them all up and I was feeling inordinately grouchy.
I muttered a prayer of thanks that it wasn’t currently raining on me and my early morning juggling act, then I saw Jensen bouncing up the sidewalk from the curb and I was, for once, happy to see her. Not that I’m ever unhappy to see her (so far as she knows). There are just some times that I appreciate her more than others. And right now, I wanted to appreciate her ability to hold open the door.
“Good morning, Tack!” Now she was just showing off, bounding past me on her perfectly functional little knees. She spun back and I braced myself for whatever chipper cheerleadery suggestion was about to exit her lips.
“Why are you bringing your photos in today?” she asked, pointing at the box. “Everybody here already knows what they look like.”
And yes, that they do. Because Jen also charmed the guy into emailing her my new photo, so it, too, could get posted every-damn-where.
“I’m going to pre-sign them this morning, so I can spend time actually talking to the fans on Friday.” And, naturally, spend time scoping out the babes. Even though our command appearance is at the club my mother manages, as long as I don’t hit on her employees, I’m allowed to take my pick of the ladies. And I intended to pick one. Or two.
“Lemme help with them, then,” she said, holding out one hand.
I’d rather she just opened the door, but since she offered… I stretched out my arm to hand her the box.
And without warning, 500 eight-by-ten black-and-white glossies were soaring up into the fading morning starlight. There went my face, spinning in five-hundricate, their flight slow-mo and surreal. I had time to register that the photo-smile really did look like a grimace. Especially when all half-a-thousand of me started heading face down toward the mud.
It took a moment for me to realize that she had whacked the box out of my hand. Deliberately and with gusto.
“What the fuck, Jen?” I tried to come up with something else to bellow, but my brain was too busy short-circuiting to help me out. I felt my right eye begin to twitch, and had the fleeting thought that it’s never done that before. Her smug smile evaporated and she started backing slowly toward the door. I followed, matching her speed. There was no reason to hurry; it was a security door and it was locked. She wasn’t going anywhere.
The sprinklers were soaking the photos, but I didn’t give a rat’s left testicle. I pitched my car mug into the black
-and-white wreckage because I needed both hands free to wrap around her dainty little throat.
Her hands fluttered around like crazed birds and I wondered briefly if Miss Smackety was looking for something else to smack. “God, I’m sorry, Tack! The box my pictures were in was thick and sturdy. I thought it would just tip a little and it would make you laugh because you were looking so serious. Like you are again, right now.” She was almost to the door, and I was only one step behind.
Jen had tucked herself into the corner by the hinges. Idiot.
I stalked closer until there were only inches between us.
She had nowhere to go.
My hands raised themselves; I didn’t know where they were heading.
Trapped now, she tried placating one more time. “I was just playing around, Tack. I didn’t mean it. I’ll even pay for the replacements.”
I squinted down at her and didn’t say a word, although I was aware of an exasperated growl that might or might not have been coming from my chest.
Her eyes loomed huge, and her chin tilted defiantly. The half-smile that her lips seemed to perpetually exist in returned. She might be ready to play at being brave, but I noticed her palms had come up and were poised to shove me away, if necessary. “Just what do you plan to do with your big bad self, now that you’ve menaced me into this corner?”
I felt something snap deep inside my brain.
It was kill her or kiss her.
As I dropped my face closer, I still wasn’t sure which one it would be.
Chapter 7
*My 0wn Worst Enemy*
I felt her breath whisper across my skin as I got closer to the mouth that had been taunting me all week long.
I needed to shut her up.
I needed to do something about the mocking glint in her eyes.
I needed to do something about the instantaneous hard-on when I got close enough to feel the heat from her body.
I’d only intended to shock her, to show her that she was playing with a fire far bigger than the little pixie could handle.
But once my lips made that contact, I was the one overwhelmed.
Waking Up in Vegas Page 5