Night Shift

by Nora Roberts

  “‘Dueling Banjos’?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you later, Thea.”

  “Sure.” Althea watched Cilla walk to her car and was grateful, not for the first time, not to be in love.

  ***

  Though the first couple of nights in the booth after the shooting had been difficult, Cilla had picked up her old routine. She no longer got a flash of Boyd bleeding as he knelt by the door, or of Billy, his eyes wild, holding a knife to her throat.

  She’d come to enjoy the request line again. The blinking lights no longer grated on her nerves. Every hour she was grateful that Boyd was recovering, and so she threw herself into her work with an enthusiasm she had lost for too long.

  “Cilla.”

  She didn’t jolt at the sound of her name, but swiveled easily in her chair and smiled at Nick. “Hey.”

  “I, ah, decided to come back.”

  She kept smiling as she accepted the cup of coffee he offered. “I heard.”

  “Mark was real good about it.”

  “You’re an asset to the station, Nick. I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  “Yeah, well …” He let his words trail off as he studied the scar on the palm of her hand. The stitches had come out only days earlier. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too. You want to get me the Rocco’s Pizza commercial?”

  He nearly jumped for it, sliding it out of place and handing it to her. Cilla popped the tape in, then potted it up.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he blurted out.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I feel like a jerk, especially after I heard … well, the whole story about Billy and that guy from Chicago.”

  “You’re nothing like John, Nick. And I’m flattered that you were attracted to me—especially since you have a class with my incredibly beautiful sister.”

  “Deborah’s nice. But she’s too smart.”

  Cilla had her first big laugh of the month. “Thanks a lot, kid. Just what does that make me?”

  “I didn’t mean—” He broke off, mortally embarrassed. “I only meant—”

  “Don’t bury yourself.” Giving him a quick grin, she turned on her mike. “Hey, Denver, we’re going to keep it rocking for you for the next quarter hour. It’s 10:45 on this Thursday night, and I’m just getting started.” She hit them with a blast of Guns ’n’ Roses. “Now, that’s rock and roll,” she said to herself. “Hey, Nick, why don’t you …” Her words trailed off when she saw Boyd’s mother in the doorway. “Mrs. Fletcher.” She sprang up, nearly strangling herself with her headphones.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” She smiled at Cilla, nodded to Nick.

  “No, no, of course not.” Cilla brushed uselessly at her grimy jeans. “Um … Nick, why don’t you get Mrs. Fletcher a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you, dear. I can only stay a moment.”

  Nick made his excuses and left them alone.

  “So,” Mrs. Fletcher said after a quick study. She blinked at the posters on the wall and examined the equipment. “This is where you work?”

  “Yes. I’d, ah … give you a tour, but I’ve got—”

  “That’s perfectly all right.” The lines of strain were no longer around her eyes. She was a trim, attractive and perfectly groomed woman. And she intimidated the hell out of Cilla. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “No, I … I’m used to working with people around.”

  “I missed you at the hospital the past few days, so I thought I’d come by here and say good-bye.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Since Boyd is on the mend, we’re going back to Paris. It’s business, as well as pleasure.”

  Cilla made a noncommittal noise and cued up the next record. “I know you must be relieved that Boyd … well, that he’s all right. I’m sure it was dreadful for you.”

  “For all of us. Boyd explained it all to us. You’ve had a horrible ordeal.”

  “It’s over now.”

  “Yes.” She lifted Cilla’s hand and glanced at the healing wound. “Experiences leave scars. Some deeper than others.” She released Cilla’s hand to wander around the tiny booth. “Boyd tells me you’re to be married.”

  “I …” She shook off the shock, cleared her throat. “Excuse me a minute.” Turning to the console she segued into the next record, then pushed another switch. “It’s time for our mystery record,” she explained. “The roll of thunder plays over the song, then people call in. The first caller who can give me the name of the song, the artist and the year of the recording wins a pair of concert tickets. We’ve got Madonna coming in at the end of the month.”

  “Fascinating.” Mrs. Fletcher smiled, a smile precisely like Boyd’s. “As I was saying, Boyd tells me you’re to be married. I wondered if you’d like any help with the arrangements.”

  “No. That is, I haven’t said … Excuse me.” She pounced on a blinking light. “KHIP. No, I’m sorry, wrong answer. Try again.” She struggled to keep her mind clear as the calls came through. The fourth caller’s voice was very familiar.

  “Hey, O’Roarke.”

  “Boyd.” She sent his mother a helpless look. “I’m working.”

  “I’m calling. You got a winner yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “You’ve got one now. ‘Electric Avenue,’ Eddy Grant, 1983.”

  She had to smile. “You’re pretty sharp, Slick. Looks like you’ve got yourself a couple of concert tickets. Hold on.” She switched on her mike. “We’ve got a winner.”

  Patient, Mrs. Fletcher watched her work, smiling as she heard her son’s voice over the speakers.

  “Congratulations,” Cilla said after she’d potted up a new record.

  “So, are you going to the concert with me?”

  “If you’re lucky. Gotta go.”

  “Hey!” he shouted before she could cut him off. “I haven’t heard ‘Dueling Banjos’ yet.”

  “Keep listening.” After a long breath, she turned back to his mother. “I’m very sorry.”

  “No problem, no problem at all.” In fact, she’d found the interlude delightful. “About the wedding?”

  “I don’t know that there’s going to be a wedding. I mean, there isn’t a wedding.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I don’t think.”

  “Ah, well …” That same faint, knowing smile hovered around her mouth. “I’m sure you or Boyd will let us know. He’s very much in love with you. You know that?”

  “Yes. At least I think I do.”

  “He told me about your parents. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No.” She sat again. “Mrs. Fletcher—”

  “Liz is fine.”

  “Liz. I hope you don’t think I’m playing some sort of game with Boyd. I wouldn’t ask him to change. I could never ask him to change, and I just don’t know if I can live with what he does.”

  “Because you’re afraid of his being a policeman? Afraid he might die and leave you, as your parents did?”

  Cilla looked down at her hands, spread her fingers. “I guess when you trim away all the fat, that’s it.”

  “I understand. I worry about him,” she said quietly. “I also understand he’s doing what he has to do.”

  “Yes, it is what he has to do. I’ve given that a lot of thought since he was hurt.” Cilla looked up again, her eyes intense. “How do you live with it?”

  Liz took Cilla’s restless hand in hers. “I love him.”

  “And that’s enough?”

  “It has to be. It’s always difficult to lose someone you love. The way you lost your parents was tragic—and, according to Boyd, unnecessary. My mother died when I was only six. I loved her very much, though I had little time with her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She cut herself in the garden one day. Just a little nick on the thumb she paid no attention to. A few weeks later she was dead of blood poisoning. All from a little cut on the thumb with a pair of rusty garden shears. Tragic
, and unnecessary. It’s hard to say how and when a loved one will be taken from us. How sad it would be not to allow ourselves to love because we were afraid to lose.” She touched a hand to Cilla’s cheek. “I hope to see you again soon.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher—Liz,” Cilla said as she stopped at the door. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It was my pleasure.” She glanced at a poster of a bare-chested rock star with shoulder-length hair and a smoldering sneer. “Though I do prefer Cole Porter.”

  Cilla found herself smiling as she slipped in another tape. After the ad, she gave her listeners fifteen uninterrupted minutes of music and herself time to think.

  When the request line rolled around, she was as nervous as a cat, but her mind was made up.

  “This is Cilla O’Roarke for KHIP. It’s five minutes past midnight and our request lines are open. Before I take a call, I’ve got a request of my own. This one goes to Boyd. No, it’s not ‘Dueling Banjos,’ Slick. You’re just going to have to try a new memory on for size. It’s an old one by the Platters. ‘Only You.’ I hope you’re listening, because I want you to know—” For the first time in her career, she choked on the air. “Oh, boy, it’s a lot to get out. I guess I want to say I finally figured out it’s only you for me. I love you, and if the offer’s still open, you’ve got a deal.”

  She sent the record out and, with her eyes closed, let the song flow through her head.

  Struggling for composure, she took call after call. There were jokes and questions about Boyd, but none of the callers was Boyd. She’d been so certain he would phone.

  Maybe he hadn’t even been listening. The thought of that had her dropping her head in her hands. She had finally dragged out the courage to tell him how she felt, and he hadn’t been listening.

  She got through the next two hours step-by-step. It had been a stupid move, she told herself. It was unbelievably foolish to announce that you loved someone over the radio. She’d only succeeded in embarrassing herself.

  The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She’d told him to listen, damn it. Couldn’t he do anything she asked him to do? She’d told him to go away, he’d stayed. She’d told him she wasn’t going to marry him, he’d told everyone she was. She’d told him to listen to the radio, he’d shut it off. She’d bared her soul over the public airwaves for nothing.

  “That was a hell of a request,” Jackson commented when he strolled into the booth just before two.

  “Shut up.”

  “Right.” He hummed to himself as he checked the programmer’s clock for his shift. “Ratings should shoot right through the roof.”

  “If I wanted someone to be cheerful in here, I’d have brought along Mickey Mouse.”

  “Sorry.” Undaunted, he continued to hum.

  With her teeth on edge, Cilla opened her mike. “That’s all for tonight, Denver. It’s 1:58. I’m turning you over to my man Jackson. He’ll be with you until 6 in the a.m. Have a good one. And remember, when you dream of me, dream good.” She kicked her chair out of the way. “And if you’re smart,” she said to Jackson, “you won’t say a word.”

  “Lips are sealed.”

  She stalked out, snatching up her jacket and digging for her keys as she headed for the door. She was going to go home and soak her head. And if Deborah had been listening and was waiting up, it would just give her someone to chew out.

  Head down, hands in her pockets, she stomped to her car. She had her hand on the door handle before she saw that Boyd was sitting on the hood.

  “Nice night,” he said.

  “What—what the hell are you doing here?” Anger forgotten, she rushed around the car. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital. They haven’t released you yet.”

  “I went over the wall. Come here.”

  “You jerk. Sitting out here in the night air. You were nearly dead two weeks ago, and—”

  “I’ve never felt better in my life.” He grabbed her by the front of her jacket and hauled her against him for a kiss. “And neither have you.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve never felt better in my life, either.”

  She shook her head to clear it and stepped back. “Get in the car. I’m taking you back to the hospital.”

  “Like hell.” Laughing, he pulled her against him again and devoured her mouth.

  She went weak and hot and dizzy. On a little sigh, she clung to him, letting her hands rush over his face, into his hair. Just to touch him, to touch him and know he was whole and safe and hers.

  “Lord, do you know how long it’s been since you’ve kissed me like that?” He held her close, waiting for his heart rate to level. His side was throbbing in time with it. “Those chaste little pecks in the hospital weren’t enough.”

  “We were never alone.”

  “You never stayed around long enough.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I liked the song.”

  “What song? Oh.” She stepped back again. “You were listening.”

  “I liked the song a lot.” He took her hand and pressed his mouth to the scar. “But I liked what you said before it even better. How about saying it again, face-to-face?”

  “I …” She let out a huff of breath.

  Patient, he cupped her face in his hands. “Come on, O’Roarke.” He smiled. “Spit it out.”

  “I love you.” She said it so quickly, and with such obvious relief, that he laughed again. “Damn it, it’s not funny. I really love you, and it’s your fault for making it impossible for me to do anything else.”

  “Remind me to pat myself on the back later. You’ve got a hell of a voice, Cilla.” He wrapped his arms around her, comfortably. “And you’ve never sounded better than tonight.”

  “I was scared.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess I’m not anymore.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “It feels right.”

  “Yeah. Just right. The offer still holds, Cilla. Marry me.”

  She took her time, not because she was afraid, but because she wanted to savor it. She wanted to remember every second. The moon was full, the stars were out. She could just catch the faintest drift of those fragile spring flowers.

  “There’s one question I have to ask you first.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can we really hire a cook?”

  He laughed and lowered his mouth to hers. “Absolutely.”

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  If you liked Night Shift, look for the other novels in the Night Tales series: Night Shadow, Nightshade, Night Smoke, and Night Shield, available as eBooks from InterMix.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by Nora Roberts

  THE WITNESS

  Available April 2012 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons

  June 2000

  Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

  For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

  Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

  Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

  Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human b
ody and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.

  She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

  She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.

  That was about to change.

  She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.

  Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

  After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.

  She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

  She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

  The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

  The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

  But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.

  “Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”

  Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.

  “Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”

  Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”

  “And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off,