“Oh, you’re a funny girl?” Sonny shot back. “Introduce the song.”
“She’s good. Ribbing Sonny,” Ashton said with a laugh, and I shushed him again.
His face brightened as realization hit. “Damn! Is this the girl from the coffee place?”
“Will you shut up, Ashton?”
“Ha! She is.” He started doing some awful running-man imitation through the apartment.
“Oh no,” Cate cooed into the microphone. “I insulted the god of Hafton radio, and now I’m being told to switch to music. That’s my cue, listeners. Let’s slow things down a bit tonight and take it back a decade or so with Sheryl Crow’s ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ for all of you nursing a headache.”
Her voice faded into the soulful tune, and I wanted to rush to the station and demand Sonny put her back on for the night. Just so I could listen.
I was allowed to do that, right? It was just listening.
Catie
Behind closed doors, Mr. Boots might have had me cowed, but put me on the air and I found my backbone.
I was getting over his crap as fast as I could. I was born to talk, and talk was what I would do on the airwaves. Plus, Sonny couldn’t exactly put his obnoxious ways on display in front of his audience. So when he gave me a chance to introduce a song, I took my opportunity, making sure to get a dig in.
“Catie, get back in here,” he called out over Sheryl’s crooning. Sounded like my small-shoe comment didn’t go over so well behind the scenes.
“Yes, Mr. Boots?” I asked, injecting whatever I imagined Southern hospitality to sound like.
Sonny was kicked back in the control room with his motorcycle boots propped up on the table. His headphones were slightly crooked, allowing him to free an ear, and his strawberry-blond hair was a mess.
“The bitchiness thing,” he said, “I don’t know if I would have gone that direction the first time, but you were okay. More fire, babe. I’m giving you a real chance.” He focused his blue eyes on me, lasering in on every one of my imperfections, targeting my insecurities. “You want to be on the radio, right?”
I nodded.
“Then I would suggest you don’t diss me on my own show. You got me? Channel that heat elsewhere.” He half smiled.
“Okay. I was only trying to let some of my East Coast humor show. You gave me thirty seconds to win an audience, and I really wanted to. I’m sorry.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I mentally kicked myself. Glass-ceiling lesson number one: Never apologize on the job. How many times a day did I do that with Sonny?
He shook his head, and I had no idea what to do with that.
What kind of modern woman apologizes or grovels to their chauvinistic boss? One who’s going to die a nasty death, that’s who. I crossed my fingers in an effort to ward off lightning striking me down, or falling dead of a heart attack.
Sonny waved a hand, dismissing me. “You’re done on the air for the night. Go stack those CDs in the back for next week. They’re prizes for the concert out on College Avenue. In fact, you can be in charge of handing them out.”
Despite my Cuban and Italian genes roaring at me from deep in my cells, I swallowed my Jersey attitude and attempted to be polite to a man who didn’t deserve it.
“I’m happy to do it, but honestly, I don’t know how you’re ever going to find a replacement if you don’t let them get to know the audience. And I say that in the most respectful way.”
Sonny narrowed his eyes, studying me. He knew he had me by the lady balls. There was nowhere else to do an internship in this crappy small town during the school year. When I’d told him my aspirations like a fool during our initial job interview, I could see the realization hit him. He could make me do whatever he wanted. Or at least, he thought so.
“Maybe I’ll fail a class and be short a few credits.” He gave me a mean smirk. “Then I won’t need a replacement.”
They’re right. Apologizing gets you nowhere.
Stuck in the closet stacking CDs, I cursed to myself as sweat trickled down my back. Jesus C., why did the heating vent have to be in the closet? It was about a thousand degrees in the tiny box, and the door refused to stay open and allow fresh air inside.
I tore off my sweatshirt. Left to my own devices in a tank top and leggings, I tossed the stupid plastic cases into piles organized by local artists.
Maybe I would get strep or chicken pox, or a million lice crawling around my massive head of hair, and not be able to go to the Hafton Music Fest. I’d been looking forward to it, but now thanks to my stupidity and inability to follow rules, I’d be stuck behind a table and not onstage spinning tunes.