Apparently, he was used to thinking quickly on the air. Without missing a beat, he swung the mic in a full circle, grabbed the head, and announced, “How about we take a quick break? You know what I got for you all? The song, the one! The actual song the team is going to jam out to this year in the locker room. Turn your radios up, Hafton, because you heard it here first at WHSU 96.9, the new theme song for this year’s basketball squad.”
He flicked his finger over a switch, and “Greased Lightning” poured out from the speakers.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Boots,” Little Miss Curves whispered.
“What did she just call you?”
I stared down my friend, my mind filling with a bunch of ugly scenarios. Freaking Sonny had a bad rep as it was, and here he was asking his intern to call him by some pet name? He might be my friend, but I knew his faults.
What now? Was the sucker going to get slapped with some kind of sexual harassment charge? Could they do that in college?
Christ, I may be a bit of a man-whore, but I don’t get off on making women jump through stupid hoops, or get hard from high-and-mighty power trips. If there’s one thing my good-for-nothing dad taught me, it’s women rule the world. The power of *, he called it.
“What the heck did you just say?” Sonny asked with a wicked grin on his face, his voice dangerously low.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did,” the girl said in a hushed voice from near the door. “The power of *.”
“Did I just say that out loud?”
The chick with big brown eyes and a mass of curly black hair nodded.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I knew it all the way down to my size thirteen basketball shoes—Sonny wasn’t going to let me forget what I’d just said.
The song ended and he was back on the airwaves. “Sonny B. back here, and you’re not going to believe what I learned while we took a break. Blane Steele has gone soft; he’s become a champion of women’s rights. Are you a women’s studies major, my man? Let me guess, you’re doing some sort of community service at the . . . what do you call it? Wow, I’m never at a loss for words.” He snapped his fingers, searching for the zinger he wanted.
“Got it!” Sonny crowed as he slammed his palm onto the table in front of him, rattling the mic. “Planned Parenthood.”
I shook my head and leaned to the mic. “Nah, I’m more of a numbers guy. You know, logistics. And of course, putting points up on the scoreboard is my calling.”
I tried to divert Sonny with my boring major, but no such luck.
His eyes sparkled with glee. “All right, Hafton, we want a win this year. We want to see the Stealer here and his gang holding up the trophy. We need to see them dump cold Gatorade on Coach Conley, or whatever you barbarians do, and to do that, I think Steele here needs to stay focused. And since he’s become such a champion of women’s rights, let’s see if he can go all season without any liaisons, for lack of a better word. He shouldn’t be wasting time taking advantage of innocent women.”
“You double-dog daring me, Boots?” I spat out at the mic.
“You know it!”
“You’re on, Sonny B., and now I’m out of here to my monastic existence. Are we allowed to say that on the air?”
I stood, flipped off the asshole who’d just destroyed my social life, and strode toward the door. The curvy chick opened it wide for me before I even remembered she was still standing there.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “After you.”
I leaned into the door frame as I propped the door open with my elbow and gestured for her to walk ahead. Avoiding my eyes, she slipped past me with a muttered thank-you.
As the door clicked shut behind us, I said to her, “Yeah, well, a hand job may be nice, but I guess that’s out after what I promised inside there.” I tilted my head back toward the studio and laughed at my own joke.
She turned and shot me a hard glare, her oversized sweatshirt sagging off one shoulder.
Most other girls I knew would have been fine if I dropped trou right there and whipped my dick right the fuck out. Their hands would have been just itching to grab me. But not this one.
“Kidding. I was kidding.” I lifted my hands in the air in surrender.
All of a sudden, I felt ashamed of my behavior. I wasn’t that guy. Was I?
She raised an eyebrow, making me question my character some more.
“I’m serious. Kidding. Listen, don’t let him boss you around. Once upon a time, Sonny was an intern too. A lowly, pimply one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Her words were thick with an East Coast accent and heavy with doubt. “See you around,” she said, dismissing me at the supply closet.
I started walking toward the exit when I stopped and shouted, “What’s your name, my fair maiden?”
She turned, bracing the door with her shoulder. Planting her hands on her hips, she cocked one to the side.
“Do I look like a fair maiden at the top of the tower?”
Stunned, I shook my head. I’d never been challenged like that—ever.
“It’s Caterina.” She turned on her heel and started to enter the closet.
“It’s Blane. Nice to meet you, Caterina,” I hollered over my shoulder.
“Actually, everyone calls me Catie,” she yelled back.
Without looking back, I shook my head. Semi-sweet, foul-mouthed Catie and Mr. Sonny Fucking Boots.