“Get Becks to call the cops,” I say with a coolness that makes me proud. “And get Lizzie Borden from the storage closet.” I have wielded Lizzie Borden, the office axe, twice before. Once to threaten an unwelcome stalker. Once to break down the DJ booth door when the previous morning guy, Dawn Patrol, passed out on the mic in a drunken stupor. I know I can break down this flimsy door again in 5 whacks.
Forewarned is fair warned. I grab a piece of paper and write on it with a magic marker.
WE ARE CALLING THE COPS
AND BREAKING DOWN THE DOOR
Scowling at Mr. Morning, I slap the note against the DJ booth window. He just laughs and dry humps Blowsy in time with Dark Horse as he makes eye contact with me. I hold his stare and shake my head slowly. The time for fun and games has come to an end.
Chris is back with the axe and eyes wider than saucers. He holds it out to me and bows his head. Wrapping my fingers around the handle sends a nice bolt of go-juice to my chest, but I feel calm, oh, so very calm, as I raise the axe and take a deep breath.
Without hesitation, I swing as hard as I can and Paul Bunyan the door. It’s thin, just particle board, so the ax goes right through like paper and I feel like Xena Warrior Princess, a towering amazon of strength even though I’m barely 5’5”. It must look like the Shining on the other side because I see the door knob jiggle frantically. Chris and Night Vixen cheer me on.
Mr. Morning opens the door with Blowsy helplessly tucked under his arm, his eyes darting between me and the axe. “Cops here yet?”
“Not yet.” I put one hand on my hip and heft the axe in my other. “Soon.”
He thrusts Blowsy at me and runs down the hallway shouting, “Freedom Rock! Freedom Rock!”
I roll my eyes and turn to Night Vixen. “Please get in there,” I say. “Play as much basic alt stuff as you can for the next hour. Radiohead, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden.” I look down at my own T-shirt. “Muse. And try to catch up on whatever ads the log says he’s missed in the last hour.”
“You got it, boss lady.” She snaps to, enters the booth, and a second later Katy Perry stops singing in the middle of a word. I feel like I have just been released from Guantanamo. “No goth stuff,” I add, before shutting the axed-in door.
Dragging Blowsy, I walk down the hallway to the sweet sounds of the Foo Fighters with sweat dotting my brow and victory endorphins pumping through my veins. I settle our inflatable mascot on the couch in my office and collapse in my chair. I am sweaty and almost as satisfied as I would've been if I'd finished beach time with Anonymous Adonis and my electric hammer of Thor.
Chris leans in my doorway, shaking his long gray locks and sighing.
“What now." I bite my lip.
“Becks says the Doc is on his way in. He heard the whole disaster. It’s not looking good.”
Shit.
Minutes later, I give up my desk to the Doc and his teacup Yorkie, Robert E. Lee. Doc Bing is always dressed in a seersucker suit no matter the time of year. With his white hair, waxed mustache and black horn rimmed glasses he reminds me of a gay, crazy Col. Sanders, not the wealthy plastic surgeon he actually is. Me, Chris and Becks huddle around my cluttered desk with cheeks aching from fake smiles.
I had an hour to work out a little speech to explain this morning’s latest disaster, but he cuts me off with a wave of his ringed hand when I open my mouth.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says in his Alabama accent. I see his eyes drift to Blowsy and squint in disapproval. “Mr. Morning, or whatever his name is, was on his way out anyway. At least now I don’t have to pay him severance.”
My gut twists in a knot. Everything begins and ends with morning drive time. If he was planning to cut Mr. Morning, are we changing up the hour? Maybe, god forbid, going country? I swallow hard and struggle to keep the squeak out of my voice. “What do you mean…?”
“Got another morning guy coming in to get us some much needed ratings.”
I trade wide-eyed looks with Chris. Will we still have our jobs? “Who is it?” I ask, racking my brain. None of the other big-name NY DJs would touch us with a six foot pole, which is how we wound up with Mr. Morning, a Virginia Beach transfer.
The Doc smiles and feeds a treat to Robert E. Lee. We all have to wait until the Yorkie finishes. Then the Doc raises his eyes to me and grins. “The Bad Boy at Bat. American All-Star. Super Slugger. Mr. Mark Carrington.” The Doc coughs behind his hand. “A damn Yankee. But a good one.”
“Brilliant!” exclaims Becks. Her eyes light up and her hands are clenched in tight fists. “He’s so sexy," she adds with a dreamy expression.
I look at Chris. He doesn’t look pleased, but me? I feel like I’m going to puke. “Not Mark Carrington.”
Squinting his eyes at me, the Doc leans back in my chair. He twists a pinky ring and grins at me. “You like this little 20k watt station playing weirdo music, Miss Taylor?’
“Of course,” I stutter. “But…”
“Well, if you want it to stay that way you will produce Mark Carrington’s sports show in the morning. Sports talk, two straight hours. Rest of the day is yours.” I watch the Doc rise from his seat and pick up Robert E. Lee. His charming Alabama accent has morphed into Jersey tough. “He starts next Monday. I expect the three of you—” he points at each of us one by one before continuing, “—and key station personnel, to attend the Bust Up energy drink event in Newark where we'll formally announce that Mr. Carrington is joining the station’s lineup.”
Becks rises from her chair and smooths her pink pants suit. “Did you say Newark?”
“Newark. Prudential Center,” he says staring down Becks’ Oh god face. Nobody likes going into Jersey if it's at all possible to avoid.
As the Doc walks by me, Robert E. Lee licks my arm with his soft tongue. “Got a big New York City PR team to announce it though.” The Alabama accent is back in full force. “Gonna be a big event, y’all.”
Becks follows the Doc out of my office. “Mark is such a fantastic looking guy,” she sings down the hallway. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
Chris looks at me and shrugs. “Well, I guess our morning drive time is sports talk now. Maybe we can sneak some rock beds between the sports chat, at least.”
I can’t even register how meh I feel about sports right now. Meanwhile, my brain is doing a copy-paste loop with no end.
Mark Carrington.
Mark Carrington.
Mark Carrington.
I reclaim my chair and just melt into it. Fucking hell. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m going to be forced to work with the high school crush that completely shattered my heart.
I haven’t seen him face to face in person for years, but I am acutely aware that he has only gotten hotter since high school. Your crushes getting famous will do that to you.
A Google search later and I'm eyeing his naked chest and stubbled but impossibly sexy jaw in a shaving cream ad. Water drips down his pecs and the towel, oh, the towel barely clings to his hips in a tease. I think of what his dick must look like behind the white terry cloth and tingle in all the right places. Then I forcibly banish that thought.
No, no, no. Ain’t going to happen.
Another Google image search pulls up the reason why: