Fallout (30 page)

I TRIED TO RESIST

Really I did. For one thing,

I’m supposed to pull a morning

air shift tomorrow. Another change:

I’ve been promoted. Still

working weekends, and assorted

holidays, when the so-called

stars would rather sleep in.

But no more late nights. I’ve

moved to the six to eleven a.m. slot.

Yeah, it’s a little more money.

But it also means I have to be

up at five a.m. to get to the station

on time, wide-awake and

prepared to help listeners

“Start your day, the X way.”

I entertain myself for a while,

watching other people’s various

stages of inebriation and half

listening to the argument

in my head—the smart side

of my brain saying, “Leave

the damn bowl alone,” while

the dimwit half asks, “What harm

could three little pills do?”

To pharm or not to pharm? Ah,

what the hell? I close my eyes,

reach into the capsule stew,

grab three anonymous pills.

But before I can pop them into

my mouth, my cell buzzes.

Nikki texts:
Can u pick me up?

Car won’t start. Dead batt.

So much for pharming. At least

for tonight. I reach into my

pocket, fish around for

something paper, find a receipt to

wrap the still unidentified pills

in. Who knows when I might

need them? I text back:
On my way
,

chug my beer. Why waste

good brew? “Gotta go,” I say.

As if anyone really cares.

THE ALARM BLARES

Five a.m. Five? Oh, crap. I knew

working mornings was going to

suck. It’s still dark outside, for

cripe’s sake. Dark, and the bed

is warm. Warm with Nikki.

Might as well wake her up too.

She comes out of her dreams,

into my arms, and I already know

waking her will be the very best

part of this day. “I love you,”

I tell her, once and again, as

a hint of pale morning appears.

Nikki stays in bed as I go to

shower, turn the water hot to fight

the house’s chill. I’m shivering

into a towel when she calls,

Hey. What about my car?

As she waits for an answer,

anger blossoms. Not her fault,

though. Car. What
about
her car?

It’s Thanksgiving. Everything

will be closed. No batteries,

and even if there were, I have

to be at the station. Really soon.

I could pick her up after work,

but I know she’s anxious to get

busy on the duckurken thing.

“Get dressed. You can drop me

off, then take my car. Just don’t

forget to pick me up later, okay?”

I swear, relationships are labor-

intensive. All about compromise.

Yada. Yada. But when Nikki

comes into the bathroom, all

mussed from sleep and our

early morning rendezvous,

she looks at me in the mirror,

and her eyes hold so much love

that every ounce of resentment

melts away like butter on a hot

griddle. I relinquish the sink,

go into the bedroom, slip into

the jeans lying on the floor.

They’re a little wrinkled, but

clean enough and worn to

the point of real comfort.

A whole lot like the bond

between Nikki and me.

FOR A REFRESHING CHANGE

The pimply overnight guy has to wait

for me. I’m through the door at six

oh three, which means he had to play

the station call. Damn. Hope he did it.

FCC rules demand it, and a station

can get fined if it doesn’t identify

itself close to top of the hour. Oh,

well. Not my problem now, I guess.

The dude comes skulking down the hall,

muttering mostly under his breath.
Sure.

Promote the half-ass guy and keep me

doing nights.
He slams on out the door.

Half-ass? Me? And just what

does that make him? A company

man? I head on into the booth,

just as the last spot of the break finishes.

Perfect timing, man. Half-ass?

I don’t think so. I punch up the next

song on the playlist, zero seconds

to spare. Yeah, I should have been

here earlier. Most morning guys

get in at least an hour before their

show begins, to dig up some witty

repartee and be solidly prepared.

Maybe tomorrow, right? Anyway,

I can do this gig with my eyes closed.

Witty is my middle name. And I know

the playlist inside out. Lenny Kravitz

finishes up. “Hey, Reno, happy

Thanksgiving. If you’re up this

early on a holiday, what’s wrong

with you, anyway? The turducken

can wait for an hour or two. Go

back to bed, say hi to your wife,

and get a little for me.” Okay,

that was a wee bit crude, but that’s

the name of the morning show

game: Crude. Rude. Ear-catching

entertainment. Rick the Brick

Denio ain’t got a thing on me.

I’M MOST OF THE WAY

Through my shift when the studio

telephone rings. “You got the X.”

Is this Hunter Haskins?
The husky

voice is somehow familiar.

“Uh, yes it is. And who am I speaking

with?” I have almost placed her

when she says,
You remember

me, right? You gave me those Dave

Cook tickets. It was a really great

show, you know. So thank you.

Oh, yeah. Red. Actually, Leah.

“No problem. Glad you liked it.”

I was just wondering if you’re on

mornings now or what. Cuz I think

you’re really good. And I was also

wondering when I can see you again.

Despite everything with Nikki

this morning, Leah’s breathy

innuendo holds immense appeal.

I allow myself a short fantasy—

me, popping buttons, exposing

soft white flesh … stop it, Hunter.

Rein it in. You will not be exposing

anything, unless it belongs to Nik.

“Uh. The next remote I’m scheduled

for is the Sparks Hometowne Christmas

Parade.” Two weeks, two days. “I’ll

be announcing with Montana.”

Oh. So long? Well, I guess I can wait.

I’ve got a little something for you.

The girl is persistent. “Nice. Hang

on …” I put her on hold, dig into

my brain for a little Bob Marley trivia,

pass it on to my listeners. “You still there?”

Doubtless. “Well, you have a good

Thanksgiving. See you in Sparks.”

I’M STILL MUSING

About “celebrity” perks when Big

Leon comes in to take over. “Hey,

dude,” I say. I’d ask his opinion

on the matter, but his air name

refers not so much to his height

as to his three-hundred-pound

girth. Pretty sure he’s never been

offered a fine little piece just by

virtue of his “not exactly a star”

status. I gather my stuff, head

out to the parking lot, look for

my Nissan. Not there. Damn.

I should have called Nikki to

remind her. But then I notice

Mom’s Jeep, with a familiar

face behind the windshield.

She gives me a major smile

as I climb into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Aunt Leigh. Great to see

you. Uh, my car’s okay, right?”

She laughs, reaches over to

give me a hug.
It’s safe. Poor

Nikki is just up to her elbows

in three varieties of stuffing.

“Yeah, right. Hopefully one

is plain cornbread. Where’s

Katie? Didn’t she want to escape

the madcap feast preparations?”

Leigh’s smile vanishes. She sighs.

Katie and I broke up. Crap timing
,

huh? Least she could have done

was wait until after the holidays.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” We drive home,

Leigh droning on about “different

backgrounds” and “different dreams.”

I truly am sorry. She and Katie have

been a thing for more than six years.

We all thought this was “the one,”

especially Leigh, who seemed so happy

when they were here last Christmas.

I look at her tightly sculpted face,

softened some by the shallow tendrils

at the corners of her eyes. Almost

forty, still beautiful. And single again.