Love on the Air (5 page)

He stared at her for half a second. "Remind me not
to mess with you." He swung the door open, and once
again he was all business. "Bring the forms back to
personnel when you get a chance, and I'll see you in
two weeks."

This time, once again, Christie made sure not to
look back as she walked out. Last time it had been to
preserve her dignity. This time, she was fighting the
urge to see if two gray eyes were looking after her.

She'd dated very little since she'd started work at
the loan office. Her job didn't put her in contact with
many men, except the ones who were half of a married
couple trying to finance a house. She'd gone out with
one fellow student from broadcasting school, but he'd been so vain and shallow he'd bored her to tears.
Maybe that explained her reaction to Rick Fox. Boring
he wasn't. Conservative, maybe, but interesting, especially that streak of humor.

It didn't matter. Christie wasn't about to be sidetracked. With her goal at hand, her new boss was the
last man in the world she was going to get involved
with.

"So
keep
it
here
on
KYOR-your
station
for
the
best songs of yesterday and today." Yvonne turned
and nodded to Christie, who was already hitting the
button to shut off the microphone. The music, which
had been automatically muted when the microphone
was on, came back on in the studio.

It was Christie's second day of training. Yesterday,
she had watched. Today, when Christie walked in,
Yvonne had announced the board was hers. Yvonne
still did the talking on the air, but Christie was in
charge of all the buttons and sliders-starting the
songs, controlling the volume, turning the microphone
on and off.

Yvonne gave her a thumbs-up. "You're doing
great." She picked up her cup of noodles, which had
been steaming under its paper lid for the last several
minutes. Apparently Rick hadn't been kidding about
Top Ramen.

"So, do you lose weight eating that stuff?"

Yvonne shook her head. "No, because it makes you
so thirsty you drink twice as much soda." She hoisted
a can of cola toward Christie to attest.

The real studio at KYOR was much more daunting
than the broadcasting school's miniature version, with
about three times the number of controls to worry
about. Then there was the EAS binder, the notebook
to turn to in case of a signal from the Emergency Alert
System. Christie lived in fear of a fire or flood her first
night on the air, but Yvonne assured her she'd never
known anyone who'd received a real emergency alert.
The important thing was a passing familiarity with the
book, in case of a surprise inspection by the FCC.

Somehow, that wasn't very reassuring.

A few minutes later, Christie fired the next song,
and they were assaulted by a barrage of hard rock
chords. For the first time, Yvonne took over, hastily
reaching past Christie to advance the CD player a few
tracks ahead. A softer track came on, and KYOR's
light adult contemporary sound was restored.

"Sorry." Yvonne patted her shoulder. "I had to get
that off in a hurry. We don't want people in offices
diving under their desks." She pointed to the CD
player. "Remember to double-check which song you
have cued up after you load in the disc. These are
compilation CDs. Most of the songs fit our format, but
every once in a while you'll get an ancient oldie, or
something that can peel paint, like that one."

"I'm sorry," Christie said. "I just hope you have an
audience left after today."

"Oh, shut up." Yvonne waved her off. "That's what today is all about-getting some of the kinks out." She
sipped her soda. "Nervous about tonight?"

Christie nodded. "I've wanted this for so long, and
I'm afraid if I don't do it right-" She cringed, still
hearing those heavy metal chords in her head.

"Then there's tomorrow night. This isn't do or die,
sweetie. I'll tell you right now, you're going to make
mistakes." She scooped another bite of noodles from
the styrofoam cup. "The great thing about radio," she
said, "is it's always going forward. No one remembers
if you screwed up your last break."

"Sounds like another Rick-ism."

Yvonne nodded. "And what's the worst thing a jock
can do?"

They said it together: "Dead air." And laughed.

Christie had heard a lot of the Gospel According to
Rick these past two days, but she'd seen very little of
the man himself. He was still a mystery. When she
did see him, he seemed to have reverted back to the
man she'd met on her first interview-polite, but preoccupied. Both mornings, he'd poked his head into the
studio for a brief greeting that included both Yvonne
and herself. Other than that, he spent most of the time
in his office, and while the door was always open,
Christie wasn't going to venture into that inner sanctum without a clear-cut invitation. There seemed to be
at least two Rick Foxes: the cool, remote one she'd
interviewed with the first time, and the one whose legs
had nearly buckled laughing at her joke in the hallway.
Christie didn't want to worry about which one she was
going to get, and as long as she did her job well, she
told herself it didn't matter.

"So," Christie said, "if you do get dead air, what
happens?"

"Are you kidding?" Yvonne looked horrified. "He'll
kill you."

"Really?"

Yvonne laughed. "Yes, really. Haven't you noticed
all the severed heads hanging out there in the hallway?" She squeezed Christie's arm. "Sorry. But
you've got to lighten up, honey. You'll do fine."

Christie went in an hour before her air shift and
recorded the commercials that had been assigned to
her. Then she headed into the studio, trying to feel as
if she did it every night of her life.

The disc jockey getting off the air was dark-haired,
good-looking, and clearly aware of it. "Hi." He started
the next song. "I'm Rob Gibbons."

"I'm Christie Becker," she said, trying to take some
strength from the sound of her air name.

Rob turned away to pull a few CDs from the shelf
above the counter, adding them to a stack he'd already
started. Resting a hand on the discs, he turned back to
her. "There's your first hour."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Part of the job. Just make sure
you do the same for McKeon before he comes in, or
he'll chew you up." Christie hadn't heard much about
Mark McKeon, the morning show host, but Yvonne
had warned her not to step on his toes.

Rob aimed a smile at her. "Rick's hiring them
cuter," he said, watching unabashedly for her reaction.

She decided to play it light, matching the tone in
which it was offered. "Thank you, Mr. Gibbons."

Rob shrugged good-naturedly and slipped into a
bulky black jacket. Clearly, he wasn't interested in
sticking around to hold her hand when she started. Just
as well. She wasn't sure just what else a hand-holding
from Rob might entail. He stepped around to the outside of the counter. "It's all yours."

She'd waited nearly two years for this, and now she
was scared to death. It must have shown. Rob stopped
on his way out the door. "This your first radio gig?"

She nodded.

"Two words," he told her.

"Top Ramen?"

"How'd you know?"

He closed the door behind him, and she was alone
in the studio.

Christie stepped behind the counter. It felt different,
bigger than it had these past two days when she'd sat
next to Yvonne. Christie started the next song on
schedule, and watched the time count backward on the
CD player's digital display. When it was over, it
would be time for her to talk.

With a minute to go, she put her headphones on.
She was so nervous she could feel the black foam
cushions shaking on her ears.

The song was fading. Show time.

Christie took a deep breath and turned on the microphone. "KYOR-your station for the best songs of
yesterday and today," she said, relieved when the
voice in her headphones came back at her warm and
full, instead of small and scared. "This is Christie Becker, with you 'til 6 A.M.," she went on, pushing
the button for the next song. It started up behind her,
slow and sultry. The music steadied her, reminding her
what she was here for. She rode the volume level as
she continued. "So whatever you're up doing tonight,
I'll do it with you." A few seconds left of the song
intro. She timed it out with the beat of the song. "It's
five past midnight. Here's Sheryl Crow." Up with the
music, off with the microphone.

So far, so good. She pulled her headphones down
around her neck with a huge sigh of relief.

Now, that's a first break, Rick thought.

He'd told himself he wasn't going to listen. A jock's
first shift at any new station was bound to be rough.
Better to tune in a few nights later, after she'd gotten
her sea legs. But he hadn't been able to resist. It was
her first shift anywhere, except the broadcasting school
station, which really didn't count. He had to see how
it went.

And he had to admit, Christie sounded just fine. The
first break between songs was smooth; he noticed
again that she had nice timing. But he'd known that
from her tape. He didn't have to stay up past midnight
to find that out.

Not that he was in the habit of getting to bed early.
His air shift didn't end until 7 P.M. and he was rarely
out of the station before eight. Often it was a lot later.
Which led to late dinners, and then the often lengthy
process of unwinding. Most nights, three things in his
apartment's crowded living room competed for his attention: the piano at one end, the exercise treadmill at the other, and the television set smack in the center.
The treadmill ran a distant third.

Christie did her next break when she was supposed
to, not succumbing to a new jock's temptation to open
the microphone at every opportunity, not trying to be
the next generation's answer to Rick Dees. She stuck
to the basics, but her basics were solid. Christie didn't
sound nearly as green as her resume, or even her tape,
had led him to expect.

"Santa Moreno's best mix," she purred a moment
later. Her voice had a nice quality, not husky, but with
a certain sexy texture to it. The male audience would
like her. Whatever kids, drunks and truckers were listening at this hour. Or divorced program directors.
Rick left the stereo on as he headed down the hall to
get ready for bed.

He was brushing his teeth when it happened. The
song stuck, and Rick heard the familiar thrumming
noise of a CD stuck in the player. He started counting
the seconds until she recovered; it was an automatic
reflex. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...

Come on, he thought, you can do it.

..five-one thousand, six...

Christie grabbed the next CD from the top of the
stack and slid it into the player labeled CD-3. A moment later, she was rewarded with the chords of an
old Bryan Adams song. Not the next song on the
printed music log, but way better than that thrumming
noise. Quickly, she pulled the volume down on the
stalled CD player. I should have done that before.

She tried to pull the failed disc out of CD-2. It
wouldn't come out. Uh-oh. Tell me I didn't break it.

The phone rang, one more note for the symphony
of her jangled nerves. She went to pick it up, then
thought, wait. She cued the next song in CD-1, careful
to set it for the right track, so she'd be ready for the
next break. Then she answered the phone.

"KYOR," she said in her best professional radio
voice. Belatedly she noticed the call had come in on
the hotline, the one reserved for on-air business.

"Is it CD-2 again?" She recognized Rick's voice,
not that he bothered to identify himself. Well, hello to
you too.

"Yes."

"It does that," he said. "We just got it back from
the repair shop last week. Either they didn't do the job
right, or it's really on its last legs. Use a butter knife."

"What?"

"A butter knife. Slip in a butter knife from the
kitchen and you can get the disc out. I wouldn't bother
trying to use the player again tonight, though."

"Thanks." She looked at the display, counting the
time backward on the song, trying to calculate whether
she had time for a run down the hall to the kitchen
before her next song. 3:06 to go.

"Oh, and Christie?" She heard a little edge of humor
creep into the deep voice.

"What?" How am I doing?

"That song isn't on the play list."

Rats. She started to grope for another disc.

"Go ahead and leave it on. It's not out of format."

"Okay," she said. 2:37 to go.

"And Christie?"

She shut her eyes tight and braced herself. "What?"

"You sound good."

A ton of bricks fell off her shoulders. "Thanks." It
was the first nice thing she could remember him saying to her since the day she was hired, and she was
annoyed at how gratifying it felt. "I'd better get that
butter knife."