Talk Dirty to Me - Lulu Wright

TALK DIRTY TO ME

LULU WRIGHT

CONTENTS Copyright Also by Lulu Wright 1.

Rose

2. Mark 3. Rose 4. Mark 5. Rose 6. Mark 7. Rose 8. Mark 9. Rose 10. Rose 11. Mark 12. Rose 13. Mark 14. Rose 15. Mark 16. Rose 17. Rose 18. Mark 19. Rose 20. Mark 21. Rose 22. Mark 23. Rose 24. Mark 25. Rose 26. Rose 27. Rose 28. Rose 29. Mark 30. Rose Epilogue Friction by Emily Snow Screwmates by Katyi McGee

Also by Lulu Wright Acknowledgments About the Author

Copyright © 2017 by Lulu Wright All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ALSO BY LULU WRIGHT The Hard Sell

1 ROSE

I have reached a new level of mad, sad horniness. My new vibrator plugs into the wall. As I move a night stand to expose a power outlet, I shudder with mortification, realizing that I’ve graduated from batterygenerated pulsing pleasure to something that needs to connect to the city’s power grid to get me off. But my desire to be satisfied conquers the shame and I am ready, no excited, to test out the upgrade. Already twinging with little throbs in neglected places, my hand trembles a little as I plug my new electric boyfriend into the wall. A pre-work orgasm is just the thing I need to help me face the workday’s guaranteed stresses— because being the general manager/program director/producer of a small alt rock radio station brings way too much anxiety. Luckily, I think I’m going to love this amped up toy just as much as I do rock and roll. Gosh, I hope I don’t blow a fuse. Reclining on my bed, I flip the switch to ‘on.’ Whoa. This is going to be fun. Pushing all thoughts of work aside, I settle into my go-to fantasy: a lonely beach at sunset. Ending a relaxing day nude sunbathing, my skin is slick with coconut oil and warm from the tropical sun. The silhouette of a perfect triangle of broad shoulders and narrow waist emerges from the waves nearby, an Anonymous Adonis. Muscles ripple under tan flesh that’s sea salt wet. Without hesitation, he comes to me and kneels beside my towel. His big rough hands massage my breasts and inner thighs, his kisses hot and deep. He flicks his tongue on my nipples and then works his way down. My legs shake as he works my clit with his mouth. He knows the exact right moment to enter me with his perfect cock, a deliberate slowness that both teases and…. I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL That’s the ringtone I use for work, but I am ignoring it. Anonymous Adonis is just starting to thrust into me. I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL No, no way. I am on a beach right now, slippery from suntan oil and wet with desire and the entire AC current of Paramus Power and Light vibrating inside me,

making my teeth chatter and my… I LOVE ROCK ‘N… Yank goes the cord from the wall. “What?" I yell into the phone, shaking with anger and thwarted arousal. This had better be really goddamn important. “Rose, you have to come to the station.” Chris, my senior citizen program director, speaks with a quiver in his pack-a-day raspy voice. “What is it?” I sound miffed. I am miffed. “Was there another fire in the breakroom?” “I wish,” Chris mutters. “But no. Mr. Morning has lost his mind and locked himself in the DJ booth and…” He stops to take a breath like he’s afraid to say what’s next. “And?” I shut my eyes in preparation. Is Mr. Morning racking up FCC fines by going on a curse-laden tirade? Is he bashing all of our old equipment with a baseball bat? “It’s Katy Perry. He’s playing her on loop. Same song, Dark Horse, over and over and…” “Shit.” My heart jumps in my throat. I can literally hear the station advertising revenue falling with each chorus. “I’m coming,” I say. “Try to talk to him. Or maybe cut the power to the booth." I check the time and feel the prickles of panic settle in, a thousand needles stabbing my chest. It’s rush hour. Prime time for listeners. I take a breath to calm myself. Perhaps all is not lost. Our station owner Doc Bing doesn’t usually listen this early in the morning. Maybe none of his friends will call him to complain. Maybe our listeners will think it’s a funny prank. But my phone alerts me with a text message from the only member of our sales staff, Becky Lynch. WTF!?! I AM GOING TO KILL HIM. Not if I get there first. I scramble into jeans and my fave Muse tee, then head downstairs to see my roomie Geo sucking on organic coffee and twisting the white girl dreads she’s trying to nurture in her Scandinavian blond hair. “Morning,” she says. "Want some coffee?" “Thanks," I reply absently as my eyes dart around the kitchen for my keys, “but I gotta get to the station. Emergency.” “Shit, Rose. Another ramen noodle fire?” She dangles my missing keys in her delicate hand and my soul is overcome with love for her as I snatch them from her fingers. I shake my head. “Worse. Much worse.” I head out the door and hear Geo shout after me, “Don’t forget to line up the interview for our podcast next week!” I make a mental note somewhere at the back of my racing mind as I leap into my old maroon Mustang and floor it out of my parking spot. Our station, W-ALT, blasts in my ears at top volume, and sure enough, it's Dark Horse still. This is it, this is how I am going to die: in my beat up Mustang, stuck in rush hour traffic and being tortured by Katy Perry. I hear that fucking song 8 times before I pull into the W-ALT parking lot.

I dash out of the car and up the walkway where I spot Chris taking a drag off a cigarette. “Who knows about this so far?” I demand. He shrugs his shoulders and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “Just me… and whoever else is listening to our station at 8 am in the greater NYC area.” “Fantastic.” I sigh as I throw open the door. Once inside, I don't stop until I reach the DJ booth window. Mr. Morning—legal name: Clive Dunby—has 100% lost his shit. I see him dancing with Blowsy, the blowup doll our noon DJ left in the studio as a joke. At least she’s still wearing one of my old bridesmaid dresses and isn’t stark naked. Mr. Morning is in his 40’s and has more tattoos than a biker, overweight enough that I can see his hairy belly button poking out from under his Danzig tee. As he waltzes with dead eyed Blowsy, I see the phones are lighting up behind him. I’m sure that has to be a bunch of W-ALT fans calling to find out what the hell. I bang on the window to get Mr. Morning’s attention and he grins and bends the arm of Blowsy to wave to me. I curve my finger to him. “Come out now,” I mouth with a stern face. He locks eyes with me and then shakes his head, then Blowsy’s head. His eyes are wild, his hair disheveled, and I just know this has gone far beyond his typical freak outs. “What do you want to do?” Chris is standing behind me with Night Vixen, our overnight DJ, who they clearly asked to stick around in case we ever lure Mr. Morning out of there. Her jet black hair is sticking to her face, and she’s raccooneyed and sluggish but awake. She smiles at me and rubs her eyes, making her look even more like a trash panda. I refuse to let the station go down like this. Time to put on the big girl panties, stop the madness, save W-ALT (and all our jobs), and get Mr. Morning out of that booth. Permanently. “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: Amber Wilson, supermodel, lingerie designer and UNICEF ambassador. She is the quintessential standard of American beauty with cat eyes, thick auburn hair and a swimsuit bod. With each image, I feel more inadequate as a woman and as a human being. Who looks that good feeding orphans in South Sudan? Seriously? Apparently, Mark and Amber are finito as a couple, but it doesn’t matter. For guys like Mark, there are always supermodels or actresses ready to pounce. Dorky, career-obsessed regular gals like me can’t compete. He probably doesn’t even remember me. At least, not like I remember him. My heart beats hard when I think of seeing him again, but then I remind myself that all I have to do is stay calm, focused, and professional—and he’ll no doubt do the same. I just pray it’s not a repeat of high school.

2 MARK

“This is a major fuck up.” Stanley paces his office with such fury, I'm sure he’s wearing down the carpet. Red faced and spitting as he talks, his hands flutter in the air like angry birds as he details my “outrageous behavior” and “arrogance.” I sit cross-armed in my chair and try to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me. Until what went down in that Brooklyn nightclub last night, he was my biggest fan. Now he’s making noise like he doesn’t even want to be my agent anymore. He’s overreacting, of course. I’m sure he wants to continue collecting his fifteen percent on every dollar I make. “Can you even begin to comprehend the amount of spin I’m going to have to put on this? Do you understand you could lose all of your endorsement deals?” He rubs his red face. “And not to mention what the American League and the Yankees are going to do to you?” Shrugging my shoulders, I roll my eyes and shift in my seat. My stats are strong, I have nothing to worry about. Besides, Stanley has made a lot of money selling me as the Bad Boy of the Bat. I crack my knuckles, but wince. The two knuckles on my right hand are still smarting from Tommy Pizza’s cheekbone. I probably should have never hit him that hard, but woulda, shoulda, coulda has no place in this conversation if Stanley ever lets me talk. Pangs of guilt stab my stomach thinking of the heart attack he had last year and how my actions might be giving him another one. His eyes are bulging like he can’t breathe and a vein pulses in his temple. “Why did you have to hit Tommy? If you punched any other Mets player, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but no, you gotta knock the lights out of America’s kid brother.” He stops pacing to glance at the rain falling on Central Park down below, and I hear him take a ragged breath. A sound of disappointment and frustration. “So, are you going to tell me the story or just sit there?” Pressing my lips, I look down at the abrasion on my hand. I'm not thinking of Tommy anymore. I’m thinking of Tania and how she was crying and begging me not to tell anyone about Tommy trying to take advantage of her in the back room at the nightclub. As a famous actress, she was distraught and humiliated, worried that the story might get out in the press. And she was terrified of what Harry, her

boyfriend and my Yankees teammate, would do to Tommy if he found out. Against my better judgement, I promised I wouldn’t tell a soul what happened. As she shook like a leaf right in front of me, my outrage built to explosive levels. After that, I left her to go find Tommy and fuck him up better than Harry ever would. As far as the world knows, I beat the shit out of America’s kid brother for no good reason. But Tommy knows why. He knows exactly what he did. Too bad my agent doesn’t. “So you ain’t gonna tell me,” Stanley says, still glancing out the window. “It’s not my story to tell.” “Alright then.” Turning around, he points his right finger at me, the same one he’s used in chants of “We’re #1” at games. “You are going into anger management. You will complete the course. You will do press about the course. That’s step one. Got it?” My eyes meet his and I shudder some under his hot gaze. I nod. “No problem.” Running his hands through what’s left of his gray hair, he sits on his desk and just stares at me shaking his head. I am a good two heads taller than Stanley and have at least a hundred pounds on him, but right now he’s the bigger man. He would have handled the Tommy thing differently. He would have found a way to do something without a punch. “Are you still my agent?” I ask. My heart is working up the nerve to burst. He nods, but it doesn’t calm me down. “Are you still my...friend?” Folding his arms across his chest, he looks out at Central Park again. “Go home. Don’t leave your house. Stay out of public. Stay off social media. No nightclubs. No fights. No nothing.” “Come on, Stan…” He turns his gaze back to me and I look away. “Do you want to lose millions of dollars?” “No.” “Then do what I say. Go home. I'll have more details later this afternoon.” “Don’t talk to me like I’m five.” I clench the arms of the chair and tighten my jaw. I hear him take a breath. “Then don’t act like you are.”

Back at my cabin in the wilds of New Jersey, I pour myself a whiskey and ease myself down on my couch. That’s when all the anger hits like a ball of fire to my soul. Goddamn Tommy Pizza. Anger management? Public apology? I should be publicly thanked for punching that punk. And please, like the Yankees are going to dismiss their star player for decking a Mets guy. Stanley has banned me from leaving my place, so a nightclub is off the table. But I'm itching for a fix right now. Fine. I’ll order in. When the whiskey hits me, I reach for my little black book of pussy. Yeah, I’m old fashioned that way. I hate cell phones and refuse to own one. I thumb through. Who haven’t I had in a while?

Distance is a key factor, of course. It would be stupid to call a girl in California while I’m sitting here in my cabin in Vernon, NJ. Kristen, no. She scratches like a cat. Elise? No, got married to some NBA guy. Nyla too, actually. Rekita is crazier than Mary, but not as batshit insane as Celeste. Still, you should really only stick your dick in crazy a max of one time, two if it’s a holiday. Michelle. Taylor. Gia. All cheerleaders. Ah, I’m over that fetish. Maria was just OK and Molly was fifty shades too wild. I throw my head back and laugh when I see Amber’s name. We were the It Couple for a year. We were both on the Sports Illustrated cover, me holding a bat and her holding her boobs. Our relationship worked for a while mostly because she’s really bendy—she was a gymnast before she was a model. Then she started to pressure me to get married. I balked, telling her I had to think about it, and what did she go and do? Banged one of my Yankee bros. I dumped her and she’s got the nerve to still be pissed about me breaking her heart. I grab a pen and cross off her name until she’s nothing but a black blob on the page. But then I see ‘Heidi’ and get excited just reading her name. Yeah. Blonde. Belgiumnese or whatever they call themselves. She’s got an accent and English is like, her tenth language or something, but that’s great because I am not in the mood to talk. I made a couple of other notes besides blonde in the book. Boobs. Wears short skirts. Shy. Likes sushi. Wait. Sushi? Was I making a crude girl-on-girl joke? Ha ha. Maybe Belgiumnese blonde Heidi will bring a friend. I punch the number on my landline phone and she answers on the third ring. “Hallo?” she says in that hot accent. My dick just got a little hard. “Hey, it’s Mark. Come to my place. I'll send a car. You can bring a friend if you'd like.” There’s silence and then finally, “Mark who?” I sigh. Models. “Mark Carrington. Yankees baseball player.” There’s more silence. “We met at…” but then I realize I don’t remember. “That thing…” “Ah, yes,” she coos. “Go Yankees!” “So, give me your address and I’ll send a car. You want to bring a friend?” “Ja.” Of course she does. Fish in a barrel. After I send a car service to the Upper West Side, I pour another whiskey and suck it back as I check my email. Stanley sent details of my punishment and absolution plan. Fantastic. Most of it is ho hum, basic PR shit. Three games and a fine. Worth it. My anger management sessions start tomorrow, but at least the life coach therapist person is coming out to Vernon instead of me going to his office in the city. Guy's name is Todd Murphy and I won't be the first athlete with anger issues he's treated. I guess that’s his biz. I'll go through the motions to keep Stanley happy, but I ain't gonna mine the oceans of my past with this stranger no matter how many letters he has after his name. I take a couple of pulls off my whiskey and then refill my glass.

Rest of my schedule shows an I’m sorry press conference, where I have to deliver the apology Stanley wrote for me with feeling. Stanley has some theater guy he’s sending over to direct me as I memorize it. Like I don't already know where to sigh, where to frown, where to put a dramatic pause and fake that I actually give a fuck about Tommy Pizza. Last on the schedule, I have to do some bullshit appearance at the Prudential Center in Newark with Tommy to show that we kissed and made up. The Yankees and Mets want to milk it for all it’s worth, I guess. Like they care. Some corporate face-saving thing most likely. Then my eyes stop on the last item on the list. Temporary radio gig. Morning sports talk show on a local station until spring training starts. Six weeks? Radio? I can’t even imagine. The description just says programming is TBA. Alright, then. Fuck it. I know enough about baseball that I can fumble my way through that, I figure. There’s one last note at the end of Stanley’s email. My eyes blink at the wording.

If you don't do this radio gig for the next six weeks, and do it well, I will drop you as a client and our relationship is finished.

Now that fucking stings. Stanley has been my agent since I started my career in the minors. I never for a second thought he would really drop me. He negotiated my deal with the Yankees. He’s the one that lines up my endorsements. He helped me find this cabin and my loft in the city. He hooked me up with a good accountant and a stylist. He’s the one who helped me break up with Amber and squashed that shit about my mom so the press didn’t get a hold of it. He taught me to tie a tie. Now he’s threatening to fuck me over. And all for some radio show gig? An uneasy lump forms in my throat. I swallow it down, but it feels like I swallowed fire and it's spreading through my body to my arms and legs and fingers and toes. I get off the couch and pace my living room, but it just pushes the fire through my veins faster and hotter. Unfuckingbelievable. He’s made millions off me and now acts like I’m nothing? Who the hell does he think he is… My heart is beating too fast and my chest tightens. I feel the whiskey tumbler in my hand and throw it against the fireplace. As it shatters in a million pieces, my anger splinters too. I turn over the couch and throw a potted plant at the TV. Blind with rage, my angry hands grab everything in reach and hurl and toss whatever I can across the room. I kick holes in the wall and rip apart a pillow until it snows feathers. I do this until I am physically worn out and collapse in a chair, my heart booming in my ears. Then the landline rings. Maybe it's Stanley. He’s caving. He’s calling to apologize, afraid he’s hurt my feelings.

“Hello, Stanley." I sound like I have asthma. “I picked up your...guests.” It’s my driver. “Two young ladies.” I hear them giggling in the background. “I am in Vernon, but the GPS is losing signal. I need directions.” My eyes dart around the cabin, surveying the aftermath of my rage. I clench the phone tight in my hand. “Cancel. Take them back home.” I slam the phone down. I right the couch and collapse onto it. After I regain my breath, I look at the email again and reread Stanley’s last words.

If you don't do this radio gig for the next six weeks, and do it well, I will drop you as a client and our relationship is finished.

I scroll down to see if there’s a PS, but there’s not. Just the name of the radio station and the producer’s name.

W-ALT, NORTH JERSEY’S SOURCE FOR ALT ROCK General Manager / Program Director / Producer: Rose Taylor

I ease back in my seat and breathe. Rose Taylor. That couldn't be....but radio show. Alt rock. It has to be her. The Rose Taylor I knew in high school. I only know because I've drunkenly Googled her once or twice. She's all over social media posting about rock shows and new bands. I almost added her on Facebook once, but then canceled the friend request before she accepted. My thoughts drift to a nostalgic place. High school. Senior year. Fumbling with her bra strap. Making out with her in the library. Dry humping her in the backseat of my loaner car. And other places. Man, she was upper crust, at least for Lambertville. I always felt like an idiot and a bum around her, but also calm and connected. I smile at the memory of our secret outings. Yeah, we would make out and stuff, but afterward we'd talk until dawn. I'm sure she remembers me. She has to, right? Maybe this radio gig won’t be that bad after all. I stand and take a deep breath and stretch out my body. I would pour myself another glass of whiskey but the bottle is in pieces on the floor. My piano, however, was the eye of the storm. It always is. Everyone thinks it’s a show piece, bought by a nouveau riche bumpkin to impress the swells. But it's not. It’s everything. I sit down at the bench and crack my fingers over the keyboard. I strike a few chords until something in me clicks. I start with some Debussy and then flow into some Gershwin. I peak with Rachmaninoff, really throwing myself into it, pounding

away at the keys as the hours fly past. But when dawn hits, I come down with some Chopin, like a true gentleman.

3 ROSE

Bust Up energy drink and Sputnik vodka are subsidiaries of American Beverages, so the natural PR baby when mating these two brands is Crazy Cosmic Cocktail. They're debuting with—OMG—a fucking laser show at the Prudential Center in Newark. Bust Up's spokesman, Mr. Mark Carrington, is contractually obligated to attend. And so is the guy he just punched in the face, the Mets’ relief pitcher Tommy Pizza, who also happens to be the face of Sputnik. This should be fun. Everyone and I mean everyone at W-ALT is buzzing about the Crazy Cosmic Cocktail Laser Show. Becks is already counting the money she'll make in air time sales and I notice she got her hair and nails did. Night Vixen is a meme-making factory posting funny stuff all over the internet. Even Chris, who hates all things corporate and contrived, is tittering around the station today grinning like Led Zeppelin started touring again. “I can’t wait for tonight." He slides a playlist print-out across my desk. “I mean, what if they fight? My money’s on Mark. You wanna get in on the office pool?” “No, thanks.” I force a smile. “Not my thing.” Becks is right behind Chris, tapping with fury at her iPad, but she looks up and cocks a penciled eyebrow at me. “Are you sure? I mean, don’t you have the inside scoop since you and Mark Carrington were best buds in high school?” She’s not even bothering to hide her mocking tone today. I roll my eyes. “Don’t you have some sales calls to make?” They leave me in peace to tend to my playlist, payroll and anxiety. I haven’t seen Mark Carrington in the flesh since graduation. Not to say I haven’t thought of him in the last six years. And maybe one time he drifted into my head when I was on the turnpike and I missed my exit. Okay, so that was only a couple of months ago…. What am I going to wear tonight? What do you even wear to a laser show? How should I act when I see him, friendly-professional or neutral-professional? Jeez. This is high school all over again.

Night Vixen and I do a last minute beauty check outside the velvet rope at the

Prudential Center entrance. No, my hair hasn’t been destroyed by the light sprinkle of snow. And yeah, her black lipstick is still perfectly lined. We look super cute in our own way; me in my Basic Bitch chic, her in her vampire prom ensemble. My stomach is tight with nerves, but Night Vixen has this weird calming effect on me. Could be her paranormal hypnotic powers. Or it could be that she’s just got a sincere charm. She always means what she says. “You look really pretty,” she purrs and the knot in my belly loosens. “You too.” And she does. She’s a hot vampire. Doorman dude finds our names on his list and we enter. After checking my coat and sucking in a deep breath, I follow Night Vixen into the arena, where a rainbow of lasers damn near burns out my corneas. The space is alive with loud electronica and beams of light bouncing everywhere and then uniting to form the Bust Up and Sputnik logos flickering in midair. After my eyes adjust, I scan the space to see the poor actors/waiters hired to wear silver space suits and hand out cosmic cocktails and some pretty yet unidentifiable bites of fusion food. “Hors d’Orbit,” one of the waiters says, offering me a blob on a toothpick. It takes like cream cheese and soap. W-ALT personnel are scattered around the room with drinks in their hands. Chris waves from a corner, where I know he'll hide all night avoiding people. Becks raises her wine glass with a smirk, but I can see she’s already eyeing some corporate types for ad sales. Press passes dangle from every other neck, and a scurry of young dressed-toimpress PR chicks dash about with bluetooths tucked in their ears and iPads clutches to their chests. All in impossibly high heels. “You gotta admire that!” Night Vixen shouts over the music as one of them passes. “Girl’s got some fantastic balancing skills!” I shout back. I spot a couple of familiar, famous faces. You know, that guy in that Tarantino thing with all the blood? He’s less bloody tonight, but shorter than I ever expected and he’s talking to that guy who plays a werewolf on TV. Next to me Night Vixen beams with delight at Wolf Boy. I also see a gaggle of young, super skinny models with legs up to their chins. It’s a room full of Amber Wilsons. Almost instantly, I deflate. With their craned necks and darting eyes, I can tell they’re looking for a baller to ball. Mark Carrington won't even have to open his mouth to get tail tonight. Ugh. Night Vixen and I grab Cosmic Cocktails off the tray of a passing spaceman and take tentative sips. It’s the worst thing I’ve had in my mouth since my roommate Geo tried to make tofu pancakes. “Poison.” I grab my throat. The terrible concoction really does taste like arsenic. At least, the way I imagine arsenic would taste. Bittersweet and deadly with fake sugar. “I’m grabbing a drink. A real drink,” Night Vixen tells me. Girl has booze ESP. If there is a real bar in here, she will sniff it out. “You want a Tequila Sunrise?” I nod. “More tequila less sunrise. Thanks.”

As Night Vixen skulks off through the forest of supermodels to find us liquid gold, I scan the crowd. So far, no Mark Carrington. I guess he’s going to make some stunning, dramatic entrance. I suddenly feel super conscious of my red dress. I went with sexy instead of laser show comfy, but now I’m drowning in regret. The dress is too short, too red, and too clingy for a body like mine. I feel like Jezebel at the ball. I tug it down. I want to look good, but not like I’m trying to catch his eye. Even though I am. Aren't I? Oh, bro. You should kill yourself. To this day, those words still sting. Dane Peters said them when Mrs. Singletary announced Mark Carrington and I would be playwriting partners for the entire spring semester senior year. I remember the look on Mark’s face too, the thousand yard stare of annoyance at the potential hit to his popularity. I still wince to this day thinking about Mark’s reaction when Dane said that. With an eyeroll and a huff, he turned not just his face, but his entire body away from me. His bros slapped his back and offered words of sympathy like he was going off to war, while the rest of the class tittered. Mortified, I slumped down in my seat and pulled my hair forward to hide my red face. The relationship deteriorated from there. Feelings went from delicate tolerance to aggressive hatred in our very first meeting at the library. All we had to do was pick a setting and characters for the theatrical two character / one act masterpiece we’d been assigned. But right from the get-go, I had to shut down his only three ideas, all of which involved MLB players confronting enemy pitchers. “Fine,” he'd snapped without even meeting my eye. “Just pick something.” The whole writing process went like that, me suggesting things, him sneering and rolling his eyes. By the time we finally made it to dress rehearsal, to the scene I'd written with the climax of the characters' relationship, a dramatic kiss that I hadn't really expected to have to act out myself, I'd rather have punched Mark than even fake kissed him. But my straight A streak was on the line, so I gave into a rehearsal kiss, barely a peck. Somehow, I felt that kiss down to my toes as I stepped back from him like I'd been struck by lightning. Predictably, Mark just frowned and shook his head. “That’s not how these two characters would kiss,” he said like he was suddenly Spielberg. “That was how you would kiss your gay pal at a party. Not how you would kiss someone you love. And these two characters are head over heels for each other, so…” “Well, how…” “Come here.” He curved his finger. That second kiss I felt in my soul. Time may cloud my memory, but I swear it lasted for an hour. Part of me is still in that kiss to this day. The memory still makes me miss Turnpike exits, for god’s sake. “Rose.” Night Vixen is back at my side with the first, I am sure, of many Tequila Sunrises. I take a sip and all of Mexico burns my tongue. “Thanks. It's just what I needed." She puts her black lips to my ears. “See those two guys over there?” She points a

black fingernail toward two besuited corporate looking types with slicked back hair and expensive phones. “What about them?” “Rumor on the street is, those two drones are from Halcyon Media.” Fuck. Halcyon is the evil media conglomerate that’s been trying to buy us out for years. I look the suits up and down, then watch Doc Bing saunter over to them as if on cue. Robert E. Lee looks a little panicked in his doggie bag. The lasers and booming synth music must be scaring him out of his little Yorkie mind. “Maybe,” I say. Night Vixen shakes her head. “Maybe Doc really is going to sell the station.” I shrug my shoulders and take another long drink. “They could be from some other corporation,” I say with a calmness I realize is more for my benefit than hers. The Halcyon rumor has been circulating longer than I care to count. No way it's true. Doc would've sold us a long time ago if he ever meant to. “Besides," I reason, "at this party, they're more likely from Bust Up and want to buy air time because of Mark.” “Maybe.” She does a twirly finger wave to Wolfie across the room. He winks at her. “He’s got my digits,” she gushes. I eye up the actor. He’s beach body hot with a lot of hair and dimples. He looks different when not a wolf, but there’s still something animal about him. “Good score." I take another long swig and the lights start to spin even more crazily. Wow. The sunless tequila is really kicking my ass. Then the house lights go up, thank god, and the lasers stop attacking my tipsy vision. The audience of journalists, actors and supermodels goes silent one by one. Then Lambertville’s own, the Bad Boy at Bat and my one time playwriting makeout partner, Mark Carrington enters the arena and steps up to a podium. He looks every inch as devastatingly hot as he did in high school, though older and a little rougher around the edges now. It suits him. And that dickish strut is still on point. My face gets hot. As he stands behind the podium, another man, his agent or PR rep probably, speaks about how awesome Mark is. It’s a drone in my ears because my eyes are feasting on Mark. He’s def hotter than the Google Images revealed. The longer I stare, the hotter I realize he's become since high school. His body filled out yet remained lean. He’s taller too, well over the six feet he was barely scraping senior year. His reddish brown hair is close cropped, because I guess that was the only way he could tame those wild curls. His nose—always the conversation piece of his face—is still prominent, but in a masculine way. It points down as his chin points up. But it’s really his eyes that rule the day. Even though I'm a good twenty feet away, I can see his blue irises are still as penetrating as they were in the library. When he trained them on me I would immediately shut the fuck up and forget whatever point I was making. They’re doing the same thing right now…my eyes dart to floor and my face feels like it’s on fire. Did he see me? Recognize me? Nah. No way he'd remember. Not Mark. “Damn." Night Vixen prods my arm. “That guy is hot. Not my type, but damn.”

The sunset has arrived on my first Tequila Sunrise, so Night Vixen procures me a second, which I suck down with fury as flashbulbs pop on Mark and Tommy Pizza shaking hands. After I suck down my third, I see Doc Bing waving me over to where he stands with the Bad Boy at Bat and his PR team. It’s high school reunion time. Powered by tequila, like all the best reunions. I steel my resolve and steady the rattling of ice coming from the glass in my hand. When I approach the huddle, Mark and I lock eyes. He has no expression on his face, so I do my best Lady Gaga Poker Face too, even though I'm dying inside. Then his look changes. He narrows his eyes and throws his shoulders back. “Rose Taylor, this is Mark Carrington," Doc Bing says. Mark looks at me like he’s looking around me, over me, through me. “Nice to meet you, Rose.” The lack of recognition hits me like a sucker punch. I thought he might need a moment to recognize me, might need to hear my name first, but really? I open my mouth to speak but he interrupts. “Later." He stalks off after some model chick. “I guess he doesn’t remember you after all,” Becks whispers in my ear with a smirk, and I regret ever admitting to her that I knew this asshole. When was it? Oh yeah, drunk at the office Christmas party, bragging about celeb encounters. I fume. I rage. I want to vomit. I feel like Tommy Pizza must have felt when Mark landed that sucker punch. Actually, I take that back. A physical blow would have been easier to take. By the time my fourth Tequila Sunrise has gone down, Mark Carrington has exited the building and, although it was cloistered behind the DJ booth, I have located the secret VIP bar. So has Tommy Pizza. A tall drink of water, Tommy’s long brown hair stops bluntly at his wide shoulders. He’s not a bad looking guy, in spite of the beady eyes and bruised left cheekbone. He tells me how much he hates ‘these stoopid events’ and asks me if I like the chicken fingers I keep stealing from his plate. “They're awesome,” I slur as I shove another one into my mouth. So...hungry... He’s keeping me in top shelf tequila since I told him I went to high school with Mark. “Sucker punch,” he sneers, pointing to his damaged face. I nod in sympathy. I knew it. The media and celebs emptied out when Mark left. Now only lucky fans who scored a guest list slot and a few radio folks remain to mack on free food and whatever is left of those shitty Cosmic Cocktails. Night Vixen left hours ago with Wolfie. Just fans, radio folk and one Mets player now. And drunk me. Tommy nudges the plate of half-eaten chicken fingers toward me and plops onto the next barstool. “You can have the rest,” he says with the same smile I've seen in his Sputnik Vodka ads. Another drink lands in front of me, because apparently when you’re a baseball player people will kill themselves to serve you, and I am loving the attention and the top shelf tequila. No more off-brand, open-bar shit for me. “What was Mark like in high school?” Tommy asks, sipping at his own drink. “Was he a violent thug then too?” As I linger with my glass against my lips, I give him a side-eye and his face

softens. “I mean, look…” He glances around and then trains his eyes back on me. “I’m just tryin’ to understand the guy, you know?” I sigh and nod. I remember Mark strutting around like he owned our high school. Never mind that he did, dammit. He was so damn popular, even then. I'm almost blind drunk and I slur out a couple of words, something about his cocky posing, but then suddenly I remember kissing him and I forget what I was saying. Tommy curves his plump lips into another smile and slides my Tequila Sunrise closer. “I know.” He sighs, and as his smile drops his eyes grow cold. He looks down and fingers his phone on the table. “Why do you think he’s like that?” I release a drunk groan. “Because reasons.” “But his family was okay, right?” he asks. His eyes are so wide that he looks like my five year old niece right now, all innocent and sweet. I feel this weird urge to make him happy. “God no.” I snort a dejected laugh and take another long sip. Tommy grabs my hand and squeezes and I feel like he’s my best friend of all time. “Tell me more.” And I do. I tell him all about Mark’s mess of a mom and his wreck of a dad and disaster of a childhood until I notice my glass is just ice. “Let me get you another,” he says. My vision is black around the edges and I have this need to press my forehead to the bar. “Nah.” I struggle to my feet. “I’m good.” “I bet you are.” Scooting his body closer, Tommy wraps his arm around my body and leans me against him. “Let’s go someplace quiet.” I try to get my arm off him, but he is too strong and I am pinned to him and he’s leading me to a dark arena gate behind the bar. I suddenly feel very, very, very small. He mashes his face to mine and sticks his tongue in my mouth as I try to push him off. “Just relax,” he murmurs. His other hand is on my thigh trying to maneuver between my legs and he’s still dragging me away. From light. From lasers. From people. To some dark corner. My eyes dart behind him until I see the familiar face of W-ALT’s noon DJ. “Ralph!” I call out as I squirm away from Tommy and bang into a wall. Tommy grabs my arm, but I shake it off and stumble into the skinny, safe arms of Rockin’ Ralph. “You OK?” Ralph looks over my shoulder toward Tommy. My arm hurts from Tommy twisting it. I rub the bruise I can already feel forming. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “Can you take me home? Please.” “Of course, Rose,” Ralph says, his voice gone hard all of a sudden. “I got you. Let’s get you out of here.”

4 MARK

“Is that it?” I mutter. “Really?” My eyes are glued to the crumbling red brick building with the flapping banner in front of Stanley’s Mercedes convertible. The radio building looks like a place where post-apocalyptic survivors would hide out from zombies. I expect Andrew Lincoln from Walking Dead to run out with a rifle and shoot me in the head. Part of me wishes he would. I spot the ancient fallout shelter sign and know I got some wood on the ball about the place. Part of me can’t believe Rose Taylor works here, but part of me can. True to form, she was as cold as ever to me at the party. She looked at me like I was trash. But she also looked good. She lost weight, though not as much as it looked like in her pictures. That’s good. She really didn’t need to lose an ounce. Especially not if it detracted from those luscious curves of hers... Stanley lets out a long breath next to me and I can’t tell if he’s in agreement about this bomb shelter or annoyed with me again. I feel a hot shot of anger in my chest, but remember what that headshrinker Todd said and count backwards from 100. Around 90, the anger has gone, but it was just a little burst this time. “This is a bad idea, Stan. This place looks…" I can't find the words. “This place is perfect,” he replies with the same sternness I’ve come to expect lately from him. “You’re the big fish in the miniscule pond here. It’s gonna look like you’re swooping in to save the place. We can play up the hero angle.” I sigh. It’s cool to be ‘that guy’ sometimes, when it’s some veteran’s charity BBQ or visiting the Make-A-Wish kids. But this pile of shitty bricks needs a demolition crew, not a savior. Alright, then. Time to dust off the cape. Maybe save the jobs of a couple DJ’s. Including the girl who hurt me in high school. I grimace. As long as she and I can keep it professional, it’ll be fine, I tell myself. Stanley nods at the building. “Showtime, slugger.”

The first thing that hits me in the lobby is the smell of stale beer blended with ancient tobacco smoke, barely disguised by a cheap floral air freshener. At least someone is trying. The walls are a faded yellow-white and the reception desk looks

like it was found on the street with a FREE sign taped to it. Behind it sits a blowup doll that someone put a fancy dress and a headset on. I stare the doll down for a minute, debating if this is a practical joke or just an indicator of the budget this studio operates with, that they hired a blowup doll for their receptionist. I start at 100 again like Todd Murphy taught me. 99. 98. 97… An older woman bounds out of an office and catches me by the shoulders, which makes me stiffen in surprise. She’s got a huge mane of sexy-messy red hair and what have to be brand new silicone tits. The perfect revenge. If Rose hasn’t changed since high school—and judging by the amount of side-eye I caught from her last night, she hasn’t—then hitting on this cougar in plain sight will definitely get a rise out of her. “I’m Becky Lynch. Becks.” She lets go of my shoulders, but only to squeeze my hand. She’s ignoring Stanley completely. I catch her eye and let it linger for a bit until I feel her hand melt in mine. That was an easy ball, way too simple to knock outta the park. “You have one hell of grip there. Ever tug at a bat?” I can tell by her naughty smile that she gets it. Her cheeks redden and she lowers her chin. “I’m glad to have you on our team,” she purrs. Behind me, Stan covers a snort by coughing loudly into his palm. “Well, miss.” I lean close to her and lower my voice. “I’m a team player.” She’s got a mom vibe, but she’s looking at me like I’m candy. “We met yesterday, you know.” Her cool, white hand is in mine and I give her the eye treatment. “I didn’t have a chance to get your number, though.” She’s sparkling right back at me with the matched aggression of a caged tiger. You gotta love older woman. They don’t fuck around when they fuck around. But no Rose Taylor yet, which means no making a big show of adding this cougar to the black book of pussy. When I do that, I want Rose to see it happen. “I’ll make sure to get yours today.” I grin at her, and Stan coughs again behind me. Fine, if Rose isn’t going to show, I’ll get a move on. “So, where do we start?” Before the redhead can answer, possibly because she’s still distractedly feeling up my bicep with her pencil-sharp fingernails, someone else, a guy, yells down the hallway. “Becks? Is that the new guy? Bring him on back to Rose’s office.” Stanley slaps my back. “Good luck, kid.” My heart skips a beat. “You ain’t staying?” I ask, in a voice that’s less confident than I’d like. His eyes stay on me and I see a twitch on his mouth. “You're on your own, kid.” Then I’m off down the rabbit hole with no one but Red to guide me.

Rose Taylor’s office is very Rose Taylor, but Rose Taylor ain’t in it. I should have expected she would make me wait. How long did I used to wait in the library for her? Or outside her house in my car? Or after school by the canal? Hell, half our

hangouts were me waiting on her, too doped up on endorphins to realize I was being jerked around. This is so her. Even Red has abandoned me. The guy who called us back, Chris something or other, went to fetch coffee, which I’m sure will be atrocious. So I’m left alone with Rose’s things. Her office walls are covered with posters and concert bills like it’s wallpaper. Most of the bands I’ve never heard of, but I recognize a couple big names. Pearl Jam, for example. That gets the memory bank going. Jesus how music could start an argument between us. At the time I was still a country fan (blame Lambertville). I used to troll her with Toby Keith at every possible opportunity. Wonder if he still makes her cringe. Her desk is controlled chaos. Cluttered, but there seems to be an order, like things just pile up and she’s got to constantly shift her priorities. I bet she complains to anyone who will listen about how busy she is. She did that back in high school too, always stressing about classes and homework and her perfect GPA. She’s such a liar, though. She loved the energy of working that hard. Even when she was swamped with finals, she’d volunteer for extra work, or extracurricular, or extra-anything she thought would be cool. It’s one of the things I liked about her, how she always kept me on my toes. Sometimes too far on my toes, if you know what I mean. I hear a beep and see her phone lying face up on her desk with a message from some contact named Geo. Is that a guy? Her guy? Nah, she’d broadcast that all over her social media. Wouldn’t she? Suddenly I regret not Facebook-stalking her one more time before I came in today. I focus my eyes on the message, unable to resist.

Is that dumb baseball jerk in da house?

Fantastic. I collapse in one of the chairs in front of her desk, then immediately stand up. Fuck that. I’m not waiting comfortably for her. I lean on her desk, but then think no, no way. Too posed. Trying too hard. I move around her desk and make myself comfortable in her chair. Yeah, that’s the ticket. I put my feet up on her desk and sprawl out. This will absolutely piss her off. I toy with the idea of continuing to pretend I have no clue who she is. I like that fire in her eyes, the one that set off immediately at the party last night. I hear her voice in the hall and I jump a little, but ease back into the chair and catch my breath. Be slow. Be easy. This is like eyeing the pitcher as he reels up. I’m gonna hit that ball hard. My heart slows down and I go to that place of pure calm and focus like I’m on home

plate. Bat in my hand. Right at home in the world. Chris pokes his head in the office. “Hey, man.” He steps in. Rose is right behind him, and when she sees my feet on her desk, her eyes flash with red hot anger. I cross my feet and smile. Chris falters at seeing me lounging there, but only for a second. “Uh, Mark. This is Rose Taylor.” I nod. “Sure, we met last night. You’re the producer, right?” She crosses her arms and glares, saying nothing. I hear her take the world’s deepest breath and exhale painfully slowly. More silence. Hot stare, but oh, ice, ice baby. I feel a tug at my crotch. She is pissed and I fucking love it. “Um.” Chris scratches his head. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it.” “Later, dude,” I reply, but without breaking eye contact with Rose’s red-hot glower. Her long hair hangs down to her waist. Even longer than it used to be back in high school, when I’d run my hands through it, clench a fist in it, pull her against me and... Stay focused, Mark. Her face is the same as it was in high school, but I swear her eyes are greener. I match her glare with an even broader smile. “So, Miss Producer, what do we do now?” She crinkles her nose at me and drops her hands to her hips. The sudden movement makes her tits jiggle. I smile and let my eyes just stay there on her chesticles. She never liked bras and I have always appreciated that choice. She’s positively scowling now and her face is red, but her nipples are harder than Red’s. “First you get your fucking feet off my desk, Mark Carrington.”

5 ROSE

The walk from my car to the station’s front door was icy and cold, but still I burned with anger. My arm is still throbbing from Tommy goddamn Pizza trying to twist it off last night. Bastard. This morning, I resent everything and everyone. My hangover has nothing to do with it. And now I have to deal with this shit. Mark Carrington. Big-headed, egotistical, prick of a high school punk who grew up into just as big of an egotistical baseball player. Going by his behavior last night, I guess his game plan is pretending he doesn’t know me at all? I know it was six years ago, but it’s not like it’s been six decades. Has he taken too many baseballs to the head? Maybe he’s just had too many models since then. He can’t keep us normal girls straight anymore. After I drop my stuff on my desk, I go grab a weak cup of coffee from the breakroom to prepare for my meeting with Mark, which is only minutes away. I take my time about it, too. Linger in the bathroom to double check my arms. I wore long sleeves today, thanks to Tommy fucking Pizza. He left a bruise around my bicep, telltale fingers and all. One good thing I’ll say about Mark—I don’t know his reasons, but at least he picked the right asshole Mets player to sucker punch. My short-lived goodwill toward my old high school fling evaporates, however, the second I stride back into my office. The Bad Boy at Bat sits in my office chair with his feet propped on my desk, wearing a smirk so sexy I can’t decide if I want to slap or kiss him. Slap. Definitely slap. Though I have to admit, he looks way too hot for 6:45 in the morning. His hair is still wet from a shower, his tight blue T-shirt shows off the muscles in his arms and chest and those jeans look like they were made to accentuate his large package. Thank god for those ugly as sin Adidas sneakers parked front and center on my desk, or I think I would’ve been overwhelmed by the hotness. Luckily the sneakers clash with the rest of his look, and remind me again exactly who I’m dealing with. The game-obsessed hothead who broke my heart years ago, and doesn’t even have

the gumption to remember doing it. Or at least, he pretends he doesn’t. That little smirk still toying around the edges of his lips makes me think that his fake We met last night line was designed just to piss me off. Well. Two can play at that game. “I’m waiting,” I say, eying those sneakers pointedly. In a slow, deliberate move, he swings them down off the desk. He does not, however, get his ass out of my chair. “So,” he says. “When are you going to thank me?” I lean over the desk to glare at him close up. I spent the last couple of days emailing him constantly, hearing nothing back, and asking the studio to fulfill ridiculous requests that he stipulated in his contract. He even made us give him a special-edition Derek Jeter bobblehead. I mean, what is that even about? “Thank you for what, exactly?” “For coming in here to do this gig. Saving your station’s bacon. I’m not exactly getting a salary from you guys, y’know…” I try to shoot bolts of electricity out of my eyes. Unfortunately that doesn’t work. Even worse, it feels like my rock hard nips might do that instead. Why do I get so turned on by his assholery? “You’ve got to be joking.” He smiles. “If I turned down this gig, this station would ‘go country’ and you know it.” He leans in so close I can smell the tinge of his shaving cream and his own particular aroma beneath it. He always had a great smell and my body is responding to it against my will. “And what’s it to you if we did ‘go country,’ Mr. Carrington?” I ask, one eyebrow raised, hands planted firmly on the desk between us. I’m calling this bluff once and for all. No way he brought up country, the worst genre on the planet, just by coincidence. Not after the way he used to torture me with it. “Well…” His eyes hook into mine. Fucking hell. They’re so damn blue they’re almost violet. Same stunning, intense, near-immobilizing stare as always. Luckily I’ve had a lot of years to practice standing up to guys like him now. I’m not a high schooler with a crush anymore. So why do my knees feel weak? “I know how much you hate country…” Mark cocks an eyebrow at me to sell his point. “And how do you know that, exactly, Mr. Anonymous Ballplayer Who Has Never Laid Eyes On Me ‘Til Last Night?” I narrow my own eyes right back at him. For a second, his gaze dips to my cleavage, and I use the moment to my advantage, pulling my arms together to give him just enough of a glimpse to leave him hot for more. Let him enjoy the hot seat for a minute. “I have a policy about girls,” he says, and his voice is steady, but his dilated pupils and parted lips tell a different story. Good. I still have some effect on him, no matter how many supermodels he’s hooked up with since me. “Kiss and run?” I suggest with a pointed eyebrow lift. To my surprise, he laughs. “Close.” Those goddamn eyes. How are they so blue?

It’s not fair. That color should be illegal. “I steer clear of any girls from my past who look pissed off about my very existence.” “Must be a long list of people you have to avoid,” I retort. “Ah, Rose,” he sighs, and my name in his mouth does terrible things to me. My knees sag in protest. Lucky for me I’m still leaning against the desk. “You haven’t changed a bit, you know.” I can’t tell if that’s admiration or regret in his eyes as he says it. Suppressing a laugh, I roll my eyes. “Neither have you, Mark.” He grins. “Well, I am a bit richer. And more famous. Also, I think the touch of gray thing that’s starting in my hair really adds character, don’t you?” he asks, leaning forward as if to point out gray hairs. Not that I can see any dotting his reddish-brown locks, cropped so much shorter now than they used to be in high school. I let out a bitter sigh. “Yeah, well, let’s hope your fame and fortune pays off for our studio, too. C’mon, Mr. Carrington, time to earn your unpaid keep.” Without another word, I turn and march out of the office. Behind me, it takes him a second to fumble at the desk before he rises to follow me. Part of me hopes, a little vindictively, that it’s because he’s struggling to conceal his excitement in the process. A glance over my shoulder catches him fidgeting with the crotch of his pants, and I can’t resist a victorious smirk as I spin away and aim down the hall. Through the door of the DJ booth, Night Vixen catches my eye and waves Mark’s printed bio over her head. Great, she has his intro lined up. Behind me, I hear Mark crack his knuckles. This must be his pre-game warmup. Wow, even that’s annoying. “Good luck,” Night Vixen whispers, touching my shoulder as she exits the booth. I nod before I turn to Mark. “Right. You remember everything from the video Chris sent you?” Basically, we dumbed down radio hosting for Mark to make it as idiot-proof as possible. All he has to do is sit in the booth and babble about sportsball or whatever. I’ll run all the buttons, the tech, line up the intros, queue up songs between bits, and man the lines. You know, all the actual work. But when I hand him the incredibly expensive headphones Chris purchased for him, Mark crinkles his nose at me like I’ve asked him to wear a tutu. “I don’t like wearing anything on my head.” I stare at him. “FCC rules, Mark. You have to wear headphones on the air.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s radio, Rose. Who’s gonna know?” I push the headphones into his chest. “I will.” As I press the phones harder to his chest, I lock eyes with him in a dare. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to ignore the fact that I can feel his heartbeat pulsing beneath the headphones, where my hand digs against his chiseled muscles. After a few weird seconds of a Mexican standoff, his mouth twitches into a smile and his eyes shift to my boobs. “I’ll give it to you good, boss,” he says, and I can’t deny the thrill of electricity

that his words send straight to my crotch. I watch him snap the headphones on in a manner I would describe as mocking. Though, OK, he does make headphones look sexy. If he were wearing them in an ad, I would totally buy them. Especially if he had his shirt off in said ad. Or if there was water pouring across his abs. Mmm. Never mind that water and electronics don’t mix. Damn, now I’m just straight up picturing him in place of my Anonymous Adonis at the beach encounter. Ugh. This, of course, is exactly why Mark makes millions posing with a single energy drink can or power bar. Damn him. “Keep them on at all times,” I add as we enter the booth. Two minutes until show time. The phones are already lighting up like crazy, even though the pre-recorded intro hasn’t even finished playing. I guess people really want to talk to Mark. Go figure. I’d pay anything not to have to deal with his grumpy ass right now. After settling into my own headphones, I cue up the show’s intro, a punk rock version of Take Me Out to the Ball Game with a voice overlay that sounds like the Second Coming is about to go live on air. I see Mark pump up in the chair with his chest thrust out and his chin up. With a shit-eating grin on his face, he’s bobbing his head to the beat. My eyebrows rise. To be honest, what with his big hard-on for country back in the day, I’d expected him to hate this intro. But hey, people change. Maybe he grew some good taste in music. As agreed by everyone involved, Mark’s first segment is his on-air apology. And, as I listen to him deliver it live in person, heartfelt and almost tearing up as he describes his love for baseball and respect for all the other players on the field, even I have to admit it’s really good. Then again, it was written by the best PR team money can buy. Who knew our Bad Boy at Bat was such a good actor, too? I am sure there’s not a dry eye or vagina in the listening audience. As I line up eight calls and enter them on his screen, Mark rounds out his apology, totally owning the mic. He’s got the confidence of a carnival barker, movie-star good looks, and hell, even his radio voice sounds like he was born to host. He has a hard Jersey accent, but his voice is deep and sure, and the accent makes him sound like a real person. Just your bad boy next door who got famous overnight. I swear to god if this radio gig lands him voice work for pushing furniture polish or something lame and well-paid, I will blow a gasket. Does he have to be good at everything he does? I lean back in my chair and give him a wrap it up signal with a twirl of my fingers. He nods understanding. He looks dead at me and the intensity makes me tremble but I hold his gaze. “So, here I am now, talking to all of you. I love baseball and doing this show until spring training is a great way to explore my first love.” I give him another finger signal and he shoots me a quizzical look. Ugh. Noob. I pry his headphone aside and whisper. “Commercial break. Say we will be back with your calls and I will take care of the rest, OK?”

He nods. “We’ll be right back after the break, and then we’ll take our first calls from some of you loyal die-hard wankers.” I cut his mic and roll the first commercial. I see him relax on his chair and smile like he effortlessly hit a home run. Which he basically just did, not that I’ll ever admit it. He catches my eye and makes a muscle pose with both arms crunched in the air then kisses both of his biceps. “I rule,” he mouths at me. “You have calls next,” I reply, deadpan. “With the people you just insulted.” Let’s see how he handles that. “Not a problem.” He grins. “My fans love to hate me.” And they do. It’s a weird hate / love thing he’s got going on with his fans, who Mark calls his “die-hards.” The only thing I can think to compare it to is the way fanboys feel about Darth Vader. He’s evil, but you have to admit he’s pretty damn cool. And maybe redeemable in the end, who knows. I have my hands full working to cut off a couple of potty mouths, though thank god we’re on a three second delay. I finally put one through who wants to abuse Mark, but sticks to PG-13 language. Works for me. “Hey, d-bag,” the caller from Ozone Park says. “Why don’t you pack it up and go to the Astros? New York is sick to death of you.” “Your mother’s not.” Mark smirks. “Next caller.” “Rory from Staten Island,” I whisper into Mark’s headphones. Mark nods. “What do you want, Rory?” “I got a dart board with your picture on it.” “And I’m sure you’re as good as a blind wombat at hitting it.” “You ain't faced Clayton Kershaw yet. He’s gonna separate the men from the boys.” “So I guess I won't see you at that game,” Mark rebuts. “As for Kershaw, LA is going to wish they’d found a pitcher with a stronger arm to go up against me. Next caller.” The vitriol thrown at Mark only amps him up more. Pretty soon he’s bouncing in his seat and grinning like a kid. Suddenly, this explains a lot about our dynamic back in high school. Bastard enjoys being screwed with, I swear. The next call seems to be Mark’s favorite so far, from a dude who calls himself Mack, a Mets fan from Long Island who speaks like someone is strangling him. They talk about stats until I go blind in boredom, but the phones are lighting up like mad while they drone on and on. I mean, who cares what this person I’ve never heard of is averaging at bat in post-season games? Are post-season games even a thing? Why? Who knows! I interrupt Mack and Mark’s bro-out to throw another caller in. This one claims they’re both wrong, and wants to call them out for not disagreeing enough over Mets vs. Yankees. Sports fans and their blood feuds, man. I have to admit, though, as Mark gets going on this new caller, his voice rising and his face heating up, there’s something striking about him. The fire in his eyes threatens to burn down the whole studio, and you can practically feel the passion boiling off his skin. He catches me staring and winks, nodding as if I give a crap what he’s talking

about now. More statistics. Yawn. I shoot him a sarcastic thumbs-up in reply and line up our first official celebrity guest caller, Charlie Barnes, who we invited to talk about his new sports doping book. We sent Mark the book like a week ago, but something in my gut tells me that he probably didn’t bother to prep questions. Well, serves him right if he didn’t. “Wind it down now,” I say directly to Mark’s headpiece, and he cuts right into the other two callers’ talk mid-convo. “Aaaand that’s all we have time for now, but remember die-hards, the Mets can suck it!” I dump the callers and roll into a commercial segment. All national ads. Becks must be rolling in these commissions. Damn. Mark might really be the boost we need to stay in the black—and out of Halcyon’s clutches. “Wasn't I great?” He plucks his headphones off his head. “I was made for this. I love talking to these beautiful die-hards.” “Hey, hey, you’re not done yet.” I shove the headphones back toward his ears. “Put those back on.” “Down, girl,” he growls into the mic, but he snaps his phones back in place. “Happy?” “The next segment is Charlie Barnes. I got him on the line ready to go, if you have your questions prepped.” I shoot him an I-can’t-wait-for-this-excuse look. “Who?” He looks like I just asked him to define ‘irony’ and use it in a sentence. “The author.” His face remains blank. “Chris sent you his book along with your contract to work here. Your agent confirmed you received it.” “Book?” “Yes, you know. Words printed on pieces of paper, lodged between covers. Generally used to convey useful information or stories. Like this guy, who wrote about doping scandals among your beloved ballplayers.” He cracks his knuckles. “Oh. Him.” I narrow my eyes. “So you didn’t read it.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You know me, Rose. Never been much for literature. That was always your area of expertise.” “This is part of your contract, Mark. We need you to talk to this guy. He’s up to number 3 on the New York Times bestseller list right now, and he had a lot of important things to say in the book.” He rolls his eyes. “Let me guess. Some jocks juice. Some don’t. Much scandal, the end.” I look over at the ad countdown. Thirty seconds until we’re back live. “You’re going to need to ask him questions about the book. About the topic. Engage with him.” Mark nods coolly. “I can talk about juicing. Don’t sweat it. What’s the guy’s name again?” I grimace. This is going to go horribly. But Mark still has that cocky grin on, so who knows, maybe he can wing this after all. “Charlie Barnes. The book is Bases Loaded.”

He snorts. “Real creative title.” The last commercial ends, and I signal Mark to shut up and start. Last thing we need is him insulting this guy on-air—we’ll never get another featured guest to sign on again. “Our first guest is Charlie Barnes, author of the New York Times bestseller Bases Loaded!” Mark takes a breath. “How’s it hanging, Charlie?” “Not bad. Thanks for having me. I’m a huge fan, Mark.” “Well duh.” And then, suddenly, crickets. For a second, I check the connection, thinking we must have a faulty line. But then I glance over at Mark, and realize it’s not the tech that’s glitching. Mark is frozen, literally. His mouth hangs open and his eyes are glued in an empty daze, staring at the mic in front of him. “Hello?” Charlie taps his phone, and static bursts across the airwaves. “Connection okay?” “Ask him about the book,” I hiss into Mark’s headphones. But I get no response. Fuckballs. For a brief, delightful moment, I think of letting Mark drop on his ass. Just let the dead air get so loud it’s the only thing in the world. For the first time in his life, Mark will fail hard. The look on his face right now is priceless revenge. And frankly, it’s making me a little horny seeing him so out of his depth. I shoot him the smug look he always gives me and arch an eyebrow. He opens his mouth wider, but nothing comes out. Ah, victory. So sweet, and yet, so fleeting. Guess it’s up to me to save his ass yet again. I turn on my mic before Chris comes busting in the production booth with the office axe. “Hi, Charlie,” I breathe into the mic. My voice goes husky and sensual, not my usual on-air just-the-facts drone. I’m channeling my inner Scarlett Johansson, and from the way Mark’s expression shifts from stupefied fear to an intense, kind of hungry stare, I know I’ve nailed it. “Rose Taylor here, Mark’s cohost. We’re all huge fans of your book here at the station, particularly because it’s got such a controversial pitch.” I raise my eyebrows at Mark to emphasize my point. “You argue that the MLB should legalize some types of performanceenhancing drugs. Why take a stance like that?” “W-Well, Rose,” Charlie says with a nerdy little stutter. I can practically feel him blushing from my Johansson impression via the radio waves. It’s more than a little gratifying. “I think we should all stop pretending. It happens all the time. It will continue to happen. No matter how many regulations you put into place, there’s no stopping it completely.” Mark is still clueless and silent, but I notice his jaw is popping. His temples throb and his face gets red. His eyes are on me, his expression torn between awe and defeat. Or maybe a hint of both. I’ll take that, too. I lean closer to the mic. “So you think that just because tests to detect drug use are difficult to implement, we should just give in and make cheating legal?” I practically purr. “It’s hardly cheating if it’s a sanctioned action, implemented across every level

of the playing field. Not to mention, when you break some of these drugs down to their components—take steroids, for example. We’ve been using them medicinally for decades now. We’ve come a long way in synthesizing and working to make them safe to ingest, for people who really need the help, for example in cases of allergic reaction, or difficulty with other medications. Not all steroidal treatments are created equally.” Before Charlie can drone on too long about that, though, Mark’s eyes finally come to life again. He shakes off whatever invisible force was keeping his mouth clamped shut for once. “But what about the side effects, man?” “As I was saying, some types have side effects, yes, and they vary depending on the type of drug and the dosage. But if we’re willing to use these drugs to treat sick and injured patients, why not expand the reach—” “Dude, you treat sick people with ‘roids to make them healthy again. Because you need to. Not because they decide it’ll be helpful for their career.” I hear Charlie huff into my headphones, and I lean back in my seat a little, grinning. Now we’re onto something. “It would need to be a personal choice, of course,” Charlie says. “Each player would have to decide for themselves whether it was the right idea for them—” “And what’s going to incentivize them to not do ‘roids?” Mark replies angrily. He sits up in his seat now, and closes his eyes for a second. His lips form words, but I can’t read them. Is he…counting something? I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mark,” Charlie’s replying. “Think about it. We make our living based on our ability to compete in this league. If all of the best players in the MLB start to dope, then everyone else is going to need to dope just to keep up. You’re talking about taking steroids from being a sometimes-used crutch for cheaters into a league-wide sanction—that’s as good as making it a requirement to dope. That’s just irresponsible, man.” “Maybe, or maybe it’s the price athletes are already paying, under-the-wire, with closeted treatments, just to keep up in a field that’s asking more from them every day. Maybe it’s time we took steps to make this above-the-table so that at least that way doctors know what signs to look for, and how to help—” “So just because we make a lot of money playing the sport, we should all put our own bodies at risk?” I lean back in my chair, grinning myself now. From here, they don’t need any more nudges—I only interrupt now and then, Scarlett-style, to introduce the odd caller or two during breaks in their ever-more-heated debate. I have to hand it to Mark, too. He knows exactly how to use his ‘die-hards’ in his battle against Charlie. Unfortunately, watching him do so is turning me on like no other. I love watching a man take control, and I love the way Mark is using the passion of his callers to support his point. I love how invested he is in this discussion—this isn’t just some theoretical debate for him. It’s his whole life, and you can tell in one glance that he’s fired up as hell. I love that Mark is owning this. For a few minutes, I’m not even bothered by the fact that he’s winning. Again.

All I can think about is how gorgeous he is. From his sharp jawline all the way down to his large, calloused hands, he’s a larger than life kind of guy with a big personality and the confidence to match. He throws his shoulders in the mix when he laughs and uses his hands when he talks in a way that makes me unable to look away. And when he looks at me too, well… Forget tearing my gaze away. When he casts those blue eyes in my direction, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. He’s doing that to me right now as he argues with Charlie about trying to turn athletes into glorified gladiators. He doesn’t lose the beat of his argument, but his red hot gaze makes me feel as though I’m spread out naked before him, his for the taking. And I fucking love it. As if he’s reading my mind, he gives me this little naughty smirk, only half his mouth, and his eyes crinkle around the edges. Flustered, I look away. Suddenly there is no past, there is no future. There is just now and my aching, desperate longing for him. Fuck. “I am not a gladiator, dude. I am a professional, and I deserve the same consideration as any other professional out there—from office workers to CEOs to the guy working on the assembly line at a car factory. This is my job, not a battleground.” Mark watches me, eyes on my mouth now. Almost unable to help myself, torn between wishing this show would keep going and being grateful it’s finally over so I can sneak off to the bathroom and relieve some of this pent up tension—god, am I wet? I cross my legs. I am—I lean across to tap my mic. “On that note, Charlie, I want to thank you again for calling in and offering your counterpoint here. That’s all for our show today, but tune in tomorrow for more of everyone’s favorite Bad Boy at Bat, Mark Carrington.” “More for you die-hards tomorrow,” Mark adds with a smirk. “Bye for now.” I break into another set of ads, and lean back in my chair. Then, for a long moment, Mark and I just stare at each other. I feel a glistening cool sweat on my hot skin and my breath is getting shorter and faster the longer the silence stretches. Oh, crap. My mic is on, too. Hope he didn’t hear that, or realize why I’m so flustered. Feeling my cheeks start to burn, I switch off my mic and busy myself with turning off the lines. In my headphones, I hear him chuckle softly. “Admit it, that was pretty good for my first try,” he says, breaking the tense silence. “It was alright,” I tell him with grudging respect. A small smile curves on his lips. I’m about to really let him have it, but as I open my mouth to do so, he stands up and towers over me and I can think is damn. Those shoulders. That chest, so rock-hard I can practically see the sculpted lines of his muscles through his T-shirt. “We’re good together,” he says, moving closer. “Don’t you think?” He’s way too close now, right above me, and I can feel the heat wave cascading off his skin onto mine. I cross my arms against temptation, but I can’t help myself. My body leans forward just a little, of its own accord. “It was OK,” I repeat. I turn my gaze away,

stubborn, and grab a gel pen from the studio board to distract myself. “That almost sounds like praise.” I sigh, audibly. “Don’t get used to it.” “Ah, you missed me, Rose. Don’t lie.” He leans over me, and I glance up, unable to resist a peek. Those eyes of his lock onto mine immediately, and it’s all I can do to keep my gaze from drifting down to his mouth. His full lips, which hover just a few inches from mine. How long has it been since I last tasted him? Would he still taste the way I remember, strong and masculine with just a touch of sweet? Damn, I’m looking at his lips now. I only notice when he licks them, and then I realize he’s staring at mine, too, and tilting closer, closer… Fuck, I think, somewhere way back in the distracted part of my brain still trying to cling to reality. He’s going to kiss me. And I’m going to let him… “How’d it go?” Chris, oblivious as ever, Lord love him, bounds into the DJ booth, a stack of records in tow. “That was the highest call volume I’ve seen on the lines in months, you know. Congrats, guys.” He reaches over for a high-five, and only then seems to notice the way we’re standing, bodies far too close together, our faces flushed. Or at least, mine is. Though I’d swear Mark looks a little hot under the collar too, his cheeks tinted reddish at the edges. Good to know I’m not the only one losing my mind. “Highest call volume in months, huh?” Mark wiggles his eyebrows at me, back in full taunting mode, and that snaps me out of my spell. I roll my eyes and brush past him out of the booth. “It’s just new kid on the waves hype. Don’t worry; our listeners will be sick of you by next week,” I call over my shoulder. Our listeners might, but me? Well. If six years of hating him didn’t make me sick to my stomach of Mark Carrington, I’m not sure there’s a power in the universe that can save me from his devilry now. I am so screwed.

6 MARK

I race out of the studio as fast as I possibly can, considering how hampered my walk is by the raging hard-on digging into my jeans. The blowup doll is manning the front desk again, thank god, since she definitely gets an eyeful of my boner as I struggle past. I climb into my truck and collapse against the seat, frustrated, confused, angry… and hard as hell. She wanted to kiss me, I know it. I know Rose, dammit, even after all these years, and that fire in her eyes was unmistakable. But then she stormed out of the DJ booth like she was being chased by hellhounds less than a minute later. I tried to follow her, but she slammed her office door in my face. Cold, hot. Hot, cold. Same cycle. Same show. Same pattern since Lambertville. She drives me crazy, still, even now. How could I possibly let a girl like her get under my skin? Some little radio DJ I haven’t seen since high school? I am Mark fucking Carrington. I do not choke around girls. Girls choke around me—in more ways than one. But not Rose. She’s far too stubborn for that. I ease back in my truck seat to relieve some of the pressure on my groin. Goddamn it. I wonder if anyone would notice if I undid my jeans right here, wrapped my fist around my cock and pictured exactly what I really wanted to do to Rose Taylor in that DJ booth…I’d make her suck me so hard. But no. It’s broad daylight, and it turns out this radio spot isn’t as far out in the middle of nowhere as I thought it was when I arrived at the crack of dawn. There are people crawling all over the lot now, and the last thing I need to do is add more gossip fuel to the bonfire already raging about me. Fine. I can make it home. I slam the car into gear and peel out of the lot. I can’t believe I have to do this show now for the next six weeks. Off season I should be on some tropical island sucking back Dos Equis and eyeing up beach girls in dental floss bikinis. Instead, I’m in nowhere Jersey at a nothing station being treated like I’m nothing. My anger at Stanley burns. Who the hell does he think he is, signing me up for this like I’m some misbehaving teenager? I’m a professional. So I decked a guy who had it coming; who the hell in my field hasn’t? He wants me

to be the bad boy when it suits him, but not when it causes minor amounts of trouble. First sign of bother and he dumps me on the nearest bystander. Now I’m stuck with Rose. And Rose…a Rose is a Rose is a Rose. No matter how many home runs I’ve hit, no matter how many millions of dollars I’ve made, she still thinks she’s so much better than I am. She looks at me like a dirt stain on her impeccable shoes. And fuck me if I don’t think she’s right, half the damn time. Before I can help myself, I’m remembering. Speeding down the highway toward my house, there’s nothing to stem the memories that flood my brain.

“Mark, come in. Rose is in the kitchen finishing up the mashed potatoes.” Walking past Rose’s mother into their house, I felt like I’d stepped into one of those family sitcoms from the 80’s or 90’s. Everything was nice and clean and perfect. Light filled the house and it smelled like baked bread. Lush plants, flowered throw pillows, gold-framed family portraits where everyone is smiling. A plush couch, a flickering fireplace, a nearly finished jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table. Through a window, my eyes caught a glimmer of the above ground pool in the backyard with brightly colored rafts and noodles floating in it. Even the dog that begged me to pet it looked Hollywood-ready. “That’s Dino,” Rose’s mom said. “He loves meeting new people.” Her dad wore dad khakis and shook my hand. “Come over here, Mark,” he said. “Might rain, so I decided to cook inside instead of grill. Help me with these steaks, will ya?” Steaks. The biggest, fattest, juiciest steaks I ever saw in my life. I’d never grilled meat before, but her dad showed me how to do it, when to flip them and when to use the tongs to shift them off the heat onto our plates. The Taylors weren’t rich, her dad an accountant, her mom a teacher. But they were rich to me. In more than just money. Rich in all the really important ways. Our dinner conversation was about books they read and vacations they took. They laughed and tried to pull me into the discussion, but I just kept smiling and nodding, because what did I have to offer these people? I’d never read those books. I’d never gone on a single trip with my family, let alone a few dozen. Hell, some of the places they went I’d never even heard of. I was pretty sure Rose hadn’t clued her parents in on my home life, and all I could think throughout the whole dinner was how they would’ve treated me if they knew. But Rose smiled at me and bragged about my ball game, my playwriting skills, even my college picks. It made my ears burn, because it felt like she was trying to talk them into liking me. Like she knew right off the bat that I wasn’t good enough for her parents, or for her, but she was trying desperately to convince herself I was. “Mark got a 100 on that history test I was telling you about,” she said, and it felt like she was trying to say, Look, he’s somewhat redeemable. Not a complete ogre. But I was. I always have been. Not my problem that she tried to convince herself I was someone I’m not.

After another firm handshake from her dad, her mom surprised me with a hug at the door. “We hope you come back soon,” she told me. I remember that, specifically. Because I never saw them again.

7 ROSE

When I get home, I see Geo curled up in front of her laptop in the living room looking like a self-satisfied cat as she paws at her dreads. “I thought you were going to that protest,” I say as I hang my coat up in the hallway closet. “Was it too cold to occupy whatever today?” With her eyes glued to her laptop screen, she waves me over and pats the couch cushion next to her. “You’re all over the internet, girl.” “What?” I plop down next to her and she shoves her laptop in my face. To my surprise, she has TMZ on the screen. She thinks gossip is mean and boring, so I’m shocked she’s tainted her computer. “What are you…” “Watch.” TMZ plays an audio clip highlight from Mark’s show. Chris must have given it to them after I locked myself in my office for the rest of the day. My eyes widen. I can’t believe he didn’t call me. “What the hell?” I manage as I grope for my cell phone. Geo slaps my leg to shut me up, and points me to her screen again. Sure enough, a second later, I hear my Scarlett Johansson impression voice over the speakers. As the audio plays, some TMZ commentator wiggles their eyebrows and makes jokes about Mark’s hot new radio girlfriend. “Tell me that isn’t you.” Geo smirks. “I don’t sound anything like that!” I protest. She raises an eyebrow. “Please. Like I don’t recognize your please-sex-me-now voice by this point, girl.” “OK, OK.” I laugh and try to shake off my surprise. “I just can’t believe TMZ is playing this.” She shoots me a WTF expression. “Uh, hello? Mark Carrington is only the hottest sports player right now. Even I know who he is and I’ve never seen a baseball game in my life.” “But TMZ, that’s huge…” “Dude, it’s not just TMZ. It’s everywhere. Everyone is talking about doping in sports and the show and everything. Look at this…” She pulls up another site, SportsScoop.com, which is discussing Mark’s argument with Charlie. From there, she sends me to another page, one of the

celebrity gossip rags’ online forums, where there are several very long message board threads dedicated to the chemistry between the Bad Boy of Baseball and the mysterious sexy voice known only as Rose. “She shoots she scores.” Geo holds up her fist. I tap it without much heart. “Aw,” she pouts. “Come on, even if he’s not that great a lay, this is good for your station, right?” “Oh, totally. It’s awesome publicity.” I force a smile. She taps my arm with her still closed fist, completely not fooled. “What happened, homie?” I collapse my shoulders in a shrug. “You know I went to high school with him, right?” “Mark Carrington?” I nod and Geo bursts out laughing. She throws herself back on the couch, barely catching her laptop from falling on the floor. “No. Way,” she gasps when she recovers from her laughing fit. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you know him back then? I can’t imagine he was in the Audio Visual club. Or was he? Oh my god, was he a nerd?” I crinkle my nose. “Nah, still a total jock, even back then.” “Okay, so spill. How’d you, queen of all things uber-dorky, know this protosuperstar?” She stares at me, waiting, and I can’t resist her open, earnest face. My cheeks burn as I admit it. “We sort of kind of made out in the library. Twice. And in his car a few times. Okay, a few dozen times...” Her eyes pop and her jaw drops. “Get out. You dated Mark Carrington in high school?” I snort. “I’d hardly call it dating. We were partners in our drama class. Occasionally one thing led to another.” She rolls her eyes. “Did he or did he not meet your family?” “I…” I grimace. “It was high school—the rules were different back then!” “Totally dated.” She laughs. “Whatever,” I grumble, rubbing my temples hard. “Sure, I guess we kind of went out.” “And now, what, you guys are rekindling that high school flame?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Oh my god, that makes a cuter story than freaking Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis, you know.” I take a moment before I shake my head hard. “It’s not like that.” Geo squints. “Why not?” I shake my head again. “He dumped me for a cheerleader and took her to prom. He’s the same now as he was back then—he’s into supermodels, actresses. Not… you know.” I make a sweeping gesture at my torn rock band T-shirt and my messy leggings. Geo rolls her eyes. “Please. You’re as hot as any model. Besides, didn’t you ever wonder what you…” I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL Thank god Joan Jett has interrupted the inquisition. I know Geo and she was about to go deep, way too deep for me at this moment.

My relief only lasts for half a second, however. My phone screen announces that it’s Doc Bing calling. “Shit, it’s the big boss,” I tell Geo. Great. Now what? His calls never mean anything good. Maybe he’s pissed I had to interrupt the show earlier to save Mark. Maybe I’m going to get a lashing for failing to prep Mark well enough in advance for the author interview. Oh, fuck. My skin gets clammy and my heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. I stand up, take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Doc.” “Hello, sweetheart,” he coos. Sweetheart? I almost drop the phone. For a second I wonder if he’s possessed, or if someone else is calling from his number. But no, I recognize that bored drawl of his; I’d know it anywhere. I’ve just never heard him call me—or anyone, for that matter—anything as sappy as “sweetheart.” “Uh, hello,” I finally stammer. “You know this is Rose, right?” Maybe he thinks he called Becks. She’s his favorite—being the one who brings in the cold hard cash and all. I hear the yap of Robert E. Lee before Doc Bing starts yapping himself. “Fantastic job today, Miss Taylor. Really great start to our new segment. Exactly the kind of pickup I was hoping for. Becks says she’s signed more ads this week than the last year combined.” “Oh, great,” I say, catching my breath. Geo is shooting me a confused look, torn between excitement and asking me WTF with her eyes. I shrug wildly back at her in response. In all the time I’ve worked with him, I’ve never been called by Doc for anything other than a blowup. This praise is throwing me off my game. Then I hear Doc clear his throat, and part of me relaxes. Right. Here it comes. “I’m going to need more,” he says. Well that’s helpful, I think. Totally clears that right up. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I reply, “More?” “You have great chemistry with that Yankee. The news outlets have been eating it up. Radio sexpot and the Bad Boy. Everyone wants more, more, more.” He clears his throat again, and I can practically hear his shark-like smile. “Congratulations, Miss Taylor. You’re Mark Carrington’s new co-host.” For a solid minute, I can’t reply. I can’t even think straight. My eyes must be bugging straight out of my head. Now Geo looks more concerned than confused. I wave her off, and shake my head at the same time, then realize Doc can’t see me, of course. I clear my throat hard. “But…” “Glad that’s settled. Got to run now, sweetheart. Toodle’oo!” I hear a click on his end of the phone. He’s gone, just like that. But I know there would be no arguing with him even if he was still on the line. I just blink at Geo with my mouth hanging open. “What?” she finally prompts. “I know absolutely nothing about sports.” “Duh. Last time we went to a sports bar for a basketball tournament, you yelled ‘touchdown’ for every basket.” I sit down next to her with a heavy thump. “Doc wants me to be Mark’s co-host for his morning show. The entirety of which is sports talk, and nothing but.”

Geo rubs my arm. “You were great today. Just keep doing that.” “What, imitating Scarlett Johansson and flirting with our guests?” “Well, the audience ate it up this time. Why not?” “I’m going to make a complete fool of myself! I’ll be written off as just another dumb radio show blonde getting by on my looks and my ability to fake a sexy voice. Not to mention, what will happen to all our regular listeners if they start to think the whole station is full of bimbos like me?” Geo rolls her eyes and shoves to her feet. “You’re overthinking this, girl. It’s a good thing, trust me. The whole internet is blowing up with rumors about you and a hot as hell sports star, you’re going to become radio famous, and you’re worried about sounding a little ditzy?” I bite my lower lip and sigh. “I guess when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad…” “Damn straight it doesn’t.” She leans in to tousle my hair. “Now, I know just the way to celebrate your promotion.” “It’s not a promo—” “S’mores!” she announces, bouncing away toward the kitchen before I finish protesting. Well. Can’t argue with that. However this radio show is gonna go, be it a success or a disaster, s’mores will help take my mind off worrying. But as we stand in our little kitchen and watch the microwave rotate, heating up our marshmallowy snacks, my mind drifts back to the bonfire I went to before Homecoming my senior year. The party where Mark first locked eyes with me across a busy crowd of high schoolers, and winked. I blushed bright red, even as I rolled my eyes at the stupid jock, thinking he could flirt his way in with me, of all people. That memory, though, brings up a zillion others, hot on its heels. Pretty soon I’m lost in thought, remembering the DJ booth this morning, his strong, chiseled chest inches from mine, his eyes on my face, our lips so close that if I’d only tilted my head upright, we would’ve kissed… I shake my head and distract myself by thinking about prom. Senior year prom. The one to which he brought Katie Cross, head cheerleader, instead of me. I skipped it, because hell if I was going to stand around moping after him when he pulled that kind of shit. But even though I was in the middle of a hella epic Rancid show at Irving Plaza, my eyes were glued to Twitter all night. Watching update after update post to the #DHSProm thread, and I swear he was the only student getting his damn photo taken. Katie was leaning all over him in every single one. “So I bet this all helped with the line-up, huh?” “Huh?” I echo, blinking back into reality. Geo is staring at me, a plate of freshly heated s’mores cooling on her palm. I pick one off the plate and try to focus. “Frightened Rabbit. You were going to talk to them about the line-up for our podcast.” Her brown eyes are wide and innocent and that makes me feel worse for dropping the ball on reaching out to the band’s management. I grimace. “Geo, I’m sorry…” “You forgot.” Those wide brown eyes stay just as wide and empty of feeling, but

I can see a vein ticking in her forehead, and a sour pool of guilt churns in my stomach. The fact that she’s not angry makes it even worse. “Things got a little crazy at the station today. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to them.” “You know we have less than a week before our first episode launches, right?” “It’ll be fine. I promise.” She watches me for a long, quiet moment. Then she finally nods, and sets the plate down. “Come on, let’s work on our soundtrack queue again.” I push Mark out of my mind and give Geo—my understanding, s'mores making, good-hearted activist bestie—my full attention for the rest of the night. If I can’t stop obsessing over him, I can at least remember to obsess over the right people in my life, too.

8 MARK

A week into the show, I already want to throw in the towel. I thought this would be an easy gig. Some little two-bit show that I put in an hour a day on. But lately, it’s been all I can think about, even when I’m not in the DJ booth recording, or reading the million emails, schedules, books and memorandums about the damn show that Rose keeps sending me. I swear she’s doing this on purpose. High school all over again—she was not the kind of girl who’d let me copy her homework the day of just to get on my good side. She always made me work for it, and hard. Right now, though, I can’t say the hard work has been all terrible. It has been a lot more fun than I care to admit being on air, especially in the segments where Rose and I work together. We tag-team our guests—I ask the hardball sports questions, and she chats them up, flirts in that sultry, sexy voice of hers (which I swear sounds even better than it did back in high school), and butters them up so I can swoop in for the kill. Yeah, we make a good team. And we aren’t the only ones who have noticed—the whole ‘net is exploding with rumors about us. But at the end of the day, this isn’t my passion. I don’t want to become another washed-up has-been star who spends the rest of his life talking about the damn game instead of playing it. Which means I need to cut this radio success off at the pass, before it starts to really impact my career. Before people start to think of me as a disc jockey first and a regular jockey second. I’m at my usual masseuse, getting my back broken in half by Miranda, when my phone rings. It takes me a second to register the name, because it’s been so long since my good-for-nothing pissed-off agent called. “Uh, Stanley…” is all I manage to get out before Miranda kneels on my back with her whole body weight and I groan. “You’re going to a kid’s charity thing tonight. So is your co-host. Wear a tux.” That’s it? I think. No greeting? No hey how’s it going? No sorry I haven’t called you every other day like I normally do? I scowl at my phone and wait for Miranda to ease up a little. “Where?” I ask. “And what charity?” “The Meadowlands,” he says. “Little Sluggers.” I do like the Little Sluggers. It’s a really cool charity that encourages special

needs kids to play baseball. It’s one of my favorite do-good things because the people who host it are really devoted to their jobs and the kids are so great. But even mention of my favorite charity doesn’t lighten my mood right now. “I’m sure it’ll be a great photo op,” I grunt between punches from Miranda. “Especially considering we’re going to get one of you and Tommy Pizza both.” I feel my back pop in knots, then Miranda pushes them down. “Deep breath,” she purrs. Too late for deep breaths. “You have got to be kidding,” I spit. “What, this entire fucking apology tour isn’t enough for you?” “Be there at 6,” Stanley interrupts. The line goes dead in my hand, and Miranda punches my shoulder blade hard in response. Fuck. 100, 99, 98…

Miranda was tough on me today. A hot, tiny brunette, she has the hands of the Incredible Hulk. I think she beats out her life aggravations on my glutes. She’s offered twice now to give me a happy ending, but frankly, I don’t trust that monster grip of hers on my dick. After I pull my truck into VIP parking at the Meadowlands, I hop out to stretch the aches that little lady inflicted on my back and ass. Just then, I see Rose pull up in her old beat up Mustang. A cloud of black exhaust drifts around her car—just like it always has. I can’t believe she’s still driving that hunk of junk. How is it even legal to drive that beater on the NJ Turnpike? “Hey,” I call out as she climbs out of her car. She sees me and frowns immediately. “Nice to see you too,” I mutter, even though she’s too far away to hear me. She pops her trunk without making eye contact. “Come help me unload these Tshirts.” “Shouldn’t someone from the station come to—” “Jesus, is lifting one finger to help me so far beneath the great and mighty ballplayer? Pick up a bag, Mark. Please?” I stalk over to her ‘stang and sling a bag over my shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant who’s coming from W-ALT for this event?” She shakes her head. “No one. U2 is playing at Madison Square Garden, so everyone else from the station bailed.” She slams her trunk. “Who’s coming on your side?” I turn my back to her so she can’t see my disappointment. “Some intern from my agent’s office.” Because suddenly, Stanley is too good to come to my events himself. Suddenly, I barely merit a damn intern for assistance. As we make our way across the parking lot, I notice Rose struggling with the other bag. I grasp the strap to take that one too, but she pulls away. “You said you wanted help,” I point out. “Let me.” With obvious reluctance, she lets go of the strap and allows me to slide the second bag onto my shoulder. “Thanks,” she says, but the way her voice clamps

around that single word, you’d think she was cursing me out.

The instant we hit the main floor of the Meadowlands, the kids are on me like white on rice. Some of them even try to climb me like I’m a man tree. I surrender and let the giggle monsters have control, catching a couple on their way up my leg to flip them upside-down and tickle their ankles. “Are we here to play at being monkeys, or are we here to play ball?” I ask them, as more kids tug at my jeans. “Play ball!” they chorus, and I grin and hoist one of the kids onto my back to head over to the cages. I catch Rose grinning at me and the kids, but when I grin back she just rolls her eyes and pulls out her cell phone. “I’m going to call the station and set up the radio line.” We’ll be live on the radio every half hour during the three hour event to raise awareness for the Little Sluggers on W-ALT too. We have a Go Fund Me site set up just for tonight. The goal is to raise 10k in three hours. These die-hards better come through, because I’ve pledged to match that amount if they hit the donation cap. Least my fans can do is put their money where their oversized mouths are for these kids. Rose gives me a nod and a piece of paper with copy before she hands me the phone. I read the words and give a shout out to the fans about where to go online to drop their dukes. “And I’ll tell you what,” I add. Rose waves her arms, giving me the cut sign. She hates when I go off script. That only makes me smile wider. “Forget matching this. I’m gonna tell you die-hards what, for every dollar you guys put in I will put in ten. Got it? Do it.” I hand the phone back to Rose and to my surprise, for a split second before she turns her back to me to finish doing whatever she needs to do with the station people, I spot another real live smile on her face. The way that grin lights up her whole face, I could stare at her all day long.

Predictably, an hour into the three hour stint, Tommy fucking Pizza shows up, late as ever. I’m in the middle of signing some donation autographs for a couple dreamy-eyed (and more than a little attractive) MILFs when the flash of Tommy’s paparazzi tail illuminates the area. I glance over the sea of kids and fawning adults and spy him surrounded by an entourage of agents, PR reps and fans. There is nothing less in the world that I want to do than make a public appearance with this asshole. But Stanley insisted I needed to convince the world we’ve put bygones behind us. For Stanley, I can swallow my pride and put up with this shit for ten seconds. Flashbulbs pop frantically as Tommy reaches me. He extends a hand, but fuck that, I’m going all in, if for no other reason than to throw him off his stride. I grab his hand in a tighter than necessary grip, and pull him in for a back-slapping bro-

hug. The smile on my face is a total shit-eating grin, and my back-slap is more like a series of punches. “Fuck you,” he hisses in my ear as he slaps my back hard in return. “Fuck you too, man,” I reply, still grinning from ear-to-ear as we break apart. Tommy walks away toward Rose. True to form, the kid hocks a loogie onto the park grass as he passes her and Rose grimaces in disgust. My eyes catch hers and I mouth “What the fuck.” Scowling, she shrugs. At least one other person is seeing this asshole for what he really is. With the little friendship show over with, I finally get to work with the kids. I’m at home plate coaching on swings and Tommy Pizza, the bastard, is pitching from ten feet away. Before each kid steps up to home plate, Rose hooks them up with a W-ALT T-shirt, a Yankees baseball cap and a pretty smile. The latter distracts me more often than I’d care to admit. A kid I met earlier, Eric, accepts a hat from Rose next. He’s my favorite Little Slugger. “You look like a pro,” Rose tells him as she tugs the hat onto his head. She looks over at me and winks. “You are ready to bat?” Eric nods a big yes and runs over to me. As I high-five him, I give Rose a grin. Can’t help it. I like how she was with him, natural and friendly. It was like she didn’t even notice the surgery scars that cover his face and hands. I shoot his cute mom a reassuring wink as I guide him to the plate. She warned me earlier to be super gentle with the little guy, since he’s still got a lot of pain in his fingers. I reach around him and hold the bat for him, though I keep my grip loose enough that he controls the motion. Tommy Pizza has the fucking nerve to roll his eyes, but at least he pitches a softball I can swing at without hurting Eric. I pop it Tommy’s way...and what does the punk do? Catches it! Behind me Rose makes an angry sound, half gasp and half snarl. I couldn’t agree more. “Let’s try that one more time,” I call to Tommy, giving him the same death glare I gave him before I punched his smug face. He rolls his eyes again, but at least he listens and tosses another soft one our way. Eric and I give it a good bop, hard enough to sail over Tommy’s head. One of the volunteers behind him does a nice pratfall and Eric laughs. “Run, winner,” I call as he sprints toward first. Little dude runs his heart out, and skids across first base as everyone including me bursts into cheers. Rose stands behind us, grinning ear-to-ear and snapping photos of the run. She catches me staring, and for a long second, we just watch each other, smiles on our faces, sharing the moment. Then she tucks the phone in her front pocket. “Time to egg on your die-hards again.” Gotta love the way she’s all business, even at a time like this. I bow to the inevitable, and step away from the plate to record my next radio call.

All too soon, the event comes to an end. Rose hoists the bags I helped lug from the

car, much lighter now, since we’ve given away almost all the merch she brought. “Need a hand?” I offer, before she can rag on me for not offering to help again. But she just shakes her head. “I got this.” Her eyes catch mine, a spark of heat in them. “By the way…” She leans in close, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something light and airy that makes my head swim. Or maybe it’s just her proximity, the way I can see her lips part in minute detail, and her pupils dilate as they catch mine. Suddenly, I am very aware that only a couple of inches stand between us. One shift of my head and I could dip down to kiss those pert, smirking lips of hers. I could step closer, wrap my arm around her tiny waist and crush her against my body, feel those curves of hers, the curves I couldn’t get over back in high school, the ones I wanted to memorize with my fingertips every time we touched. An almost painful throb of desire pulses through me, and of course, it zooms straight to my crotch. Fuck. I want her so fucking bad right now. She leans up on tiptoe, and I think, this is it. We’re doing this. She stops an inch shy of my lips, hers still curved in a smile. “You owe Little Sluggers a whole lot of money,” she purrs. Then she’s off, sashaying toward the parking lot, her ass wiggling with every step, and I’m left burning hot. I would be glad we reached our funding goal, and excited for the charity group I love so much, except that all I can think about right now is watching that delicious, pert little ass of hers march toward the parking lot. Fuck.

I spend another half an hour shaking hands and signing leftovers. A baseball some die-hard claims he caught in Baltimore. The Sports Illustrated magazine with me and my ex Amber on the cover. The kid who brings me that one looks way too young to be able to read the articles, but he taps on Amber’s photo and grins up at me like he’s thinking nice one, and I can’t help laughing as I scrawl my signature across that cover for him. I’m grabbing my shit, finally ready to head out, when Tommy Pizza slides up next to me. “That bitch from the station. You banging her?” I jab my finger straight into his oversized pecs. “Shut. Up.” He laughs. “Fine, whatever, bruh.” He pulls on his coat, shaking his head as he does. “Man, I hate these gigs,” I hear him mutter in the general direction of his nearest PR lackey. “These kids creep me out.” I feel the lava start to build inside me. Rein it the fuck in, Mark. The paps are still here. I suffered through that reconciliation with Pizza once already. I cannot blow this. 100, 99, 98… I don’t even reach 95. I just walk away from the punk, eyes on the sky. He’s not worth it.

Out in the parking lot, I’m surprised to notice Rose’s car (though “car” is putting it politely) still there. Sure enough, when I round the trunk, she’s bent under the hood, her curvy ass sticking straight up in the air. Last time I checked, Rose doesn’t know a damn thing about cars. But who knows? People change. Still, I can’t resist the opportunity. Or, frankly, the excuse to linger near that ass a little longer. “Need some help, little lady?” Rose pops up from the guts of the car just long enough to glare at me. “Seriously,” I amend. “You stalled out?” “Do you know anything about cars?” she asks with a sigh. “If I call a tow, I’m afraid they’ll just condemn her.” I peek under the hood. Those car parts are older than us combined. I test a couple of hoses and one bursts in my hand, squirting grease across my coat. “You don’t need a mechanic. You need a priest.” “Fuck.” Rose groans and leans her forehead on the hood. “But I love her.” “Well then, I hope you’re willing to put in a whole lot of work.” I wipe away grease from my hands on my ruined coat. “She’ll be fine here for the night. I’ll send over my mechanic in the morning.” “I’ve got places to be, Mark,” she chides. “So let me give you ride.” Her eyes dart to mine, and I recognize that look. She’s tempted. Then she shakes her head and stares back at the Meadowlands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s getting cold. Cabs out here take a century to show. Not to mention they charge about three times the toll rate to get back into the city.” I offer her an arm. “Let me play the gallant knight and save you from the serial killers.” She bites her lip to hold back a giggle. Her dimples are cute. “Ah yes, ye olde serial killers of New Jersey.” “You know the Meadowlands are like, the number one dumping ground for bodies the mafia needs to hide, right?” She purses her lips, but I can tell I’m winning her over. “Besides, you haven’t seen my new ride.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ve gotten better taste in cars since high school. This baby’s got a leather interior. Top of the line stereo. And of course my Jeter bobblehead on the dash, thanks to yours truly.” She snorts. “So that’s what that was for? Car decoration?” “It’s a very important element of the truck, Rose. You’ll see.” And just like that, I win. She drops her shoulders in surrender, and bends to snatch up her bags. “Fine. If it’ll make you stop pestering me.” I try not to grin too triumphantly, though I can’t resist a small smile. If I can get her in my truck, I’m halfway to home base.

She’s quiet till we hit the 17. “Can I turn on the radio?” she asks, her hand hovering

by the knob. After I nod, she switches it on. W-ALT blares through the speakers, and she blinks over at me with a surprised smile. I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a team player.” I fucking live for the blush that creeps over her cheeks right then. The drive passes faster than I’d like. All I can think about is how I want to pull over onto the shoulder and pull that T-shirt over her head. Kiss my way down her neck and uncross those arms of hers, hold them over her head as I slide into the passenger seat on top of her. But she just stares out the window, her arms and legs crossed, silent. Every now and then I catch her eye in the reflection of the window glass, studying me when she thinks I won’t notice. The only encouraging thing is that her gaze drops down to my chest more often than not, lingering on the line of my pecs and abs, visible through my tight T-shirt. “Left here,” she says, and I follow her directions. The silence feels electric. I can’t take it anymore. “Look, Rose,” I say, just as she says, “Mark.” We both pause, then laugh softly. “You first,” I tell her. Those round, wide eyes of hers catch mine again. She runs a hand through her honey-colored hair, a habit she’s had since high school. “This all feels really, dangerously…familiar.” I raise my eyebrows, inviting her to go on, but she takes a break to point me down another road. Shit. We must be getting close. “You mean me driving you home after a long night of mutual frustration?” I dare to say. That, at least, earns a soft laugh. Though her expression remains a little sad. Longing. “Well, for starters, yeah. You and me in general, Mark, it just feels like we’re…slipping into old patterns. Like it’d be so easy to just pick up where we…” “Where you,” I clarify, and her expression shifts to a glare. “Where you, if I recall, left off,” she finishes, chin high. That’s a challenge. But I don’t want to rise to it. For once, I don’t want to fight with her. Well, not unless that fight is going to end in some seriously fiery make-up sex. “Rose…” “I’m right here,” she interrupts, pointing to a three story building on a dark street. I kill the engine, and the truck goes dark. In the new silence, I can hear every breath she takes. See her lips part, as she leans toward me. I mirror her, reach a hand up to cup her cheek. She blinks in surprise when I touch her, but she doesn’t pull away. I let my thumb trace the outline of her luscious, full lips. “Rose,” I say again, and this time it’s not the start of a conversation but the end of one. She closes her eyes and tilts her chin up and my lips collide with hers. For a second, I forget everything else. The car, the cold outside, the dark street. It’s just me and her and that sexy, perfect body of hers. My hand slides down her cheek to cup the back of her neck, and my other hand crosses the gear shift to wrap around her hip, tugging her toward me. But that seems to wake her up. She jerks back, away, and we both gasp as she

breaks the kiss. Fucking hell. She leans back in her seat, eyes shut, both of us breathing a little harder than usual. “I don’t think we should do this,” she finally says, though her voice wavers. “What is it you want to do, Rose?” I try to catch her eye, but she stares firmly out the window now, her jaw set. “I want my radio show to succeed. I want to make this station the biggest thing since sliced bread. I want to be respected for my career choices, not the guy I’m banging.” “Last time I checked, no banging is happening,” I point out. “Exactly,” she snaps, then shakes her head. “It’s just…it’s too much right now, Mark.” Typical Rose. Hot then cold. On then off. She loves playing hard to get, but she plays so hard that she convinces herself sometimes. But she’s done this before. Although I’m dying right now as my pants strain tighter, I can wait her out. “All right.” I catch her eye again and just gaze at her until I see her jaw tremble. I want to restart that kiss right fucking now. I want to kiss her longer, harder. I want to pin her beneath me, and make the whole rest of her body tremble like her jawline right now. Instead, I force a relaxed, nonchalant smile. “But I don’t want to spend the next three weeks working in the tundra. Can we agree to be friendly?” She rubs her forehead, but nods. “Yeah. Of course.” “Thank you, Rose.” “Good night, Mark.” She opens the door and climbs out. Leaning back in my seat, I drum my steering wheel and watch until she opens her front door. Half of me watches because I want to memorize her stride, her gait, the sexy flash of her long legs. The other half wants to make absolutely sure she’s home safe before I leave her alone. OK, I think. A ceasefire. My dick and balls ache the whole drive home, but this is better than constant fighting, right? But somehow, when I walk through the front door of my cabin, the emptiness of the place hits me hard. I feel…lonely. My land line rings a few minutes later. A distraction, perhaps. But when I see on the caller ID that it’s one of my old fuck buddies, Deborah, the one with a JLo ass and a mouth like a hoover, I drop the call to voicemail without even knowing why. For some reason, right now, that doesn’t feel like enough.

9 ROSE

I have fans! I have real live people who want to have their picture taken with me. They squeal when they see me and shout after me about how awesome I am. I discovered my newfound fan base when I arrived at the studio this morning (in an Uber since my poor baby is in the shop now). Usually when I get to the station I park in the back to avoid Mark’s fans—the die-hards, the groupies and the autograph hounds—but the Uber left me out front, and I stepped from its confines to discover a gaggle of girls holding up W-ALT banners and begging for my signature. For a second, I just stood there gaping. Then a couple other people among the gaggle of thirty-odd Mark fans shouted, “Hey, it’s Rose!” and suddenly the whole group migrated over to me. I’m still signing W-ALT banners and Yankees posters, slightly confused, when Mark pulls up. Of course, as he arrives, most of the fans drift over to surround his truck. But I still have a few stragglers, clearly just here for me. “Enjoying the perks of fandom?” he asks as he strides over to me, wearing his usual T-shirt and smirk combo. Damn him. Why does he look sexy as hell even when he clearly just rolled out of bed? His hair is a mess, yet it only accentuates his sharp cheekbones and the sparkle in his crazy blue eyes. “What is going on?” I ask him as I wave away the last autograph, and jog across to meet him at the station door. “The fans have been asking for you,” he says. “Huh?” “Rose with the sexy voice,” he murmurs in my ear as I reach his side. He loops a protective arm around my waist, and most of the fans back off. Of course, the two of us so close together and him embracing me starts a whole new explosion of photos being taken. “Sexy voice?” I repeat like an idiot. “You really think nobody noticed how hot you are on our show?” “Well, I…” A couple more fans are arriving, and the cameras flash more often now. I want to pull away from him, stop any rumors right now, but I’m kind of

nervous about facing this crowd alone. “Should I be afraid here?” I whisper under my breath. “You’ll be fine.” He tightens his arm around me, though, and looks up to catch the eye of a guy near the station door—security, I realize, which we must have hired when Mark’s show started to build in popularity. Sure enough, the guard starts right over toward us. “You got this,” Mark tells me, and somehow, I believe him. We walk across the parking lot, security parting the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. Mark pats my side, and my whole body tingles, tingles, tingles. Fuck. I thought I had erased the memory of our kiss last night, but my lips burn now just to think of it.

Just as we are almost in the building, a guy dressed in a Mets jersey in a sea of Yankees garb steps between us and the doors. “You’re going to blow this season, Carrington,” the guy sneers. I recognize his voice from his calls. I’m not sure how exactly I pictured Mack, but I certainly thought he would have had more teeth. “Ok, wanker,” Mark laughs. When we finally get into the building, I almost knock Doc Bing over. “Good morning.” He hands me his little dog. Robert E. Lee gives me a thousand licks in three seconds as he squirms in my arms. “I didn’t realize you were in today,” I manage to say between licks. “I need to have a quick chat with the Yankee here before your show.” Doc Bing collects his pup and I feel a sting as I watch them walk off to my office for their private meeting. I’m the show runner here. Shouldn’t I be involved in that conversation? I stomp to the studio all butt-hurt, but feel the immediate calming effect of Night Vixen’s voice. My heart rate slows and I sip at my coffee to speed it up. Maybe Night Vixen really is a vampire. She’s on the mic reading copy about a VFW Hall show next weekend, and even just hearing something boring like that makes me calmer. I let her sneak in these unpaid boosts for the local scene like VFW because her devotion to the real scene touches me. She pushes the next track and waves me in. “How did you like your fans?” Vixen winks. I stifle a groan. “How did you know?” She thumbs at the parking lot. “Some of them have been out there since last night.” I perch on the table next to her, shaking my head. “It’s pretty weird, I’ve gotta admit.” “Pretty cool, Rose.” She adjusts her mic and lays out her final two tracks, then turns to me. He face is blank and serious. “Be careful though.” Before I can ask what she means, Mark bounds into the studio. On instinct, I smile at him, but then remember I’m mad, dammit. I exit the booth and try to scowl, but it feels more like a pout. “What was that meeting with the Doc about?” Double damn. I sound like I’m accusing him of something. That’s not fair. I check

my tone. “I mean, was it anything important?” He shakes his head and shrugs. “He wants to know if I’d be interested in extending my time with the show. Through spring training and beyond. By remote when I’m on the road and with guest spots and stuff, you know, other people filling in for me when I can’t.” I feel a roll of uneasy tension in my belly. “Do you want to do that?” He shrugs his big shoulders again. “I dunno. It’s never been done before with an active player. Stanley mentioned this might happen. I guess we’re all going to talk about it next week. But you know, I’ve got spring training in three weeks...” I hunch my shoulders. I know he’s leaving. I knew that all along. I was glad for it at the start. So why does it hurt to be reminded that he’s stepping back out of my life in just three weeks? “Right. I mean. You need to concentrate on your game.” My voice sounds thick with hurt, no matter how I try to disguise it. He reads my despair and rests his hand on my shoulder gently. “Look, we’re in this together, Rose. Remember? I’m a team player. If this show goes national…” “National?” I don’t know if I exhaled the word or inhaled it, but whatever I did it was loud. Me. Running a national radio show. Being on a national radio show. More fans in the parking lot, more fans tuning into every show. Tons of exposure. Piles of money. A guaranteed career for as long as I want it, on a national radio station. My head spins. It’s everything I ever wanted from my career, and yet, confusingly, it’s coming from a partnership I don’t think I should delve too deeply into. Being with Mark makes me worry that I’ll lose focus, forget about my career and lose myself in his… Mark is shrugging again like it’s no big deal. “Right, national. It would be cool.” But a drop in the bucket for him, fame and money wise. I look around the studio. Cheap wood panels, smelly carpet and wires held together with duct tape. Could a national show be my future? In a state-of-the-art studio? Doing sports talk? Is that what I want? I would be hella stupid to walk away from an opportunity like that. The money alone could fund the ever-living shit out of me and Geo’s podcast. I could get a national syndicate. Make music on the real big-league waves. But for all its decay, I do love W-ALT’s charm. What would happen to this station? Could I bring it national with me, or would I need to leave it in the dust? “Spring training is in Florida,” Mark says and my head snaps back to him. I heard the words, but can’t respond. My tongue is frozen in my mouth. I knew this all along. I knew the training wasn’t here. I knew he was leaving. I repeat those words like a mantra in my head. Then Mark cocks an eyebrow. “You got a bikini? You’ve always had a smokin’ bod.” Now my mouth drops open, but it still takes a second to unfreeze my tongue.

“But…” Night Vixen vacates the DJ booth, and I get a moment to recover as Mark snaps on his headphones and sets up. “My job is here,” I sputter. He shrugs. “Unless we’re recording the show from training camp,” he points out. Oh. Oh. Stunned, I plop down on my chair in the production booth and cue up his intro. Florida. A few short weeks ago, the Sunshine State didn’t cross my mind unless I stared at its logo while drinking orange juice. Now it’s morphed into an impossibly sudden possibility, and I can’t process what it means to my career, my plans, my life. But there’s no time now. Mark’s intro is ending. It’s show time. The first caller is Frankie, a diehard baseball fan from Bayonne. She’s a new one for me, but Mark greets her like they’ve hated each other since childhood. As I listen in to their argument, head swimming from all the statistics chat, one thing becomes clear: if this thing is going to move forward, if I am going to produce a national baseball show, I have to learn about baseball and I need to learn it fast. Especially if I’m going to move to Florida to chase spring training camp. At the first break I get on Mark’s headphones. “Hey, can I ask a favor?”

10

ROSE

“Where are we going?” I shout over Muse’s Absolution. Mark’s truck crossed the George Washington Bridge five minutes ago and we are deep in the Bronx, a dark, scary place I have only been once in daylight. He’s been quiet for the ride except to repeat that where we’re going is a surprise. He’s been teasing me all day about it, ever since I asked him—as a favor—to teach me about baseball. Something about the request put a permanent smile on his face and he’s been smirking every time I look at him. As he drives us through an inner city warzone, I steal glances at him and smile at the things I notice. Sometime between leaving the station and picking me up at 9, he’s showered and shaved again. Fresh as a daisy, he is. Though considerably more manly. Also he smells better. Like the piney cologne he wears, layered beneath his own unique, heady scent. I couldn't get enough of that smell when we dated in high school, and it still intoxicates me now. But my nose is a little distracted from him by the faint lemon scent in the truck. My eyes catch the glossy glow of his dashboard in the moonlight. Someone had their truck detailed after his shift this morning. So, I get that he’s sexually interested. That's always been obvious. But equally obvious is the fact that he would probably bang any female. But all this extra effort tells me he especially wants to bang me. I can't figure out why exactly, if his normal type is more supermodel than super-DJ, but for some reason, he wants me bad. Part of me is thinking that’s enough. Maybe. On the other hand, I could wind up just like last time. Alone, rejected, skipping out on prom because he settled on a hotter model, nursing another broken heart. “There she is,” he interrupts my thoughts with a nod forward. I look out and see Yankee Stadium in the near distance. All the lights are on and it’s lighting up the night. “Is there a game tonight?” I thought it was off season and there were no games, but what do I know? “Yes,” he says with a grin. “A big one.” “Who’s playing?” He laughs softly and he pulls into the empty stadium parking lot. “Me and you.”

I blink in his general direction. “What?” He pulls in front of a gate and switches off the engine. Tossing and catching his keys, he wiggles his eyebrows at me. “The best way to learn baseball,” he says, “is to play baseball.”

At the entrance gate, I turn my face away, but peek as Mark palms a few security guys some cash and shakes their hands. I'm guessing the cash was a courtesy on Mark’s part, because the guys are staring at him with popping eyes and toothy smiles. He is their god. Mark takes my hand and pulls me down a long hallway until we reach a door marked LOCKER ROOM. He pushes open the door and the smell of a thousand sporty guys hits me in the face. It’s not a bad smell by a long shot, just a really overpowering masculine smell and my body instinctively responds with a rush of sex hormones to my brain. Suddenly all I can think about is the tight shirt Mark is wearing, the way it outlines every muscle in his body. That, and how badly I want to rip that shirt off him and run my fingers over every inch of said muscles. We stop in front of a locker and I see a plaque reading CARRINGTON at the top. He pops it open and pulls out two well-oiled mitts and a bat. Then he hands me his jersey and settles his official cap on my head. His scent settles around my shoulders along with the jersey, faint, since he's washed the thing, but somehow he couldn't hide the fact that this jersey belongs to him. Now, wearing it, I almost feel as though I do, too. Dangerous line of thought to allow. I shake my head to clear it. "Today you are a Yankee,” he tells me, grinning from ear to ear, and I smile back, even as my stomach twists in warning. All I can remember is that searing kiss last night. I'm in trouble.

Of course I know Yankee Stadium is bigger than a breadbox, but I have no idea how immense it is until Mark leads me through a gateway and onto the field. Feeling a little dizzy in the vast emptiness, I almost trip over my own feet staring up at the stands. “Whoa.” Mark catches my elbow, steadying me. “I know how you feel. But this is nothing. You should see what it’s like with the crowd roaring and the cameras following every move you make.” “I can’t imagine.” But in a weird way, I can sense what it must be like for him. When we stop at home plate I scan the stadium and picture the pressure of performance he faces every time he walks onto the field. I can’t even keep track of my own two feet in an empty stadium, and yet he bats home runs with thousands— no, millions—of eyes on him. After he tosses our gloves to the side, he directs my gaze to the ball throwing machine on the pitcher’s mound. “I’m going to turn that on and you're going to hit

a couple of balls.” “Me?” I exclaim, but he doesn’t hear me. He's already jogging toward the machine. With a flick of his wrist, he jogs back to home plate. He takes the bat and motions for me to stand out of the way. “Let me show you how it’s done." He positions his body and his eyes squint into laser focus. He looks like a statue, legs bent, elbows out, every muscle tensed, his eyes tight on the mound. There’s a crank from the machine and a ball spits out, flying at what looks to me like the speed of light. I instinctively cower back and shield my head as Mark swings the bat. CRACK! My eyes follow the ball up, up, up....and out, out, out, until it fades into the night way past the nearest stands. I mouth the word WOW, but Mark doesn’t see me. He’s licking his lips, shuffling his feet and choking up on the bat. His gaze once again hones in on the machine. He looks like he’s gonna fuck it up. It spits out another ball… CRACK! This one I didn’t even see. It's just a bullet-like blur. It’s probably in Japan by the time he turns around to curve his finger, beckoning me. “Batter up!” I tiptoe to him like I’m about to get a spanking, torn between nerves and excitement. My sports experience is pretty much limited to drunken beach volleyball and watching Superbowl for the commercials, but come on. I'm in Yankee Stadium for a private lesson with a famous baseball player who is handsome as hell. I’ll take a swing or two. He hands me the bat, handle side first, and steps out of the way. I quickly get into position, mimicking his stance. My elbows feel all wrong, not to mention it seems like I'm sticking my butt out in his face. Sure enough, a second later he touches my elbow, lightly, to nudge it higher. I try to ignore the rush of adrenaline that shoots up my arm from his touch. “Heads up,” he murmurs, his voice warm in my ear. With a start, I look up at the machine to realize it's firing. There’s a hum of the motor and a swoosh of air. I swing as hard as I can...and whirl around in a circle, nearly toppling over. Miss. He claps anyway. “Good effort." I roll my eyes, but he's already shaking his head, pushing me back into position. "Try again. Lean into it.” I reposition the bat in my hands and glare at the machine. I’m ready. I’m going to do this. This machine has nothing on me. Hum...clink...pop, and the ball sails toward me. SWOOSH. It sounds like a missile just flew by my head, but I've got nothing to show for it but a wide swing. I scowl, pissed that I missed it. Dammit. "This thing is cheating!" I glare at it.

Mark laughs and steps up behind me again. He puts his strong hands on my hips and pulls me away from the plate by about six inches. Then he wraps his arms around mine and I'm engulfed in hot man muscle. Nice. “OK,” he whispers, his breath tickling my neck. “Bend your knees. Not that much," he amends when my knees almost buckle from lust. "Lean over." I stick my ass out, and collide with his crotch. What's that I feel, pressing hard against my ass? I wriggle my hips, resisting the urge to grin. Fuck he feels even better than I remember. "Not that much," he repeats, though I'm gratified to notice his voice sounds thicker this time. "Arms up higher, too.” I hear him sigh and then feel his entire body at my back as a ball buzzes by us. It’s like he’s spooning me standing up and I can feel his tight muscles on my thighs, ass and back. His heat envelops me and I'm loving it. He tightens his hands over mine on the bat, and it takes every ounce of concentration I have to keep my eye on the ball. “Watch and wait.” Another ball explodes out of the machine. I feel like it’s coming right at me and grind back on Mark, nervous. That will hurt if it hits me. But he holds me firm...um, really firm. His big, powerful arms force mine to swing and I feel the energy of the ball cracking against the bat. It hits so hard my arms feel like wet noodles. My teeth chatter. It’s like firing a rifle with a fuck of a kickback. The ball sails into the stands to the left. I gasp out a breath, but before I can congratulate myself he says, “We can do better." He repositions his body against mine, deep in the zone now, and I don’t think he even feels my ass pressing against his hard dick anymore. I relax against him again and savor the powerful feeling of his body wrapped around mine. I am in no way a weakling of a woman, but in his arms I feel this intense sense of strength and power and it makes me want to just rely on his muscles. What was that Neneh Cherry song? I am strong enough to be weak in his arms. We—no, he—swings the bat again. If this was a real game it would be a home run. It sails high into the stands, out of reach. “I’ll meet you at first base,” he says suddenly, slapping my ass. I startle, and before I know it, he's jogging toward the machine. I take off as fast as I can run, but even pausing to switch off the machine, he still beats me to first. I slide across the plate, and he tags me as I do, a spare ball in his fist. “Am I out?” I purr up at him after I collide with his chest. His arms wrap around me, almost automatic. Unfortunately, I haven’t run that far for a long time, so I sound out of breath like I just ran a marathon uphill. He keeps his hands on my hips, leans in, and I finally snap back to my senses and slip out of his reach. He senses my mood, and shifts his hands to his own hips instead, surveying the stadium. “My first time at bat here, I hit a home run.” He points to the back of the stadium. “It went that way and bounced off the back wall.” He takes a breath. “I’ve hit tons since, but nothing will ever feel like that first time, you know?” I nod.

Not that I understand hitting a run home, of course. But I do know what it’s like to listen to that new record from your favorite band for the first time. Sure, the songs become old friends after you wear out the tracks with nonstop plays. But you will never again feel that first tickle of the riffs of the guitar in your ear or the bass line fucking with your heartbeat. His attention snaps back to me and I must be wearing some sensual expression because he does that dazzling eye thing, his gaze all over me, eating me alive, and he steps closer again, closing the gap between us once more. “You know..." He grins. "You are not officially safe until you put your foot on the base.” I glance down and see my feet aren’t on the base. I quickly correct it. “Am I safe now?” He takes another step closer. “Oh, not quite yet. Don’t you remember how to get to first base?” I laugh. “I guess you have to show me.” “With pleasure, ma’am.” He walks up to me and stops, his face inches from mine. It feels like a dare for a second and in my head all my hesitation is silenced by my inner voice screaming kiss me kiss me kiss me. Finally he cups my face in his hands and I feel like swooning. Not to be cliché, but my knees don't want to work when his hands are on me. They want to rebel and drop me down to the dirt, pull him on top of me right here... His eyes stare me down and he leans in closer, closer, closer...and then, he… Kisses my forehead. As my mouth drops open, he sprints away in the direction of second base. “Come on!” he shouts over his shoulder. I can hear the laughter in his voice. What a tease. Two can play this game. I run hard again, faster this time, spurred on by adrenaline (and, okay, motivated by the urgent need firing in my lady bits). He lets me beat him to the next base and even saunters the last ten paces with a smirk on his face. “According to baseball rules,” he says in an official announcer voice. “Second base means tits.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, is that so?” “Yep.” He fold his arms across his own chest and taps his foot on the base. “My house, my rules.” Pressing my lips tight, I glance around the stadium, then back at him just in time to catch that eyebrow wiggle. Naughtiness washes over me and my face heats up. I grab the bottom hem of my shirt and tug it away from my body, locking eyes with him. His eyes widen and his mouth parts. I don’t think he actually expected me to take him up on this. “Yes…” All in one motion, I lift my shirt and flash him, arching my back to show off my bare breasts. Then I tug my shirt down again, lightning fast. He frowns. “Hey, wait. That was too quick.” “Your turn,” I counter. With his smile intact and his eyes trained on me, he peels off his shirt and tosses it behind him. Under the stadium lights, well, let’s just say my eyes are

feasting on the glistening perfection of his naked chest. He takes a step toward me, but I’m already sprinting toward third. “I know what third base is,” I call over my shoulder as I run. “Do you?” He bolts past me and jumps on third. He turns and looks at me for a moment. Then his face grows serious as he steps closer to me, still silent. Suddenly it's hard to breathe. He bites his lip and curves his finger. “Come here,” he whispers. “Why?” My eyes search his face. Is he teasing? Is he serious? But I can't help it. I step closer to him, my body singing in anticipation. I'm vibrating out of my skin with sexual heat. If he doesn't kiss me, I'm just going to have to take matters into my own hands. Specifically, those delicious abs of his... Once again, as I reach his side, he cups my face in his hands. “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers, looking into my eyes. “I’ve been wanting to taste you.” I barely have time to nod. I can't think straight. Slowly, deliberately, his lips brush against mine. Then his mouth presses into the sweetest kiss he has ever given me. Soft mouth, hard tongue and just the right amount of pressure that I can feel all over, but mostly between my legs. Rubbing my hands on his chest, I press my hips into his. He deepens the kiss, his knee sliding between mine. I grind my hips against his thigh, and feel his cock dig into my inner thigh. He’s hard and hot and every inch of that is for me. Fuck, I want him. I want every part of him. I want his cock inside me, I want to grab his hips and ride him until we both collapse... He stops kissing me and we gaze into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Both of us are breathing hard, and I don't think it has anything to do with the bases this time. At least, not the ones in the stadium. I reach down to stroke his hard dick over his jeans and feel his breath hitch, his hips rock toward mine. His hand creeps up my side, gripping me so hard it'll leave bruises, but I fucking love it. He brushes stray hair out of my face. “Rose, I….” I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL No. I didn’t hear that. I press closer to him. I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL “Is that your phone?” I nod. “The emergency line from the station,” I mumble. I’m still staring at him with my hand pressed against his jeans. I feel that hard dick behind the denim, and god damn do I want it. I LOVE ROCK ‘N ROLL “Shouldn’t you pick up?” “I don’t want to,” I pout. But he raises an eyebrow at me, so I step away with a sigh and grab my phone out of my back pocket. “But I guess I have to.” He nods understanding and brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “Hello?" “Rose." It's Chris. “We're off the air. The transmitter blew. Right in the middle of a set. Calls are exploding but we can't record or respond...” I scrunch up my forehead and resist the urge to scream in frustration. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up the phone and just groan for what feels like a

minute straight. Mark winces in sympathy. “You have to go in?” I nod. “Disaster. Our transmitter burned out. If we aren't back on the air within the hour...” He wraps his arm around me. “Come on, I'll drive you over. If anyone can solve this, it's you.”

11

MARK

My therapist is always ten minutes early for our sessions. Not nine minutes, not eleven minutes. Exactly ten minutes. The man is consistent, and, if I'm honest, that’s part of the reason he's starting to gain my trust. That, and he sat through at least ten sessions of me ranting about stupid Tommy Pizza and the idiots in the press who made me feign affection for him. Now he sits across from me sipping the tea I made for him. Tea I didn’t even know I had. Tea that magically appeared in my cabinet as if waiting for me to make it. “Earl Grey.” He sets the cup on the coffee table. “Always a good choice.” "I'm not sure how old that is," I warn him. "It must be from at least four girlfriends ago." That's the last time I can remember dating someone who preferred tea to coffee, the more sensible caffeine choice. "Tastes fine to me." He smiles, and that's another thing I appreciate about him. This guy is down to earth. Not another pretentious overpriced head doctor. “How’s your kid, by the way?” After ten intense sessions with the man, I finally picked up some info about his life. Married for a decade, he’s got a 4 week old son, and that’s after he and his wife tried for years to get pregnant. “Good.” He grins. “Exhausting.” “You like being a dad?” I notice I'm rubbing my legs, so I stop. He looks at my hands and then back at me. “Even better than I expected. What about you, Mark?” “Me?” I am back to rubbing my legs, harder now. He waits for my eyes to meet his again. “Yes. Do you want a family?” “Yeah, some day. I just…” I let out a breath. “I got some stuff to work on between now and then.” As he flips his notebook open, he nods. “Speaking of which, do you have your homework? Last time I asked you to make a list of things that make you happy.” I peel the paper out of my pocket, wrinkled from being folded into my back jeans pocket. I wrote it about ten minutes before he got here, admittedly. But I remembered, which is more than I've done any other time he's come here. I wrote it as soon as I woke up to prepare for his visit, tidying the living room and cleaning up the kitchen after my late night burger binge last night when I got back from driving Rose in to the station. I open the note and clear my throat. “First frost. My

truck. My cabin. Hamburgers with extra cheese.” I shift in my seat. “Hitting home runs. Doing my morning show on the radio. My DJ partner on the radio...." "And who is that?" he prompts, so subtly I almost don't notice. "Oh, just Rose. She's an old friend from high school." "Really?" He taps his pen on his notebook. "So you volunteered for her show?" "Well, no, but now that I'm doing it, it's fun. And doing it with her is fun; we have a good rapport..." “Let’s talk about that rapport.” I shrug and look down at my hands. "It's nice, I guess." When I glance back up, he's blinking at me, looking more surprised than I've ever seen him look. “Mark, are you aware you're smiling?” I start to protest, but then I have to admit it—he’s right.

12

ROSE

I am a stress muffin. The transmitter—in place since 1984—has been blinking on and off all day and night. Even though I don’t see smoke coming from it anymore, I swear I can still smell it. Chris and I have been taking turns standing here eyeballing it, policing it to keep W-ALT on the air. I was able to get a little shut-eye on the couch, but not much. I took a splash bath in the bathroom sink, armpits and face only, and feel slightly revived, but I still might collapse from anxiety. All I need is for this damn thing to crap out again during Mark's show, and I can kiss those national syndication dreams goodbye. Nobody will hire me to help with the show. Not when my only job is to keep it on the air and I can't even do that. The shitty out of date transmitter shuts off again. I whack it, and it sputters back to life, but for how much longer, nobody knows. Doc's response was predictable as ever. New transmitter not in the budget, he replied by text to my frantic calls. Never mind the extra cash we're flush with from Mark's show. Never mind that we have ad revenue out the wazoo now. I have every faith you will make it work, he replied to my string of curse words. This is what happens when a crazy old rich guy runs your media company for kicks, instead of needing to make an actual profit or anything. Damn him. "All good?” Night Vixen shouts between sets from the DJ booth. I can just hear her through the thin wall of the transmitter room. "Not even a little,” I mutter. I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. I htink it might be possible to die of a heart attack at 25. "Any luck with Chris?” I shout. He was trying to wrangle a deal with a nearby college station that went digital and get them to loan us their transmitter. If that doesn't work, I don't know what to do. But I kinda do, actually. Between whacking and wiggling and guarding the transmitter, I’ve been doing the math in my head. Calculating how much I have on my credit cards. Maybe between them I can finagle the thousands needed for a replacement transmitter, one built this century. "No joy," Night Vixen shouts back, and my shoulders slump.

Dammit. I am going to max out my debt. But I love rock and roll and I am fool. This is my studio. My baby. Night Vixen, Chris, all our listeners—they depend on me to keep her running. They are worth it. Somehow, despite the debt I’ll be racking up, I feel much calmer now that I have a direction. My energy levels are shooting up. I radio Chris. “Chris, please babysit this hunk of junk through the rest of Night Vixen’s show." "What are you going to do?" he asks, with the air of a man asking a doctor how to cure his cancer. "I have a plan," I assure him. We trade places, but I'm less than halfway out the door when I collide with Mark. “Good morning!” He holds out a cup of coffee and holds up a box in his other hand. I don’t move. He places the cup in my hand, but it barely registers—because my eyes are glued to the box, the unbelievable, giant, branded box. What in the... “Whoa.” Night Vixen sticks her head out of her DJ booth to stare. She looks like a kid on Christmas morning. “Is that...?” I am aware my mouth is hanging open. I snap it shut and just stare at Mark, who is grinning ear to ear. “Digital was all I could find. Hope that's okay. I don’t think they even make analog transmitters anymore." Mark winks, even as I radio Chris to come out of the dungeon tech room. “Do you think you can get it to work before the show?” Mark is saying when Chris joins us, jumping up and down, his eyes bulging as much as Night Vixen's did. "Hell yes, I can," Chris shouts. Me, I'm still speechless. Chris shakes Mark’s hand. “Thanks, man. This has gotta be the best transmitter I’ve ever touched.” And still I am just staring at Mark. “Did I hit a home run, Rose?” he finally asks, that sly little grin I love playing on his lips. “You didn’t have to…” He holds up his hand. “Yes I did.” “But…” “Rose…” He looks at Chris, then at me. “Let me do my part, ok? Like I said. Team player.” “I…” I just can’t believe it and I am truly touched. “Thank you,” I finally say, finding my voice. He nods. I think he might be blushing a little. “You are very welcome.” “Thank you,” I repeat. But this time it’s a whisper, just for him.

The show is a blur of callers, my Scarlett Johansson imitation, and Mark’s intense looks from across the room. I have been riding a wave of victory endorphins. The calls have been on fire today and that transmitter is working like a charm. Mark’s

T-shirt is nice and tight, but we keep locking eyes. As each second of the show passes, I want him more. I keep staring at him and touching my fingers to my lips. During our last segment, I take down my sloppy bun and shake my hair lose. “Tomorrow is, uh…” Mark trails off to stare at me. He bites his lip. “Uh, what’s tomorrow again? I lean into my mic. “Tomorrow we have Alex Rodriguez and Daily News sports journalist David Bell,” I coo. “Not to mention more calls from your awesome diehards.” Mark laughs, a little forcibly. “Gonna be a great show,” he says. “Later, wankers.” As Ralph shuffles through the studio door with his vinyl, I give Mark a come hither look and head to the production room. Ostensibly, he needs to do some voice work so I can splice it into the finished promo piece we have to finish today. But that’s not all I want to do in there. We have unfinished business to settle. Home run, here I come. Wordlessly, Mark follows me to the production room down the hallway. What the hell? A little sex never killed anyone. I break out the Shakira hips right now. They roll with a deliberate sexiness and can tell no lies, dammit. I feel the hot wetness build between my legs and my entire being shivers with anticipation. I want to be alone with him. I want to touch him. I want to fuck him. And I don't give a shit about the consequences. I slam the door behind him and turn to see he has his hand raised in the air for a high five. Really. I do not do high fives. I’m a fist bump girl. I just stare at him with fake annoyance until he gives me a light tap on the fist. “I am awesome,” he says, grinning. I bow to his truth. “You are. You saved the day and won again. And for that I am eternally grateful.” I point to the headphones around his neck. “Now get those back on. We have to record a couple of lines.” “Yes, ma’am.” He snaps them on. It’s just three lines of copy. Simple. I could do it in my sleep. And so could he, apparently, because he’s perfect on the first take. But I don’t want him to leave. As I work the knobs, I brush my hips against his and rewind the tape. "Again," I command. This time, his voice sounds a little thicker. Deeper. His outer thigh gets a stroke from my hand, and I lean way too close to point out his line. "Again," I repeat, my boobs brushing his bicep. He gives me a smile that tells me he knows I’m stalling, he knows I’m teasing. And he’s teasing back by leaning in. The only question is who is going to seal the deal. He repeats the line again, and this time, his voice hitches when I brush my hand lower down his thigh. “You know,” he murmurs after the tenth take. “I think I know what my problem is.” “Hmm?” He points at my David Bowie shirt. It’s vintage and thinned from a million

washings. My nips are popping like mad and it makes him smile like a devil. “Never been a Bowie fan.” He traces the Thin Duke’s face, which just happens to cross my breast. His fingers linger on my hard nipple. “I’m distracted by your shirt.” “Oh.” I look down with a fake pout. “Take it off.” My eyes light up. “That could work.” I let my gaze wander all over his chest. “But you first,” I say, tugging at the sleeve of his T-shirt. "It's only fair." He half smiles. “No problem.” He removes his headphones and takes his shirt off in one glorious swoop. He keeps his eyes on me as it drops to the floor. “Let me help with yours,” he whispers. I take my headphones off and set them on the production desk. “You have the most luscious tits.” He smiles. His hands are on me before David Bowie even hits the floor. Hot and rough, his fingers feel amazing on my cool, soft skin. He squeezes and kneads them, pinching my nipples, harder with each pass. His thumb flicks one nipple as he gently kisses the other, and then does this loving, long, slow suck on my left nipple until I can feel it in my pussy. “Is that better?” I manage to gasp. I want him to kiss me, so I guide the back of his head up until his mouth is inches away from mine. "Almost. But I’m going to need a little more from you," he purrs just before our lips collide. It’s the kiss I have longed for and it makes me want more, more, more. He licks my lips and then his own. “How we doing?” He reaches his hand under my skirt. As he kisses me again, he strokes just the right place outside my panties. Sweet tender touches that set off sexy sparks. My knees forget how to be knees again. “You’re soaking through your panties,” he says. He pulls me close to him and his hot, naked chest against mine drives me wild. I can feel every inch of those pecs on my tits, his washboard abs hard against my stomach, digging into me, our hip bones colliding. I bite his lower lip and then kiss him, my tongue probing in time with his fingers against my undies. And then my panties are suddenly off, but I can’t testify as to how or when. I just feel a rush of cool air in the throbbing spot between my legs. This is it. No more waiting. I hungrily tug at his pants, completely forgetting how to unbutton or zip them. He stops me with a grin, fingers curling around mine. “I got this." He gazes at me as he slides his hard dick out of his jeans for my inspection. Jesus. It's bigger than I remembered. More than I expected, but I can deal. “Think you can handle…” he starts to say, smirking, but my fingers touch his tip, shutting him up. Lifting my skirt up, I press my back against the production room wall. In one fluid movement, I kick my leg up and he hooks it in his arm. We could be on Dancing with the Stars or, well, maybe Dancing with the Porn Stars. The next thing he does is swirl the head of his cock against the entrance of my pussy. Then he pauses, just as I'm wet and aching for him, ready to take him into me. “I’m going to fuck you with my huge cock. You think you can handle it, Rose?” “Yes,” I pant. “But my condoms are in my wallet...which is in my jacket...which is in your

office…” I smile at him and jerk my head to the side. His gaze follows mine to the right. On the production table sits a large glass bowl of condoms, a gift from the NJ Board of Health before last summer’s music fest. “You’re one hell of a Girl Scout, Taylor." He grabs one. As I bite my lip damn near bloody, I watch him tear the wrapper with his teeth and roll up the condom with one hand. I savor the view as the rubber rolls down his thick delicious length. He doesn't even look. He is talented. As he stares at me with those intense blue eyes, he lifts his hips again, braced at my entrance. "I’m not gonna go easy on you,” he says, those eyes hard and hungry all at once, and oh fuck I can't tell him how much I like the sound of that. "Fuck me, Mark," I gasp. In a single, deep thrust, he fills me with his cock. I melt as he penetrates every inch of my pussy. He grinds against me, into me and I thrust back with fury until I can’t see or hear. I just feel red hot bolts of energy. My knee buckles and I feel the strength of his arms holding me up and the power of his dick banging me to another place. Every thrust sends me higher, closer to the edge, and I'm so wet and hot, but I can feel every inch of him in me, every thrust making me gasp in ecstasy. "You’re so tight," he growls in my ear, hands rough on my hips, pinning me against the wall. “Fuck,” I moan, tossing my hair over my shoulder. Mark gathers my hair in his fist and pulls, making me gasp. “I’m gonna make you come so hard.” I can't help but obey, crying out faintly as I peak over the edge, the orgasm making my whole body quake. He keeps thrusting, hard, unrelenting, and I spiral right back to the edge, nearly ready to come again when he pins me to the wall and fucks me fast and hard, his breath a hot rush in my ear as he finishes, gasping. Thank god he's this strong, because I couldn't stand on my own right now. Only his stiff biceps and the wall behind me keep me upright. Then, without warning, while we're both still panting for air, trying to recover, there’s a knock at the door. By its light, rhythmic tap I know—thank god—it’s Becks. I am not 100% in love with the idea of her figuring out what’s been up in here (Mark), but out of all the staff, she’s the least likely to spill my juicy secrets. The production room is her MILFy personal fuck palace, so she knows if she rats on me, I've got more than enough dirt on her. “Be out in a sec,” I manage to blurt out. Becks mumbles a response and I hear her walk away. Mark’s head rests on my shoulder. I feel the sweat of his forehead trickle down my clavicle, and his gasps of breath warm my neck. Me, I'm gasping into his forehead, my breaths stirring the hair at his temples. The room starts to resolve into a normal room again, not a distant hallucination. I wriggle out of his embrace, but he clings tighter to me. After a second, I push him off with a gentle shove. His jeans are around his ankles and he’s got that wry little smile on his face that tells a girl: job well done. As I adjust my skirt, he pulls up his pants and leans in to kiss me again. “We should do that again sometime.” He takes my face in his big hands. “Like

right now, or…” He raises an eyebrow. “In a few minutes…” But Becks is tapping at the door again. “Seriously, Rose,” she barks. “The production room isn’t here for your personal use.” “We have to get out of here,” I hiss and skirt past him to locate my underwear. “There." Mark points up to the ceiling. “How the hell…” My lacy purple French cut briefs are dangling from the light fixture. I try to reach the low ceiling, but my fingers are about half a foot out of reach. Becks is going to freak out. “Let me.” Mark reaches up and easily plucks them from the fan. As I wiggle into my errant panties, I squint at him. “So, this isn’t going to become a locker room rumor, is it?” That was always the expression I used with him to keep myself out of the rumor mill when we made out in high school, but now I say it as a tease. The post-fuck smile on his face grows as he shakes his head. “Our little secret.” He looks me up and down. “You decent?” I do a quick wardrobe check. “Decent,” I confirm, seeing he has his hand on the doorknob. We open the door to Becks' scowling face. “Wow, really?” She rolls her eyes. "At least wait until the overnight shift like the rest of us." Giggling, and hoping I'm not blushing too hard, we speed walk down the hallway away from the incriminating circumstantial evidence.

13

MARK

The last couple of days has been a challenge to see how many crazy places Rose and I can fuck. My truck has been christened, cab and flatbed alike. We did it in her office and in the lobby after hours while that vampire chick yammered on through a speaker about The Cure, and again as the blowup doll watched. Seems like there are only three places we haven’t done it: her bed, my bed, and the W-ALT DJ booth. I want to see her place to see if matches what’s in my head—an altar to the music she loves. I expect candles burning around a framed picture of The Ramones with a lottery ticket propped up against it. I am sure she's got band T-shirts, cds and LPs laying all over the place, plus maybe an electric guitar leaning against a wall. I want her to see my place too, my cabin. I want her to see how far I’ve come. Since my last explosion, I cleaned up. The floors have been swept of smashed glass and I replaced the broken couch and injured flat screen TV. So far, I haven’t destroyed anything else. This morning I am dusting my piano. Yeah, I do it myself, because I am particular about how it’s done. Can’t trust the maid to use the special microfiber cloth I bought or have a gentle touch. This isn’t the piano I grew up playing. That one my mom sold for drugs. This one I got at an estate sale. Rose doesn’t know I play. Nobody left alive does, in fact. I want to show her I still remember how, but not only can I not decide which song, I can’t seem to get her to agree to come to my place. Never mind getting an invite to hers. She’s friendly and flirty with me on the on air and the sex in my truck is smoking hot. She’s hungry for it when we fuck, and she even seems emotional sometimes, as we catch each other's eyes afterward, or when she's resting in my arms, gasping from her latest orgasm. But part of me thinks that maybe she still thinks I'm beneath her. Maybe I am still beneath her. I find I’m rubbing the piano too hard and I back off. Later, when I calm down, I’ll finish. The phone rings. City number. "Yeah?" I pick up. “Hey, kid. I’m out in Jersey. About thirty minutes away. Can I stop by?” I take a moment to decide whether I feel anxious or happy, but end up just feeling confused. Stanley’s phone calls recently have been short and to the point,

so this visit is unexpected. “Sure,” I finally say. “Come on over.”

Time away from me has done wonders for Stanley. After I hand him a club soda, he sits on my couch. He looks fifteen years younger. His frown lines are gone and it looks like he got some sun. “Key West,” he clarifies, easing back on my couch. “Bev and I took a long weekend.” As he sips his club soda, I notice my stomach is turning over. I’m not known for my subtlety, so I just drive right in. I cross my arms. “Still hating me, huh?" He coughs a little club soda as he shakes his head. “No, kid. I could never hate you.” He takes another sip and then looks at me. “I just wanted you to grow up. That’s all.” I don’t say anything. I stare at my half polished piano. “You seem to be getting on track, from what I hear. Radio gig is going well. Make-up appearances with Tommy worked. Your therapist says good things.” Nodding, I look back at him. “I haven’t missed one session with him. I don't want to be that guy anymore. The angry one.” Stanley smiles. “No more slugging anything besides a ball?” I shake my head. “Those days are behind me.” “Even if a guy like Tommy Pizza gets in your face?” I snort. “Even if he deserves it.” He shakes his head. “You can’t let guys like that rent space in your head, kid.” “I know.” He sets his drink on the coffee table and slaps his knees. “Time to address this radio business before we meet with that nut owner tomorrow. And we have to talk about this new 24 Hour Radio Marathon I just talked to the station about. You and Rose are going to raise a lot of money.”

Another night, another event. These parties are all the same. Press, PR types and a couple celebs with their people. The drinks are generous and the food is sparse, but you always get a decent swag bag. It’s stupid how much getting these bags pleases me. Dumb stuff really. When I look in the bag I see stuff I never knew I wanted. A bottle of top of the line whiskey, a DVD of some action movie I’ve never heard of, cuff links, three power bars and, of course, the whole reason we’re all here tonight —Bust Up digital socks—since they’re the newest official sponsor of Little Sluggers. These socks are made to broadcast to your social media accounts how far you walk in a day, how many calories you burn, how much energy you expend, to try and guilt you into exercising, I guess. Okay, so I take it back. I want most of the stuff in this bag. The socks are a bit creepy. I start thinking in my head who in the world I can gift these socks to when I feel the energy in the room change. I look around to see what happened. Did the lights dim? Did someone open a

window? Then I see her. Rose breezes through the room in a tight little red dress that instantly makes me and probably every other guy in this room think dangerous thoughts. Pair that with her kissable mouth and those long, sensuous legs, legs I can still feel wrapped around my waist as I thrust into her, and well...I’m going to have trouble keeping it in my pants for long tonight. She’s showing off some skin tonight and those heels make her shapely legs look even hotter than usual. I spot her the second she walks into the place, and so does everyone else it seems. She literally steals the air right out of the room. I watch her scan the room with an inscrutable look on her face until she sees me and smiles. Then, “Hey, Bad Boy,” a woman interrupts, shoving another drink in my hand. I don’t even see that girl; I’m already dodging past her toward Rose. As I keep my eyes on Rose, hangers-on surround me, like it’s a giant plan to keep me from my goal. The guy to the left is from some beer company and the guy to the right of me is from ESPN. The girl with him keeps eyeing me like she’s wondering if her boyfriend will mind if she propositions me for a threesome. My ear has been buzzing all night with bullshit praise and pitches. Stanley and his team do their best to keep them off of me, but a bunch of them manage to weasel through anyway. I just smile and nod. That’s what I do. Smile and fucking nod. I prefer my sincere die-hards. They live and breathe baseball. Not money and fame, which is all these hangers-on have to like about me. I watch Rose walk to the bar and order a drink. We agreed to keep our distance tonight, that’s the deal. Everything on the down low. Everything a secret. Not sure if she likes that because she thinks it’s the sexy thrill of a secret affair, or if she just doesn’t want it on the street that we hit it. And we are def hooking up later. She’s thrown me a bone and let me throw her mine. Haha. She’s agreed to come to my place in the city tonight. I have Moet chilling in the freezer and a list of filthy things I want to do to her. I was able to talk the maid into an emergency deep clean and I got West Elm to deliver some fancy knickknacks. I have this sewn up. She will see I am not that wrong side of the tracks guy anymore. The condo ain’t home like my cabin, but it’s nice. “Hey! Hey!” some guy in a suit shouts at me. I can tell by his wobbled walk and glassy eyes he’s been hitting something hard and I’m not sure if it’s uppers or whiskey or both. He makes his way through the crowd and hits my back a couple of times hard as he leans into me and mumbles something about real estate. “Excuse me.” I walk away from him and I can hear him slur a curse behind me. I make a beeline to Rose and I notice her bristle a little. She looks around the room like she’s worried someone might see her with me. “We do work together,” I point out in a low voice when I reach her. She laughs, and the deep, throaty sound sends a jolt straight to my crotch. “I know, I know.”

Her Tequila Sunrise is almost empty, so I order her another and get a beer for myself. I see the bartender has opened the Brooklyn Brewery bottle and intends to hand it to me. “In a glass, please.” I notice Rose has a question mark on her face. I lean into her. “I think I have a beer contract pending, so I can’t be seen drinking any specific brand in a picture.” Rose fights the urge to smile, I can tell. “Is all that hard to keep track of?” I tug at my suit jacket. “I’m getting paid 50 large to wear this tonight. That’s not even counting the shoes.” I pull at my tie. “This is only five thousand though.” Rose brushes my tie with her fingers and even though she’s not touching me, I feel like she’s stroking skin not silk. “Are you a walking billboard or what?” I mean to chuckle, but it sounds a little sad. “Pretty much. My body is for rent.” She tilts her head. “Is that weird for you?” “It was when it first started. I dunno. Awkward. But these clothing companies pay me to wear these clothes, so when I get papped they get press. And it’s not like I had any brands I really loved to wear before or anything. So why not? Win-win for both of us.” “I guess everything has a price.” “Well...” I let my eyes rake over her body, slowly, then lean closer to her and look into her eyes. “Not everything.” She smirks. “True. I’m not for sale, if that’s what you’re thinking, Mr. Bigshot Ballplayer.” “That is exactly what I love about you,” I reply, trailing a finger up her arm, barely touching her, aware of all the eyes on us. But fucking hell, do I want to do more. I can tell by her desperate little shiver that she does, too. I lean in closer to her ear and murmur, “I can’t wait to fuck you tonight.” As she bites her lip and looks away, cheeks flushed red, I rest my eyes on her tits that are popping out of her dress. “You are such a tease…” she whispers back, but she looks kind of dreamy about it, eyes half-hooded, and I want to kiss her right here, right now, fuck what anyone else thinks. But then I see her face drop as her eyes focus on something behind me. I turn around. Amber. Yes, that Amber. My ex saunters her 5’10” frame straight toward us with a couple of hair tosses and an arched eyebrow. How the hell does she keep getting into my events? Oh, right. I guess being the highest paid model in the world tends to make doormen sympathetic. That, and she’s probably fucking another one of my teammates by now. Back when we split, I thought that would bother me. Now, I don’t even mind the thought. She’s still walking this way and waving. Rose shocks me by waving back. “You know her?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Of course not.” Rose wiggles off the barstool and greets Amber with a polite introduction and one of those air hugs girls do. Looking at them side by side, I can’t help but

compare the two. Rose is standing next to Maxim magazine’s hottest woman alive, but I can’t see Amber at all. All I see is Rose’s long, honey colored hair brushing the curve of her waist and that easy, sweet laugh bubbling out of her bee stung mouth. Amber must be sensing defeat, because after sneaking a look at me, and me refusing to meet her eye, too busy watching the dip where Rose’s dress reveals her smooth, bare shoulder, Amber skulks off to another teammate. “Sorry about that…” I murmur to Rose. But Rose just shrugs and tugs my tie. “I’ll see you later,” Rose says, drawing out the word later so I know it’s a promise. As I watch her walk away, Amber notices and walks back my way. Dammit. Now I feel Rose’s paranoia about the all-seeing public eye. I do not want the media to think Amber and I are an item again. Amber touches my face with her long fingers and I pull away with a fake smile on my face just in case someone with a camera is watching. “Still mad?” she purrs. “Let’s not do this.” I step away. I spot Stanley talking to one of his interns and I head straight to him. He excuses the college kid with a glance in Amber’s direction. His face is red and I watch him take out a handkerchief and dab his forehead. When I reach him, he shakes his head. “You have to expect that.” “What?” He rubs his neck and winces. “Amber’s career has cooled since you two broke up.” “No way.” “Twenty five is ancient in model years. She needs to be paired with someone like you to keep her career afloat.” “Stan, her face is everywhere and she’s already banging another jock, I’m sure.” Stanley laughs, closes his eyes and scrunches his left shoulder. “She ain’t no supermodel. She’s just a pretty girl who looks good in a bikini. Each day another younger, prettier new girl steals her thunder. I hear Ford might be dropping her.” There’s no sympathy in my heart for her. “That’s her problem, not mine.” I hear Stanley gasp and wonder if he’s really that sympathetic to poor Amber the aged-up model’s dilemma. But then he falls against me. On instinct, I catch him, but he’s heavy, and it takes him a second to find his feet again. At first I think he’s drunk, and marvel, because I’ve never seen him even tipsy. Then I realize he’s clutching his chest with one hand and squeezing my hand with the other. Is it his heart? “Get me out of here, kid,” he wheezes. “Don’t let anyone know what’s going on.”

14

ROSE

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but he doesn’t appear to be home,” Mark’s doorman says as he puts down his desk phone. He’s about my age and might be cute without the pornstache. He stares at me, waiting for me to say something. “What do you mean? Of course he’s home. He’s expecting me.” “Sorry ma’am, apparently not. There’s no answer.” “Well, try again.” The doorman gives me a pursed lip smile. “Ma’am, I have tried three times. There is no answer. He’s either not at home or…” He bows his head at me as if giving me the cue to finish the sentence for me. I only do it in my mind. Is Mark avoiding me? No. Why would he? He was all hot and bothered about seeing me tonight. Something must have come up. Or he fell asleep. Or he’s in the shower. Or, I don’t know. Something. “Do you mind if I wait here?” I point to a couch in the lobby. “Sorry, miss. I am afraid you have to leave.” I’m sure this guy has turned away countless women on Mark’s behalf. I can’t exactly blame him for lumping me in with those girls. Maybe Mark has too. I half laugh as I exit the building and walk down 72nd Street. First time I have done the walk of shame without actually doing anything shameful. This is so much worse, since I don’t even have any good memories to tide me over. I summon Uber and stamp my foot in frustration. Dammit. I wish Mark wasn’t such a Luddite. Who the hell doesn’t own a cell phone? At first, I thought his refusal to use one was charming in an old school way, but now it’s just annoying. I’m upset I won’t be screwing him tonight, but I’m sure he has a good reason for skipping out on me. Raincheck, I guess. I glance down at my red dress with a sigh, and promise her that next time, she’ll wind up on his floor.

When get home, I open the door to Geo reorganizing her collection of 60’s vinyl. The Beatles, The Stones, The Mamas and The Papas are spread all over the floor

with her on her knees over them. Shit. Geo only organizes things when she’s really pissed. I pray it’s boy trouble, but then she looks up at me with a glare and I realize it’s definitely my fault. She says two words. “Frightened. Rabbit.” Double shit. “I’m sorry, Geo. I can talk to them tomorrow, I—” but she holds up her hand to silence me. I watch her stack her records into no discernable order, one by one. The only sound is LP slapping on LP and her mouse-like squeaks of rage. “Monday,” I promise. “This time I swear.” She stands up with the stack of records clutched to her NOW tee. She holds up a finger to silence me and squeezes her eyes shut. “There is no tomorrow,” she says. “Tomorrow was yesterday and every day last week.” I’m not sure what hippie protest song that comes from, but she seems satisfied with it. She storms to her room and slams the door. I head down the hall and tap gently on her door, pressing my forehead to it. “Geo,” I coo. “Geo, please.” Then I hear the angry sounds of the Sex Pistols blaring in her room. Dammit. She’s really mad if she’s playing punk. Better let her cool off. I go to my own room and close the door. Frustrated by the evening, I eye my power vibrator and figure I’ll give a whirl. Unfortunately, I forget that I shouldn’t power it on unless most of the lights in the house are off. The second I switch in on, the lights go out and Johnny Rotten stops wailing. “For fuck’s sake, Rose!” I hear through the wall. I stare at Thor’s hammer in my hand, now useless thanks to the fuse I just blew, and sigh. Just my damn luck.

The next morning I find Geo sitting at the kitchen table nibbling on granola. “Still upset?” I ask, sitting down next to her. She fingers her hippie kibble and pouts. “I just feel like you don’t care about the podcast anymore.” “I do.” I touch her arm. “It’s just that things have been so…” “Crazy. I know. But things are always crazy…” Taking my hand off her, I lean back in my seat. “I’m sorry.” I sigh. “I really am.” I take out my phone to pull up the contact I have for Frightened Rabbit’s manager. “It’s Saturday, but I’m going to call their people right now, right in front of you. I just need to Google their tour dates real quick to see where—” “Wait!” She grabs my arm and cups my phone against her cheek. “You need to stay off the internet.” “Uh, why? Are we protesting something?” She shakes her blonde, thin dreads. “I am seriously mad and disappointed with you right now. But…I don’t want to hurt you. So I would rather you hear it from me instead of Google. Because, even though I am so so mad at you, I love you with all

my heart.” “Wait, what are you talking about?” She squeezes my hand and looks deep into my eyes. What I see in her gaze is pity. Dread pools in my stomach, but no amount of worry can prepare me for her next sentence. “Mark Carrington just got back together with that Amber model.” I feel like a red hot knife has been thrust into my chest. It takes me a minute to find my voice, during which Geo just keeps squeezing my hand, until I lose feeling in my fingers. “Great,” I spit, when I finally find my tongue again. “Fine. Awesome. Who even cares.” Convincing, Rose. “What happened last night?” I look at her and can’t believe how she can be so supportive after I screwed her over so much recently. I should back off. Handle this on my own. It’s not fair to pile all my shit on her after dicking her around. But I need to talk to someone, so I spill it. “He stood me up last night. And she was at the party; I saw them talking briefly…” I shake it off. No. No way is he back with her. It doesn’t make sense. “What are you basing this on? A picture? A piece of gossip?” Geo shakes her head. “Just, trust me, it’s legit.” No way. I make a grab for my phone. Geo fights me, but I’m motivated, so I win in the end. It doesn’t take me more than a second to Google it. It’s the first hit when you type in Amber and Mark, without even their last names. She tweeted this morning. Then the news sites ran with it. I stare at the screen. It’s a picture of them at the event last night. Her in that couture dress. Him in the black suit he was paid to wear. They aren’t touching, I tell myself. It’s not like he has his arm around her or anything. But the text, the text that Amber wrote herself, is clear: #TogetherAgain #ThisTimeForever “Oh,” I mumble, reading the tweet over and over as the pieces start to fit together in my mind: the way Mark disappeared from the event last night without a word, then getting stood up in the lobby of his high rise apartment afterward, the pitying expression of the doorman as he asked me to leave, and the way Mark has been completely unreachable on his land line phones ever since. And given Mark’s playboy ways and his track record with women…it all makes perfect sense. There’s no point being in denial about it. This is just like high school all over again. I’m just the casual hookup that Mark keeps hidden from the world until he finds someone hotter. “Well.” I rise from the table and walk over and look out the window at nothing in particular. “I guess I still can’t compete with a cheerleader.” “A cheerleader?” I turn back to Geo, who’s watching me with her eyebrows scrunched, and shrug. “Supermodel. Cheerleader. It’s all the same, isn’t it?” “Uh, not really…” I pull up the Frightened Rabbit’s contact info and call their manager. Time to shift my priorities back to where they need to be. “Hello?” says an English voice says after the third ring.

“Simon Carlyle?” “Speaking…” I clear my throat and sit up straight in my chair. “Rose Taylor. I produce a podcast here in the New York City Metro area…”

15

MARK

Beverly White is a tough Jersey broad who doesn’t suffer fools or mince words. The second she sees me in the ER waiting room, she narrows her brown eyes and pokes my chest with her long fingernail. “Get the fuck outta here,” she hisses through her tears. It’s 4 in the morning. She was in Myrtle Beach and must have gone through hell to get here after she got the call about her husband’s massive coronary. I want to plead my case, but I know that now is not the time. I shoot Bill, Stanley’s assistant, a sad look and he nods as he gently nudges me out into the hall. “Go,” he whispers. “I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” I hear Bev’s harsh words behind me as I make my way down the hall and I almost trip over my own grief. “That kid is the reason,” she yells. “It’s all his fault. Been giving Stan hell for years.” I don’t feel the heat of anger, just the downward pull of a sadness and guilt cocktail that’s making me feel sick to my stomach. Lost in swirling thoughts, the taxi ride is a blur. Stanley has been the closest thing to a father that I’ve ever had. For the last five years, he’s always gone above and beyond our professional relationship, treating me like his own kid, pulling favors for me, helping me through hard times in my personal life. He could die tonight. And Bev is right, it would be all my fault.

My apartment is cold and dark, but the mood doesn’t change even after I turn on all the lights. I am suddenly aware I’m starving and open the fridge to see what I have. A whole lot of nothing. But that’s fine. Nothing would fill the emptiness inside me right now anyway. I lean back on my couch and try out one of my therapist’s breathing exercises. All I can think about is Stanley’s face as he collapsed. The strain in his forehead as I carried him outside, somehow dodging the paps that swarmed everywhere. He wouldn’t let me call an ambulance until we were far enough away from the building that the reporters wouldn’t see. What if those few minutes make all the difference? What if he would’ve been better off if I’d called an ambulance sooner, ignored his

wishes? I’m deep in that spiral of thought when I notice the long strand of honey colored hair hanging on the sleeve of my Armani jacket. Rose. Stanley’s medical emergency made me forget all about our plans last night. Shit. I grab my land line phone, but eye the time on the microwave and see it’s just past 6 am. Double shit. It’s too early to call her now, on the one day she has off from doing the show. I tell myself not to worry. I’m sure she’ll understand when I call later. The phone rings in my hand and I almost drop it from shock. “Hello,” I bark before the first ring is done. “Mark, it’s Bill Bellows.” Stan’s assistant. I feel my throat tighten as a million bad thoughts dance in my head. “How is…?” I can’t even finish the sentence. “He’s going to be OK. Close call, but he’s past the danger point.” I let out a sigh that feels like it has no end, and collapse back into my seat. “Thanks, man.” I say. “Can I come see him tomorrow morning? Before the Radio Marathon?” “Tell that son of a bitch to burn in hell!” Bev shouts from the background. She sounds like she has been swallowing chunks of glass. Bill sighs into my ear. “I’ll let you know, Mark, OK?” “Thank you.”

Amped and unable to sleep, I drive back to my cabin on empty roads. I stay up all day playing the most melancholy shit in my collection; sultry, mood pieces that keep me in a dark place, but it’s all good. That’s my therapist’s big thing. Let yourself feel the emotions. Let yourself be in the moment when the feelings are rushing. Don’t keep things bottled up. With each finger that lands on my eighty eight keys, I feel the tension ease and my mind drift.

The first time I met Stanley White I was buck naked tangled in the limbs of three hot chicks I picked up in a bowling alley bar just outside of Memphis. Two of the ladies were identical twins, the third was their cousin, but she looked enough like the other two that I figured I would tell the rest of the guys they were triplets anyway. All night I called them Huey, Dewey and Louie while we reinvented the Kama Sutra for a quartet. Good times. Stanley had come sauntering through my motel door at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning and he must have been loose with the Franklins because the motel manager opened my door for him, no knock or nothing. There I am, spread-eagle naked on the bed, with Huey on my right, Dewey on my left and Louie’s head resting on my stomach. The place was a mess, with pizza boxes and Miller Lite cans

everywhere; the aftermath of a victory celebration. I’d just broken a minor league batting record the night before and partied like it was 1999. Stanley didn’t bat an eye, just gave me that faint, amused smile that defines him. Standing over the bed in his gray silk suit, he could have been at a board meeting or a funeral. Not a hair out of place on that guy, not an emotion betrayed on his face. “I need to talk to you about your future.” I was hungover as fuck, my skin was sticky and I smelled like the triplets, but I didn’t blow him off because I knew who he was. Even back then, he was a big deal. And I knew you didn’t send someone like him packing even if you did need a Silkwood shower with bleach and a sandpaper loofa. That morning my life changed, and not just in terms of ball playing. Stanley became a part of my life I had no idea I was missing: a guiding light. I am surrounded by Yes men, but he’s the only guy who has the balls to tell me, No, kid. I don’t even finish the Beethoven sonata. I dig through my sheet music and pull out some Puccini. Madame Butterfly is his favorite and this piano arrangement is tops. When he gets out of the hospital, I’ll play it for him.

I wake up on my couch, my body screaming from being twisted like a pretzel and my head pounding from scotch on an empty stomach. Without thinking, I flip on the plasma and see that the maid—bless her Belarussian heart—left it on E! instead of my usual ESPN. As I stand and stretch out my body, I chuckle at the Rhianna thinkpiece one of the talking heads is spewing. Something about how a see-through top is empowering to women. Not that I’m complaining about the view. Though of course, E! blurred out her nips in the photo they provide. My coffee maker cost a thousand dollars, but I pour some Dunkin Donuts beans in it as E! details another scandalous story about Taylor Swift and some video she made about another ex-boyfriend. You go girl, get yours. I have to watch E! more, this shit is funny. But what I hear next isn’t so funny. Before going into a commercial break, they drop a fuck of a teaser. Mark Carrington and supermodel Amber are back together and E! has the exclusive story! I look up and see a picture of us—me and Amber—at last night’s event. In the photo we’re side-by-side, clearly a selfie from Amber’s camera, though she’s the only one smiling, a huge toothy grin. That? Really? Fucking lazy journalism. Then again, what do you expect from E !, I guess. With my piping hot cup of joe in hand, I plop down on the couch and wait out some lady ads to check out this bullshit story. In the process, I learn way more about skin care and healthy gut flora than I ever wanted to know. I’m prepared to see a fluff piece, the usual drivel that overthinks a candid shot at

a media event, typical tabloid fodder. Then the story starts, and my throat dries up. E! News is telling me—and the world—that Amber has been tweeting like crazy about us. As if there is an us. She’s been at it all night apparently, raving about our true love. How we never really broke up, the tabloids made it all up for press, exaggerated one little fight. They have her on the phone—an exclusive—and she’s gushing like Yosemite. “He’s wonderful to me. The first man I’ve been with who really takes our relationship seriously; who doesn’t see me as just another pair of legs.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Normally, I don’t give a fuck about gossip. Normally, the most a rant like this from an ex would make me do is send her a cease and desist letter, maybe coupled with an interview of my own about femme fatales. But now I care. Because all I can think about right now is that somewhere out there, Rose is watching this too. I reach for the phone to call Stanley. He was right about her. He will know what to do... It takes a whole minute of his phone ringing and sending me to voicemail before I remember the reason I’m hungover from whiskey on an empty stomach in the first place. Fuck.

I hit the Starbucks on the 17 and grab Rose’s no frills favorite: a straight up venti black coffee. She’s an uncomplicated gal and I appreciate that. Her phone went to voicemail this morning. That happens. I didn’t leave a message. I just have to talk to her, I keep thinking, but I am also cursing myself. Why do I care? Why do I feel like I owe her an explanation? I don’t. This is my crazy ex to deal with; it has nothing to do with her. And it was my agent slash father figure slash mentor slash life coach in the hospital. I don’t have to explain why I missed our hookup for that. I know that in my head, but my gut is twisting, so here I am barreling up the 17 at 6 am with adrenaline pumping through my veins and an Ethiopian java splashing on my Corinthian leather. Her opinion matters to me and I don’t know what that means, but the truth is, it’s always mattered to me. Even back in the day when we wrote that stupid play and made out in secret. Even when I felt like her dirty little secret, the dumb jock she was too embarrassed to admit she was seeing. Even then, I wanted to impress her, wanted her to think well of me. I still do now, after all this time.

“She can’t talk to you.” The unfamiliar chick peeking through Rose’s chained apartment door is scowling at me. Her eyes look crazy mad, but I give her a smile anyway.

I already know how this is going to go down. She’s pissed at me because she’s protecting her friend. I’m sure Rose told her everything. Even if she didn’t, this girl must have seen the tabloids by now. I rack my brains for the girl’s name. Rose mentioned her roommate a few times. Some kind of rock-sounding name. The earth, not the band. Amethyst? Crystal? No, it was earthier, hippier… “Geo, right?” I ask, looking deep into her eyes. For a long moment, she says nothing. Shit, I think. Wrong name. Then she breaks the direct eye contact and looks down, but nods, unable to resist a little smile, probably because this celebrity she’s never met knows her name. Score. It’s working. “Listen, Geo.” I drop my voice to almost a whisper. “I just need to explain three things to her. That’s all.” She puts her eyes back on me, her mouth still a hard line. Keeping my voice calm, I lean in. “Last night, a close friend of mine had an emergency.” Her eyes widen slightly with sympathy. “Sorry to hear that…” “The second thing is that my ex is a liar…” Geo rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to speak. I just know it’s going to be some females unite thing, so I don’t let her get there. “When you are high profile, people make up things about you for the media, and for profit. Even people you once trusted. They put their careers over your life, and they don’t care if they have to throw you under the bus to do it.” I let a little heat seep into my tone, because I know that’s what Amber is doing. As we speak here, she’s probably getting re-signed at Cover Girl. Geo’s scowl melts completely and a dimple shows up on her cheek. I am doing well. “And the third thing.” I hold up the Starbucks cup. “Is that Rose’s coffee's getting cold.” Grinning, Geo bits her lip, and gently closes the door. I smile when I hear her sliding the chain off. She opens the door and takes the coffee from my hand. “Thanks,” I say, but she doesn’t step back to let me in. “Now fuck off.” She slams the door in my face. That did not go as expected.

When I pull into the parking lot, there are more fans camping out than usual, in spite of the cold. That’s to be expected with the big media push like we have going for this 24 Hour Radio Marathon. The parking lot is packed with not just my diehards, but also TV trucks and reporters. Bill rode over with me from the hospital, where I wasn’t able to see Stanley yet. Sleeping, the nurse told me, though not before I caught a glimpse of his room through the window, and saw Bev glaring daggers in my direction. As we step out of the truck, Bill leads me toward the crowd. I pause in different places along the gauntlet to do my job. A picture here. An autograph there. Stanley would be proud of Bill. Although just fresh outta college, he is a great partner through the crowd and really has things tied up, shuffling me along and

interrupting overzealous fans at exactly the right moments. I notice an old Corolla pull up and I spot Rose in the car. That Geo chick is driving and, man, I can feel the hate lasers shooting out of her eyes from this far away. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of seared meat in the middle of the parking lot. Rose takes off her seat belt and Geo touches her shoulder and says something. Probably some gentle words about how I am such a dick. Usually I laugh about this kind of thing, but not now. It bugs the fuck out of me. Why not wait to hear my side of things before you break out the pitchforks and torches? “So, what are your thoughts, Mark?” A mic hovers in my face, a camera trains on me and a reporter in a bad tweed sport coat and worse toupee stares at me, waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t catch. I shake it off. “Sorry, what?” “You and Amber…” Bill cuts him off. “No comment.” He pushes me along. At the front door of the station, Bill leans in. “Say nothing about the Amber situation. Silence is denial.” Damn right. Not that I would’ve said anything anyway. I have other reasons to say nothing. Just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I have to answer any questions about my personal life. Fuck that. And I don’t need to explain myself to Rose either. But I want to.

The 24 Hour Radio Marathon is all about raising funds for the Little Sluggers, my favorite kids at bat. Stanley put it together before his attack, and it’s the least I can do to see it through on his behalf. Even if things with him are still uncertain, with the doctors reporting no change in his condition… Not good news, but not bad news either. Just…waiting. At least this keeps my mind occupied while I do. We have a ridiculous goal: raise $100K in 24 hours. I know the die-hards will do it, and our ratings are so hot that I’m also expecting a bunch of non-die-hards to throw us some dough, too. The Yankees are matching every dollar if we reach our target. Earlier today, Bust Up sports drink announced it will match too, and so will Edge Shaving Cream. Plus me, of course. That could earn half a million dollars for Little Sluggers and all I have to do is stay up for 24 hours straight. That, and keep sane enough to talk on the radio. But as soon as I reach the lobby and spy Rose, I realize this is going to be complicated. She bolts past me without a word and slams the door to her office behind her. “What’s up with that?” Chris’s furry eyebrows are arched to his hairline. I shrug my shoulders like I don’t know, but inside I feel the anger start to burn again. 100, 99, 98… I don’t have to count down further. She’s steaming mad, but she’s still smoking

hot. She moved by me in a whirl, but I saw the high heeled boots and little skirt. This is just a little game she’s playing. She wants attention, so I’ll give it to her. Chris sighs. “Well, let me show you the setup, anyway.”

Night Vixen fires me a dirty look when Chris and I reach the studio. I see the good news is all over the place. This time, I don’t know who to be angry at. I can’t blame Night Vixen—or Rose, for that matter—for listening to the gossip rags. They are pretty damn convincing. I’d believe Amber myself, if I didn’t already know she was crazy. And nobody knows about Stan except me and Bill, per Stan’s personal request. But still…you’d think I’d have earned some benefit of the doubt by now. The studio is decked out with gear and posters from our sponsors. I weave between the boxes to take over from Night Vixen, and spot a pile of snacks, food, and soft drinks. Not to mention a ton of caffeinated beverages. Rose and I have everything we need to get this thing done. “Reporters will come in throughout the day,” Chris says. “To film and whatnot.” “Cool.” He hands me a piece of paper. It’s the schedule for the next 24 hours, including a list of celebrity names. Every hour someone famous in and out of baseball will call in to push the cause. “This is amazing,” I say, gaping at some of the names they managed to sign. “Great job.” He chuckles as he taps the paper. “Rose has been working her ass off the last couple of days.” My jaw clenches at the mention of her name and Chris doesn’t miss it. He shakes his head, torn between sighing and laughing. “Why do I have the feeling that you being locked in the studio with Rose all day is going to be like being sealed in a glass jar with a thousand hornets?” As he shakes his head, he leaves the studio and I turn to catch Night Vixen rolling her eyes at me. Well. He’s not wrong.

16

ROSE

No woman wants to feel like a notch on some guy’s bedpost. Not even Mark Carrington’s Louisville Slugger. But what makes it worse is knowing that it’s my own damn fault. I fell for it again, just like I did in high school. Damn him. But damn me more. After all. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, that’s on me. I can’t avoid Mark forever, but I do a damn good job of it most of the morning. Every second of my routine was peppered with inner monologue chants of “I don’t care.” “I don’t care.” “I don’t care.” But with all that in my head, why, oh why did I grab my fuck me patent leather pointy boots and micro skirt off my pile of laundry this morning? Old habits die hard, I guess. Part of me knows I have zero right to be pissed. Mark and I had a sex deal. There was some cuddling after, but no walking in the rain holding hands. Nothing that had any hint of the two fierce Rs: Romance or Relationship. Fuck buddies. That’s all we were. He didn’t make me promises. We didn’t say we were exclusive. We didn’t say anything except fuck me harder or oh fuck, I’m gonna come. Well. That and a few other choice phrases. When I got out of the shower, Geo told me he stopped by and passed on the Starbucks he delivered. “It’s just a game,” she assured me. “He only wants to fuck you.” She’s not wrong. He never took me out on a date in public. He didn’t want anyone to know about us just like he didn’t want anyone to know in high school. I’m an embarrassment for a guy like him. A nobody, a zillion leagues below him. I knew this going in, so why do I feel so disappointed? Why do I feel so screwed over? Why did I dab lavender oil on my neck and give myself a fresh shave that involved yoga moves and a hand mirror? I sit at my desk and squeeze the life out of my stress ball. I have no idea how to handle the anger and hurt I’m feeling. I can’t blame him, not really. Like I said, my

fault this time. But it still hurts, more than I expected. I don’t know what to do with that. My eyes drift to the Motivational Quote calendar Becks gave me at the last station holiday party. I haven’t peeled off the dates for weeks. Not since the day Mark’s radio show started, in fact. I grab the calendar, angry suddenly at that date. Fuck that date. Tearing off the rest of the dates now, I go through some pretty laughable “quotes.” I crinkle them up one by one and shoot them toward my wastebasket. A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. Go big or go home. I never met a challenge I didn’t like. But one of them strikes me. Goddamn it if it isn’t from Pamela Anderson. Happy font imposed over a beach scene, the former Baywatch star and Playboy model somehow gets my soul. You can’t control others, you can only control your own reactions. Damn straight, Pammy. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. Every muscle on my face has to be on board with that thought. My hands can’t shake and I need Scarlett Johansson's voice more than I ever have before. I read some copy out loud in my office to make sure she is still with me. She is, thank heavens. I got this. I am golden. I can be locked up with the man who just ripped out my heart for a second time in a small room for the next 24 hours and feel nothing. At least, pretend I feel nothing. I’m good at pretending. I am the queen of the poker face. Becks sticks her head in my door without a knock. “Magic time.” And when I stand from my desk and smile at her, she buys the happy expression on my face.

Mark and I are not alone in the studio, at least not yet, so I have a little time to adjust to his presence. And that unbelievable hotness. He’s dressed in another tight T-shirt, this one dark green—he must have a closet full of form-hugging shirts and a drawer stuffed with perfect fit denim. His jeans are loose where they need to be loose and tight where they need to be tight. He has the booty of the god of glutes. He turns away from Chris and catches my eye. “Good morning,” he says, cheerily as fuck. I can’t find words, so I just nod at him and avoid those blue eyes. Night Vixen still has fifteen minutes left of her show and Chris and Becks and Mark’s guy Bill are puttering around getting some media guys in place to film. The first couple of hours on the air, we will have press in the room. After that, it’s all us and the mics and the phones.

The room is hot with all the bodies and lights in here and I am hot for other reasons too. Much as I’m pissed at Mark right now, being in the same room still makes a thin layer of sweat bead along my skin. I feel like I’m on fire. I can’t stop remembering the last time we hooked up, in the bed of his truck, still half wrapped in our coats. We couldn’t wait to get somewhere warm. We needed to have each other, right then and there. He pushed me down into the truck bed and bent over me, his body hot enough to keep me warm in the chilly night air. His warm hands worked their way under my shirt to toy with my nipples, getting them hard as rocks before he slid one of those hands into my jeans to circle my clit instead. “I can’t wait to get inside that hot little pussy.” By the time he finally undid my jeans, I was panting with desire, my hands tearing at his belt. But he caught my wrists and held my hands against my stomach as he stroked his finger around and around my clit, making me writhe with desire. When he finally plunged one finger into me, I think I shouted loud enough to wake up the birds in the trees along the highway where we pulled over. He kept me silent after that, his mouth pressed hard into mine to swallow my moans as he finger-fucked me until my legs turned to jelly. Only then did he release my wrists and let me draw his cock out, stroking his full, velvety length as he wriggled my jeans down my hips. He fucked me so hard the truck nearly rocked off the road we had parked alongside. His fists dug in my hair, held my head back so he could kiss my neck, my chest, my tits, as he thrust into me again and again, making my back arch and my toes curl and my ass slam against the truck bed with each thrust. When he came inside me, then it was my turn to grab his face and kiss him hard enough to stifle the deafening groan he let out. So, yeah. All those thoughts were a bit distracting as I watched Mark chat with Chris, the same body that bent over mine just a week ago now totally off limits. Then a few more media guys started to flood in to begin the first interview series, and I forced my head back on straight. Focus, Rose. This is no time to lose your head. I can mourn my own idiocy tomorrow. Today, I need to play the ice queen, and play her well.

The morning passes in what feels like a few seconds. Thank god. Three hours down, 21 to go. The studio clears out bit by bit, reporter after reporter, and then finally it’s just Mark and me. I busy myself to avoid his gaze, but peeking out of the corner of my eye, I catch him staring at me with a look I can’t figure out. It’s somewhere between pissed and smoldering. With all the fury, we haven’t talked directly to each other once on air, never mind in the downtime between calls. We sit in frosty silence if we aren’t talking up a caller. Coldplay’s latest hit is spinning and I check to make sure I have everything on my end lined up. Our first celebrity call in is coming up and it’s a doozy. Bonnie Faith is one of my idols. I have loved her since I was eight. Her album Queen of Rock

is why I got into music in the first place and I learned all her songs on guitar by the time I was 12. When I put the call out to her manager I just did it to try to bring in some more music people, hoping the charity angle would draw her. Still, I never expected for her to personally email me with an enthusiastic yes. Turns out she’s not only a massive Yankees fan, but one of Mark’s die-hards too. “Hey, Bad Boy,” she purrs in that famous raspy English accent. “Who are you punching next?” “Ah, Bonnie. Wouldn’t you love to know…” “Still a fan of Chopin?” Chopin? Mark chuckles softly into his mic, but I see him blush. “Don’t be naughty, Bon. Let’s not spill state secrets.” “Oh, do,” I blurt into my own mic. I don’t know why I said that and neither does Mark, who shoots me a look of surprise complete with arched eyebrows and a gaping mouth. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he finally says in a low voice. Awesome. Mark has banged my favorite rock star. I lean back in my seat, feeling nauseous as I listen to their sexy banter. Who cares that he banged her? Who cares if he does again? None of my business! Besides, this should not both me because I DON’T CARE. The words of Saint Pammy bounce around my head and I steel my poker face and steady my quivering hands. “See, you around, Bad Boy.” Is it my imagination or has her accent gotten extra English as the conversation went on? Suddenly, I hate British accents. “Later, die-hard.” Finally, it’s over. I bid farewell to my former favorite rock star with a quick thank you and start a stream of five long songs so Mark and I can have a break.

Break initiated, I storm out of the production booth with the intention of hiding in my office for the next half hour, but Mark is standing in front of the studio door blocking my exit as RHCP’s Dani California plays. “Move,” I say. “Nope.” He crosses his arms. “You’re being ridiculous.” He just stares at me with those eyes. Those way too blue to be legal eyes. God damn why is he such a gorgeous hunk of a man. My resolve is melting like the Arctic ice caps and my panties start to puddle. “Rose,” he whispers, and the sound of my name on his lips makes my legs wake up and walk toward him. Traitors. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me…on the forehead. Again. “You suck at being a drama queen. It’s really not you.” With gentle yet firm hands, he positions my body so my back is to the door. “What do you think you’re doing?” I am trying to sound fuck you, but ScarJo is making me sound fuck me. His answer is an eyebrow wiggle as he presses his body against mine. I get

another kiss. This one is on the mouth, soft and slow, opened-eyed and playful. I love watching those blue eyes widen as I kiss him back, my lips melting into his. He slowly lowers himself to his knees, keeping those blue eyes trained on mine as if in a dare. He slides his hands up my skirt, then back down with the sides of my panties curled around his thumbs. I feel a rush of cool air between my legs. He smiles. “I really wanted to do this to you the other night. Unfortunately, life got in the way… Let me give you my peace offering.” “No. I don’t accept oral sex from men who are currently dating their supermodel ex-girlfriends.” I mentally pat myself on the back for staying strong. But instead of looking guilty, or even angry, he looks sincere. “I don’t know what I can say to make you believe me. Amber is delusional. She’s making up lies to save her career. There is no one else, Rose. Just you. Come here.” As I step toward him, I check the windows to the DJ booth, but the studio is empty for once. Mark grabs me to him, flush against his hard body, and kisses me. And against my better judgment, I kiss him back. It’s deep and connected, and even if he doesn’t have the right words to make this all better, he’s convincing me with his intensity. “Rose,” he murmurs, pulling me even tighter to him. I can feel his mouth curving up into a smirk as his hand roams up my inner thigh. I don’t bother fighting him, because this is exactly what I want. With a soft moan, I let my legs slide apart. Thank god I wore high heeled boots today, because even when Mark is on his knees he’s still a tall guy. I lift my skirt and he looks at my undies for a few seconds and then slowly slides them the rest of the way down my thighs. When my bare pussy is exposed, he tilts his head, grinning. “I see you’ve prepared a landing strip for me.” My feet and knees are still together because I want to play a little hard to get. I want him to work for it. “I want to taste your little pussy.” My resistance crumbles. He spreads my pussy lips with his thumbs and trails his tongue along my slit. I had no idea his tongue was that long; he reaches my hot spot with ease, slipping the tip of his tongue into me. I let out an involuntary gasp of lust. He softens his tongue and lets it do slow waves along my clit, throwing in some soft lip puckering to mix things up and keep things interesting, sucking and nibbling on my clit between licks. It’s all warm rhythmic perfection and I find my legs spreading wider as his hands pin my hips against the door. His stubble rubbing against the softness of my inner thighs is fucking delicious. “It feels so good.” His tongue plunges deep into me with renewed force, withdraws, then circles my clit again, relentless. It doesn’t take long before I have both fists in his hair, clenching tight and panting with the effort of holding back. “Mark,” I whisper, my hips bucking as I open my thighs as wide as I can, riding his face, needing to feel his tongue fuck me even deeper. All at once I cum harder than I can remember in years, and collapse over him, my knees quivering.

“You taste so good,” he says as he guides me into a chair. Then he bends over me, his blue eyes sharp on mine. When his lips find mine again, softer now, I can taste myself on his tongue, and it makes me wet all over again. “Am I forgiven?” “Not entirely,” I manage to gasp. He takes a breath and a knee. “Listen. I’m sorry about the other night, Rose. I had an emergency.” I toss back my hair and arch an eyebrow. “A supermodel emergency?” Damn. Why did I say that? All my cards are face up now. “Great.” He shakes his head. Taking my hands in his, he stares at me a few moments before speaking. “What, are you still jealous or something? I just told you —” “No. I don’t care.” Saint Pammy be with me. But I do care, I do. Cheerleaders. Supermodels. Sports reporters. Rockstars. This isn’t simply sexual jealousy. No, it’s something else. I care about him and I want him to care about me too. As more than just a fuck buddy. The realization makes me feel weak and vulnerable. “Then why the drama? I’m telling you the truth—I’m not back with her.” I shrug my shoulders and look away and mumble again that I don’t care. “So we have no problem, then?” His eyes are on mine and I’m melting. I have no choice but to sigh and admit, “I’m not a model…” He holds my gaze for a second and then softly laughs. “No. You aren’t.” He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. “And I’m glad for that.” Warmth and joy flood my body. Could I fly right now? I feel like I could. But I don’t want to come across as too excited. I smile and clear my throat to regain some snark. “You did still stand me up the other night, you know.” “I told you. I had an emergency.” I bite my lip. He looks serious. Deadly so. And a little sad, too. There’s a line between his eyebrows that I’ve never seen before. “What happened?” “You have to promise you won’t tell a soul. Seriously. It can’t get out to the press.” “I promise.” I rest my hand on my heart to emphasize. “Stanley had a heart attack.” He closes his eyes and grimaces. “A big one. He’s still in the hospital.” “Oh, god, I’m so sorry, I…” I feel like such a bitch right now. “Shit, I had no idea. Is he going to be okay? What did the doctors say?” “They said—” Mark holds his finger up and looks up at the speaker over our heads. “Wait, isn’t that the last song ending?”

17

ROSE

We sprint back to the controls just as MGMT’s Pretend is rounding out. I give Mark a nod to signal his mic is live and he leans into it as he slides on his headphones. “And we are back.” He licks his lips in my direction. “But I had a tasty break.” My entire being lights up in red and I widen my eyes at him. “What about you, Rose?” he purrs. “How was your break?” He gives me a wink and I bust out laughing, silently, so the mics won’t pick it up. “Relaxing,” I coo. “OK, die-hards, you still have a lot of work to do today. The phones are open and I am expecting you to open your hearts and wallets for the kids.” Our partner Bust Up sports drink has an offsite phone bank, but they are forwarding big donor calls and a couple of stand-out die-hards for me to patch through. Good old Mack has been sent through and my eyes bulge out at the screen. This die-hard has pledged a big number for the cause. “Ten thousand dollars,” I read. “Great job, Mack.” “I’m impressed,” Mark says. “I thought you spent all your money on mustache wax and nachos.” “Still hate you, Mark.” As they argue, I work the phones to find the next die-hard to put through before we break into a song set. Then I notice that the dedicated line we have for the celebrity calls is lighting up. That’s weird. Eli Manning isn’t supposed to call for another half hour. Thinking he must have confused the time, I answer the call without thinking. “Eli?” “No,” a female voice says. “It’s me.” I know that voice but I can’t quite place it. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you down on our schedule, it must be an error. Who is this?” There is a pause, then an audible sigh. Whoever she is, she’s sounds like she’s bored to tears with my question. “Amber.” My stomach churns. “Oh. Uh. What can I do for you today?” Jeez. I sound like an airline ticket counter rep. “I want to talk to Mark.” I pause for a moment. “He’s busy.” “I’m afraid I really must insist. Who is this, anyway?” she adds.

“Hold please.” Mark makes the signal that his conversation with Mack is drawing to a close. Even though a call is scheduled next, I play a Stone Temple Pilots song. “Mark,” I say into his headphones, ignoring the pinch in the pit of my stomach. “Amber’s on the line. What do you want me to do?” He groans. “Just hang up on her.” I nod and shoot him a small smile. Our eyes lock in perfect understanding and this time, I feel like I really can fly.

Until 8 pm, the Radio Marathon remains fun; after 8 pm it becomes exhausting. By midnight, I go into robot mode, mechanically pushing buttons for songs, for commercials, for calls. Scar Jo at some point turned into Rod Stewart and my back, legs and neck feel like I’ve been breaking rocks with a sledgehammer all day and night. Mark, however, is amped. As the marathon drags on, each hour seems to bring him more energy and he’s showing his fun side. He’s really goosing the die-hards and teasing the celebrities. He treats me to a lip synched performance of Wonderwall and really nails it. His energy is contagious and flows into me. Around 2 am we have a ten song break scheduled. Thank god. “Did you want to nap?” he offers. “I feel pretty good, I can wake you up in an hour or so…” “That would be a terrible idea. I think if I let my body rest I’ll fall asleep and never wake up.” “I have a better idea then. What time do we have to get back?” I look at my watch. “2:50.” “Let’s go to the roof and get some fresh air.” “How do you know about the roof?” I ask, suspicious. Shit, did Chris tell him about the secret stash of rum we keep up there for emergencies? Red floods to his cheeks. “Becks tried to lure me up there with a box of wine and some seriously filthy words.” I snort. “Oh.” “Then she tried again with a bottle of whiskey and some different dirty words.” “Oh my god.” My shoulders shake with laughter now. He shrugs his hunky shoulders. “I didn’t go,” he adds, catching my eye and lingering there. “But she spoke so highly of the great time I would have up there, I am interested to see.” I lead him to the back of the office, to the door behind Becks’s desk. There is no lock on the door and if truth be told, anyone who wanted to get into the office could do so from the roof. Pre-Mark Carrington era, we had never considered security outside of Night Vixen’s occasional lovesick Hot Topic vamps, but even they just stalk the parking lot and pout. As I climb the spiral stairs, I remember I never did put my underwear back on, so Mark is getting quite a show.

“Nice view.” “We aren’t even on the roof yet.” “Won’t be a better one.” He reaches up to squeeze my ass as I round the last step, and I let out a startled gasp, though to be honest, it feels more pleasant than surprising. Cool air hits me when I step outside and I wrap the blanket I lugged upstairs around me. “I have threatened to shut this roof down a million times,” I explain. “Too much smoking weed. Too many antics.” I turn back to Mark. “And don't get me started on the insurance issues we could have if this were ever found out by anyone in real authority.” “Then why don’t you shut it down?” I’ve never asked myself that, but I think I know why. I could say it was for peace of mind during the day or evening, knowing you have a spot to escape from work drama, but that’s not true. “Remember when we used to go places? Away from school? Away from town?” He nods. “Of course.” “It’s kind of like that.” I realize what I have just said and think of how to backtrack. “I mean, I…” “I get it. I loved sneaking off like that. While everyone else in our senior class was at that crappy mall or watching movies in the next town, we went to weird places no one else knew about or even thought to look for. It was just for us.” “Exactly.” I smile at him, and then we lapse into a comfortable silence, enjoying the view. After a few minutes, I shiver from the cold and hear some echoed shouts. “What is that?” Mark peers over the roof ledge. “Shh. Come see.” I walk over and take a look at the die-hards below. Two of them are arguing about Babe Ruth almost a hundred years too late. He wraps his arm around me. “Kind of cool that I can see them and they can’t see me. For once.” I think of how different his life is from mine. “Do you like being famous?” He sighs. “I can’t really answer that.” “Why?” “I dunno. I’ve gotten used to it.” He pauses. “There are upsides and downsides. How do you feel about your fame?” “It’s not really fame,” I protest with an eye-roll. “Kinda is. Your profile has shot up a lot in the last couple of weeks.” I smile. True. “I dunno. I guess it’s cool.” I hate to admit it to myself, but in a lot of ways I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve Googled myself. In fact, I spent last Sunday looking at pictures of myself on the internet. I liked to think I was doing it just to see what camera angles worked for me, but at some point something inside me clicked and it was like I couldn’t stop. Before I knew it, a couple hours had gone by of me gazing at me. “Yeah, it’s cool,” I say again, but this time with a pinch of guilt in my gut. “It is what it is. It starts out great, but over time…” He shrugs again. For the rest of the break we watch the die-hards below us. Eating junk food,

playing with their phones, talking to each other. Mark’s arms stay around me as we sway in the cold, his cheek next to mine, and I wonder. Is this my life now? Only the rooftops will be private? I’ll need to have hideaways everywhere I go? On the other hand, with Mark beside me, it all seems doable. More than that. It seems right.

By the time 10 am rolls around, we have officially surpassed our fundraising goals. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I don’t even remember the post-marathon press conference Mark and I did. I’ve hit the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel just sick. I realize now that with all the prep for this event, I haven’t slept for days. It’s been go, go, go and my body is rebelling. After the last press person leaves, I wobble out to the lobby and collapse on the beer stained couch. “I’m done,” I mutter into the not so fresh smelling pillow. “Finished. Just leave me here and let me die.” Mark stands over me and I feel his body blocking all the light. “You aren’t done yet.” I feel his big arms wrap my coat around me and then he lifts me up in his strong arms. Heat is coming off his body like he’s a nuclear reactor. Squeezing my eyes tight, I let my body go limp. After being large and in charge of the Radio Marathon for the last couple of days, it feels incredible to just let go. “I see you got her,” I hear Chris say with a laugh in his voice. “I’ll say,” says Becks. She sounds annoyed. Is that jealousy? My face twitches in satisfaction that I am the envy of the hot to trot office mama minx. I keep my eyes squeezed tight, hear the door open and feel the cold winter air kiss my skin. Mark holds me tighter as he walks out into the parking lot. “Rose!” Various die-hards are shouting my name and my eyelids flicker at the flash of cameras. Chris assures the crowd that in spite of appearances, I am not dead, just dead tired. Mark says nothing but, “Hey buddy, will ya get the door for me?” to some rando fan who obeys his baseball god with a hearty “yes, sir.” Mark sets me in his truck and snaps the seat belt on, making me feel safe and secure. He must have turned his truck on with his key remote from the lobby, because it’s warm inside and W-ALT is blasting on the speakers. “You’ll be OK,” he murmurs. I already am. Dude has seat warmers and my ass is cooking. Mmm... Sleepiness plus horniness feels nice as hell, even though my body still aches. When we hit the 17, I reach across the gear shift to trail my hand up his thigh. He casts me a sideways knowing smile, puts his hand on my leg and lets his fingers dance up my thigh. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back and listen to our relief DJ Rockin’ Ralph announce a PJ Harvey song as Mark strokes teasingly between my legs. It doesn't take my fingertips long to find the bulge in his jeans, and trace the outline of his hard cock through the fabric, even as he fingers my clit through my skirt. “I’m going to get you feeling good again.” With one hand on his steering wheel

and his other under my skirt, I watch as strip malls and billboards whirl by. His touch is gentle, with just a slight pressure, not taking me on a trip to ecstasy, but keeping me lingering in a sweet place, half awake and half delirious with desire. “I am taking you to my cabin, and I am going to fuck you well.” “Hmmm.” I close my eyes. Promises, promises.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know we are in a forest. Mark urges me to wake with a peck on my cheek. “OK, sleeping beauty,” he whispers. “Time to wake up.” As I rub my eyes and fight to keep them open, he walks around the truck and opens the passenger door, letting in cool country air. “Can you walk?” Mark holds the door wide for me. I would love for him to carry me again, but I don't think I can pull that baby move off twice, so I nod. “Where are we?” He gives me a shy smile. “My place.” His ‘place’ is a glam-rustic, beautiful cabin. Mostly surrounded by trees. I spy a barn in the distance and some fallow acres to the back. “You live on a farm?” Not exactly what I pictured after his doorman kicked me out of his city abode in the overpriced, fancy-as-hell high rise. “Don't knock it till you try it.” "I wasn't knocking it, I'm just..." "Surprised?" He grins. Groggy and still wobbly in my torture heels, I have the gait of an eighty year old woman, but I make it up the porch steps to his front door with his arm around my waist to steady me. Before he opens the door, he gives me a proud smile. “I’ve wanted to have you over, you know. This isn't just a ploy to get under that sexy skirt of yours. Although, that is also the plan.” He turns the lock. Once inside, I can see why. My brain quickly registers a couple of things within the huge interior of the cabin. One: the view of huge trees and rolling farm land. Two: Mark has come a long way from what he was born into. “Nice,” I slur. I am so tired I feel drunk and I collapse onto his couch. I want to live on this couch forever. “Stay here,” he says, as if I can move. “I’ll be right back.” As I lounge around the couch, I take a gander at his space. Yeah, this is a long way from the sticks. Dude’s got a Basquiat and a Warhol that don't look like prints. So 80s. I love it. Everything is perfect and clean, but Mark was always fastidious about his personal hygiene. He always smelled freshly showered and his clothes were always spotless, an amazing feat considering his home life. His hands especially were always meticulous. Not many teenage boys pay that much attention to their nails, but his were always trimmed a la Korean manicure. A grand piano dominates the room; it’s black and gleaming with its lid up to

reveal the intricate harp inside. I look around his apartment for touches of the Mark I knew back in the day. It takes a minute, but finally I find it. Behind his grand piano is his framed baseball jersey from Lambertville High School, number 13, in the school colors, maroon and gray. That he kept his high school jersey, that he framed it, makes my whole body go awww. He’s back and sees my eyes on the jersey. He goes over and makes a move to straighten the frame even though it’s not crooked. He catches my eye and kinda shrugs. “I believe no matter how much success I have, no matter how much money I make, I should never forget where I came from.” “Good idea. I still have the tapes from my shows in high school. They make me cringe when I listen to them, but I have them.” Then, while he's nodding in understanding, I rub at a tight spot in my neck and wince. Damn. Headache. He releases his jersey frame. “I know just what you need.” “What?” “Come with me.” He leads me to his private gym. Among the weights and machines is a massage table flush against the mirrored wall. “Let’s get those knots worked out of you.” He takes off my T-shirt and folds it with such precision it’s like he worked at the Gap for a decade. He actually did work there, now that I think about it, but only for a summer. Next, he slides off my mini skirt and then bends down to remove my boots. “Hop on.” He pats the table. I climb on and lay on my stomach. “Are you certified?” I tease. “Nope.” He oils up his hands. “But I have had thousands of massages. It’s part of the process to avoid injuries.” I set my face in the hole in the massage bed, but my entire body remains tense. I feel his hands on my back, and suddenly my skin prickles with heat. “What the…” “Liquid heat massage oil. Trust me, Rose.” I relax—just a little—as he continues to rub down my back, shoulders and neck. It is fucking magic. Muscles loosen and the pain I’ve been suffering for hours fades as tingly sensations replace it. He works my feet with the aplomb of a sexed-up podiatrist and with each knead of my arches the Oh yes please sensation intensifies. “You like that?” I can hear a smile in his voice. “Love.” Is all my mouth can muster. He works his hands up my legs, rubbing my calves and the back off my knees. His thumbs get dangerously close to the area of interest and I wiggle my legs wider for easier access. Laughing, he pats my ass, then slaps it, then massages the spot he just smacked. I wriggle and sigh happily throughout the process. "Flip over,” he orders. “You’re done on this side.” On my back, he works my feet again, driving his thumbs into my very soles, making a bolt of warmth shoot up each leg. “Mmm,” I moan. No other words come to mind. He works his hands up my legs to my inner thighs. Once again his thumbs brush

close to my sweet spot, teasing the tops of my thighs and brushing along the curve of my bikini line. But he doesn't quite touch my clit. “Oh, come on." I shift my hips toward him. He bends down and kisses the outside of my pussy lips. “Patience.” Then he gently massages the oil into my breasts, arms and shoulders. I notice my legs are parting with each second that passes, until my knees are further apart than London and Tokyo. Grabbing his arm, I tug him to me and he laughs. “Alright. I suppose you've been patient enough, Ms. Taylor..."

18

MARK

I am nowhere near done pleasing Rose and I give her a wicked smile because I know exactly what I’m going to do to her. Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her to my bedroom. It’s time to fuck her on my Tempurpedic. I have been fantasizing about this moment for weeks, or hell, if I'm honest, for years. Yes, we have had sex in places so ridiculous that porn stars would take pity. But it makes it all seem unofficial and distant. Here, in my own bedroom, I can really dig my knees into this expensive mattress and give it to her good. In my bed, she will truly be mine. I want her to want me. I want her to beg. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

A beauty, a true, well-oiled beauty, is spread-eagle and naked on my bed. Her faded tan lines from last summer show the traces of a tiny bikini I would love to see her in. The oil not only has relaxed her and heated her skin, but shows off her curves in the dim light. Her eyes are half closed in relaxation and desire. Curling up next to her in spoon fashion, I cup her breast in my hand and kiss her neck softly. "Rose..." She sighs happily and leans back into me. I feel the softness and warmth of her body against mine. This, right here, feels so different and yet so familiar. I have been with many women, too many to name, to be honest. But this feels like home. The way she’s looking at me, that unguarded, wanting look telling me she feels a connection too. I want to take my time in my bed with her. I want her to beg for my cock. I want her to lose track of the world, she's so lost in ecstasy. I want to watch her come again and again and know it's me driving her mad...and I want to hear her say she wants to be here with me too. Her lips find mine, hard and insistent, and I kiss her deeply. She smells of lavender and sweet sweat. I taste her mouth, and her lips are so soft I imagine it’s like kissing a flower. For a moment I am lost in kissing her and stroking her face. I can't get enough of her. Even her kisses set me on fire like nothing else. Eventually I slide down to kiss her neck, then her shoulders. I work my way along her delicious

collarbone to the soft mounds of her tits. I circle her hard nipples with my tongue, enjoying her heavy pants as she arches her body against mine. Only when she's writhing across the bed in desire do I slide back up to lick her ear gently, then suck her earlobe into my mouth, tonguing her earrings. She gasps in frustration. "Do you want me to fuck you now?" I murmur. "Yes, please," she gasps. "I didn't hear you. I want you to beg for my cock." She throws me a glare over her shoulder, but her pussy is soaking wet and my finger is toying with her entrance. She narrows her eyes, but repeats herself, louder. "Yes. Please." "Louder. And more descriptive. Otherwise I’m gonna make you kneel and suck me off." "Goddamn it, fuck me, Mark, please," she groans, and the heat and passion in her voice is too much to resist, as much as I love teasing her. I lift her leg and enter her, pleased to hear her moan with desire. Such incredible heat and wetness. Fuck, she's so fucking tight and hot for me. “I’m gonna fuck you so deep and hard,” I growl. Her pussy contracts with each slow, painfully careful thrust and we move together, measured and perfect. She likes when I talk dirty to her. I watch her face, her eyes closed, her mouth slack and quivering like her pussy. “Mark…” she whispers. “You have the tightest pussy. You’re fucking perfect.” Keeping my cock inside her, I roll on top of her. She’s flat on her stomach and I reach under her to rub her clit as I fuck her. I move my hips a little faster and thrust a little deeper as her ripe ass rises. Harder, deeper, slowly I build the rhythm until we're both panting in earnest, ready to go at it. Putting one hand on her hip and one on her shoulder, I fuck her like she’s never been fucked before. So hard we bounce across the mattress, and I feel every inch of her enveloping my rock hard cock. She’s loving it, her legs spread wide and her face pressed into the mattress. With each inch that fills her, I feel an almost painfully ecstatic sensation shoot through my body and I want to cum, so fucking hard, but no. Not yet. I think of baseball stats as I continue to pound her. The mound, the pitch, anything to break my concentration. But her pussy is alive with movement and so goddamn tight around me, distracting me from my numbers. I try to keep my mind off just how amazing her pussy feels right now, and how fantastic it looks wrapped around my dick when I pull back to watch her body writhe beneath me. “I’m gonna pound you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow without remembering my dick in you.” She’s moaning and groaning, desperate and horny and so wet for me, crying out loud, AH Ah Ah alllllmost there. God, I love a cock hungry woman. My pace quickens in time with her response. She’s getting there. “Yes, harder!” she shouts into the mattress. “Fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna cum," she whimpers, her voice muffled but loud.

Now. I stop moving, my cock still inside her. “Fuck," she groans and grinds back against me. But I don’t move. It takes her a second to realize I've stopped. Then she glares over her shoulder, furious. “Fuck me, dammit!” I still don't move, even though every single ounce of my being wants to. I want to finish inside her, feel her come on my dick. Instead, saying nothing, I slide my dick out of her. She rises on her knees and grabs my face in her hands, the top of my hard cock brushing against her stomach. Her face is red and she’s panting, her eyes lit with fire. Fuck, she looks so sexy right now. “Don’t you fucking stop.” Even though she might claw my face, I just smile. Her stare is so intense, so sexy, I feel like she’s looking into my soul. “I want to see your face when you cum,” I tell her. That. And I want to hear you say you love me, I think. Taking her by the shoulders I press her back on the Tempurpedic and dig my knees into it. She wraps her legs around my waist and I enter her again. Intent on finishing the job, I keep my eyes on her. Time to hit it out of the park and into the stratosphere. It barely takes us any time to reach the peak again. We're both shouting soon, moaning and gasping and telling each other how fucking amazing it feels to fuck each other, no care for who overhears us. The advantages of farm life. But it's her face as she comes that throws me over the edge. The way her eyes roll back a little and she looks half pained, half ecstatic, her mouth parted, lips full and kissed, body glistening with a sheen of sweat and oil. My mouth betrays me. “I love you,” I groan into her neck, just as my own orgasm sweeps through me. But she's cumming so hard, she doesn't hear me. Thank god.

19

ROSE

There is nothing like a naked sleeping man. Mark is sprawled on his back, relaxed in a deep slumber. With the top sheet tangled at his feet, he is exposed, giving me a wonderful opportunity to explore his athletic body. Although his muscles are relaxed, they are defined and his welltoned chest rises and falls with slow, shallow breaths. His stubble is more prominent now and I toy with the thought of what he would look like in a full beard and how those manly bristles would feel against the softer parts of me. Stirring a little, his mouth is slightly open and his eyelids flutter in REM mode. What is he dreaming? Is it about me? Or is he at bat? With the slightest kiss of a touch, I work my fingers up his inner thigh. His face breaks into a smile before his eyes open. “Good morning,” he says, his voice low and his eyelids half closed. His dick also stands at half-mast. “Good morning.” I kiss his chest and work my way up to his neck, then his mouth. “Did you sleep well?” “Like a baby.” He kisses my forehead. “You hungry? I know the perfect place to order in. It’s actually the only place that delivers out here, but it really is good.” He grabs at the phone on the nightstand with one hand and reaches for his boxer shorts on the floor with the other. But I yank the boxers away from him. “Nope.” I drop them to the floor. “That’s against the rules.” "Rules, huh?" “Yes. Today is Naked Saturday. We have to spend the whole day naked.” “I like that,” he chuckles. “Are there other rules for Naked Saturday?” “Maybe...” I run a finger down his chest. "First rule, I eat first." His eyebrows rise. "Oh really. And what are you eating, dear?" I pretend that my chest doesn't tighten at the sound of him calling me dear. To distract myself, I kiss my way back down his chest. "For starters, you..." He leans back on the pillows and arches his hips toward me. "I suppose I could get used to that kind of wake up," he admits. Though his voice catches at the end as I nibble at his hip. His cock is rock hard by the time I reach it. Still I taunt him, skirting around his dick, kissing his thighs, the trimmed, neat hairline around his crotch, even his balls. Mm. He smells so much like him, masculine and sweaty and still a little sexed

up from our romp last night. I trail my tongue up to the base of his shaft and circle him, letting his cock brush my soft cheek as I do, savoring his quiet groans. Turnabout is fair play. And he teased me enough last night. I get him so hard that precum forms at the tip of his shaft before I start to go at him in earnest. Then I lick up and down his dick in long, hard strokes, while my hands toy with his balls. Finally, I let him sink between my lips, but only when his hips start bucking off the bed and he gasps my name a few times. It doesn't take long for him to work up to speed. Pretty soon he's thrusting up at my mouth, and I can't get enough of the sounds he's making, moaning and groaning, totally under my spell. I dig my tongue into the underside of his cock as I suck him off, and that does it, like flicking a trigger. He cries out as he finishes, and I keep going, licking every drop of cum from the tip of him. He tastes exactly the way he smells, salty and masculine and familiar, yet unique all at once. When I finally lift my head, he's staring at me with something like shock. I watch him, waiting for that stare to melt into a soft smile, which it does. Then I slide up his body and curl up in his arms again. "How's that for breakfast in bed?" he asks, when he's recovered enough to speak. I smirk. "Pretty damn good." I lean in to lick his ear. "What's for dessert?" Suffice it to say, it takes us a long while to even place an order with the delivery place he mentioned. Which turns out to be a pizza place. I look out the window as I see the sun is going down. “Pizza, of course.” “Your wish is my command.” “Don’t disappoint me,” I say, arching my eyebrow. A blush spreads across he cheeks and he grins and shakes his head. We are both thinking the same thing, I’m sure. “Never again. Not sure I can handle the glare of stinging disapproval twice.” While Mark orders enough food to feed everyone in Yankee stadium, I check my phone and see Geo has been texting me like a disgruntled ex-boyfriend. It takes me a few minutes to work out what has her in such a tizzy. Turns out that pics of Mark carrying me to the car are all over the interwebs and speculation is soaring. Is Mark cheating on Amber? Did I steal him from her? Or has this been a love triangle all along? “Oh…” I gape at my phone. “What?” I hand him the cell and he squints over it and scrolls. Letting out a sigh, he hands it back to me. “Now you know why I refuse to have a phone.” I work my way through more Geo texts and see more layers to the bullshit. “Teenage girls are talking smack about me. They say I'm a man-stealing…” “Stop.” Mark takes my phone from my hand and puts it in his nightstand drawer. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep looking at that stuff.” “But…” “Come here.” I crawl to him on the bed and lay down beside him. He folds me in his arms, then

turns my face to his. “I have been riding this fame train for five years now and I've learned some important things from Stanley." “Like what?” “Don’t feed the trolls.” “But it's not even true!" He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m serious.” “Is this what it feels like to be popular in high school? With everyone talking about you?” “What do you mean?” “Well, back when we were in high school, you were this super popular jock and everyone gossiped about you. Now it's like that, but on a way bigger scale. Like all of America is one giant high school.” He blinks at me for a few seconds, then leans back on the pillow and laughs. His whole naked body is laughing with him. Even his dick seems to be shaking with mirth. “What’s so funny?” He rubs his face. “What are you talking about? Everyone knew you in high school, too. Our school only had like 500 kids total.” “But you were popular. People talked about you.” He laughs again. “People talked about you too.” “Sure, but only about what a nerd I was.” “No one said that.” I roll my eyes. “Yes they did.” “Who?” I try to come up with a name but I’m drawing blanks. “I don’t remember exactly. Your buddies, I'm sure.” He shakes his head. “They never said anything like that.” “The day you got assigned to me in Mrs. Singletary’s class, Dean whatever his name was acted like you were sentenced to death. And you agreed with him!” He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “You misremember.” “Pretty sure I remember my high school humiliations accurately.” He traces my nipples with his fingers. It tickles, but I don’t stop his hand. “Wrong.” “How do you remember it then?” He looks away for a second and takes a deep breath. “I remember Dean and the guys teasing me because they knew I had a crush on you.” I blink for a couple of seconds. It’s going to take some re-orienting of my memories to work my head around that one. I narrow my eyes at him, positive he’s bullshitting. “You had a crush on me?” He meets my eyes for a long, smiling moment. “A big one. I was obsessed with your tits.” He pinches his fingers tighter around my nipples, which start to harden at his touch. “And I loved the way you walked. That ass, dear god. And you were smart. Sexy smart.” Now I’m staring at him. “Really?” He props himself on his elbow and brushes strands of hair off my face. “And it

wasn’t just that. I thought you were hot, but what really got me to notice you was when you epically failed at that talent show…” “Oh my god.” I shudder. “I lost a bet with the biology teacher.” Which meant I had to dance alone, on stage. To Destiny’s Child. In front of our entire school. “That had to be the worst dance interpretation of Say My Name ever. Was that all your own choreography?” he asks, laughing. “Did you really feel it necessary to do a cartwheel in the middle of the song?” I play-slap him. “I know, it was horrible. God, I wanted to die.” “But you did it. Everyone thought you were going to chicken out. But you got up on that stage and ruined Beyoncé’s song for everyone.” He smirks. “Anyway, that’s when I first noticed you. And your tits and your ass." He slaps them each for emphasis. "I guess all of that at the same time. But seriously, I admired your courage.” “Aw.” “You were so weird, but in a good way. You always put your hair up in the afternoon with this barrette with a bumble bee on it. And you wore the color green all the time. And you always had a book…” “I noticed things about you too.” His face brightens in a smile. “Yeah? What?” “I remember all the food you ate in the cafeteria. And that your locker was always neat. And that you tied your shoes with double knot and…” I sigh. “Yeah, I noticed you too.” Suddenly I see the past in a whole new light. I flash back to different scenes with that new piece of startling information. His monosyllabic answers. The tension in his body when he was around me. How long it took him to finally speak to me outside of our project, which I assumed was because he hated me. Then later. Those lingering kisses and deep stares. “You hurt my feelings a lot.” He stares at the ceiling when he admits this, and I watch him carefully, concerned. “I did?” “You would call me stupid sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. You were kinda mean. But I liked you a lot, so I just kept going back like a chump.” “You were mean to me too, you know,” I point out. He squints his eyes at me, then blinks. “Huh.” “What?” “I…” He softly chuckles, then rolls back on the pillow and rubs his face. “Yeah, I guess I was. I just felt like I wasn’t, you know, enough for you. Like you looked down on me. So I was mean back, I suppose, sometimes.” I stroke his chest and look into his eyes. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are set in pain. “Mark, I am sorry if I made you feel that way. But I honestly thought—still think—that you are amazing. I was impressed with how you carried yourself, how you soldiered on in spite of everything going on at home.” He blinks at me but says nothing. “I was super self-conscious at that age. Most kids are, I guess. I was convinced you were ashamed of me and didn’t want your friends to know about me because I

was the fat nerdy girl. So I kind of took that out on you." He bursts out laughing and rubs his face again. “Nope. No way." He sits up. “I didn’t want to tell anybody because I was terrified you would break my heart and everyone would know. I had some self image problems too, you know, with everything that was going on at home.” “Of course.” “I guess we both had our issues. But that was then and this is now…” I shake my head. He’s right. “But I am sorry.” “Me too.” He strokes my face. “Can’t we just be together? Here and now?" I straddle him and bend down to kiss him in response. The kiss deepens and he wraps his arms around my hips to tug me down against him. Just when I’m warming up to the idea of sexing him up, there’s a knock at the door. “Food is here.” He reaches down to grab his boxer shorts. “Nope. Against the rules!” “But how am I…” “Be creative.” I wink. I watch Mark rise from the bed, grab some cash off his nightstand and walk to the door buck naked. “Coming,” he shouts with a laugh. “How the hell am I going to…” I tiptoe down the hall behind him, peeking around the corner to see how he plans to pull this off. He opens the front door a crack and slides his arm through. “Uh, keep the change and leave the boxes on the porch, dude…” As I dissolve into laughter, Mark runs back over to me, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me back to bed. We can wait a little longer to eat.

Right now I am on my 4th slice of pizza and grease is dripping down my chin. Mark’s response? He flips another slice onto my plate and dangles another mozzarella stick in front of me. “Fried cheese rules,” he says. I gobble up the gooey glob from his fingertips. “That piano is beautiful,” I say with a full mouth. “Do you throw elegant parties and hire someone to play?” Mark shakes his head. “I play,” he says quietly. “Really?” I blink. I don't remember him playing in high school. “I know. Not a lot of pianos in the sticks.” “I just meant, you never mentioned it in school." He looks away and cracks his knuckles. “There was this nice old lady that lived next door. A widow. A real grandmother type, you know. Always making cookies and watching kids in the neighborhood for free…” Moving next to him, I touch his shoulder to silently encourage him to talk. “Anyway, she would have me over, you know, when my mom was a mess. To keep me busy, she taught me to read music and play her old baby grand. ” “So you kept up with it, I see.” “First thing I bought when I got this place.”

"So. Are you going to show me how well you've kept up with it?" I wink at him. “Is that a challenge? Are you asking me to prove I can play?” “Hell yeah I am. I’d love to hear it.” Mark stands and grabs my hand. He leads me to the piano and sets me on the wooden bench. Then he sits down beside me and cracks his knuckles. A rippling melody fills the room as his fingers drift over the keys, and I can feel the vibrations tickle my body through the piano bench. “That sounds familiar. Fur Elise?” “Good ear.” He changes the tune to something more upbeat and rhythmic. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t name it. “I think that’s a rag?” He nods. “Maple Street Blues. Scott Joplin.” He changes the melody again. This one is annoyingly familiar and makes me grimace. “Say My Name? Seriously?” He laughs and raises his hands in surrender. “OK. How about this one?” His face changes as he lowers his hands to the keys again. A lighthearted tickling of notes peppered with some dramatic chords. It’s a beautiful, haunting melody, but I can’t place it. “Can you give me a hint?” “Close your eyes and listen.” Shutting my eyes, it feels like the melody is making me rise. “Is it a pop song or something from classical?” “Listen.” Laying my body down across the piano’s mantel, I open my eyes and find he’s staring at me as he plays. The mood of the piece shifts to a darker tone, but then melts back into the joyous melody, but this time it’s layered and dramatic. “What is it?” I whisper with a smile. He takes the volume down and loops the melody. “I wrote it.” I smile. I am not surprised. Eighteen year old me would be, but adult me knows that the man before me isn’t a dumb jock from the sticks. He has depth, so much more than I ever glimpsed. Now I want to know more. “What do you call it?” His smile widens. “A Rose is a Rose is a Rose…”

20

MARK

When Rose sleeps, nuclear bombs can’t wake her. It’s Sunday, so no radio show this morning, but I am up at the crack of dawn like usual. I wake up hard, and watching her chest rise and fall doesn't help matters. I think about maybe stroking her pussy a little to rouse her and arouse her, but she’s sleeping so peacefully, I can't interrupt her now. Later, baby. As Sleeping Beauty slumbers on, I shower and make a few calls. Our show will be over in a week and I’ll be off to spring training with my team in Florida. Yankees management are aware Rose will be coming, but I have to button up a few more details. Once that's finished, I head into the kitchen to get a head start on breakfast. Everything in my fridge and pantry is breakfast related. Just breakfast. I get delivery for everything else. As I grab the bacon, the eggs and the potatoes, I feel grateful that I finally got a chick who fucking eats. The fresh brew in the expensive coffee maker doesn’t rouse Rose, and neither do the scents of the homestyle potatoes or the eggs. But when the bacon aroma fills the cabin, I feel her arms around my waist and a whispered, “Good morning,” in my ear. Thank god she’s up. My balls are aching from lack of love. “Sit down,” I murmur. “I will serve the Queen of Sighs.” “Queen of Sighs?” She chuckles. “You should hear yourself sometime.” After I fork eggs into her mouth and feed her bacon, I wiggle my eyebrows at her to indicate I want to fuck. “Is that your special signal for me?” She smiles and wraps her arms around my waist, while I let my hands wander down her hips. This, right here, is exactly what I want.

“OK, Mark. Open your eyes.” My therapist Todd is sitting across from me, still in that weird green sweater, still in those silly gold rimmed glasses that make him look like a yuppie John Lennon, but somehow he looks different now. I used to hate these breathing and meditation exercises, but now, after

breathing and meditating, I think he’s awesome. It’s a strange magic I could only perform on the mound or at the piano or when I am banging Rose. “How do you feel?” he asks me in that calm voice he always has. I nod, but I know it’s not enough for him. “Words, please. As we discussed.” After a swallow and another breath I am ready to describe how I feel. “Relaxed. And also energized. Which is kind of surprising.” “Good,” he says as he writes in his notebook. “That’s good, Mark.” I rub my legs and then my face. “It’s getting easier to calm down now.” Todd nods as he continues to write. “Good, now you have another exercise to go a little deeper into those emotions and purge them.” I can’t help but to let loose a little laugh. “Something funny, Mark?” “It’s just, when I first starting working with you, I thought it was going to be a waste of time, but now I can see that it’s helping. So, I guess what I am trying to say is thank you.” “You’re welcome. And although you have made great progress, you know you still have a lot of work to do.” The weight of the world feels like it’s been dropped on my shoulders, but I let that sensation pass. “I'm guessing you have more homework for me.” Smiling, he rips off a page from his notebook and hands it to me. “For the next week, I want you to take some time and make a new list.” I glance at the page and read aloud. “List what makes you angry?” “What we’ve been facing in our sessions is that your first response to extreme emotions, emotions like sadness or embarrassment or even pressure, is anger. So what I want you to explore now is what triggers your anger so that next week, we can discuss appropriate responses. Good?” “Sounds good, doc.” Squinting his eyes, he taps his pen on his notepad. “How is the new romance going?” My skin flushes a little hot. Yep, I fucking blush. “Well…” “Words please, as we…” “I know, I know.” Looking around the room, my eyes land on the piano and I smile at the thought of Rose perched naked on it. “It’s just been a couple of weeks. But so far so good. And it’s weird…” “What?” “Even when I have gotten frustrated…I don't get the crazy anger thing happening when she's around.” “Why not?” “Dunno.” I shrug. “OK. We can explore that next time.” After I see Todd out, I give Rose a ring on her cell. She’s working late tonight to splice together highlights for the show, but I want to do something special. That is, after I visit another special someone.

Clutching the book to my chest, I exit the elevator to head to room 14B. Stanley is going to love my gift. Rose happened to be college roommates with someone at the publishing house, so she scored me an editor’s advance copy of the new Mickey Mantle biography three months early. Walking down the hallway, I check my emotions, my anxiety. I haven’t so much as talked to Stanley since the night of the heart attack. Between Bev's presence and his touch-and-go status, I figured staying away was the best solution. Bill agreed, unfortunately. But I can’t explain why I’m so jumpy to see him now. Maybe because I want to impress him, please him and make him happy. But also, because so much has changed since that night. Between me and Rose, between me and myself... I want to share it with him. Todd would be proud I made that connection, I think with a smirk. Pausing in front of Stanley's door, I force a smile. Stress is contagious and I don’t want him catching mine. I shake off my nerves and tap on the door. It swings open to reveal Bev. Her curious expression morphs into an oh, it’s you face. “Mark. Now is not the time for your shit.” I hold up the book. “No shit, I swear. I come bearing a gift.” Her eyes squint at the title and she shakes her head. “I can’t have any drama or any stress in this room.” “Yes, of course. I understand.” She scowls at me. “You'd better.” She widens the door. Shit. Stanley looks like hell. The Miami tan is gone and he’s pale and hollow looking. His eyes blink open and focus on me, a faint smile on his lips. “Kid,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. Stretching my fake smile, I inhale hard and approach the bed. “Hi, Stan. How you feeling?” “Aces. What you got there?” “You know that Hal Britain bio about Mickey you’ve been talking about?” I hold the book to him and he takes it with a trembling hand. I notice I am trembling too. He closes his eyes for what seems like an eternity and then opens them, trying to smile. It hurts to watch. “Thanks, kid. How you been? Bill hasn’t told me much.” “We’ve been keeping work out of the room,” Bev interrupts behind me. Her tone is stern, so I take that as a warning. “Doing great. We raised a lot for the Little Sluggers.” Stanley nods and closes his eyes again. I wait, but he doesn’t open them again and panic stabs my heart. “Stan…” Bev touches my arm and her nails dig in. “He’s fine. He does that. Just drifts off.” “Oh.” I look at the book which he still has hugged to him. “It’s time for you to leave.”

I sit on my couch for half an hour and make my List of Things That Make Me Angry. As instructed by Todd, I write for twenty minutes solid and rarely let the pen leave the note pad. Heart Attacks. Foul Balls. Blue Balls. Flat tires. Burned coffee. Gossip. Rumors. Amber's rumors in particular, since she's moved on to spread the word that I cheated on her. Like the thing with Rose isn't on a whole other level than Amber and I ever were. TOMMY FUCKING PIZZA. Bev’s harsh words. Where my locker in the locker room is. Too close to the showers. That ding on my truck hood. Where the fuck did that come from. The traffic on the 17 in the mornings. The hangnail I have on the ring finger of my left hand. Apologizing to Tommy Pizza. Eric’s scars. Potholes. Head colds. My mother’s mugshots for her arrest for drugs and theft and prostitution. I stop and look at the last item on my list of fury. Where did that come from? Todd is a sneaky fuck and I can now see why he wanted me to write this list. I get it. A flat tire is not equal to Stanley’s heart attack. A hangnail doesn’t compare to my shit-tastic childhood. I have tried everything to help my mom. At first I thought straight-up cash would fix things. When I signed to the Yankees, I bought Mom a house in the burbs and filled it with beautiful things. Stupid me. She stopped getting busted for stealing and hooking, but she still did her drugs. After an overdose, I got tough. Just paid all her bills directly and had groceries delivered. She sold everything she could out of the house, first the furniture, then the appliances, then the copper wiring. Then I put her in rehab. Five places. Now a sixth. She’s in Arizona and has been clean for three months and I am hopeful, but cautious about it. After a long moment of thought, I pick up the phone and dial the number at the rehab. I need to talk to her. I need to tell her how much she fucked things up for me. I need to tell her I am sick of carrying around this anger. Then I need to forgive her and let this shit go.

21

ROSE

Mark and I have slipped into a routine before our shows. While I’m still sleeping, he takes a shower and while I’m showering, he makes breakfast for his Queen of Sighs. I haven’t slept into my own bed for days and I might not be able to going forward. His Tempurpedic is the bomb, and not just for sleeping. This morning he cut up some fresh fruit for me with a scoop of yogurt in it. And that isn’t the only way he’s been spoiling me. He heats my towels. Not to mention we have exchanged many a joyous massage on that sweet table of his. My personal items have been slowly accumulating at his place, too. First it was a tooth brush. Then a couple of pairs of panties, but in the last couple of weeks I’ve added my makeup bag, several changes of clothes and some books. I even got him to upgrade the toilet paper. What’s up with guys having cheapo TP? I mean, he’s got this expensive Japanese luxury toilet, but bargain basement paper. Even the drive to the station this morning is wonderfully routine, despite the fact that we have to be in extra early for a meeting about the show going national. This is our last official week before Mark and I go to Miami. I’m starting to find comfort in that. Like I’m in the whole lovely safety bubble. I love that he drives me, and surprisingly I don’t miss my car at all. I love that we talk about stuff on the way in. I love that he is growing a beard. As he drives, I reach over and stroke the soft stubble on his face. Nice. This morning the die-hards are in the parking lot as usual. At this point they are like old friends and I know many of them by name. “Good Morning, Delores,” I say to the older lady decked out in bedazzled Yankees accessories. She must have a million pictures of me by now, but always seems to want another. I don’t get it, but I always accommodate her and I know my best selfie poses now. As I make my way through the gauntlet, I see that Chris is outside the station’s door sucking on a cigarette like he’s getting oxygen from it. He’s shuffling from foot to foot and I notice his face looks more weathered than usual. Something’s wrong. “Chris.”

He puffs out a huge billow of smoke. “I would have called you,” he says, avoiding my eye. “But I figure you already know, so.” “What’s up?” Mark says. I feel his hand on the small of my back. Chris just huffs and drops his cigarette on the ground. That’s a no-no and he catches my eye to make sure I see him do it. He stomps it out with the heel of his biker boot and then opens the door for us. Mark and I exchange confused looks before we enter the station.

The first thing I notice is Blowsy sitting behind the desk in the lobby. Still wearing my old bridesmaid dress, but she’s got a new accessory that makes my stomach roll in waves. “Why is Blowsy wearing a cowboy hat?” Mark asks. I can’t find words to complete my thoughts. I just shake my head, dread pooling in my stomach. Night Vixen stands next to Chris with her arms crossed and her toe tapping. “We have gone country?” Chris looks to the ground. “It’s fucking over.” I gape at them. "You knew about this." Night Vixen jabs at my chest. “I didn’t know anything, I swear I…” “Oh, sure.” Becks walks in from her office, and grimaces. “Like you didn’t know Doc Bing sold us to Halcyon.” “What? No!” I feel Mark’s hand on my back and it’s the only thing keeping me from falling over. “That can’t be true.” Becks walks up to me. “Everyone is out of a job.” “Except for you, Rose,” Night Vixen says. “I guess you’ve been scheming, huh?” “Yeah, looks like you’re going to come out smelling like a Rose,” Chris says. My entire body goes limp and I’m surprised I can still stand. “Listen, guys,” I say, but Becks just walks away. I look at Chris for comfort, but he glares at me, every inch furious. “Well, I guess you need to hit that meeting now, don’t you.”

The meeting is a blur. I do pick up a couple things. Robert E. Lee has a new collar. Doc is bursting with happiness at the millions he made selling out. And next week Sporty Talk will go national on Halcyon's vast network across the country. While W-ALT, poor little W-ALT, goes literal country. DJs, program directors, they are a thing of the past. Except for Sporty Talk, everything will be handled out of Portland. Everything will be computer generated and generic. My salary has been increased 5x over my current base, and the new benefits are ridiculous. I could pay off my student loans within the year. But I feel no joy. None at all. Mark says nothing, but gives me sympathetic looks during the meeting and once

in a while he squeezes my hand under the table. At least I am not alone in this. Before we leave the meeting, Doc Bing clears his throat and reminds me I signed a binding contract with him. I could quit, but I'd still have to do this show for the next six months. That, or owe him a fuck ton of back pay salary which I've already spent. Halcyon owns my ass now and there is nothing I can do about it. As Mark and I walk down the long hallway to the studio, I turn and stop him in place. “Did you know anything about this?” I sound like I’m accusing him of war crimes. He shakes his head, eyes huge. “No. I promise.” He bites his lip. “I bet Stanley would have found out and told me, if he was around working, but….” I cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He pulls me to him and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I’m sorry. I know how much you loved W-ALT.” Mark and I enter the studio and hear that Night Vixen is playing The Queen is Dead. She won’t look at me. She won’t even turn her face to me. Fuckballs. As she storms out of the studio for the last time, she keeps her head down. But I hear her mutter “Traitor,” as she slips out the studio door. I wish I could ragequit, but I know I can’t unless I want Halcyon to sue me into debtor's prison. “Come on,” Mark whispers. “Let’s just get through today, OK?” I enter the production booth and put on my headphones. However I feel now, I have a show to do. The first song cued is Carrie Underwood and my eyes immediately tear up.

After the show, new Halcyon personnel move in as the old move out. Becks tells me to go fuck myself as she shuffles out of the lobby with a box of sales books in her arms and kicks the front door closed behind her. Chris has a stack of records in a box as he walks by me. I call his name and he slowly turns to face me. The look on his face makes me want to cry. "I’m sorry.” I wish I could say something more profound. “You know,” he says, shuffling the weight of the box. “I kinda thought I would be in this gig until I was too old to work. I didn't want to retire. But nobody is going to hire an old classic rock geezer like me.” He shakes his head. “Later, Rose,” he says as he slips out the door. I feel Mark’s big hand on my shoulder and I know, I know, I know. It’s unprofessional. It’s childish. It’s stupid. But I put my head on his shoulder and cry.

As we leave the station we race through the gauntlet and leap into Mark’s truck. I can see handymen taking down the flapping station banner I never got a chance to fix. Mark follows my eyes and reaches for my hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “Let’s

just go home.”

22

MARK

“OK,” I say, and slide the piece of paper to Rose. “I think I found a couple of more rocking country songs here we can use as beds. Maybe we can get Halcyon…” She’s just staring out the window like she doesn’t hear me. Cold rain falls outside and it matches her mood. She’s really upset, like doesn't want to fuck or let me go down on her or even just give her a massage upset. I am at a loss as to what to do. What would Ryan Gosling do? I’m trying to remember every chick flick I’ve been forced to watch by my many exes, but nothing seems to fit. There's not exactly a "Here's how to cheer up your girl when the station she spent her whole life building and banked her career on gets sold out from under her" guide book. Then I ask myself what would I want. Suddenly I know what to do. I will fix everything. After I throw another log on the fire, I drop down next to her on the couch. “Did I ever tell you about the day the Yankees signed me?” No response, but I continue. “It was both the happiest day and saddest day of my life.” “Why,” she drones. Her eyes are still looking at the raindrops hitting the window, but at least I'm starting to gain her attention. “I was happy because my dreams were coming true and suddenly I was a multimillionaire.” Silence. “But I was also devastated.” She turns her face to me, finally. “Why?” “I was leaving my minor team. I loved those guys. I loved the coach, the fans, everything. I loved Texas.” She looks back out the window. “Have you thought that you getting this boost to your career could be a good thing for the rest of your team in the end?” I ask gently. “How?” She's biting back tears now. I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Now you’re in position to really help them out, job wise.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. I am failing at the Ryan Gosling thing. Then Todd pops up in my head. Use your words. Express emotion. A light

bulb goes off in my brain. “Rose,” I whisper. “Tell me everything. Tell me about the station. Tell me how you feel.” Her eyes flood with tears, but she moves closer to me and puts her head on my shoulder as the flood gates open. She tells me how much it hurts to hear her coworkers blaming her. How mad she is that she didn't see this coming, at herself, at Doc Bing, at Halcyon. She talks about feeling like a sell-out, worse than some of the very bands she's ragged on for buying into the corporation. I listen, and keep my arms around her, and when she's finally all talked out, she just lies there in my arms, cuddling. But the tears have finally stopped flowing. Maybe I do have the Ryan Gosling thing down.

23

ROSE

All I’ve done the last few days is play Country Sam FM and, well, Mark. Somehow I make it through the week. Honestly though, I can't imagine how I could have done it without Mark. He’s been super supportive through the endless meetings. I’ve been at Country Sam FM for twelve hour days, recording new promos and lining up songs and running the front desk and completing all sorts of busy work. Launching a national show is no small thing and neither is working with corporate drones who speak in buzzwords and follow some mysterious internal script I am not privy to. “Demos want this guy,” Chad says, taping a picture of a hockey player who miraculously has all his teeth. “His Q rating is phenomenal.” Chad is my new coproducer and he is armed with marketing analysis, focus group feedback and the sort of things that earned him a Mass Comm degree from Princeton and an MBA from Harvard. Every second of the new show is planned with zero room for spontaneity. Even the music we use as beds between sets has been vetted by our target focus group: dudes between 18 and 34. If any of these guys turned their nose up at a single song, we ain’t gonna play it. I just nod at everything Chad says because I feel out of my league. I have a Mass Comm degree too, but it's from a local college, and I haven’t used the stat part of my degree since I passed the exam. As least the station's coffee is better. I sip it as he mansplains everything to me like I’m five. I hate him and his spray tan and his perfectly coiffed hair. Everything out of his mouth sounds patronizing. It's worse than mansplaining, it’s douchebabbling. To be fair, though, I’m sure he’s this condescending to everyone regardless of their gender. Just when Chad is about to lecture me about the finer points of demographics in the Midwest, the new traffic manager, Kristy, pokes her head in the door. “You guys almost finished? The guys want to start painting in here.” “Yes, of course,” Chris says, closing his laptop. “We can go over this later.” The W-ALT I used to know is disappearing before my eyes, morphing into Country Sam FM. After all the “superfluous” non-Halcyon personnel were sent packing—i.e. everyone except me—Blowsy got stabbed in the chest with a pen

knife by Kristy, deflated and stuffed into a garbage bag. I didn’t even get to take a goodbye selfie. All the worn out carpet has been ripped up, and the beer-stained couch—Night Vixen’s daytime coffin—has been replaced with what looks like something from a high end dental office. All the rock posters are gone from the walls, and generic black and white cityscapes have replaced them. My head spins like Regan in the Exorcist, but less fun. We will be doing the show from Miami during Yankees spring training and we are widening the format to appeal to a wider demographic across the nation. Not a focus on just the Yankees, but teams across the country. And not just baseball either. Mark will still be an important part of the show going forward, but due to his busy schedule, since, you know, he'll have to actually be a baseball player, he will pre-record some sets and we will have guests fill in for him the rest of the time. Truth is, Mark really doesn’t need this gig anymore. I think he only signed the contract to do me a favor. I have never had anyone do something like that for me before and it’s tough to get my head around it. When I try to bring it up, he just does that shoulder shrug of his. “It’s nothing.” But I know he's downplaying it. I know this is my dream, not his, and he's bending over backwards to help me reach it. I just hope in the end, after all the country and the selling out, that it's worth it. By the time I get home Friday night, I have just about had it with spreadsheets and demographics and focus groups and corporate speak. I collapse on Mark’s couch and toe off my boots with such laziness that one remains half on my foot. I can’t even muster the energy to kick it off. Mark slides it off with a smile. “I got some pasta from that Italian place delivered. And I remembered you don’t like peas in the carbonara.” He sits down next to me and pulls my body to his, rubbing my shoulders. Wow, his hands are amazing. Tension and stress melt off me and I start to relax and unwind... “Too tired to do a fashion show for me?” Turning to face him, I smile. “What’s going on?” He squeezes me hard and then slides off the couch to pick up several bags from the dining room table and bring them to me. I peek inside one. “What is this?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “A bikini. Several, actually.” I laugh. “And you want me to model them for you?” “Yes, please.” I take a bikini out of the bag. It’s pink and conservatively cut. Damn near matronly. Seriously? But his eyes light up. “That one first.” “OK.” I rise from the couch with the bikini in my hand. He slaps my bottom. “Get to it.”

Wow. This thing is something my grandma would've worn in the fifties. I admire

myself in the mirror anyway. My nips—totally hard already, just at the thought of what Mark might have planned for later—are camouflaged by the thick material. My ass and bikini line are completely covered. If nuns wore a bikini, this would be the one. Maybe he’s super into quaint, conservatively sexy librarian wear or something? Nah. The man appreciates a short skirt and hobbling heels. I guess he’s one of those guys who doesn’t want his girlfriend showing off her goods on the beach. I dig that. Besides, with my higher profile now, I’m not sure I want my hot stuff out on the internet either. I pull the ponytail out of my hair and give my head a shake. From the shoulders down I can be virginal, but at least I can still have sexy hair. I step out of the bathroom. “Wow. Nice." His eyes practically devour me. And he isn’t lying. The bulge in his jeans is huge. “You like this? Really?’ He gives me an enthusiastic nod. “Let’s try it out.” “Try it out?” “With water.” “You want me to wear this in the shower…” He shakes his head. “Nope. The hot tub.” “Hot tub?”

I have never been on Mark’s patio, and didn’t even know he had one. It's February after all. Not exactly BBQ weather. The country view is spectacular, with light snow falling, but icy wind whips all around me and my skin screams in ice burns and prickles in gooseflesh. “Hop in before you catch your death,” he laughs. Once I’m safely warm in the bubbly water and rising steam, I see he has champagne chilling on ice next to the tub. He pours a glass. “Don’t worry. It’s a fancy plastic flute so we don’t die from a million cuts if it shatters in the tub.” “Hmm. Chilled champagne and a warm hot tub. Something tells me you planned this.” “Yep.” Mark drops trou and shows he has on blue trunks. Quite the Boy Scout, this one. He climbs in and grabs a glass of champagne. “Here’s to Miami,” he says as we clink. “Here’s to the future.” After I take a sip, he wiggles his eyebrows. “So, let’s see how that bikini looks wet.” “Are you kidding? It’s freezing out of the water.” Pouting, he blinks his eyes at me in a silly imitation of a puppy dog. “Aw, pretty please with sugar on top?” “How can I resist such poetry…” Slowly, I rise out if the water, a Venus emerging from foam. His eyes fall on every part of my shivering body and he moans.

“Fuck yes.” “This grandma bikini does it for you, huh?” He wiggles his eyebrows again. “Best. Bikini. Ever.” “But…” I look down. Exposure to water has made this bikini 100% see-through. Oh. Covering myself on instinct, I crouch back down in the water as Mark laughs harder than I have ever seen anyone laugh. My eyes dart around the trees to see if there is some pervert with binoculars trained on us. Mark moves closer to me in the hot tub and grabs me around the waist. “Hey, sexy,” he whispers in my ear. “This one is just for private.” He pulls me onto his lap and I relax my body onto his. His cock is hard against my thigh, his hands rubbing my legs as he kisses my throat. “Ever done it in a hot tub before?” I take my hand out of the water and wave it around, pointing out the trees. “Someone could be watching. And it’s freezing.” “No one is watching out here. Besides, we'll stay in the water.” One of his hands leaves my thighs and he fumbles behind me to slide his cock out of his trunks. Feeling how hard it is, I get excited. Damn. He is hard to resist, especially when it's clear how bad he wants me. I lean back into him, and reach around to grab his cock for myself. Wow, he is harder than ever. "Mm, maybe I could try it..." “Shh. You’re gonna take me all the way in.” His fingers tug at the crotch of my see-through bikini and he lifts my hips, urging me to rise. His thumb circles my clit, his index finger testing my slit, finding my pussy hot from the tub and wet from my own excitement. He slowly slides his cock into me, super gentle, until I am connected with his lap. I can feel every inch of him, and I clench hard around him, grinning as his cock twitches inside me. Thank god for kegels. If there is a pervert looking at us, they would just see a woman sitting on her man’s lap in a hot tub, strictly PG-13 stuff. Still. We do both have stalker fans now. I bite my lip. “If you start thrusting,” I say. “Anyone looking at us will know…” “No thrusting. Bad idea in water anyway. Trust me.” Without moving his hips, he pulls his dick inside me. Oh, fuck yes. That’s the ticket. Applying those kegel moves again, I do the same and feel a rush of sensation throughout my body. The cold air. The hot, bubbling water. The pulsing of his dick. He rocks me back and forth, and his dick grinds against the front wall of my tight pussy, digging into my G-spot with every slide of our bodies against one another. Pretty soon I'm gasping, my vision tunneling, no thought for being seen. I don't care if someone notices. This feels fucking amazing. Frictionless sex rules. Who knew? His breath is red hot in my ear and his skin against mine is rough and hot. As if he can read my mind, as if he can read my body, he kneads and massages my breasts and kisses my neck at just the right moment. God, this is good. “I can’t wait to bury myself in your tits.” I feel the mounting pressure. This orgasm is different. Totally internal, all Gspot. It feels tantric, but I cum just as hard.

After he slides his cock out of me I stay on his lap, completely melded to his body, my cheek resting against his. “When we get to Miami,” he murmurs, “I am going to do so many filthy things to you, you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

When Saturday rolls around, I’m grateful for the break and plan to sleep in until I smell bacon. Mark and I are leaving for Miami tomorrow, so I have to do some last minute shopping and then I have to pack. At some point, I have to drop off rent checks—plural—for Geo to cover rent and bills while I’m gone. But I don’t smell bacon. In fact, I don’t hear Mark’s usual morning routine at all. The house is eerily silent. I open my eyes and see him sitting on the bedroom sofa, facing away from me. Odd. It hits me that there was no dick experimentally prodding my ass this morning, or kisses on my neck. None of his typical sex come-ons. Maybe he's not in the mood? “Good morning,” I say, but he doesn’t respond or turn his head. Maybe he’s meditating or something? The fire must have died in the night because it’s chilly in the house. I wrap a sheet around my naked body and walk to the sofa. “Mark?” I stand in front of him. He’s awake, but his face holds no expression. His eyes are cast to the side and bloodshot, and it almost looks like he may have been crying. A wave of sympathy and dread washes over me. “Is it Stanley?” I reach out to touch his arm, but his body recoils from my hand. I draw back in shock. "Talk to me, Mark. What's wrong?" He turns his gaze to me. His eyes are cold and his jaw is clenched so tight his temple is popping. He takes a ragged breath and turns his head away. “You need to get the fuck out.” “What? Why?” I clutch the sheet around me tighter because suddenly I feel so cold. This can't be happening. He glares at me for a few strange moments and then slowly rises from the sofa. "The car service is outside. Go." "Mark, tell me what's going on, please." Wordlessly, he walks to the dining room table and picks up a box. As he presses it to my naked chest, he glares at me. “Get dressed and get out,” he says, barely moving his mouth. “I never want to see you again.” The wind is knocked out of me as I watch him walk to the bathroom and slam the door.

Numb. That’s the only thing I feel. Last night was bubbles and hot tub sex. After we dried off, we talked of the future as we fell asleep in each other's arms. The last thing he said to me was “I am so happy.” I can still feel his whisker burns on my skin and smell the jacuzzi chlorine in my hair. Why the sudden change? It makes no sense. What could have happened during

the night? Paranoia dances in. Maybe, I think, maybe this romance was all some long con, some ruse he’s been planning for years. He’s hated me since high school and when he saw me again he came up with a revenge plan. He did say I hurt him in high school. Was this all payback? He planned to make me fall in love with him, so he could break my heart. It that it? Could he possibly be that conniving? No. Impossible. Not Mark. Images flash in my brain in quick succession, of Mark kissing me. Making love to me. Cooking breakfast for me. Baring his soul to me. Telling me he loves me. No. There is no way that could have been fake. I know it in my heart. It’s something else, but what? I have no clue. I stood outside the closed bathroom door and begged him to talk to me for almost an hour, but he wouldn’t come out of the bathroom and he wouldn’t say a word. My face must be a mess, because my Uber driver asks me if I am OK three times before we hit the 17. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Fine." Not fine. Heartbroken. Freaked out. Lost. To have something to do with my hands, I pull out my phone. I need something else to think of. Like current events. Or the weather or something. Taylor Swift has a new boyfriend. We are bombing some place I have never heard of And, on the tab where I have saved a search of my name and Mark's together, because I always liked seeing the pics the die-hards snap of us... Oh. My. God. No.

By the time I get home, I have played the audio clip a thousand times. After I let myself into my apartment, it's pitch-dark. “Geo?” I call, but there is no answer. I sit on the couch and play the audio clip again, this time patching it into the wifi speaker system. Why not torture myself further by hearing it in Bose’s optimum quality rich sound? My voice, my drunken slur, fills every corner of the apartment and fucks with the beats of my heart. “Mark Carrington.” I croak his name like I’m some ancient hag. “Mark Carrington is from the sticks in west New Jersey. You have no idea. We are talking gnarly neighborhood, gross as hell level sticks. So much worse than Jersey Shore." "But his family was okay, right?" a male voice prompts. The voice is kind, the tone sugary. "God no." I laugh. I fucking laugh. "His father committed suicide in Rahway prison when Mark was like five. He was in for armed robbery. And his mother is even worse.” “In what way?” Who the fuck is that? Who am I talking to? “Ugh. His fucking mother. Drug addict. Thief and, get this, a hooker to boot.

Real fucking winner. Mom of the year.” “Wow,” the man says. Yep. That’s me. The memory is foggy, but it starts to come back to me now. This clip is from the event that announced Mark’s debut on W-ALT. I drank like a fish. Tommy. Shit. Tommy Pizza, that's his voice, I recognize it now. He asked me those questions and I answered them like an idiot. That night I felt the sting of high school humiliation and Mark’s apparent dismissive attitude—he pretended to not know me and I lashed out in drunken butt-hurtness. But I am not stupid. I should have known better than to tell Tommy all that shit. I done fucked up and I fucked up royally. My stomach feels like it’s turning inside out. Then there’s the picture. The fucking picture that I find a few minutes later, searching the fallout results online. Somehow Tommy Pizza snapped a selfie when he forced that gross kiss on me. A frozen second of an attack, but that’s not what it looks like. It looks like we are fully, consensually making out. Fuck. It looks like I planned this whole thing with Tommy on purpose. Some kind of twisted revenge. And the commentary on the internet is awful. Basically, the general consensus is that I fucked over Mark, and not just that, but I planned to fuck over Mark with Tommy. I am a backstabber. I screwed him over. No article I find dates the clip or names Tommy Pizza as the ‘mysterious good friend of Mark Carrington,' but I am sure Mark at least will recognize him from the picture. Even if Tommy's face is mostly blocked by mine in that stupid kiss shot. As far as anyone knows, the recording and that picture were taken yesterday. Tommy gets out of this scot free. My crucifixion is being called for from the Bronx to East LA. DListed says I faked an affair with Mark to further my career and started the one with "this new guy" to further it still. Someone else speculates that I was dating this guy all along, and used Mark as a leg-up. Wow. And from what I can see online, the Bad Boy at Bat is now the subject of sympathy and support. The hunk with the broken heart, whereas I am evil personified. Oh, god. Someone has started a website called RoseTaylorisaBitch.com. And wow, the hashtags. #Backstabbing #donttrustnowoman #hoisho Awesome. Well, I guess I’ve found one way out of my contract with Halcyon. There is no way I won't get fired over this. No way whatsoever. At this point I feel like they would fire me, then rehire me immediately just to fire me again. I am that fired. And I don’t even care, because that’s the least of my problems right now. As I pace my apartment, I leave Mark the world’s longest voice mail that mostly

has the phrase I’m sorry a million times. I try to explain. I was drunk. Upset. It was before we started talking again. Before we said a word to each other. The night you pretended not to know me and I was hurt and a fucking idiot and hey, remember that conversation we had about self-esteem? That was from before I got to know you. The real you. The voicemail cuts off before I can tell him I love him, though. Because I do, I realize. That’s why I’m panicking so hard right now, that’s why I feel torn in two over losing him. But I realize it’s too late. Too little, too late.

24

MARK

Rose left two hours ago, or rather I threw her ass out two hours ago. She begged and pleaded and bargained outside my bathroom door for an hour after I shut myself in there to get away from her. I only listened to about five minutes of her whining. Then I put my earphones on and I blasted speed metal to drown her out and did crunches on my bathroom floor. By the time I finally finished counting from 100 to 0 four times over, she was gone. I can’t believe what an idiot I am. But Rose, she must really think I am dumb. I don't buy for a second that she changed her mind about me since high school. She still thinks she can talk her way out of this. She and her giant brain and even bigger ego. She keeps ringing my landline over and over and filling up my voicemail with enough messages to knock Verizon offline. I have zero interest in listening to them. I delete them all without listening. I don’t want to hear her voice ever again. At least I know how she really feels about me now. And she banged Tommy Pizza, too. That picture of them sucking face is all over the place. Of all the fucking people to fuck me over with, she had to pick him? I should have known. In high school she really did think I was beneath her in class and smarts. And then, years later, I run into her again when I’m rich and famous and suddenly she thinks I’m awesome. She spread her legs on demand and sucked my dick when asked. It felt too good to be true because duh, of course it fucking was. Who would have thought Miss Above It All Rose Taylor was no better than a Baseball Annie? It was one thing for her to talk shit about me, but did she have to drag my mother into it? She blew up my whole past in one drunken instant. Stanley worked his ass off to keep my mom’s past out of the press for years, and her numerous mug shots off the internet. Not sure what he did exactly, but he always hinted that was a herculean task, no walk in the park. He called in tons of favors on my behalf. And Rose’s mouth goes and blows it in a snap. Mom’s arrest records are all over the internet. How the fuck is that going to help her recovery? Chump. Fool. Sap.

My chest hurts, right around the heart. For a while, I worry I’m going to have a heart attack like Stanley, but then the pain turns to heat and gushes through every inch of my body. It’s like my skin is on fire. The anger feels like it’s stuck in my throat, strangling me, not letting me breathe. The phone, still in my hand, must die. I smash the phone on the floor and feel instant gratification, followed by an immediate stab of regret. No. Those days are over. No more breaking shit. 100, 99, 98... Grab control of the breath. 90, 89... Steady your hands I go to my pantry and pull out a new phone. I keep several in there because during my temper tantrums, my phone is usually the first thing to get destroyed. But I need my phone. What if Bev calls about Stan? What if my mom calls? What if I need a pizza? I plug the new phone in and call the number I need to call right now. “Hello, Mark. How is that delicious cock of yours?” “Hi, Deborah.” “So, I heard the news and…" “Who hasn’t….” “Want me to come over and comfort you?” I think of Deborah. She’s a little older, about 30. She’s been a reliable fuck buddy for a couple of years, and a die-hard for the last one. She will do anything and I mean anything in the sack. She would get her sweet ass over here and offer me any hole, no questions asked. All I have to do is open the door and remember to pronounce her name Deborah and not Deb-rah. I wouldn’t even need to talk to her outside of that. All I have to do is point at my dick. But...I just don’t want to fuck her. I’m not sure why. The thought of it makes my stomachache even worse. Why did I even bother to call? “I’m sorry, this was a mistake. Goodbye, Deb.” I hang up. OK. Two strikes out. I am back at bat and I gotta hit this one out of the park. I know what I have to do, precisely because I don’t know what to do. Todd answers in three rings. I don’t give him time to say hello. “Hey, it’s Mark. Think you can fit me in for an emergency session?” I pause and take a breath. “Please.” A few moments pass and Todd says nothing. I squeeze the phone and notice my hand and face are slick with sweat. “OK,” he finally says. “Give me about an hour to get out there.” “Thanks, man.” After I hang up, I realize how long an hour is—forever. I look down at the arm of my sofa and see one solitary hair. Rose’s. Did it shed from her when she shook her hair out last night, dressed in that bikini? Did it get trapped in my fingers as I was running them through her hair? Or land there when I carried her in from the hot tub to lay her down on the couch and kiss her senseless? Fuck.

I pluck the honey colored strand from the upholstery and wrap it around my finger tight. How much of her is left in this place? What else will I find of her in the next few weeks, few months? A stray bobby pin on the night stand. Flecks of makeup on the vanity. A fingerprint on the sliding glass door. I flex my finger and the strand snaps. Something inside me snaps too. Anger from deep inside rushes to the surface like a volcano. My bones rattle in rage, my heart pounds and my flesh is cooking. My eyes dart to the TV and I think how great it will look with the phone thrown through it. I look at the new coffee table before me and wonder if I can split it in half with one kick. That wall ten feet from me could stand some holes punched in it. No. No. No. After I take enough deep breaths to make myself damn near lightheaded, I rise from the couch and walk to my piano. I crack my knuckles and bang out my pain and despair.

Todd clicks his pen over his notepad a few times and stares at me. He looks tired. He looks like he just threw on random clothes to get here as fast as he could. I appreciate the effort and to show him how thankful I am, I’m going to do my best in this 911 session. He clears his throat. “What are you feeling right now?” “Nauseous,” I blurt out. He keeps his eyes on me and nods. “That’s a physical response to emotion. I need you to tell me, specifically, the emotions you are experiencing right now.” I crack my knuckles. I can do this. I can list words. But then I find I can’t. I just nod my head and look away, embarrassed I have taken this man away from his newborn kid and wife on a Saturday afternoon just to get nowhere. Fuck. He sighs. “We need the emotion sheet, don’t we?” I feel like a kindergartener as he pulls a piece of paper out of his briefcase and hands it to me. On it is a list of endless words. “Which emotions are you feeling?” “All of them,” I say and thrust the paper back to him. He waves me off. “No, tell me which.” I look at the paper again. So many words. All the words in the dictionary. All the words in the world. All the words that ever existed. I try to wrap my tongue around one and find I can’t speak. Some frog has jumped in my throat and there’s something in my eye. Glancing at the paper, I spot a word that strikes and point to it. “Hurt,” Todd says. “Continue.” I find another. “Humiliated.” I tap the sheet several more times. “Sad. Angry. Confused. Betrayed.”

Looking over the sheet I take a big breath and slowly let it out. “And,” I say, clearing the frog away. “And screwed over. And stupid. And wondering why I fell for that, why I thought she actually cared…” I take another breath. “And alone.” I lean back on my sofa and let my body go limp. Who would have thought that the simple act of pointing out words on a page would be so exhausting. “Good,” he says with a nod. “Let’s unpack those feelings."

25

ROSE

When I wake up on the couch, my phone is clenched in my hand and the same Irma Thomas song loops on the Bose, a perfect song to describe my dread. Yes, Irma, it is raining so hard. Shutting my eyes tight, I roll around with the intention of staying on the couch forever in a mind-numbing sleep. Jarred awake by fingers poking my shoulder, I open my eyes to Geo standing over me with her hands on her hips. “Where have you been?” I ask. My voice sounds cracked and weak. Saying nothing, she marches to the kitchen with heavy stomps of her boots. She didn’t take off her Doc Martens. The no shoes in the house rules is her thing, not mine. Why? What now? Aching and sore, I roll off the couch, turn off Irma and hobble to the kitchen. “Where have you…” Cutting me off with a hot glare, she arches her eyebrow. “Don’t you remember what last night was?” I scour my brain for the right answer and look to see what T-shirt she is wearing for a clue. If she attends a protest, her shirt screams the cause. But it’s The Bangles, so that doesn’t help. I’m taking too long to put it together and I can see her frustration growing, until her face is twisted in disgust and she’s snorting like a bull. “You don’t remember, do you.” It’s an accusation, not a question. I shake my head. “I'm sorry, Geo, I don’t.” She shakes the coffee pot at me. “The Frightened Rabbit interview.” “That was tonight,” I protest. Rolling her eyes, she turns her back on me and fills the coffee pot with water. "And what day is it, Rose?" “I, uh…” How long did I sleep? Did I check the reminders on my cell when I left Mark's place yesterday? Was that only yesterday? It was Saturday, I know that much, because we'd had a whole day of lounging around his cabin planned, complete with more pizza delivery and so much more sex...my stomach roils just thinking about it. About him. About how badly I fucked up.

Then I squint at my phone and my stomach clenches even tighter. Shit. It's Monday. I slept right through Sunday, the whole day. And the whole night. Sunday night, when the band was able to squeeze in a brief interview with us after their gig. I don’t know what to say. She pestered me for weeks to set up that interview. I finally got off my ass and did, and Geo was so excited. The precious few times I have been home, I’ve walked into an apartment filled with the sounds of Frightened Rabbit and print outs of the questions we should ask. How could I forget something so important to our podcast? To her? Banging the coffee tin and a single coffee cup on the counter, Geo avoids looking at me. “I’m so sorry,” I try again. She holds up her hand to silence me and for a brief second I think she might hit me. Then she slams the open coffee canister on the counter and it rains fair-trade grounds in our kitchen. “You broke the number one rule of our friendship. We always said we would never let a dude come between us. Next thing I know you are fucking Mr. Bat Boy and what do you know! It’s like I don’t exist. Like all of our plans mean nothing to you.” “I…” “I! Yes, exactly! Let's talk about how much you love yourself right now. Always Googling yourself, staring at pictures of yourself. You have become a complete narcissist! And every time you're here I try to talk to you, drag details of your day out of you, try to make plans for our podcast, but all you ever want to do is run right back to his place. If you didn't want to do the podcast anymore, you should have told me." My eyes drop to the side and I cower in shame. She slams her hand on the counter. “I am moving out, Rose." She stomps off to her room, throws the door opens it and slams it again. Shuddering, I wait to hear what her soundtrack of anger will be. Sex Pistols or L7? She surprises me by making the walls vibrate with Megadeth. Geo is not the metal type. She is seriously pissed. After I clean the coffee grounds out of the kitchen tiles, I take a long hot shower. As the water cleanses my body, a feeling of sadness overwhelms me. I look at the drain. It’s like I am washing Mark from my body. His kisses. His touches. It’s all pooling in this tub, rolling down that drain, away. I slide down and cry as the water rains down on me. I sit there until my fingers have prunes from the water. When I exit the shower, I hear that Geo has switched off Megadeth, but her door is still closed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bolstered it with a chair under the knob. She’s moving out. I can’t believe she’s leaving me. It’s another layer of shit in my life. She’s been my roomie since college. I have never had another roommate. I never wanted one. We have been through so much together. Those financially insecure first days when we would come home to no electricity. That disastrous first grown up dinner party when we burned our fancy dinner to a crisp and someone from the building called the fire department.

Flirting with those hot firefighters who came to check up on our mistake. Painting the living room that weird purple color and loving it. The couch we found outside that we had to drag back out when we found mice living in it. Her first job, my first job. Her first heartbreak, my first heartache. I remember holding her all night when her mom died and she cried herself to sleep. She did the same for me when my gran died. And now she can't even look at me without anger and disappointment. I have really let her down. I haven’t been there for her at all. I was supposed to partner with her on the podcast, put in an equal amount of work, help her find band hookups. It was our baby. Our creative venture that we were both excited to launch. But I dropped it. I dropped everything. The podcast was going to be a way to help her get out of that bartending job she hates, but I didn’t even give it one ounce of attention once Mark and the new radio gig came along. And when I was hurting, when that picture of Mark and Amber came out, she was there for me. She ferried me to work every day and defended me against the angry die-hards. I have been awful to her. I have been a terrible friend these last few weeks. I lie down on my bed and start to cry again. For hurting Mark. For hurting Geo. I suck. But one of these, at least, I can mend. I sit up in my bed. I find a piece of paper and a pen and write Geo, my lovely Geo, a note. When I finish I slide it under her door and go to bed to cry myself to sleep.

I smell s'mores. No, I must be dreaming. Can you dream smells? Closing my eyes, I draw a big lungful of air through my nose. Maybe it’s a scented candle. That’s it. Right? Surely Geo is too wicked pissed at me to make my favorite comfort food. Cautiously, I open my door and peek out to see Geo puttering around the kitchen. Yes, my nose was correct. A half empty bag of marshmallows slumps on the counter. Some graham crackers are stacked on a plate. I see Geo’s bare feet on the linoleum and her Doc Martens on the shoe shelf by the door. “Geo…” I squint at her. Looking up, she points a spatula to a kitchen chair. “Sit,” she barks. “We have some shit to talk about.” Obedient and brimming with remorse, I sit down where instructed, fold my hands on the table and wait. Geo scoops a steaming, melting s’more on a plate and slides it to me. I smile, but it drops when I see her face remains stony and cold. She sits down in the chair across from me with her oven mitts still on and a spatula in her hand. “I read your letter." Her face remains expressionless. “So you don’t want me to leave?" "Of course not. Geo, I—" She holds up a hand to silence me. "And you don’t want our friendship to be over.” “Never. Not at all.”

“Good. Neither do I.” She draws a long breath. “But, Rose, you can't keep doing this. Standing me up, flaking on our projects, without so much as a single word to prepare me. And please stop shutting me out. I feel like I only see you when things with you and Mark are going sour. When things are okay, you aren't even here and you won’t even answer my texts.” She raises an eyebrow pointedly. "Am I right?" I wince. "You saw the news?" "I didn't have to. You're here, something must have gone down between you two. And I get it, new relationship, hot guy, super exciting—" I open my mouth to stop her, but she talks right over me. "And that's awesome. But just don't forget your friends along the way. Especially when it comes to working together. This podcast means so much to me, Rose. It's like my national radio show, you know?" I bow my head. "I know." “So, I want to give you another chance. But I have some rules.” “Anything.” I mean it. I would rob a liquor store for her right now if she asked. Anything. “Number 1.This podcast will be recorded next Saturday or I am out.” “OK.” “Number 2. Be a better friend. I am not just someone to pay attention to when your current guy doesn’t work out. That’s not how friendship works." “I know. I'm sorry.” “Number 3...you need to nut up.” I blink. "Huh?" Peeling off her glove, she takes my note out of my pocket and unfolds it. “I am getting fired. I am sure they will call me tomorrow to let me know, since I didn't go into the station today,” she reads. Then she looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Really?” “Yeah, I'm guessing they'll call me when—” Geo shakes her head hard enough to make her dreads dance. “Yeah, they're going to be pissed at you, Rose. Maybe even fire you. But that’s not what I mean. You need to go in there and face the music in person. Don’t be a wuss. That’s not the Rose I know. Got it?” I burst into tears of relief as I look at Geo. I have no words. I see her face soften and she climbs out of her seat and wraps her arms around me. “I am so sorry,” I say, slobbering into her dreads. She pats my arm. “I have one more question for you.” I blink my teary eyes at her. “What?” I sniff. “Why the balls did you feel the need to make your note rhyme?”

26

ROSE

Geo stops the car just outside the parking lot. Die-hards are still milling in front of the station, more than we had last week, and Mark isn’t even here today. He left last night for spring training. The beaches, the nightclubs, the willing supermodels of Miami. His new national show starts in two days. Without me. Without us. Geo touches my shoulder. “Ready to nut up?” Swallowing and nodding at once, I force a smile. It’s a fake one of course. My stomach is twisted in knots as I eye the die-hards and paps. This is going to be the worst gauntlet ever, not to mention the first time I am facing it without Mark. Geo rolls the Corolla into the parking lot. The crowd parts like the Red Sea and starts shouting my name. Not with adoration this time, but anger. Blinded by flashbulbs and dizzy from adrenaline, I really don’t think I can do it. I cling to my seat, paralyzed. “Nut up,” Geo repeats. I feel her touch my shoulder and her tone softens. “You got this. I am going to pull over there and wait for you. One way or another. Just text me when this is done.” I exit the car into a sea of overwhelming stimulation. There's so much shouting that my head spins. Feeling a panic attack coming on, I try to find the will to move my feet, one step at a time. I eye the station’s front door, longing for it like salvation itself. “Look at the backstabber.” “Bitch!” "Whore!" I try to walk, but the crowd presses in against me. Some woman throws a torn W-ALT banner in my face, screaming about selling out. Someone else spits on the ground at my feet. Someone shoves me from behind, and panic makes me shut down. My body stops moving through the crowd. I don't know if I’m stuck because I’m trapped by the people, or if I am just physically paralyzed. Probably the latter. I suck in deep breaths, but no oxygen reaches my lungs. Shit. Shit. Shit. Someone grabs my arm and gently tugs. At first I flinch, and try to pull away, but

then my eyes focus on the security guard, a huge wall of a man. He smiles. “Come on, hon.” I could kiss him right now, but there’s no time for that. He pulls me to the front door, opens it and nudges me in so hard I bang into Chad, who awkwardly catches me. “Whoa,” he says. “Kinda tough out there. We sent security to look for you.” Chad is not the only one in the lobby. Kristy is there, along with the new general manager and a couple of suits I’ve never seen before. Halcyon HR maybe? To talk about my firing, no doubt. I look around at them one by one. Meeting me upon arrival in the lobby. I guess I’m getting fired before I can even take off my coat. I suck in a deep breath to start talking, but before I can, one of the suits—the one in the blue tie—steps forward and thrusts his hand at me. “Rose. Greg Turnbull.” Dumbly, I take his hand and get a proper hand-pumping. He’s smiling as he does this. “Let’s go back to the conference room and have a chat.” Well, this is it. Time to get my pink slip. I take a deep breath and follow them to the conference room, trying to remember how much I have in savings and if unemployment will cover basic human existence. Maybe my rent. Probably not food to live on in between rent checks. Then Chad opens the door to the conference room and my brain shifts from panicking about money to wondering WTF. I don’t recognize what used to the be the employee break room. Before, there was an ancient microwave that was probably leaking enough radiation to turn us all into superheroes, fluorescent lights and a tiny fridge that hummed like a dragon dying. The walls were faded yellow and the tiles were loose and cracked. Now, as I take my seat in the middle of the table, my butt is cushioned by a state of the art ergonomic chair. The table under my hands is black lacquer, reflecting light from the mod-looking light fixture above it. There is a plasma TV bolted to the wall and framed arty black and white photography around the room. Mostly NYC shots. Overall, it feels like a corporate tomb and I can’t help but feel elated. A smile spreads across my face as I realize that as bad as everything is, at least I am about to be released from this corporate prison. I will be as free as Night Vixen and Becks and Chris. Maybe they will forgive me, now that they see I haven't sold out after all. This room sums up Halcyon perfectly—boring, dead corporate bullshit—and I am never going to have to look at it again. I am going to be okay. I will find another job. I will move on, and I won’t have to fake my death and move to Costa Rica to do it. This, today, is just one bad day. It doesn’t define my life. I straighten my spine and toss back my hair. Noticing I feel hot, I peel off my coat and lean on the table. I eyeball Chad. I eyeball Greg. I eyeball that other nameless suit. “Well this is different,” I say in my best ScarJo voice to date. “Looks like the cover photo for a Fight Club poster right before Brad Pitt tears into it.” Chad chuckles. “You aren’t wrong.”

Yes. The walls are beige. Chad is beige. Halcyon is beige. But I am not. I am bright blue and popping green with tinges of purple and fiery red. Fuck these people. I wiggle my butt on the seat and flash a big smile. “So, guys, let’s do this. I have a nail appointment in thirty minutes.” Chad opens up his laptop and Greg mirrors him like they are corporate twins. The other dude just sits there staring at me with a small smile on his thin lips. “Rose. I'm Scott Thorson, VP of PR here at Halcyon.” Of course his name is Scott. “Nice to meet you.” He tugs on his tie and chuckles. “I'm happy to meet you.” He rests his elbows on the table and leans in. “Huge fan. I have never once missed a show. I love everything about your show. Even the music.” I roll my eyes. Ugh. What a bullshit corporate way to fire someone. A compliment before they lower the boom. “Let's cut the bullshit," I say. "What kind of severance package are we talking? Because I have a required notice period in my contract with Doc, and I’m pretty sure you have to honor those terms.” Laughs circle the table like I’m Louis CK. Chad raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you think we were going to void your employment with Halcyon this morning?” Void my employment? My tongue loosens. “No,” I drone. “I thought you were going to straight-up fire me.” Again laughter flows around the table. I am truly on fire this morning. Too bad they don't pay me for comedy shows. “No, Rose,” Scott says. “Nothing like that.” He drums the table with his fingers. “You are a valuable asset to this company.” “Asset?” I cross my arms. “The Morning Zoo already released a parody song about me. Jimmy Fallon tweeted jokes about me last night. I've lost track of the number of angry hash tags and Tumblr posts. People hate me. How could I possibly be an asset?” Scott wags his finger in the air. “Precisely. People love to hate you.” My mouth falls open. I knew Halcyon was corporate as hell, but really? “You have always had a strong Q rating,” Scott continues. “And we think that will go through the roof when we get you back on the air. Especially with all this tension crackling between you and your cohost.” I gasp so loud the men wince. They must be joking. This must be some corporate frat boy joke, a sick way to give someone the shove. “Back on the air? With...?” I can't even say his name. Scott gives me an enthusiastic nod and a huge smile. “We're sending you to Miami to cover the Yankees' first preseason game.”

Back in the car, Geo is silent as I tell her what went down at W-ALT—or should I say, Halcyon's—latest meeting. Keeping her eyes on the road, she nods when I take a breath to energize my rant, but otherwise doesn't interrupt. “And,” I shout. ScarJo is gone, Louis CK too. Now I'm channeling Louis Black.

“They said refusing to do this would be in violation of my contract. So if I don't go down, they can fucking sue me.” Geo smiles. “They said fuck?” “Well, no. They summarized it more politely.” I take a breath. “But it's pretty clear. I do this, or my career in radio is over. Dead. Kaput." Geo says nothing, and I feel the urge to fill her Corolla with more whinging. “Maybe I can just leave the country or something. I mean, I have nothing. What can they sue me for? My old busted down Mustang? My collection of new wave 45s? Maybe I can just move to Costa Rica and change my name and work in some beach bar with tourists.” I collapse against my seat and catch my breath. It’s a gray winter day and Geo’s heater is not great, so it’s cold in the car, yet I am sweating. My release of hot air out of my angry, panicked mouth fogs her windshield. Geo switches on the defogger and stays silent. “Geo,” I whine. "Say something." She shrugs her shoulders. “Go to Miami.” “What? No way.” She shoots me a look. “Going to Miami is the best thing to do. For one, it just might give you the opportunity to apologize to Mark. I happen to think there’s a chance for you—for you both. You guys found each other and forgave one another for all of your high school crap. You're older now. Smarter, both of you. I really believe you guys can overcome what happened.” “But—” “And honestly, being back on the air is the best thing for your career. It's your dream, Rose. Even if things don't work out with Mark, this will open up so many doors for you.” “How? So all the die-hards can hate me live on the air? So I can become a pariah nationwide?” She shakes her dreads. “Have ever thought that maybe going down there might be just the right way to rehab your image? When you're on the air, you can talk to these haters directly. You can control the spin of the story. You can tell your side, apologize, and make this right." As I watch Paramus shoot by me, I think of the disaster that awaits me in Miami, if I do go. Just how bad is it going to be? Can I take it? Snow is coming down now in big, fat flakes. Tonight would be a great night to curl up with a bottle of wine on Mark's couch, clasp each other and watch lame movies. Or venture out into his hot tub and watch the flakes fall firsthand, while we get all warm and toasty and probably naked... Right now, I miss Mark more than ever before. Shit. It hurts, how much I miss him. “Hey,” Geo says. There is a smile on her lips. “Yeah?” I stare out the window. “I guess I need to make you more s’mores, huh?” My eyes well up. “Thanks. But I don't know if that will help.”

27

ROSE

When I step outside baggage claim to catch a cab, it’s like I jumped into a warm bathtub. Miami is hotter than hell and as humid as a sauna. Jesus. Three seconds outside and I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon. The air is tough to breath, it’s so heavy and wet. It’s like Jersey in the dog days of August, but worse. After balling up my goose down jacket and securing it to my wheelie bag, I hail a cab and pop in, grateful the driver has the AC on Arctic blast. “Where to, Miss?” he asks in an accent I can’t place. “The Hilton on Miami Beach.” He nods and the cab lurches forward. We drive by a world completely different from New Jersey and New York. Everything here is clean and bright and brand new like a shiny penny. I have left behind a cold, gray winter for endless warmth and summer. Palm trees and stucco. Convertibles and half-naked gorgeous people. Eyeing the beaches, I am lost in the beauty, forgetting everything in the dizzy moment a new environment can give you. For a moment I forget why I'm here. I forget the pit of dread pooling in my stomach, where it's been seething for the whole trip down. Then I see it in the distance. An enormous billboard, plastered across the highway. “GAME NIGHT WITH YOURS TRULY.” And oh, look. Mark’s face. Fifty feet wide with his violet blue eyes gazing through me. My hands squeeze into fists and so does my heart. I am back in a swirl of anxiety and sadness. I hear Geo's words in my head as she fed me the best s'mores she ever made. “You got this, Rose.” Closing my eyes, I take several deep breaths of the cab driver’s spicy incense. Yeah. I got this. I am a Rose, which means I've got thorns.

My Halcyon producers here in Miami are a dapper little fellow named Cody and a tall sinewy blonde named Jessica. We meet in a rented room at the Hilton for a planning sesh. Cody is cheery and dressed down in jeans and a 21 Pilots T-shirt. I think I may have found an ally in this corporate crazy, since it turns out he started out as the program director at an alternative rock station in Detroit. “I always loved W-ALT,” he says with a smile. “Really cool set lists.”

“Thanks,” I say. “How did you end up working corporate?” He shrugs. “What can I say? I have a wife and two kids and the moving around and the alt rock salary wasn’t cutting it anymore.” I press my lips together and look down at the equipment Halcyon has provided. State of the art. “I guess I'm a company gal now too.” “I feel ya,” Jessica says. She rolls up her sleeve to reveal a Grateful Dead tatt on her forearm. As she rolls it back down, she smiles at me. “We all have to grow up sometime.” Then she looks at the time on her phone. “OK, let’s roll. We’re going to interview a couple players before the game.” My head nods, but inside I feel gooey and sick. Jessica catches my eye and gives me a gentle smile. She knows. She must know. Who doesn’t at this point? My failed romance is all over the WWW. “It’ll be fine,” she says. “Cody and I got your back.” Cody nods. “After we check in with the suits, we’ll be there with you in the locker room.” “That means a lot," I say. Then I blink. "Wait. Locker room?”

The stadium is mostly empty, just some media people and other production people. I look down at the bases on the field and remember Mark and me racing around them. Sigh. Shaking it off, I follow Cody and Jess to Halcyon's private suite, perched over home plate. The suite is packed with Halcyon executives and their guests, everyone slurping cocktails and champagne from the open bar. Oh, wow. This place is choked with celebrities. I spot at least three rappers and more than a couple of Hollywood B-list actors. As I’m introduced around the room, eyes light up in recognition. Most people try to suppress a chuckle or deliver a patronizing hello. Tania Scully is here slugging champagne as she rolls her eyes at a suit who is invading her body space by touching her arm. Ew. Poor Tania. I can't say I’m a huge fan, but I can admit Geo and I have watched all of her chick flicks. She always gets the guy and she always looks great doing it. “Harry’s finance. Yankees shortstop,” Jess whispers in my ear. Tania catches my eye and must recognize me somehow, because she makes a beeline to me. Then it’s all air hugs and air kisses. “Rose Taylor,” she coos. “Great to meet you.” I can’t believe the star of Lost in Kisses and The Breakup Cruise knows my name. Weird. She's shorter than I expected, and pretty, though with a lot of makeup on. But that’s not a stupid thing to do, I realize. Cameras are constantly clicking in this room. Shit, I hope I look ok. I air-kiss her back. "I love your movies," I stutter, then wince. Wow. Smooth. “You want some champagne?” She holds out the other glass in her hand to me. A sparkly gem dominates her ring finger. Jeez. It looks bigger than the Hope

Diamond. The weight of it must kill her wrist. “No thanks. I need to keep a clear head. Going to do more interviews in a few.” “That's right. I heard…” she looks over her shoulder and then leans into me. “You'll be talking to Mark, right?” My stomach churns. I mean, Jess didn't exactly say so, but I kind of figured. After all, Halcyon just wants me here so they can make bank off our relationship drama. Fanfuckingtastic. I nod dumbly at Tania. “He’s a great guy. He’s…” She presses her lips together, then downs the last bit of champagne in her one hand so she can take a fresh slug off the other. “He’s been really down,” she whispers after she swallows. “Harry told me.” Harry. Her Yankees man. Got it. I nod. “I’m sure he’s been comforting himself with all sorts of models.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I feel like I’m dying inside. She shakes her head. “He only comes out of his hotel room for training. No clubs. No parties. No nothing. Harry tried to talk to him, invite him out, but...” She shrugs her dainty shoulders. “Mark doesn’t talk to anyone. He’s being living like a monk. A vow of silence type, too. I'm really glad you're here. We were all getting worried.” My heart jumps. I feel like I might be in one of her movies. Prisoner of Love, maybe, or Ten Ways to Happiness. As she is pulled away from my side, she gives me a little wink. A monk. Like, as in, not fucking anyone else? Is that true? I imagined him drowning in vagina by now, returning to his old playboy habits. Moving on and putting his dick in every actress and cocktail waitress on South Beach. But if this is true, if he’s really holed up and monking out, what does that mean? I don’t get much time to revel in the explosion of confusing feelings, because Jess is tugging at my arm. “Show time.” I take a deep breath and paste a fake smile on my face. Here goes nothing.

28

ROSE

Hot, well-built men stand in various states of undress around me. So far, I have interviewed six of Mark’s teammates, all of them thankfully fully dressed. Standard stuff with the clichéd questions that Scott has assured me our 18 to 34 male demographic eats up with a spoon. I feel like a robot. I guess this is my corporate life now. While doing the interviews, my eyes dart around for a glimpse of Mark, but all I see are bare chests and the occasional dick dangling by. Wow, these guys are not shy. I guess they're used to reporters traipsing around in here though. And it's not like they have anything to hide. Cody pushes Harry Fortier toward me, Tania’s Yankees man. A handsome guy, he’s lanky, with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. I cue up the tape. “So, how do you feel?” I ask. He answers with the standard feeling great, ready for this game, can't wait to get onto the field that every player has already said, but he’s nice and grins as he does it. Plus he has a nice Cajun accent to boot. He calls me ma’am, even though he’s gotta be around my age. Aw, southern boys. “Thanks Harry,” I say when we finish. “No problem, ma’am.” Then he does the same thing his girlfriend did, quickly peeking over his shoulder before he locks his eyes back on me in a conspiratorial gaze. He looks down at the mic. “That thing off?” I nod. He puts his mouth to my ear. “Mark’s bad off. If you still care about him, please, try to right this. We're all worried.” Before I can ask what “bad off” means, he melts away into the sea of naked men. He’s bad off. About us? When he sat on that couch, avoiding my eyes as he told me to get out, I had never seen him look so miserable. He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls. As far as I can see, he’s washed his hands of me. But so far two separate human beings have approached me to offer hope. Against my better judgment, a tendril of optimism snakes into my heart.

Maybe I am one of the plucky gals Tania plays. Maybe I can still get the guy. Jess taps me on the shoulder and points behind me. Turning, I see Mark. Suddenly it’s like he’s moving in slow motion. He’s in his uniform from the waist down, but above the hips, he is in his glory. His chest is more toned than the last time I saw him and he’s sporting a full beard. Then he sees me and smiles. My heart about explodes from my chest. Maybe he listened to those voicemails after all. Maybe he will forgive me. As he walks toward me I hear a thousand clicks of cameras and feel the hot lights of TV cameras trained on me. Shit. This is going to be in HD. This interaction is in front of the entire world. I can’t break down. I steel myself as he approaches. This is just a standard interview, I tell myself. A standard interview with my heart and all my emotions on the line. “Hi, Rose.” Damn. Was his voice always this sexy? My knees want to buckle already. He pecks my cheek, and his beard tickles. “How have you been?” He’s rubbing my arm and giving me such a warm look I can't help but smile up at him, hopeful. “Fine. Good. I, uh...” I missed you, I think, but I am aware of the cameras on every side of us. He looks down at my equipment. “That thing on? Shall we?” I clear my throat and lift the mic. “Rose Taylor here, live from the Yankees locker room speaking to Sporty Talk's own Mark Carrington, the Bad Boy at Bat for the Yankees,” I recite. “Mark what are your thoughts on the upcoming season?” I take a breath and oxygen lights up my brain. OMG. I am so happy right now, so relieved. His gorgeous blue eyes are on me and he’s smiling and flirty. There is hope and it is springing eternal. “Well, Rose. What can I say? The lineup is strong and I feel this is our year.” The words are all standard, but they are delivered with a twinkle in his eye and he’s standing so close to me as he says them that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. He smells amazing. The beard suits him and I almost reach out my hand to stroke it. It's so hard to control the impulse. We talk for a few more minutes about the game, the warm ups, the season in general. The whole time, I want so badly to touch his chest. To kiss him. To throw my arms around his neck and never let go. “We done?” he asks finally, still with his gorgeous eyes on me. “Yes.” I reach down and switch off the equipment. When I look back up, his face has changed. His jaw is clenched and his eyes have gone cold. He turns and walks away without a word. I am left feeling chilled. Empty. Alone. I want the locker room floor to open up and swallow me whole. I feel Jess put her arm around my shoulders. “Are you OK?” “Can I take five?” My hands are shaking and I want to burst into tears. That was only for the cameras. Everything he just did. The smile, the touching, the affection. Fuck, I am an idiot. Of course he doesn't forgive me. How could he? “Sure.” She points toward the massage room. “Go shut yourself in there for a few minutes. We have enough here. National is on a hard break anyway.” Lugging the equipment, I quickly move to the back of the locker room, shut the

door and run right into a massage table. Exactly like the one Mark has in his loft. Exactly like the one he gave me a massage on, before he carried me off to his bed. Great, reminders everywhere. I jump up and sit on it, dangling my legs. That was awful and I can't blame him. I mean, how was he supposed to act? Of course, he was going to be warm and friendly on camera, in front of the world. What did I expect? Him to forgive me just like that? The equipment is heavy on my lap, so I move it to the side. That’s when the idea hits me. Instead of crying, I need to do something proactive. I need to fix this. Somehow. I pick up the phone and dial a direct line to Halcyon's latest acquisition in the heart of Paramus, New Jersey. “Chad? I need you to patch me through live.” There is a pause and I swear I hear Chad closing his laptop. “For what, exactly?” I take deep breath. “I have an idea. And you will love it.”

29

MARK

The room is quiet and cool. I’m sitting in one of the meeting rooms in the back of the stadium, away from the press, away from people. I am laying on the floor faceup, staring at the ceiling. I wish I could turn off the speaker above me piping in MIAMI SPORT TALK FM, but it's automated. The pre-game speculation is annoying, but at least I’m alone. Before every game, I like to take a few minutes to myself to just breathe and relax. This is how I hone my focus. This is how I hit the ball out of the park. Closing my eyes, I try to find that space of ease, of bliss. I try to picture being on the mound, my eyes trained on the pitcher, the ball hurling my way as fast as a bullet. I try to hear the roar of the crowd and smell the roasted peanuts and popcorn. I try to feel the sting of sweat in my eyes as I choke the bat. How does it feel in my hand? How much does it weigh? How does it feel to take a practice swing? Breathe in. Breathe out. “And we are throwing it back to Rose Taylor in Miami with a special announcement…” the radio drones. Fantastic. I can't even avoid her in here. I shut my eyes and try to drown out her sultry voice with thoughts of swinging bats and roaring crowds, but I can’t. "I just wanted to tell you—and you know who you are—that I'm sorry," she's saying. Yeah, sure you are, I think. Sorry you got caught. "And I love you." The floor feels like it's falling out from under me. "Good luck tonight," she adds, like it wasn't already obvious to everyone listening who she just said that for. But somehow it makes my stupid monkey brain like it more, that she admitted to the whole world how she feels. She knows she could be humiliated now. I could use that against her. And still she told me. Told everyone. Fuck. Everything was decided. Everything packed away. I was good to go before that speech. I was good to move on. The last several weeks, when I wasn’t at practice, I was Skyping with Todd and ironing out the mess that is my personal shit. I have

been hitting the therapy hard, processing the emotions from years ago all the way up through me kicking Rose out of my life. It’s been a roller coaster this last month. Facing all this shit has been draining, but also freeing. At least, I thought I was free. Until I saw Rose this morning. Now her heartfelt words ring in my ears. She looked good today. Too good. She kept staring at my beard. But standing so close to her, all the hurt came back. And now I am torn in two by her words, by that confession. The words I wanted to hear for so long. I love you. No. Fuck that. I’ve worked too hard to slide back now. One of the issues I examined with Todd was the connection between my romantic relationships and my mother. Paging Dr. Freud. Gross to examine, for sure, but I made some breakthroughs. I could see the connection. Except for Rose, I always had this stand-offish thing with the chicks in my life. And then I opened up to her and look what happened. Fuck that and fuck her. Anger hits me with all the old symptoms. Clammy skin, pounding heart, racing thoughts. But I’ve become an old pro at reeling them back in. In a few seconds, I’m back on the mound in my head. Soon, I’ll have to go back into the locker room for the pre-game pep talk. Soon, I’ll have to go out there and perform in front of millions. But I can’t focus right now. I just can't fucking see the game. Instead I see my hot tub, my bed. Rose, naked beneath me. Her face in my hands. The way she moans my name when she comes, the way she rolls over in bed to smile up at me in the mornings. Fuck Halcyon and fuck the Yankees for bringing her back into my life. I am going to strike out today if I can’t get my shit together. There’s a tap at the door and I check my watch. It ain’t time yet. Who could that be? “What!” I shout at the door. The knob jiggles and the door slowly opens. “Hi, kid.” Stanley enters the room. For a second, I’m too shocked to move. I just stare at him from my position on the floor. “Stanley.” I bring myself to a standing position and stare at him, not believing my eyes. He looks good, like really good. By good I mean healthy as ever. He’s not wearing his usual suit, but khakis and a Hawaiian shirt. I just gape, not trusting my mouth to speak. He opens his arms to me and I go into to them like a little kid and rest my chin on his head. He must be feeling great, because he gives me a bear hug, strong enough to bruise my ribs. Gosh, that feels good from him. “How ya doing, kid?” He slaps my back. "They told me I could find you back here. Being antisocial." Something's in my eye, so I turn away. “I'm good,” I say. Stanley obviously ain't buying that bullshit, ‘cause I hear him exhale a chuckle. “That’s not what I hear. I hear you got a bad case of heartache.” I shrug. “It's been tough, I guess. But I'll be okay. Good to see you.” Stanley crosses his arms. “Tell me about it, kid.”

So I do. I mean, I really give it to him with both barrels. All that work with Todd has turned me into a mushy, emotive dude. By the end of our talk, I’m a mess, having gone over the way I felt about his heart attack, the shit with my mom, the Rose stuff. There's no way can I walk out onto the field and hit a ball tonight. Hell, I don’t think I can even walk, period. Stanley grabs my arm and eases me down into a chair. He grabs another chair and sits across from me. Just as I am detailing Rose’s live apology, it hits me. Guilt becomes the only emotion I feel. What the fuck am I doing? Dude just had a major heart attack and a quadruple bypass a couple of weeks ago and here I am making everything in the world about me, my shitty love life and my childhood emotions. God, I'm a prick. I stifle it and wipe my face with my hands. “I'm sorry for dumping all this shit on you. How are you doing?” Stanley draws a breath, looks around the room, and then back at me. “These last several weeks have given me a new perspective on things. A unique one. When you almost die…” he leans in. “I almost died, kid.” Pressing my lips together, I nod. I know that and it kills me. “Anyway, my life is divided in two now. There is before, and there is after.” He is silent as he looks around the room, at the formica table, the concrete blocks, until his eyes finally settle on mine. “You know what I learned, kid?” I shake my head. “Tell me.” “Life is short. And I’ve got this second chance at it. With Bev. To enjoy things. For years, I worked like a dog and didn’t give her the attention I should have. Never took time to stop and smell the roses. Now I am. "Bill’s handling more things, so Bev and I can do little getaways and catch some theater in the city. Have dinner.” His eyes crinkle in a smile. “I’ve been having lunch with her every day.” He points to his chest. “That’s my journey. That’s my path.” He points to me. “You need to figure out what you want to do. With this Rose situation especially. You have to find your path.” My eyes dart to the side. “She said all those awful things…” Stanley nods. “Shitty things. That were true, by the by. And it sucked, but you’re a big boy now, and you have to deal with it. But we all make mistakes. Like how you hit Tommy Pizza. That was a mistake, right?” I nod. “But…” “But nothing.” He shifts in his seat and punches my arm. Wow. There was some strength behind that jab and it makes me smile he’s got that kinda heat in him. “She ain't the first person to say drunk regrettable things, you know. Besides, she had no idea she was being recorded. She had zero experience in your world at that point. That world of greedy, dishonest fame-chasers and sabotaging rivals who will do anything for a buck.” Stanley rises and picks my Yankees cap off the table and perches it awkwardly on my head. “Think it over, kid. Life is too short.” “Too short to be treated like crap by some chick. I ain’t a doormat.” “Well,” he says, with his hand on the door. “If that’s your path, so be it. But right now, focus on the bat. I’ll see you after the game.”

He leaves me to my thoughts and I get back on the floor. There’s a game out there to play and I have to get my head back into it.

30

ROSE

I have never been to a baseball game before. If my heart wasn’t so heavy and I weren’t contractually obligated to sit here, I might feel spoiled. These Halcyon seats are near home plate above the dugout and I am so close to the action, I can see the every speck of dirt scatter in the air as the umpire dusts off home plate. Perfect position to catch Mark’s cold look whenever he comes out of the dugout. Awesome. “Batter up!” the umpire shouts as he steps back from the newly swept plate. Sitting pretty on the seat, I take a hit off a water bottle and try to look busy. Mixed messages. On one side I have Tania and Harry trying to tell me that Mark needs me. On the other I have Mark turning cold as ice the second I turned the mic off. So what’s the deal? Sighing, I text Geo to take my mind off things. What’s the latest? She replies fast. We just got our 1000th download. Wow. Silver lining. Just before I left for Miami, we launched our first episode of the podcast. Already it's been on the receiving end of some great listener reviews. Also, we got some blogger action that seems to be piquing mainstream media interest. It’s not the kind of success where you quit your day job, but it’s the kind of success that makes you put up with your day job for now, because there's better on the horizon. Fantastic. I drop my phone in my bag and then dig it back out when I hear someone snicker behind me. “Look,” a male voice says. “It’s that bitch Rose Taylor.” “She’s chubbier than I would have guessed.” Oh, that’s just great. I feel like all eyes are on me and every laugh and titter is about yours truly. Ugh. I sink lower in my seat. I am alone, surrounded by thousands of snickering strangers who hate me. “Batting for the Yankees, Mark Carrington!” The crowd goes nuts as they play his entrance song, the same one we played as his intro music for the show. With a bat in hand, he runs out onto the field. The roar is deafening, but he shows no sign he hears it. He steps up to the plate and the pitcher winds up… I lean forward in my seat, fists clenched. More than anything, I want him to nail this hit. I want his game to go well. I want everything to go well for

him. Boom. He hits it beyond the rafters, right out of the park. I leap to my feet with the screaming crowd as he jogs around the bases, grinning and waving. My heart throbs with joy for him, but also with pain that I can't be there to celebrate with him. To tell him how happy I am for him. How proud. And then he does it twice more that night. Apparently one more would be an opening pre-game record, a number of home runs in the first game of the season that hasn't been struck in years. I’m on the edge of my seat and the crowd is bursting with energy and excitement. When he steps out from the dugout for the fourth time, there is a collective gasp and the energy in the stadium shifts. Everyone is nervous for him. Everyone hope he makes it. I am biting my nails down to the quick. I pull my hand away from my face and sit on it. Mark’s face is stern and I can see his jaw is locked in place. As he cracks his knuckles and grabs a bat, the crowd starts to chant. ONE MORE ONE MORE ONE MORE I joint in, shouting at the top of my lungs. The pitcher on the mound is sweating and looks kinda pale. He just might fall over. The Mets coach calls a timeout and everyone around me starts cursing. “Fuck what now!” “Quit your stalling!” The tired, sweaty pitcher is pulled from the mound and a younger, fresher pitcher is put in his place. And oh, fuck. It’s Tommy Pizza. “Dirty trick,” the man behind me snarls. “You didn’t think the Mets were going to let Carrington just walk away from that, did you?” I can’t see Mark’s face from where I’m sitting, but if Tommy Pizza’s face is any indication, it must be intimidating. Tommy squints at Mark, and then, while keeping his eyes on Mark, he turns and spits. What a total asshole. Mark is frozen at home plate, bat raised, feet apart. I can see the muscles in his back and legs are tense and ready to spring into action. Tommy tosses the ball. Mark steps back as it nearly hits him. We all gasp, the whole stadium at once. “Dirty trick!” someone boos. “Nah. Pizza Boy is going to walk him instead of letting him get the record.” I turn to face the guy behind me. “That can’t be true,” I blurt. “Is that allowed?” “Happens all the time.” I curse. “That’s dirty as hell.” “Yeah, it is.” Mark perches the bat over the mound and Tommy hurls another at him, again

almost hitting Mark, making him quickly jump back. Tommy cracks up laughing as the umpire shouts, “Ball two!” with his fingers in the air. The crowd around me curses. I don’t understand how this is not cheating. At the very least, it’s bad sportsmanship. Is good sportsmanship even a thing anymore? Mark gets into position again. If he’s mad, nothing in his demeanor shows it. His face appears on the jumbotron and I can see he’s on emotional lockdown. His jaw is set, his eyes trained on the mound. Did I just see a sparkle in those blue eyes? Tommy throws and I don’t know, it all happens so fast. The second the ball leaves Tommy’s hand, Mark jumps back about two feet from home plate and swings so fast it’s a blur. The crack of the bat sounds like a thunderclap and the ball sails into the stands. The crowd collectively loses their shit and I stand and shout with everyone. In the rush of victory, I forget everything but Mark running his final lap around the bases, screaming for joy. The game ends in victory, Mark’s final home run clinching the win for the Yanks. There is a mad rush of players onto the field and Mark is first doused with champagne and then lifted up on the shoulders of his teammates. He’s on the jumbotron and he looks so happy that I’m bursting with happiness for him. As he takes his victory lap, I sit back down to collect my things, dropping my phone and empty water bottle into my bag. Then I hear the crowd’s mood shift from a cheering roar to boos and hisses. What happened? I look down to the field to see what’s going on. Maybe the umpire has declared the home run invalid? Maybe Mark is punching the shit out of Tommy Pizza? But no. People are pointing at the jumbotron and I follow their fingers to see my own image up there, complete with my gaping mouth and wide-eyed look of shock. The roar of disapproval is deafening. Okay, maybe it’s not that loud, but it’s the only thing I can hear. Shaking and feeling like I am going to puke, I put my purse on my shoulder and rise from my seat. Shit, I have so many stairs to climb to get out of here. I hear the crowd roar and look over my shoulder. Mark is back on the screen being interviewed; I can hear his voice echo in the stadium. Thank god. A distraction. Maybe I can get out of the stadium without having half-eaten pretzels thrown at me and backwash beer raining down on my head. I have to climb maybe a hundred stairs. Okay. I can do this, even though my legs are wobbly as fuck. I’ll take it one at a time. I will climb the stairs, exit the stadium and find my Halcyon ride outside. I got this. 100, 99, 98... “Rose!” I hear my name and freeze. Am I dreaming or was that Mark’s voice? “Rose!” It’s him and he is holding the stadium mic still, but he's dropped the interview. He’s not that far away from me, standing by home plate, and our eyes connect. For

the briefest of moments, I feel like we’re the only ones in the stadium. His face breaks into a smile and he runs toward me. Can this be happening? He tries to jump the dugout, but it's really high. Then two Yankees give him a boost and he gets to the roof. Me, I'm running the other way, down those steps to the fence, which butts up against the dugout roof. I lean over it, and he cups his hands around my face. “Rose. Come here.” Those blue eyes are setting my whole body on fire. I climb over the railing and into Mark’s waiting arms. We’re on the jumbotron again as he folds me into those arms and kisses me deeply. He strokes my face and gazes into my eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, to explain, but he presses his finger to my mouth. “It’s OK,” he whispers. “You’ve done that enough.” My eyes well up. I take his face in my hands and let my gaze linger before speaking. “I have to tell you this. I am sorry, Mark. I never should have said all of that. It was before I saw the real you. Before I woke up and realized how much I admire you.” I take a breath. “And I love you.” Mark smiles and kisses me again, slowly and deeply, as the crowd bursts into a roaring cheer. “I love you too,” he whispers against my cheek.

EPILOGUE MARK

The water around me is cool and I want to see how long I can hold my breath to stay under. A different world below the waves, I feel the slight pull of the current and gaze peacefully at the coral and the little fish that seem to have no fear of me. Naked in nature, that’s the way to go. All the stress of the World Series is melting off me. Sure, I’m glad we won, but damn that was a pressure cooker. It wasn’t over until it was over, a nail biter until the last bat. Seven games. Seven! But we did it and now I’m a World Series champ. I told them this would be our season. Our year. And it has been, in more ways than one. Things are good. Mom is keeping sober so far, and for that I am thankful. Like her, I’m taking it one day at a time as we repair our relationship. I would love to see her for Christmas, but that’s too many days away to consider. She is sober today, she was sober yesterday, and that’s okay. With prayers and hard work, she will be sober tomorrow too. I have knocked down my Todd time to biweekly sessions. Still a challenge, but each time with him I feel I’ve gone a little further than the session before. The anger is controllable and I no longer have to battle my emotions at the drop of a hat, but I still have a ways to go. That’s cool. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I almost want to stay floating in this calm forever, but my lungs are bursting for air and better things than this peace wait for me on the beach. I wiggle my eyebrows to a starfish and push off the ocean’s floor. Getting to the surface, I pull clean, salty air into my lungs. The sun has set behind the bungalow, leaving this world, our world, bathed in the sharp colors of twilight. There she is. My Rose. I swim toward the shore in anticipation of touching her. Pulling that lithe little body of hers to mine. Stanley is the best. He delivered, even though I was vague with my vacation ideas. “Somewhere hot,” I said. “A nice beach. But private. Really private. Private is the big thing.” I was already thinking of see-through bikinis and Naked Saturdays, mostly. “Ah, I know just the place,” he said. “And you can get away from the Tommy storm too.”

Tania was great on the stand, a star witness, and her celebrity status encouraged more ladies to come forward about that creepfest. Rose included, bless her brave little heart. Tommy got his due. I hope he rots in Rikers. A messenger delivered the tickets and details to my door within an hour of my call to Stanley, along with a note from him. Bev and I love this place. Have a great time! Love, Stan A little island east of Key West. Gorgeous, the sand clean and white and the water crystal blue. Every day since we got here has been beautiful weather. Food from the mainland gets delivered twice a day and all we have to do is indulge and soak up the sun. Bungalow on a private beach. Our little slice of heaven. Private heaven. Naked Saturday has been stretched into Naked Week. I pull toward the shore until I can wade in and stand. My dick gets harder when I see Rose’s glistening naked body on the beach chair, soaking up the afternoon rays. I stand over her to pick up her pina colada and let the sweat from the glass and water from my body drip onto her tits. “Mark.” She giggles. “Give me that.” I hand it to her and watch her press those hot pouty lips to the glass and take a long, slow sip. “Do I need to oil you up again?” I stroke her inner thigh. “Mm, maybe.” She lifts her sunglasses and grins at me. “Geo said the equipment arrived at our studio this morning. Chris and Night Vixen are installing everything now.” I shake my head and stroke her other leg. “Glad my old barn is getting some use. You wanted to keep the studio in New Jersey, huh?” She drops the sunglasses back down and shrugs. “I guess I’m still a Jersey girl at heart. Can you deal with that?” I grab her ankles. “Let me show you exactly how I deal with that.” I spread her legs as she laughs. Yesterday, I gave her a nice shave and her pussy glistens with suntan oil and wetness. I sit on the beach chair and set her feet on the ground. “Let me lick that pussy.” I spread her lower lips to reveal my most favorite spot in the universe. “Fuck yes,” I growl. “Carrington goes down.” She laughs, but it quickly turns to moans as I get down to business. I work that sexy pussy like it’s my job. We’ve been together for months now, so I’ve committed what pleased her to memory and really know how to get on that sweet little clit. “There’s nothing better than the taste of your pussy.” As she moans in delight, her body rolls in a spasm, and I get harder than ever at the sight. I fucking love watching her like this, knowing I’m in control of her orgasm, that I can send her to heights of uncontrollable pleasure. I grab her around the waist and work that tongue into her until she’s about to get off, right at the peak. Then, teasing, I pull away. She gasps in protest at first, but only until she sees how hard I am. Now it’s cock time, which is perfect because it really doesn’t get much harder than this. “Take off your sunglasses, baby. I want to see your face.” She smiles and her Armani shades drop to the sand. She’s watching my cock with pure delight and hunger.

Keeping her pussy lips spread with my fingers, I watch her face as I slide my dick inside her tight little box. There’s nothing quite like that first penetration face she makes. Oh, that sweet naughty smile. She moans and wraps her arms around my neck as I move inside her. “You like that, baby?” Her answer is a delicious gasp. “Harder.” Before now, I had never fucked on a beach chair. It took a little practice to get used to the rickety thing. You have to know how to balance your body, where to put your feet so they don’t slip through the vinyl blades. But I got this. I know what I’m doing. I position my body on top of her and grind as I knead her breasts and kiss her mouth. “I love you, baby,” I gasp as I thrust inside her. She touches my face. “I love you too.” We finish, both of us moaning our orgasms at the top of our lungs, but who cares when there’s no one around for miles to hear us. I collapse in a worn-out heap on top of her as we finish. She wraps her arms and her legs around me and we just breathe and hold each other. Nah, I was wrong, completely wrong. The beach isn’t paradise. This is. Fucking her is all the paradise I need. “Did you know,” she whispers in my ear. She’s dancing her fingers across my back and I just know my dick is going to grow hard again soon. “That was one of my fantasies?” I raise my head. “What do you mean?” She sighs and runs her fingers through my hair. “My go-to fantasy was always lying on a beach naked…” I smile. “We got that covered.” “And then this hot faceless guy would emerge from the waves and fuck me right there on the beach.” I remove some loose strands of hair from her cheek. “Faceless?” I peer down at her. I think my tone sounds a little hurt and I wonder if I’m pouting like a chump. She spots this and touches my cheek with the back of her hand softly, then kisses me. “Turns out it was you,” she whispers. “It was always you.” “Funny,” I say, wrapping my arms around her tight. “I had a similar fantasy. And it was always you, too.”

THE END

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FRICTION BY EMILY SNOW

Check out the first chapter of Friction by Emily Snow. Available on Amazon now and free on KU!

Chapter One "I'm playing bingo with Cynthia and Dean this afternoon. Did you ... do you want to come with us? Just so you won't have to be alone. I hate the thought of you being alone, Lucy." My mother's voice, rising over Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga's version of "The Lady is a Tramp" blasting from the counter-top CD player, sends a wave of shame through me as I stumble into the kitchen. Early mornings are supposed to be simple. Pee, two or three cups of coffee, repeat. Instead, I'm already being reminded that, at twenty-seven, I am A) living with my mother and B) alone. Crossing my arms over my chest so she won't complain about my lack of a bra, I face her. She's primly seated at the same glass kitchen table my dad assembled— cursing the entire time—during Thanksgiving break my freshman year of college. Gripping her coffee mug in one hand, she leafs through the newspaper with the other. I'm not surprised that, despite the absence of an actual sunrise, she’s already fully dressed for the day, her black bob neatly combed and her make-up subtle, immaculate. I yawn into my upper arm. "Good morning to you, too." She takes in the sight of me, from my bare feet and oversized tee shirt to my tangled mop of jet-black hair, and her brown eyes narrow. I frown right back. "So ... bingo?" When I shake my head, she sags her shoulders and sighs. “I’m just looking out for you.” "I know you are, and I appreciate that." Turning, I open the cupboard and grab the first giant mug I find, the one I bought when we visited her family in Da Nang the summer after my father passed away. I take the chair across from her and draw my knees up to my chest, stretching my shirt over my legs. "But I promise I’m fine. And if I don’t seem fine … well, that’s because you start the morning playing Tony

and Gaga.” While Mom goes on about how amazing Gaga and Tony are, I pretend to be interested in my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table overnight. One glance at my new messages, though, and I regret checking. I have three new texts and they’re all from Tom. My blood pressure spikes a little more with each word I read. 11:19 PM: I won’t sue if you drop the stubborn act. Your career means EVERYTHING to you, and we need you here with us. 11:21 PM: You're living in your mother's house like a child, and I know you. This isn't your idea of fun. 11:21 PM: Luce, I know you're getting my messages. God, I want to punch him in his perfect face for starting my day with this sort of bullshit. It takes an outrageous amount of effort not to slam the phone down on its screen, but it’s new. And I can’t afford another. I gently place it beside my coffee and force a smile at my mother. She takes the change in my expression as a sign of encouragement, because she leans in tentatively and says, "Getting out might be good for you.” I can think of a million and one things that might be good for me: A cocktail with a double shot, maybe even a triple. At least one night where I sleep a full eight hours because I'm not worried about what happens next or stressed because my former boss is an asshole who’s screwing me over. Sex. All three, and not in any special order. At this point, I’m not picky. I’ll take what I can get without much fuss. "I actually have other plans this afternoon,” I inform Mom a little too cheerfully, trying my damnedest not to think about the messages I’ve yet to respond to. I don’t even know if I can respond—not without telling Tom to go screw himself. “I have an interview in Boston with a place called EXtreme Effects. I'm not sure what time I'll be back, and I’d hate for you to hang around waiting for me.” I’ve chanted the magic word, interview, because she scoots her chair closer to mine. Placing her elbows on the table, she cradles her chin in her hands. "Did that employment agency from last week make a match already?” “No, I found them myself—through an ad on Craigslist.” Her grin rapidly diminishes, and I feel heat creeping into my cheeks as she taps her fingertips against her temples and pinches her lips into a tight line. “Craigslist … okay." I should have known this was coming, the blatant disapproval. It's why I wasn't going to bring up the interview, especially since I haven’t been able to find anything about EXtreme Effects other than that the company specializes in welding and other metal works—and I had researched for hours. I had almost messaged Daisy, the woman who contacted me via email, to decline the interview request because the lack of information immediately sounded alarms in my head. Of course, the moment I looked at my bank balance, I reconsidered sending that message. Beggars can’t be choosers and since this entire conversation started because my

mother’s inviting me to play bingo with her friends… Stiffening my posture, I give her a pointed look. "It's a job, not a search for a casual encounter. Besides, didn’t that thing in the living room come from a Craigslist ad?" I point at the 70-inch monstrosity mounted on the wall just outside the kitchen. My mother loves her TV shows just as much as she hates paying exorbitant prices, so naturally, she sprung for a used flat screen. “That’s different,” she argues. “It’s a television set. What you’re talking about is dangerous.” “Firms aren't lining up to hire me, Mom. The least I can do is go to the interview; it can't hurt." What does hurt is saying those words out loud. Despite everything, I moved home still sure of myself, sure that everything would be okay, sure that I would snag a new job in record time. Instead, I've heard the same thing repeatedly, meeting after meeting: Overqualified. Maybe I am, but I also know the real reason I haven't been hired yet and it has nothing to do with too many credentials. I walked out on a two-year contract with my last employer. And the employer in question—whose newest text messages have already nudged beneath my skin before eight AM—is job-blocking me at every turn. Mom’s chair scraping against the tile floor draws my focus from Tom and back across the table. She works to coax her frown into a reassuring smile as she stands and grabs her mug from the placemat. "If those firms have any brains, they'll call you," she says, walking over to the dishwasher. “I’m not holding my breath.” "Make sure you take your pepper spray to that interview.” When I start to argue, she holds up one finger, reminding me of the arguments we had when I was still a child. No matter what, Susie Williams is always right. "You found them on Craigslist, Lucinda. Take the damn pepper spray.” Drawing in a breath, I promise her I will and leave the table to search moving boxes for my lucky nude pumps. I wore them the day I was promoted to Senior Marketing Director at WLC—a year before I let Tom talk me into working for him at Java-Org. Today, I need all the luck I can get because the bastard’s right about one thing: It's not fun having my life so far off-track.

It's just over an hour drive from the bungalow I share with my mother in Worcester to EXtreme Effects in East Boston, so I leave two hours early. I’m still flustered by the texts Tom sent—and I’ll likely spend the rest of the day on edge because hearing from him has such a crushing effect on my psyche—but I concentrate on what I can control. Like I told Mom, the firms I've applied at so far haven't been beating down my door, and I need this interview to go off without a hitch. Desperately.

The GPS announces that I've arrived at my destination, and I pull my Jeep up to the curb, twisting around in my seat to get a better look at the building as I put my car into park. My lips drag into a deep frown. Compared to WLC's ten-story building in downtown San Francisco or the chic South of Market office space Tom and his business partner leased for Java-Org, the tan structure before me looks more like an oversized garage. Knowing my luck, the person interviewing me will probably have a dip-chewing obsession and coveralls that haven’t been changed in the last week. The moment that thought crosses my mind, my scalp prickles with shame. I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms before shoving my hair away from warm cheeks. “Don’t be an elitist bitch,” I tell myself harshly. “Don’t you dare be that way.” As I approach the building with my purse and portfolio in hand, the first waves of nausea slam into the pit of my stomach. I'm good at what I do, but I've always struggled with getting my foot in the door. I had stressed about my college admission interviews so much my easy-going father confiscated my laptop and copy of Selling Your Skill Set for Dummies just to force me to relax. Dad’s advice before my appointment at Brown, and even when I called him freaking out over the WLC position the year before he died, is still fresh in my mind. Kick some ass, Lucinda Jane. Clutching my pepper spray keychain in one hand, I step out of the early January chill and into the warm confines of the company I found on Craigslist. The one I know absolutely nothing about because they have zero web presence, and I only applied to because the sixty thousand dollars a year salary was music to my broke ears. The part of the building I'm standing in is small—a ten by ten space with filing cabinets lining one side of the wall and a few chairs against the other. A leggy brunette sits in the seat closest to the blue steel door on the far side of the room, flipping through her own portfolio and occasionally sneaking glances at the intricately designed metal clock on the receptionist's desk. I confidently approach the desk, and the heavily tattooed woman behind it lifts a pair of startling light green eyes from the screen of her tablet. "Let me guess, Client." She rolls her chair backward a few inches, and I try not to stare at her tshirt that says Fucking Classy. After a few seconds, I open my mouth to correct her, but then she shakes her head and muses, "Ahh, interview." God, I hope I wasn't ogling her shirt too hard. "Yes, I'm Lucy Williams-Duncan. I was contacted by Daisy about coming in at two for the marketing position." “I’m Daisy." Her lips quirk, and she scratches a stylus through her platinum pixie cut as she skims her gaze over my golden yellow peplum dress. "And you, Sunshine, are early." "A bad habit." "One I should probably pick up before Mr. E has me sending out invites to fill my own job.” She points to the two empty chairs next to the brunette. "There’s a onethirty before you, so it might be awhile.”

Before I leave her desk, I tap my fingertip against the face of the clock, shivering at the hard, cold texture. "This is beautiful." She beams. "We made that here." Slightly more at ease, I drop my keys into the side pocket of my purse before leaning down to examine the clock more closely. "Ahh, so you design clocks?" I’m already imagining all the aspects of selling pieces like this, and I'm an eighth of the way into a detailed marketing plan when Daisy clears her throat. She blinks up at me. Several times. “Yeah … clocks.” Her lips part, but then she crinkles her small nose and drums her stylus against the quote tattooed on the side of her neck. "Among other fun things. Go ahead and have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.” While I wait to meet the elusive Mr. E, I review my documents. I'm in the middle of re-reading my recommendation letter from the internship I completed before I graduated with my MBA from Stanford, when Daisy sings out my name in a clear alto. I peer up from my portfolio to find her grinning broadly. "The other chick's interview ended early, so he's ready to brighten your day with his … sunny awesomeness." I can't tell if she's being serious, so I simply nod. Holding my leather binder to my chest, I brush my other hand down the front of my yellow dress, smoothing the wrinkles out of the woven fabric. "Thanks, should I—" She points over her shoulder, to the blue door behind her desk. "Go through there and take a left. He's in the office at the end of the walkway. And watch out for metal on the floor. It's a mess back there!" Thankfully, the metal disaster seems to be contained in the workshop on the other side of the walkway, where two men in welding masks are working, the sound of The Weeknd’s “The Hills” booming from an overhead sound system as sparks fly around them. I reach E’s door and draw in a sharp breath to calm my nerves before I knock softly. Although it’s already half-open, Mom got on my case so many times about bursting into rooms unannounced when I was a child that knocking first is a habit now. "Come in, Ms. Duncan." My toes curl inside of my lucky pumps. That voice, with its long vowels and clipped consonants, is just a bit breathtaking. I’ve always been a big fan of accents. I grew up with a Vietnamese mother and a father from Mississippi, and the voice on the other side of that door deeply satisfies my auditory fixation. It's Americanized, that's for sure, but there's a British undertone there. I wonder if the face and body attached to a voice like that does it justice. “Miss Duncan?” he repeats, sounding a touch irritated. “You’re wasting your time and mine just standing out there.” I square my shoulders and press forward. And my heart immediately slams into my throat. The man behind the metal desk is looking at his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips worked into a concentrated frown. I can only see him from

the waist up, but I quickly hate my body's reaction to the blue flannel shirt shoved up to his elbows and the unruly chocolate brown hair and stubble. "Give me just a second, I’m going to—" Lifting blue eyes from the screen, his deep voice catches. He stares at me for an awkward pause, stunned. Rubbing long fingers tattooed with Roman numerals over his chin, he inclines his head to one side. I hold my breath, praying and hoping and wishing for a miracle that’s clearly not going to happen because his scowl transforms into a grin. He knows me. He remembers me, and my heart sinks from my windpipe, inch by inch, as I realize another interview has just bit the dust. Here’s the thing about most overachievers, even those who’ve fallen from their high perch: they all have that one person. The one who made their high school existence a little more stressful. That one person who was, despite his constant asshole-isms, the object of her secret fantasies. That one person who was the opposite of everything she aspired to become because he gave zero shits. I was twelve the first time I laid eyes on my person. It's sad that I remember the moment clearly, but in my defense, he came to our class toward the end of the school year, and I'd just celebrated my birthday three days before his late May arrival. We had the same homeroom teacher, Mr. Collins who taught Social Science, and as they talked at the front of the classroom, I was entranced by his soft, chopped accent and the way he combed one hand through his dark hair. He's doing that now, only he’s not speaking. The last time I saw the man in front of me was ten years ago. He had complained that my salutatorian speech was "too fucking long" and that he had parties to get to and vaginas that needed his undivided attention. I had responded boldly, telling him that I'd see him at our reunion—if he could put down his bong and whoever he was banging long enough to make it. And now, I'm standing smack dab in front of Jace Exley, asking for him to give me a job. Heat pulses down my spine as he flicks his steely blue gaze over me, raking in all five foot six inches—five foot nine with the heels. I've filled out since the last time we saw each other. I have hips and breasts and a butt now, and I nixed the short black bob that made me look older than my mother years ago. Still, for a moment, I feel like the flat-chested girl who wanted to punch him in his stupidly rugged face every time he said, "pull the stick out of your arse, Williams." "Lucy Williams." Jace steeples his fingers over his mouth and leans back, giving the impression of a man used to getting his way. To be honest, I have no doubt that’s just what he is. "Never thought I'd see you again, and I sure as fuck didn't think you'd walk through my door, but please ... sit down.”

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SCREWMATES BY KATYI MCGEE

Check out the first chapter of Screwmates by Kayti McGee! And sign up for her newsletter here to find out first when it goes on sale!

Prologue

I knew from the first time I saw him that I was screwed. He couldn’t be as hot as I thought he was, that wasn’t possible. I’m a visual artist. And that had to be an illusion. No way those brown curls and scruffy face were real. Twenty-eight year-old Colin Farrell didn’t live in Kansas City. Someone would have mentioned it. Also, time travel. I had just taken off my glasses to clean them. Fatal mistake. I was still blinking in the doorway and trying to maneuver the hem of my plaid button-down to rub on the lenses when Ava, mistaking me for nervous, put the flat of her hand on the small of my back and shoved. So my first real impression of Marc Kirby came as I tripped and fell to my knees. My chin, slightly pointed (Mom’s side, thanks for nothing) led as it usually does. Point first, I slammed headlong and hard into his dick. And man… it was a big dick. Best first impression ever. Typical Ava, cracking up, surveyed the scene (both of us on the floor: him in pain, me in humiliation). “Madison’s chin, my cousin Marc’s crotch,” she choked out between howls of laughter. “Meet your new roommate, both of you. I’ll leave you to it!” The door slammed behind her. So. Completely. Screwed. “I’ll find my own room,” I said, before he had a chance to recover. “Sorry about—your boy parts.” My finest moment, obviously. Swear to Stan Lee, I’ve never moved that fast in my life. Turning one knob, then another in rapid sequence: his room, closet, bathroom, finally (blessedly), my new

room. For the hundredth time, or at least the hundredth time that day, I cursed my former roomies for changing their minds the day we were supposed to turn in our lease renewal and leaving me in the lurch. You could argue that an unplanned pregnancy on Lizzie’s part and a nervous breakdown on Scarlett’s were unexpected, but I was in no mood to be charitable. Because here I was now––a new room, a fresh start. A big dick. I didn’t mean to, but the door slammed behind me about as loudly as it had behind Ava. But whereas hers was punctuation, mine was just—I don’t know, carelessness and humiliation combined, I guess. Could he really have been as hot as I thought he was? And could I really have just chinned him in the junk? And then I fled? And slammed the door? And could chinned really be a verb? Dying, seriously. I flopped back on the bed. Thank Odin this place came furnished. I could not even handle going back out there right now to start hauling furniture around. Now was a time for cowering and trying to pretend that didn’t happen, even as I could smell the boy-scents of the apartment and hear him still letting out the occasional groan. Okay. No prob. I could handle this. The plan was to just hang out quietly for a while, let him… recover. Then I’d head on out casually like no big deal, and apologize when neither of us were embarrassed anymore. Easy peasy, we’d maybe order a pizza or something, hang out. Start fresh. Flirt a little. Just me and the hot curly-headed faux-Irish guy. Hot Marc. Eating hot pizza. Being roomies. As you do. Just doing the thing. I woke up approximately five hours later, to full darkness and a pillow covered in drool. No pizza. No hot roomie. And a whole lot more humiliation. Because now Marc probably thought I was scared to face him. I wasn’t, not at all. Super brave, that was me. But you can’t say that to someone, so you have to just swagger around and hope they gather the general idea. Which was what I was all ready to do the next day, only he evidently was at school the whole time I was at home drawing and awaiting him. Not drawing him, per se. If you happen to put a familiar face on a body with a cape that’s just artistic license. Grabbing my new key from the counter, I finally headed off to work for my night shift at the screenprint shop around five. I got home, wound down, went to bed while he was sleeping, and woke when he was gone again. Well, there was still the weekend when school and work were both not in session. Weird waiting so long, but I wouldn’t act like it, I’d be like, “Oh, hey, never see you, how’s it going?” Super casually. And he’d be all, “Man, our schedules are crazy, right? Bourbon?” “Bourbon,” I’d reply. And then we’d get to know each other. Except I never saw him Saturday. Or Sunday.

I texted Ava, nonchalant, like. Your cousin is an invisible roommate haha. She wrote back almost immediately that he was not only in the middle of earning his doctorate, but went home to help out his mom on weekends. Well, well. Hot, smart, and a good son. Cool. I could work with that. And really, I don’t even like bourbon, so. But right then, I had to actually work work, because ComicCon was only a few months away and an aspiring comic artist like myself hustles like a motherfucker at those things. So one week blended into two pretty easily, between my day (night?) job and my art. Then one month became two and then a lot more and it honestly shocked me when one day I saw a stack of his graduation invitations sitting on the kitchen table. Ten months had somehow meandered by in a parade of frames and frames (bad screening/artist joke, sorry) without ever getting the chance to get to hang with Marc. Don’t get me wrong––I saw him all the time in passing. We just never once fulfilled my pizza night fantasy. Fantasy? No, that made it sound tawdry. My expectation, that was better. Because who lived with someone for nearly a year and never Netflix-ed and chilled? Wait. I meant actually watched Netflix while chilling. I did. I swear. Because, literally, who lives with someone for nearly a year and never has a boring couch night? So it was weird, maybe, but it was what we did and it was no big deal and actually I hadn’t even thought about our embarrassing first encounter in months. Really. Except maybe occasionally when I had date night with my vibrator. But it wasn’t like he ever knew that’s what I thought about.

Chapter One

“Madison? Hey. Madison.” I sat up with a jolt, my sketchbook falling to the floor. “My boobs! Did I pass?” I was having That Dream. The one where I show up at school a frazzled mess with pencils sticking out of the messy brown bun on top of my head, my glasses on crooked, and ink stains all over my hands and arms that whisper rude things at passers-by who think it’s me. The one where the selfportrait I spent all week working on has somehow morphed into a picture of the dog I had when I was in elementary school only with my mom’s head on top, and I’m now entirely certain I’m going to get an F. And that Mom will not be pleased. Did I mention I’m also nude in the dream? I hate that dream. A solid four years since I’d graduated from the Kansas City Art Institute, and I was still having that recurring nightmare. A psychologist might have said that was a reflection on how unprepared I felt in everyday life.

But I majored in art, not psych, so that psychologist can suck it. I prefer to swallow my feelings, preferably with Cheetos, and let them turn into low-level anxieties and weird inspiration for canvas and paper and T-shirt designs, like a normal person. “I’m not sure if you passed,” Marc said, picking up the sketchbook and trying his hardest not to look at my boobs. “But your alarm is going off.” Sure enough, a loud blaring was sounding from my room. Shaking the fuzzies from my head, I ran to turn it off. This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen asleep on the couch while working on a project. It also wasn’t the first time Marc had been the one to wake me. Maybe eventually I’d learn my lesson and work in my bed. Or move my alarm to the living room. And maybe wear more presentable PJ’s. These sweats probably date to the year of my birth. “Orphan Black?” Marc asked when I returned, referring to the image I’d been working on. Don’t correct him, don’t correct him, I thought. Don’t-I took the spiral book from his hands. “It’s Jessica Jones.” He snapped his fingers. “So close.” No. Not close at all. I bit back a laugh. Though my roommate and I were near strangers, I’d learned enough about him to know he was not as pop cultured as he could be. Not that anyone expected a history professor to know the difference between Orphan Black and Jessica Jones. Correction––soon to be history professor. According to Ava, he’d been finishing up his masters this past year with the intent to teach at the university level. He was too busy learning the difference between the Hundred Years War and the Eighty Years War to be cool. I sincerely doubt he’s ever heard of the Marvel Secret Wars. Lame. Although to be fair, only hardcore comic nerds knew that one, so your definition of cool needed to be fluid. But, really. When a man looked like that––so firm and sculpted that it showed even under his suit––he didn’t have to be cool. Or.. Okay, I’m more nerdy than cool. All he had to be was the subject of a few of my late-night, um, drawing sessions. Yeah, drawing. And speaking of his attire… I pushed my glasses up on my nose and gave him a once-over. Be cool, Madison. Be cool. But he made me nervous. “You clean up pretty well. What’s the occasion?” And the understatement award goes to… me! But I was totally cool, so. Really, though, he did clean up well. As far as I could tell from my few encounters with the man, Marc had two types of outfits––business casual and workout. (Workout was my favorite, in case anyone wondered. Post-workout, specifically--the shirt was frequently missing by that point.) Today’s look was decidedly more upscale. “I had to defend my thesis this afternoon,” he said, loosening his tie. I was prepared to loosen my shirt as well, with as hot as the room was rapidly becoming. Actually, it was just him. Ha! Ha! “Thesis! Man, that’s big.” I knew almost nothing about the thesis process, but I did know it was a big deal.

In fact...crap. Should I have gone to support him? Had anyone been there for him? Was that something people did for a thesis defense? Was that a thing that roommates did for each other? Welp. Too late to wonder now. “How did it go?” I asked instead, trying not to stare––okay, drool––as he tossed his tie on the arm of the couch and began unbuttoning his collar. I was going to have to have a “drawing” session immediately following this conversation. “Pretty good. I’d been offered a teaching position for next year before I’d presented my argument and no one rescinded it afterwards, so I think, all in all, it was a success.” “Awesome! Congrats! Woot! Yay!” Be COOL, Madison! “On both the thesis and the job. I hope you have big plans to celebrate.” Actually, I couldn’t imagine him in a celebration situation, low key as he was, but it was Friday and he’d had quite the day. Surely he had a buddy to go out and drink with. Or a girlfriend. I was fairly certain he had one of those. She frequently left her wine coolers in our fridge and once I saw a bottle of her strawberry-basil bubble bath when I’d helped Marc unload his groceries. Of course Hot Marc’s girlfriend smells like summer all the time. Le sigh. “Celebrate?” The spot above his nose crinkled in confusion. It made him seem younger somehow. Less serious. More fun. I bet his students love that crinkle. I wish I was his student. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I do. Lots of celebration to be had. You’re off to work now?” “Yeah, as soon as I clean up. Maybe, um, draw for a hot minute.” I twisted my lips to one side of my mouth than the other, a habit I had when I didn’t know what else to say. I mean, what else could I say? It wasn’t like I could invite myself to his party, even if I didn’t have a job and responsibilities. Even though I was awfully tempted, purely for curiosity’s sake. “I guess I better go and do that now.” “Okay. And I’m going to change too. Have to get ready to, uh, celebrate and all.” He grabbed the tie off the couch and smiled awkwardly before heading down the hall. “Right then. Bye.” I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me before letting out a sigh of relief. All in all, it had been a pretty decent encounter. We’d exchanged about as many words as we ever had at a time, and no dicks were injured in the process. Maybe there was hope for us as roommates after all.

So I worked full-time for SplatScreen, but I didn’t consider it my real job. The indie shop specialized in custom T-shirts and screen prints. Though we did have a small storefront where people could walk in and buy prints or shirts, most of our jobs came in over the internet, everything from labels for craft breweries to shirts announcing local sports championships. I’d started at the counter but was quickly moved to the back where I could operate the screen printing machines. Every night I came in at five, an hour before

the store closed to the public, then I spent the rest of the evening pumping out orders. I was usually done by ten or so. If I got done at a reasonable time, I got to play with my own designs, often staying another two or three hours to knock out some new pieces. I liked to consider that my “real” job, but it was more like my goal job. The SplatScreen work itself was easy (boring) and paid the bills (barely) but the two main reasons I kept it was for the free use of equipment and the health insurance. Those were things my Etsy store and occasional convention booth would never provide, no matter how successful they became. Even with a roommate and a car older than my (mom’s) high school diploma, health insurance would be impossible to pay for on my own, and I couldn’t even imagine being able to afford my own studio. Just keeping a single press in my room would be a lost-deposit waiting to happen. I couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining an ink explosion to Marc. The horror! Anyways, it took every extra dime just to keep me stocked in supplies. It is the eternal struggle of many an artist, and I’m not saying my struggle was any more difficult, just that it’s real. The struggle is real. Hashtag, full stop. And so, for that sad but reasonable reason, I put away the commissioned piece of Jessica Jones that Marc had mistaken for Orphan Black, threw on a pair of jeans and the new Stranger Things graphic tee I’d made a few nights before (#FreeBarb) and headed out to work. The Closed sign was showing on the front door of SplatScreen as I pulled my car in front of the store, but sometimes it accidentally flipped as people were walking through so I thought nothing of it. The lights were on inside, and I could see JD, my boss, talking to a man dressed in jeans and a blue button-down. Obviously we were open. Except, when I pulled on the handle of the glass door, I found it locked. With my brow furrowed, I used my key and walked in to find the retail space’s carpet was squishy and damp. Beyond nasty. Beyond. And the smell? Bee. Yond. I was unpleasantly surprised, to say the least. “Surprise!” Jack said pleasantly. “A pipe burst next door. Take the night off.” I looked around to notice the wet floor extended through most of the store. “I can’t leave you to deal with this alone.” I had perfect attendance at work, thank you very much, and yes, I was bitter I didn’t get a little ribbon for it like I did in elementary school. “I could still go in the back and knock out some screening jobs, couldn’t I? You don’t want to get behind.” “There’s too much water back there to run the machines safely. The plumber here is working on the pipe. Everything’s already off the floor, and I have a company coming in to take care of soaking everything up. You’ll only be in the way if you stick around. Plus, it smells like dead ass.” That was an extremely accurate description of the smell. Perfect attendance or not, he didn’t have to tell me again. I was out of there like last year. A whole entire night to myself on a Friday? That was a three-day weekend. Another thing you don’t get nearly so often outside of school.

But wait. I turned around. And opened my mouth. “You’re still getting paid,” Jack yelled over. Closed my mouth and carried on. Score. The situation definitely called for some celebration of my own. I texted Ava, Lizzie, and Scarlet. Dranks on me. Because I am nothing if not chivalrous. One by one the refusals came in. Ava: banging the new guy rn suggest you find one 2 I know, sister. I know. But who has time to look? Not me. See the whole two job thing. Also, the anxiety. How do you even meet people when you’re out of school and working alone most days? If the answer is the internet, no thank you. Lizzie: No sitter, sorry! *sad face emoji* Always. Scarlet: Can’t drink on my pills. Want to come to Bible group? On a Friday? Heck no I didn’t. Or did I? Me: Can I bring my own Bible? Scarlet: The graphic novel collection that is Sandman is NOT THE BIBLE YOU HEATHEN. Clearly not true at all, so I chose not to respond. Not the bible? It was my bible, and I felt duty-bound to spread the gospel. Excuse me, but do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior Neil Gaiman? It was extremely apparent that she was discriminating against me. She was always casually leaving her King James edition around, I saw no reason I couldn’t hand out my Neil Gaiman edition. Apparently I’d mentioned it often enough that she was wise to my tricks. Liquor store and Redbox it was, then, because I was not going to waste this night not drinking and watching stupid movies. A few moments of wandering through the first fine establishment I could find, cleverly named BOOZE4LESS by some classy gentleman, told me that I had not been drinking enough. When did so many glorious new flavors of vodka become available? Bubblegum? Cake Batter? Skittle? It was an alcoholic twelve year-old’s dream in there. For a socially awkward ADD graphic artist? Eek. See, when I get overwhelmed by too many choices, I tend to make a panic decision and choose something that was never actually on my radar. That’s totally how I ended up with the bourbon. I don’t even like bourbon. And then, lo and behold, when I drove into the driveway I could see Marc through the window, lounging on the couch where I had mentally staked my claim. Dang. I didn’t have a TV in my room, so where was I going to watch the newest-ish superhero movie on my free night? Anyway, wasn’t he supposed to be out partying it up on his own? So much for assuming that he had a more active social life than I did. Or, at least, less-lame friends. Apparently his friends called it quits before dinner, even, so I guessed he won that not-prize. Gosh, I really knew next to nothing about the guy I’d lived with for almost a year. This was bad. I was not going to drink alone in my room. I wanted to drink alone in the living room! Wait. That sounded bad.

Actually, this didn’t have to be bad. Marc was totally a bourbon guy. Bourbon was a manly drink. Marc was a manly man. Maybe he’d be impressed with my choice. Maybe we could finally live out Couch Night, the fantasy I’d carried for the past ten months. Ten whole months since the first time I touched his peen. With my chin. Not that I thought about that. Much. In I went, bourbon at the ready.

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ALSO BY LULU WRIGHT The Hard Sell

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to: My roommates Social Butterfly PR Carol Seymour Jax Dylan Hawkins Sophie Broughton Penny Wylder Jackie Hernandez-Narvaez Peggy Lee Tony F Rose H: Maggie Riley Rhonda James And all of those who helped the success of The Hard Sell.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lulu Wright is a sushi eating lover of Broadway shows, long walks on the beach, and sexy book boyfriends. After working in retail for ages, she's proud to put her hilarious experiences to paper in her first romance novel, The Hard Sell. LuluWrightAuthor [email protected]