Talk Dirty to Me Page 4

  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 w
aves 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 warm-up. 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 diehard 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 “diehards.” 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 calle
rs’ talk mid-convo. “Aaaand that’s all we have time for now, but remember diehards, 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 diehards.”

  “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?”