Talk Dirty to Me Page 5

  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 co-host. 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 performance-enhancing 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 ‘diehards’ 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 tun
e in tomorrow for more of everyone’s favorite Bad Boy at Bat, Mark Carrington.”

  “More for you diehards 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.