Page 82 of First-Time Caller
I watch Maggie’s eyes move back and forth as she swipes through the phone. “Play a song or something,” she mutters after a minute. “You’ve got dead air right now.”
I grunt and blindly slam my hand against my control panel. Shania Twain’s tinny voice drifts up from my headphones.
“How long has this been going on?” Maggie asks Lucie.
Lucie rubs at her earlobe. “A couple of days,” she mumbles.
“Days?” My voice comes out in a shout and she winces again. I rub at my chest with the heel of my hand so hard I feel the bite of metal from the chain around my neck. “You’ve been getting messages like this fordays?”
Was it happening at the bar? When she was waiting at that restaurant? Was she sitting there alone, reading them? Lucie briefly meets my gaze, then averts her eyes to the package of Andes mints she brought with her tonight. She slides one free. “I think my comments about baseline effort from romantic partners were inflammatory to some.”
“Aiden has said far more inflammatory things,” Maggie says, her voice tight. She reads something else on the phone and her eyebrows dip down. “When he called someone an asshat live on the air, for example.”
“It was once,” I mumble, but she’s right. I’ve said plenty of stupid shit on the air, and no one has ever threatened toshut my mouthfor me.
Maggie sighs and darkens the phone with a quietclick. “Okay, lesson learned. No more texting. I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Lucie.”
Lucie shrugs. “I don’t concern myself with the fragile egos of men.” She glances at me. “No offense.”
“None taken.” I’m still having trouble with the rage coursing through my system like a cheap shot of liquor. I’m light-headed with it. “Can we report them somewhere? Send them a glitter bomb or something?” Lucie’s lips twitch with a smile. Some of my anger eases. “People shouldn’t be sending that shit to you.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Maggie says.
“But I—”
“I said I’ll take care of it,” Maggie cuts me off, steel in her voice. “I will take great pleasure in taking care of it. Taking care of it will make my entire month, thank you very much.” She flicks me in the forehead. “Now, go back to your radio show, please. If you’re still angry later, I’ll let you take a baseball bat to the couch someone left in the back parking lot.”
“It’s still there?”
“Yes. The raccoons love it.”
She disappears through the door in a blur of silk and perfectly straight hair, heels clicking against the floor. A chocolate appears in front of my face.
“Candy?” Lucie asks.
I take it and pop it in my mouth. She holds out another.
I take that one too.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask once I’m three chocolates deep and the gnawing rage has been shoved into something manageable.
She shrugs. “Because it wasn’t a big deal.” I start to tell her thatyes, actually, it’s a very big deal, but she slaps her hand across my mouth. Both of my eyebrows shoot up.
“It wasn’t a big dealto me,” she says. “This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve received unsolicited comments from men, Aiden. Do you really think, as a female mechanic, this is something I’m unfamiliar with?” She drops her hand. “A lot of men don’t like women working on their cars. But luckily, I don’t hold myself accountable to other people’s impressions of me. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She pops a chocolate mint in her mouth and gives me a smile. I search her face carefully for any traces of hesitation, but there aren’t any. Just bright eyes and pink cheeks and a mouth that makes me borderline stupid. She reaches for her headphones. “We should probably stop playing Shania Twain.”
“Everyone loves Shania Twain.”
“Probably not the same song three times in a row, though,” she reasons.
“Debatable.”
I reluctantly drag us back to listener calls. They’re better than when we started, but not by much. Everyone either wants to tell Lucie why she’s wrong or offer their own sob story. I think we’re the most depressing show on the air tonight, and I wonder if— combined with the disaster of her first two dates—Lucie might pull the plug on this whole thing.
Just the thought of sitting in this booth alone again, listening to Charlene order six egg rolls because shestillhasn’t figured out we’re not a Chinese restaurant, has me grabbing another chocolate mint. No more Lucie, no more mints. No more scribbled notes on the edge of her notepad, telling meFIX YOUR FACE. No more honey voice in my ear. No more daisies and motor oil.
