Page 3 of The Midnight Frequency

“Was I supposed to hear from him?” he asked.

“Seeing as you guys are on in,” I paused to check my watch, “eight minutes, yes.”

“I’ve been in the break room.” It sounded like an apology. Not that he owed me one. He was one of the best producers KPRN had to offer. He was efficient and completely unflappable. He could show up in the booth with five seconds to spare and still pull off a flawless show. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not your job to keep track of the talent. But if you hear from him, can you let me know?” I asked. I didn’t wait for a response; I turned back around and made my way past the studios and toward the waiting area.

Grum, the station’s security guard—a troll—was sitting at his usual spot on a tiny metal folding chair. His massive body overwhelmed the whole thing. His head was ducked, eyes rapidly scanning the pages of a book, his mossy hair falling forward with a mess of twigs and leaves to half-hide his broad-featured face.

Grum was a creature after my own heart. He was absolutely obsessed with romance novels. Especially of the bodice-ripper variety full of heaving bosoms and bare-chested, long-haired heroes. When his elderly neighbor passed, she left him an epic collection of thousands of the things. And once he was finished with each story, he passed them on to me to enjoy.

“Grum! Sorry, sorry,” I said, apologizing when he grumbled at being interrupted during what had to be a good part. “Have you seen the new vampire?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. He shrugged a giant shoulder, causing an acorn fall from his lichen-like hair. “Wasn’t looking for him either.”

With that, he was back to his book.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I muttered.

I rushed back toward my shoebox of an office, dropped the mail and woke up my laptop to try to find the phone number of this Silas guy.

“Come on, come on.” I scrolled through an absurdly long profile, not processing any of the notes until I finally reached his contact information.

I had an address.

No email.

No phone number.

A growl escaped me as I checked the clock.

We were cutting it too close.

I was going to have to go on and, I don’t know, read an article or something—anything—not to have dead air.

I grabbed one of the coffees and sprinted down the hallway, my heels clomping on the carpet as I rushed past the soundproof booths, the neon On Air signs flashing in my periphery as I rushed by.

The higher-ups had chosen—for who knows what reason—the station’s oldest studio for the new show.

It was a drafty room with a full glass wall so viewers could watch the host as he went about his show. It had the oldest equipment, including an analog soundboard with sliders that stuck unless you jiggled them, and even a freaking retro ribbon mic. You know, the kind that sits on the desktop with the wide grills and vertical slats.

All the new up-and-coming podcasters preferred the modern studios and sound booths with premium soundproofing and state-of-the-art recording equipment. The other radio show hosts at least wanted equipment that had been updated since the eighties.

I reached the door with two minutes to spare, threw it open and nearly tumbled inside.

“Well, it’s about time,” a smooth, velvety voice said. The sound washed over me, and making a shiver course up my spine.

Then there he was.

The new talent.

Six feet and three inches of raw, cold, devastatingly handsome sex appeal.

Silas Ashford.

CHAPTER TWO

[ “REMEMBER: HELL ISN’T other people—it’s meetings that could’ve been emails.”