CHAPTER 1
I'd just shoved my ear buds in and was rocking to some Kelly Clarkson while I ironed my black pencil skirt for my interview the following afternoon. I sucked on the mystery flavored Dum Dum, mentally registering my guess it was a mixture of root beer and cherry.
It appeared the damn dry cleaner had once again shrunk one of my favorite business skirts. That made two in the last six months. It was my favorite though. The navy blue one that I'd purchased just last year. So, in a last-minute panic, I'd gone to my ‘I’ll keep it because it’ll totally fit again’ section of the closet and dug out the black one which was the only other skirt that would do for this interview. This job was one I desperately wanted.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the red light blinking from my desk phone. It was my official work phone. As in 'non-cellular' if you could imagine that.
Shit. Not tonight. I had so much to do still. Manicure, facial, my tea and honey ritual to make sure my voice was flawless for the interview. But it was only eight o'clock. I was "on call" from seven to ten, four nights a week.
I grudgingly parked the iron and pulled the buds out taking the three steps to the dresser where my phone resided.
"Hey Dee, what's your pleasure?" I said as soon as my finger pressed the speaker button.
"Not my pleasure, doll. It's Roland's pleasure. Ramona's got a newbie," she replied feigning a Southern accent which couldn't come close to the level of perfection mine did. But I had to smile and give her credit for trying.
"Spill," I continued, crunching on the remnants of my Dum Dum. "But, please, tell me you've screened this one better than that crazy ass Cowboy Pete I got last week."
She moaned audibly. "You're never going to let me live that one down, are you girl? I keep telling you he kept his crazy well hidden during my screening. My record's still nearly perfect, no worries."
I loved teasing Dee about Cowboy Pete, and I so wished I could have seen the look on her face when I'd filled her in what exactly he wanted Ramona to do over the phone in order to get a nut after I took his first call.
"Darlin', can you please get yourself naked and slather some Vaseline® all over yourself? Then I'm a wantin' you to go to the top of your banister, straddle it, and slide all the way down screaming, 'Giddyup Yahooo' Fuck me Cowboy Pete! When you get to the bottom, I want you to hold the phone mouthpiece up next to your pussy and tell me to go on and take a big whiff of it, hear?"
"Oh, Dear Lord!" Dee had screamed, breaking into a fit of laughter when I'd dialed her back and relayed this to her. "What the hell did you do?"
"What could I do?" I replied, "I pretended to do it all. It's not like we were video chatting. He was convinced, so my acting skills must be pretty damn good," I said with a laugh. "But hey, he mentioned something about me spurring myself next call, so I think I want to draw the line on Cowboy Pete. My neighbor, Mrs. Silverman, asked me to turn my television down after that call."
She laughed heartily. "Well, I think you have no worries with Roland. He seems nice, a bit lonely maybe, and not a crazy. His credit card went through first try!"
"Fantastic," I replied, turning off the iron, "Put him through."
I quickly flipped the switch on my surround sound and the first few chords of the Erotic Rhapsody floated out just as my Ramona ring tone sounded. "Hey sugar," I purred in my throaty Southern drawl. "This is Ramona. Tell me all about it, Roland."
There was a slight hesitation, and my guess was that Roland was not only a newbie to our agency, but to the whole 900 phone pal thing. I was about to break his '900 cherry.'
"Um, hi Ramona . . . I . . . well, how do I start this? Let's see, how are you today?"
I stifled a giggle. I needed to give the poor guy a break. After all, minutes were money in my pocket. Cha-Ching! I could drag the chit-chat out for as long as he wanted.
"I'm feeling fine, sugar. How are you doing?"
Another pause. I grabbed an emery board and started filing a snagged nail.
"I'm okay. Just kind of new at this, I guess."
No kidding.
"Well, no worries at all. Ramona is here, eager, willing, and more than able to rock your world, sugar. Want me to tell you what I'm wearing right now?"
"Uh . . . no. I didn't call for that. I called because I liked your profile."
"And what part of my profile did you like best, darlin'? The part where it says 'Ramona is your wicked and wild wet dream?'" I drawled into the phone, rolling out a sexy purr at the end.
"Err . . ," he stammered with a soft chuckle, "Actually, I liked the part where it said you were a Southern Siren with a voice that can soothe the bad out of everyone who calls this number, so I did. And your voice is everything your profile said . . . and more. Keep talking, please."
I pulled the wrapper off another Dum Dum, and let a soft, silky giggle escape, "Actually, sugar, I believe the exact words were 'I can soothe and satisfy the bad boy in everyone who calls this number,' now which is it with you?" I asked, popping the sucker into my mouth. "Bad boy or just bad day, sweetie?" I replied, my words laced with a soft sucking sound.
"Both," he replied succinctly, "And I'm tired of it, Ramona. I just needed to be able to say it . . . if only to a stranger. I needed to say it to somebody who's beautiful and sexy . . . somebody like you because maybe, just maybe, you've been where I am right now. I'm sick of meaningless sex with pretty puppets."
What the...?
I spit my sucker out with a choking cough. "Hang on, sugar," I said, covering the mouthpiece while I quieted my hacking. So not 'Ramona-like' to get rattled by anything one of my callers might say. Nothing can really shock me, but this guy definitely had me puzzled.
Of course, he was only basing his assessment of me on the fake photo next to my internet profile. A blonde with thick curls, huge boobs, pouty lips, and candy apple red fingernails. So, my split-second assessment was that Roland was likely a hot, sexy stud who was coming to terms with his shallow, man-whore lifestyle by calling a phone hooker to validate what he already knew. What sense did that make?
"Ramona? Are you still there?"
I cleared my throat and pulled my hand from the mouthpiece. "Yes, Roland," I replied, "You just kinda threw me for a loop there, sugar. I mean, you don't actually have sex with . . . puppets, do you?"
"Oh, no - no that was just a figure of speech. It's just meaningless sex. Shallow. Like I don't know, human blow up dolls. Do you get it?"
I was wondering if Roland here had some borderline personality disorder going on in which case, he needed a shrink, not a phone sex operator.
I cleared my throat again. "Now Roland, I'm sure you're a good person with lots of friends. I usually don't get calls like this. You must have some stuff you need to get off your chest. Take your time. Tell Ramona all about it," I purr. And flagrantly stealing Dr. Frasier Crane's line, I finished with, "I'm listening."
And for the next forty-five minutes, Roland, who I'm sure was not his real name, spilled his guts with polished articulation, cluing me in on just how tired he was of looking for love in all the wrong places.
CHAPTER 2
Autumn
"Autumn Dey?" a female voice called out from the open door leading from the lobby to the offices at WQRK, Quirk-99 radio station. There were seven applicants awaiting their shots at nailing the open slot for the new night-time call-in show, "Midnight Caller," which was set to debut in the next few weeks.
"Right here," I replied, getting to my feet from the extremely uncomfortable wooden chair. I smoothed my black skirt, the waistline digging into my flesh more tightly than was comfortable, and with as much confidence as I could muster, walked across the room. My heels clicked against the tiled floor, and I could feel the eyes of the six other female applicants appraising my full-figured ass as I did so.
The tall willowy blonde smiled as she ushered me into the hallway, closing the door behind us.
"Hi, my name is Bridget. I'm Mr. Sexton's executive assistant. Follow me. He wants to meet with you first in his office to detail his vision of the show, ask you some background questions, and review your resume prior to your audio audition," she explained, walking ahead of me down the carpeted hallway. She stopped at the third door on the left, which was open, and turned, her outstretched arm directing me to step inside.
"Make yourself comfortable, Autumn. Mr. Sexton will be with your shortly. May I offer you coffee, or maybe a water?" she asked as I took a seat in one of the over-stuffed black leather chairs located in front of a massive mahogany desk, polished to perfection. I quickly took note that his desk bore no clutter whatsoever. There was a leather planner opened with his daily schedule from the looks of it, and a marble pen holder full of black pens.
"Water would be great, thanks," I replied, thinking this was no time for my nerves to give me dry mouth. Not for a position on radio which I'd been dreaming about from the moment I knew my voice was my greatest asset.
Once alone I gazed around the plush, but definitely masculine office. No family pictures on the matching mahogany credenza against the wall. A lone laptop, phone, and pewter desk lamp were the only objects placed there. His desk chair was a black leather swivel. The canvas wall art consisted of five black, white, and gray abstract depictions of radio towers with their call letters and branding. I saw the one for WQRK, Quirk-99 with the Indianapolis skyline in the background.
The only other one I recognized was Louisville, Kentucky. Apparently, Sexton owned multiple stations. Probably an old stuffy curmudgeon I thought to myself, dropping my gaze to the brass nameplate on his desk. Dirk R. Sexton.
Bridget returned with my water just then. She set a coaster down on his desk before placing a crystal glass with ice cubes and sparkling water on it.
"Mr. Sexton apologizes for keeping you waiting, Autumn. He's been detained on a conference call with one of his station managers. Sticky situation having to terminate somebody by phone, but he didn't want anyone else conducting the screenings for this position, you see. He's very hands-on with these businesses. They are his passion."
She was telling me more than I needed to know, but it served to confirm my original assessment that Sexton was likely a grouchy old dude. "That's fine, Bridget," I replied, "I totally get it. Thank you for the information--and the water," I finished, taking a sip.
"Good luck, Autumn," she replied heading out, "And by the way, I love your name. Quite catchy and unique," she finished with a wink before closing the door behind her.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and the man who stepped over the threshold was by no means a stuffy old curmudgeon.
On the contrary.
It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping to my lap as he took several long strides and stood behind his desk, his gunmetal gray eyes doing a quick perusal of me as I struggled to get to my feet to extend my hand to show my professionalism with a businesslike greeting. It was in that awful moment as I rose, that the metal button on the waistband of my too-tight black skirt popped and skittered noisily across the smooth polished wood of his desk.
His hand shot out to catch it and my face warmed with embarrassment as he held it out and dropped it into the palm of my outstretched hand.
"Thank you," I croaked, taking it from him and tossing it into my handbag. "You know what they say about making a first impression," I continued, "Bet you won't forget this one."
A crooked grin made an appearance, and I noticed the straight white teeth which made his smile perfection. He had a rakish appeal despite his tailored business suit. But the shock was yet to come.
He held out his hand, and his voice was deep and silky smooth, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Dey. Thank you for your patience."
That voice.
The rich baritone.
My eyes met his as our hands clasped in a handshake.
"Please be seated and get comfortable," he said as our hands parted. "We need to see just how well you might fit with our Quirk-99 team."
As I lowered myself back down into my chair, my eyes once again flickered to his nameplate.
Dirk R. Sexton
My inner Ramona was rolling on the floor laughing.
It was him. There was no mistaking it. Voices were, after all, my area of expertise.
Roland . . .
The shallow manwhore.
Dirk Roland Sexton.
OMG.
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