Night Owl (The Complete Serial)

3) James lunged for his own cousin in a room full of legal sharks all in the span of twenty-four hours.

Behavior like that can only lead to bad things, and James hasn’t given me a single reason to believe any of it was even remotely justified. All of this reinforces how little we know about each other outside the workplace, playing shirts and skins. Chemistry like ours is combustible, and it definitely needs to simmer down for now. What if I piss him off enough that he does that to me? I don’t think he would, but what guarantee do I have?

Walking into that meeting with the station’s lawyers had been a total mistake. I didn’t think to hire anyone to protect my interests. I didn’t know a member of the board who—surprise, surprise—is related to James would be there. Add in Tucker, the nameless PR/Marketing intern, and a few secretaries and voilà, Operation Humiliation is complete.

Fast forward forty-eight hours to today—Monday—and here I sit in my dark apartment. Avoiding the outside world seems like the best choice. I should conserve on my energy bill because the whole “maybe not having a job” thing is ever present in my mind. I shut my lights off, casting the apartment in darkness; it’s just me and my brain, circling the hamster wheel.

My rear is snuggled deep in my lumpy IKEA couch, and I haven’t changed my clothes since I got home and showered Saturday afternoon. Sunday passed in dark seclusion, and ignoring my phone is easy to do since its face is cracked and it sits, broken, on my nightstand. I’m sure it’s filled with messages from James, but so far he hasn’t shown up at my apartment, instead leaving me to stew during our time apart. I guess we’re having a black out. Is that what all the cool kids call a break up these days? Feeling unsettled, I’m not sure, and I don’t have the energy to care.

No, I actually do care, but with everything else that’s happened, I don’t know what to think. I should be out getting a new phone and calling my lawyer to protect my ass and review my contract with Austin Communications. I should be updating my résumé because there’s not a big demand for blacklisted radio DJs. A lot of shoulds fill my plate, but no action makes for a potentially broke Casey.

I wander around the apartment, lingering in each room before heading for the kitchen. I probably sound crazy muttering to myself in the third person angry with myself for letting lust rule my brain. Looking around, the counter taunts me with memories from two days past. I grab a sponge and some cleaning supplies and scrub the surface back and forth in long, sweeping strokes. Sexual tension rears her beastly head, and all I can think about is James sliding his cock between my legs and bending me back on the hard surface. I extend my arm, cleaning the counter as I imagine James sliding in deep and smoothly. I lean back, pulling the sponge with me, and in my over-stimulated brain, I imagine he’s pulling out of me to roughly plunge back in. I flick my finger against the rough texture of the sponge as if James has touched my aching nipples under my top with his calloused fingertips. I wonder what dirty things he would say as he touches my body, making me moan and cry out for him as he keeps me on the edge. My clit throbs inside my damp panties, and I have to clutch the counter, doubled over from the shiver that racks my body and dropping the useless sponge to the floor.

It’s foreign to me, this hedonistic attraction that crumples you up and tosses you out, twisted and disorientated from want. Fuck James Austin. And, of course, those thoughts continue to sneer at me mercilessly. I want nothing more than to be fucking James right now.

A quick glance at the clock tells me I’m going to be late for my dog walking appointment if I don’t hurry. Charlie’s owner won’t tolerate tardiness, and I’ve got to keep all the employment I can. Rushing around, I grab fresh clothes and comfortable ankle boots to wear, hopping as I put them on. Breathless, I throw my hair up in a messy bun and snag my sunglasses.

Once I’m outside, I hurry down the street, passing various people and feeling some renewed strength. Not a single person has called out to me or accused me of being a dirty whore on the radio. Winded and somewhat thankful, I reach Charlie’s residence, eager to see my little Pekinese buddy who keeps me smiling on my worst days.

“Casey, didn’t you get my messages?” Branda Walsh looks me up and down suspiciously and then into the hallway before grabbing my arm. She pulls me inside her spacious apartment slamming the door. Branda makes me uneasy, but I look around, admiring the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view that costs her thousands in rent each month.

“Uh, no? My phone met with an unfortunate accident this weekend.” I follow her into the open living room. She’s wearing some sweeping housedress in bright crimson that looks like a bloody mess and probably costs more than I care to contemplate. Some things simply should not be fashionable.

“Casey, I don’t want to be… gauche here.” Branda seems nervous, tossing her hand up in the air dramatically. That’s when I realize I haven’t heard Charlie’s ferocious friendly bark the entire ninety seconds I’ve been here.

“Oh my God, Branda, is Charlie all right? Where is the little troublemaker?” I frantically scan the apartment, worried something might have happened to the little shit I honestly do adore.

“Casey, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

My heart drops, and the blood in my body seems to stop circulating for a moment as she continues. Feeling dizzy, I lean onto the wall to hold myself up, not caring if I scuff her custom foil wallpaper.

“I won’t be needing your services any longer. Charlie is with the new dog walker. It’s actually a professional service my girlfriend Tibby recommended. You know how hard it is to find dependable services in this city?” Branda smiles, but the muscles barely flinch on her Botox-filled face. I’m crushed. I bet her friend Tibby is another soulless pet owner who should move back to France.

I start to shake and walk to the door glancing at her smug face over my shoulder. “Can I ask why?” But I already suspect the reason. What she’s actually saying is that my reputation wasn’t sparkling perfection for someone stuck up like her.

“I can’t be associated with someone who… you know… airs her liaisons publicly.” Making air quotes, Branda whispers the last bit as if someone might hear the words coming from inside her apartment.

The bile rises in the back of my throat, and my only response is a forced nod of understanding. I mean really,

what else can be said that hasn’t already.

“Just tell me one thing…” Branda rushes over to grab my arm. I look at her peculiarly, wondering what she wants to know. “Is it true that it was James Austin… with you?” The way she says with you cuts me deeply, as if James couldn’t possibly be with someone like me. Branda titters with some sick joy over the gossip, and I wrench my arm away, disgusted.

“Tell Charlie I said good-bye.” Tears clog my throat—as if the poor little dog would understand why I wouldn’t be walking him regularly anymore. He had become my happy constant companion with his excited little wiggle making me feel wanted and important for a brief time.

Her smile leaves me feeling like I just escaped from a venomous snake ready to strike. I can’t stay here inside this apartment with this pretentious snob. Branda shoves a hefty amount of twenty dollar bills my way as if I had walked Charlie, and the practical side of me grabs those bills like they might be the last I see for a while until things blow over. Hey, a girl has to eat and pay rent.

The walk back home is even worse because this time I feel like all eyes are zeroed in on me like judgmental lasers cutting me up inside. I push the sunglasses up my nose and pull up the collar of my coat, feeling dirty. I want a long, hot shower when I get home and then the safety of my bed. Walking down the street, I bypass several cellular stores where I could get a new phone. The last thing I want is to talk to anyone, especially if they happen to be avid nighttime radio fans, reporters, or my estranged family. My radio job, as it were, is probably going to let me go, so there’s no need for them to call me. By the time I return home I’m exhausted, nothing seems to be going right, and I’m frustrated at the world with no outlet to rage at but myself.

Banging at my door disrupts the dark thoughts. Depressed, I slog over to the peep hole and look out. Some smart ass has their hand blocking the hole. Exasperated, I rolled my eyes, already knowing who it is. “Who’s there?”

“A special delivery for Miss Cole.” Sure it is. The hand moves, and I see James and his infuriating, good-looking self, standing outside my door in his well-fitted smart suit.

“What kind of special delivery?” I cross my arms over my ample chest; my patience is sorely tested today. James’ brand of special is usually the kind that melts my panties off and gets me in deep shit with the FCC.

“Telephone delivery.” His Monday board meeting must be over, and he’s come directly here. I’m a mix of overlapping core emotions. Happy. Sad. Fearful. Angry.

“I didn’t order a phone.” Shouting through the cheaply constructed door, I roll away, leaning against it. I bang my head back against the wall and turn to look back at the door. My attention is drawn right to the peephole. I’m still mad at him, I remind myself, but I care about him more than I do the annoyance I feel.