Liam

 

“When we come back, I’ll have Kensley on the line,” I announce, overenunciating the oncoming caller’s name. “I’ll let her tell you her story, but I’ve got a feeling you all will be on her side. Don’t change your dial.” I press the board, sending the station into a commercial segment. At twenty-six, and therefore a product of the digital generation, I’m a big fan of the newer, more modern boards with their integration to the connected laptop, but I can work my way around an old-school manual one if I absolutely need to.

Once I know for certain everything is clear and good on the listeners end, I cup my headphones and drop them to my shoulders. “You got the girl yet?” I ask across the table.

Johnson’s my righthand man. Every now and then, he’ll join me on the waves, but mostly he fields phone calls, whether they be requests, contests, inquiries to accuse a significant other of cheating, or, my personal favorite—but only because it makes my man Johnson annoyed as fuck— “date” offers.

Johnson, first name Michael, has been with the station longer than me, but he and I bonded quickly. We’re about the same age, but he’s married and came to the radio life after taking a step back from the road, where he’d spent God knew how many years as a sound engineer for concerts.

It was funny, that first year I was here.

No one knew my face; no one knew who the hell I was. I started at this station, a green twenty-two-year-old who liked music and had a good radio voice.

But damn, the calls started right away.

These chicks…

Didn’t even need a face, and they wanted my voice to lull them into blissful orgasm—because we all know that’s what the date offers are really about. The sexy voice had to be paired to a sexy man, or so they all assumed.

So, my first award show appearance?

Whish.

…That was the sound of panties flying.

Suddenly my mug was plastered all over. Billboards. Buses. I was even offered a few commercial gigs—and not the radio ones we jockeys are most known for. The ladies all fell for my squared, stubbled jaw; the thick, dark eyelashes that made my green eyes pop—or so I’ve been told; and my thick, wavy dark hair.

On more than one occasion I’ve had offers for some…intimate…hair pulling.

It’s not even like I keep it long; just one of those in-style high fades with a hard part, long on the top so I can either comb it over—damn, that sounds old—or style it forward, depending on my mood.

Hell, let’s be honest here. Most of the time I have a ball cap on.

After my face was broadcast around the San Diego metro area, the calls only got worse, to the point that Johnson threatened to have someone else screen the calls before they even got into the sound room.

“Yeah, I’ve got her,” Johnson says, glancing up over the computer screens and in my direction. “Sending her over.”

He lowers his eyes again and I pull my headphones back on, flipping over to the off-air line. “Hey, is this Kensley?”

There’s a pause, longer than I normally have. I glance back up toward Johnson, a question on my face. Is she there? Did she hang up?

“The line’s still live,” Johnson tells me, leaning back into his chair, arms crossed over his shirt—a black tee with some band’s logo.

“Kensley. Hey, it’s Liam Hardt with one-hundred-eight. You there?”

A hard intake of breath comes through; she’s there. “Um. Yes. Sorry.”

“No worries, Kens, just making sure you didn’t hang up on me.” I grin, hoping the ease comes off in my words. “You good? We’ll be live in two minutes; I’ll introduce you and ask you to tell your story. We’ll cut to a song break and in that time, get ahold of your guy.” I look over the notes Johnson sent to me, for Kensley’s guy’s name. “Mark.”

“I-I, um,” her voice hitches. “I think I’m having second thoughts.” I can easily picture this faceless woman frowning, it’s in her tone.

Many callers have second thoughts. Especially when they know without a doubt that I’ll be proving their fears; and I have zero problem telling them as much.

“Look, Kensley,” I say, shifting in my seat and leaning into the table, arms crossed, “my guess is you’re having second thoughts because you know your fears are true. Do you really want to stay in a relationship with someone who’s running around behind your back?”

“It’s not that.” Her voice, even quiet and unsure, is beautiful, but I know that phones and radios distort tones. Those women who fell for my voice before seeing me? They obviously hadn’t Googled some of their favorite radio personalities because we aren’t all a good-looking bunch. “There’s… We have kids,” she whispers. “And I just don’t know what this would do to them.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sucker punch.

How a fucker can run around on his woman when they have children, is absolutely beyond me.

I school my feelings though; it does no one any good if I’m the one going off. I’m supposed to be the level headed one that keeps the calls from being too depressing.

“I can’t tell you what to do.” I glance at the countdown of commercials before continuing, “I also can’t tell you from personal experience, but what I can tell you, as someone who’s done these calls four-hundred or so times a year… You need to know. You called me, and to me that says you’re at the end. You’ve maybe tried talking to him and have gotten denials, but you’re still unsure. If you think your man is cheating on you, then Kensley, you owe it to you—hell, you owe it to your kids—to get out of an unhealthy relationship.” I may not have firsthand knowledge on cheating, but I knew a thing or two about relationships. “Whether or not you go through, well, that’s up to you. We offer counseling after, but you know that.”

I hear her take another breath, letting it out slowly, into the phone.

The silent whoosh makes my dick twitch.

What the ever-loving fuck?

I push against the table, sitting up and shifting in my seat. “We’re going live in thirty; you going on?”

This time she doesn’t pause, but her voice is still whisper soft. “Yeah.”

She’s going to have to speak up, and not because the listeners won’t understand her, but because these whispers are doing funny shit to me.

“Alright, hold on. I’ll introduce you and then we’ll just chat on the radio. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

Turning my attention back to the board, I adjust the dials to pull out of the commercials and back into the show. “Welcome back. For those of you just joining us, we’re going into your favorite, Caught in the Act, and I have Kensley on the line. She suspects Mark of cheating.” Never one to sit still, I slowly twist my seat left to right as I speak. “Kensley, why don’t you tell us why you think your man’s cheating on you?”

“Hey. Yeah. Um.” There’s a pause and once again, I hear her deep intake of breath. “So, about three months ago,” suddenly she sounds like a completely different woman. No longer timid, but ready to call the douche out, “my…shit,” my brows lift on their own in my shock, and I look across the way to Johnson, who looks like he’s holding in the same chuckle I have, “I don’t even know what to call him. Oops. Can I swear? I’m sorry. Boyfriend. Yeah. We’ll call him that, because Mark doesn’t believe in marriage, but we’ve been together since our junior year.”

“College?”

“No, high school,” she clarifies, pointedly. “So, I don’t know, how long is that…seven, eight years? Anyway, we have kids. A four-year-old and eighteen-month-old. I didn’t really realize it before, but I’ve really been thinking about it with this last disappearing act.”

“What disappearing act?” I often need to help fill in the holes for listeners, sure, but I’m also intrigued. Always am. Maybe it’s my twelve credits in psych classes.

“Most recently, and it’s been the biggest one, is he took on an out-of-state job, one that’s going to last a few months.”

Interesting. “Out of state? We talking nearby, or across the country?”

“Not far, just in Nevada. Vegas.”

“Yeah, that sounds promising…” It’s said mostly under my breath, but I’ve no doubt that all of San Diego can hear my sarcasm.

“He took this job and he said he was working on finding a place we could bring the girls to because he’d be working alongside this client for a year plus; some place near his new job but not like…in Vegas. In the meantime, he’s staying on the Strip. Anytime our oldest wants to call or FaceTime with him, though, he’s not available. And we’ve planned the dates and times, so he knows to expect us.”

“You said this wasn’t his first disappearing act. What else has he done?”

“Oh, just little things, like extended business trips. And I never really thought much of them, but I realized they’ve been happening more and more often, and for lengthier times, and they seem to coincide with my pregnancies.”

“Does he have the type of job that would require these long trips?”

“Well, yeah. He’s higher up the ladder in a marketing firm, and his trips are always to go talk to potential clients, then work on these projects.”

“Other than the trips and missed calls, do you have any other reasons why you’d think he’s cheating on you?”

“No, not really.” Her voice takes on that soft, unsure tone again.

“I mean, I think you have a solid case,” I add, not wanting her to feel like she’s jumped the gun. “If I had to go on a business trip, I’d find a way to bring my girl with, or if I had to move out of state, I’d definitely find a way to bring my family with me. I know there are other circumstances but, dang, eight years? That’s a commitment.”

“Yeah.”

“So, Kensley, we’re going to call him up. You know how these calls work, right? We’ll give good ol’ Mark a call, then offer him an all-inclusive stay at a new resort. All he has to do is give us your name as his guest, and if that’s what he does, well I guess you owe him an apology.” I always say that last line with a little laugh, but rarely does the caller need to apologize. “You ready?”

“Yes.” I can almost picture her—this faceless, beautiful woman—nodding once in strength. She has this.

“Alright. You heard the lady. We’ll get Mark on the line, and after some Ed Sheeran swooning and maybe a little bit of Zedd, we’ll get this going.” Probably not my smoothest transition into song, but I’m not worried.

As the sweet slow-dance-esque song starts, I switch over the mic so I can talk directly to Kensley again. “I’m going to call him. You’re still on board, right? We’re good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” This time, her tone is airy, like she’s talking through a sigh.

Exasperated?

Ready to be done?

Tired of it all?

…And why the hell do I care so much?

Here are the facts—or what will be facts in the matter of three minutes: the girl’s being cheated on; she has kids; and…well, that’s really it. That’s the extent of what I know of this Kensley, but something about her voice has me wanting to keep her on the line.

Muting my line to her, I tip my chin up, my attention to Johnson again. “You got his number ready?” I push my right ear pad off and behind my ear so I can hear him better.

That same bored look on his face, the one that I just attribute to the man, he lifts his brows. “This isn’t my first day on the job.”

Chuckling, I nod. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just—”

“Antsy as fuck to get it over with?” he answers, hitting the nail on the head.

Of course, he did. We’ve been playing this song and dance for years.

Some of the calls—or the catching, if you will—were pretty tame. Some even, really quick and to the point. Others, you needed a finger on the dump button, ready to bleep out every explicative known to man. Thank God for delayed broadcasting, especially during this segment. Heaven help the radio personality who misses those curse words.

Caught in the Act keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.

“She still on the line?” I ask, instead of elaborating on the antsy bit.

Johnson’s laugh is dry, but with a smile on his worn mug. “You really think she’s not going through with this. How many have we lost in the time we’ve done Caught?”

“Like…three.”

“Exactly. She’s not going to be number four. And yes, she’s still on the line.”

“Good.” I roll my chair closer to the table again. “Let’s do this then.” I readjust my headphones and open Kensley’s line again as I start in on the segment. “Gotta love Zedd and Maren Morris. Honestly? I didn’t think she’d make the country-pop switch, but girl’s got pipes. If you missed it earlier, we’re getting ready to see if Mark is cheating on his girl. Now, Kensley, you there?” I’m pretty damn sure I haven’t asked that question to any other caller as many times as I did her. Hell, I wanted to catch Mark for her. I wanted her to—

Shit.

What was it about this girl that had me curious? On my toes?

Had me wanting to know if her face was as sweet as her voice?

Hell, I want Mark to be a cheating douchebag.

But then what the hell am I going to do?

Oh, so here are those counseling numbers and this last number, well, that’s mine. I’d be happy to do some one-on-one with you…

I suddenly feel like those women who’d been in love with my voice, well before my face was paired with the timbre tones. I’m jonesing for a girl who is asking for help, and I have no idea what she looks like—if she’s a blonde or brunette, has brown eyes or striking blue ones. She could be bucked-toothed with a crooked nose, maybe a blue eye and a green one—even though that would be pretty fucking cool—and again, honesty time, even if she is smokin’, WHAT. WAS. I. GOING. TO. DO?

Stalk her on Facebook and find a way to see her in person? Talk her up?

Oh, hey, you were with your ex for eight years, have two kids with him, and I’m sure you have trust issues but yeah, I like your voice. Want to hang?

Goddamn, I need a girl.

That’s the only explanation as to why I’m curious about this voice on my phone line.

I need a woman to talk to. Someone to chill and relax with.

And yeah, sex up. When was the last time I got laid? Too damn long, that was when.

Snap, snap.

I look up to see Johnson’s fingers in the air and a pointed look on his face. Shit. Talk about an awkward pause on radio.

“Sorry, let’s get Mark on the line.” I tap my fingers on the desk as the call rings over the airwaves. Waiting. Waiting…

“Hello?”

Dude even sounds like a jackass.

I lean forward, getting comfortable, “Hey, is this Mark?”

“This is.” He sounds impatient. I mean, sure, it’s only nine in the morning, but that’s normal business hours or, at the very least, waking hours for the typical nine-to-fiver.

I’m trying to keep an open mind with this guy, but for whatever reason, I just can’t. I can’t get back into that easy mindset I usually have with these calls. My first call this morning was so ridiculously fucked up, it was damn near laughable, but this one? This call? This Kensley?

Yeah.

No laughing matter.

He has kids.

That’s the reason why I’m so fucking irate with him, I decide. There can’t be another reason.

“Yeah, hey. My name’s Ryan and I’m with Bishop Luxury, and I wanted to congratulate you on winning—”

“I didn’t sign up for anything.”

“No, no. I know. Your company put you in the drawing—”

“My company?”

Shit. I should have gotten more information from Kensley. I usually do; I usually enter the call with a list of best friends’ names, and work details, and close family members.

I got none of that today. Nothing but he was a douche with daughters, who went on “trips” for his marketing business.

Fuck me.

I maybe screwed this up.

Shit…!

I have no choice but try to rush into it, try to hook him still. “Yes. You’ve won an all-expense paid, all-inclusive stay at our newest luxury resort, in our high-end honeymoon suite, with an all-romance package. No cost to you.”

“Really.” He doesn’t exactly sound like he’s buying it, but hopefully I can keep him around.

“Really!” I’m still fighting to keep him and hope that I’ve said enough to convince him this isn’t a scam. “It’s completely free for you and one guest.”

“Okay…” He still doesn’t sound convinced, but at least he’s on-board.

“Great. I can get started on this reservation; I have your information, I’ll just need the name of your guest, if you could supply that.”

“Yeah, alright. Cool. Sure. How about…”

And there it is.

That fucking pause as the douche has to go through his black book of names.

“Let’s put down Britt.”

“You fucker.” And, on cue, there’s Kensley.

Johnson chuckles across from me, on top of the dump feature and bleeping out Kensley’s word choice.

Me? I’m in shock at this girl’s mouth.

I thought her earlier accidental shit was funny, but her calling her boyfriend a fucker? Yeah, that one takes the cake.

“Wait, what?” Mark says, the dumbstruck dick-face.

“Yeah. Hey, it’s—”

I cut her off. “I gotta tell you, Mark, you’re on the radio. I’m Liam with 100.8 and you’ve been blasted on Caught in the Act. The person on the line is Kensley. You know. The mother of your children.” I may have said that last line a little bit harsher than necessary.

“I can explain.”

“Please do.” No longer able to sit, I stand and adjust my mic before crossing my arms.

“Oh yes,” Kensley says through my headphones. “Explain. Explain your business trips. Your move. The fact you can’t talk to your daughter for five fucking minutes before bed.”

Johnson’s still smirking at Kensley’s mouth and I can’t help but smirk a little bit too.

“Look. Kensley. Leigh, babe.”

I can’t help it. I roll my eyes.

“Don’t ‘Leigh, babe’ me.” Kensley’s voice is strong and pissed.

Another honest moment? This isn’t a chick I’d want to piss off, if the tone of her voice is any indication.

She.

Is.

Pissed.

Hell, most of the callers are, but when paired to that uncertain, quiet voice from eight minutes ago? Completely different woman, right here.

“Britt’s a co-worker.”

“Mm. Sure.”

“She is. She’s going through a tough time right now—”

“So you’re going to take her on a romantic getaway?” I butt in, needing to know. These assholes all say the same damn thing. “Relax her in that honeymoon suite? Maybe in the hot tub, a nice back rub and foot rub. You into those, Mark?” I’m known for answering these douche-waffles with innuendos. I’ve been told to tone them down, but I’m pissed for Kensley—odd, because this call is no different, no fucking different, than any other I take, but hell if I know why she’s different.

“Well, no, I was going to give it to her.”

“You were clearly told this was a romantic stay for two,” Kenlsey says. “What’s she having a hard time with? Her pants?”

Johnson coughs.

“Kensley…”

“No, Mark. Don’t Kensley me. We have daughters! Daughters you don’t even want to talk to! Why? Why, Mark?”

“You want to know?”

“Of course she fu—freaking wants to know.” I grimace at my near slip, which only makes Johnson actually laugh.

“Fine,” Mark answers, his voice changing from placating to full-on asshole. “You don’t give me what I need.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Any other woman—and it’s a line I’ve heard a time or two—and that would come out in a screech. Not so with Kensley. She still just sounds pissed.

“Well, because you had to go and air this shit on the radio—”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!”

“You don’t do enough in the bed,” he starts, just as I’m starting to get the feeling that this isn’t going to be good.

Kensley’s gasp is audible.

“Your tits sag and your pussy—”

“Johnson, off,” I cut in. I know Johnson’s on top of his bleeper, but this is not going to end well.

Fuck, it didn’t even start well.

“And with that,” I talk over the still arguing Mark and Kensley, praying that we can cut this shit down during our broadcast delay, “how about some Drake. We’ll be back, San Diego.”

Quickly, I go into Drake’s latest hit. I can still hear Kensley and Mark going at one another through my headphones. “You able to cut that down?” I ask Johnson, who doesn’t even look up as he nods.

“Workin’ on it.”

I turn my attention back to the call, just in time for Mark to tell Kensley some more not-so-very nice things.

“You just lay like a fucking beached whale with your fucking gaping pussy.”

Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t listen to this. “Mark, I think you’ve said enough.”

“What the fuck do you care? You like to ruin relationships?”

I point to myself, as if he can see. “I didn’t ruin anything. You’re the one running around on your woman, on the mother of your children.” I may have taken psych, but I was no counselor and honestly, had no business sharing my opinion, but damn.

“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know—”

“I know enough. Look, I’m supposed to offer you counseling but my guess is Kensley’s—”

“I can speak for myself,” her voice comes through, and it’s lost some of that hard edge. “If I didn’t give you what you needed, why the hell did you keep sleeping with me? Why did you stay? You didn’t want me to have your last name; why did you stay?”

“My family likes you.”

“Well, fuck your family. Look, I’ll absolve you of me. You don’t need to be with me and my loose fucking self.” I can hear the start of tears in her voice and damn, if that doesn’t kill me a little inside. “Me and the girls are leaving. You can take your fancy house and you can have your fancy cars, but you will not get your beautiful daughters.”

“And the baby?” It was the first time he’s sounded interested in what Kensley has to say, but did she not just say she was taking both girls?

“You don’t want the girls, but you want to stick around for the baby?”

“If it’s a boy—”

“Fuck you, Marcus. Fuck. You.”

“You’re pregnant?” I cut in, confused.

“Yes. Twenty-three weeks. Five-ish months.”

Now, I had a sister, and from my sister, I had a nephew. I knew you could find out the baby’s gender around the five months mark. So why—

“You only told me two months ago!” Mark had the audacity to sound pissed at her.

“Because I had my suspicions about you stepping out on me.”

“Well, is it a boy?” Again, with Mark’s ill-placed curiosity.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, fucking find out.”

“If you don’t want our girls, I’m not letting you have our son!”

“You guys,” I cut in, as badly as I want to keep nosing in on their business. “I can offer you the counseling. You don’t have to do it together, but I think you both might need people to talk to.”

“The girls and I are leaving,” Kensley repeated. “You will not have to worry about us anymore, Mark. I will be damned if you try to take my girls from me; I’ll have my lawyer contact yours.”

Mark’s answering retort is done in a sneer. “You don’t have a lawyer.”

“Well, I’ll find one, and it will be the best damn lawyer.”

“You can’t afford the best damn lawyer on your own.”

Goddamn, I really don’t like this guy.

“Watch me.”

The telltale sound of a phone hanging up echoes into my headphones. “Kens?”

“Thanks a lot, asshole,” Mark swears, before a second phone hangs up.

I huff out a breath, staring at the crisscrossed pattern on my mic for a full twenty seconds before looking back up and over at Johnson. “Well, you fix that mess?”

“Our show will live to see another day.”

I nod a few times slowly, my mind in a different place. “Good. Good.” Then, suddenly exhausted, I plop back down in my chair—almost missing it as it rolls backward.

“That was fun.” There may be a bite of sarcasm in my tone. I try focusing on my screen, but my mind can’t move away from Kensley and her soft voice.

Kensley and her nervousness.

Kensley and her fierceness.

Then, finally, Kensley with the tears in her voice.

“You still got her number?” I ask suddenly, my eyes still locked on my computer screen. Slowly, I lift my gaze. “She didn’t take the counseling numbers,” I add.

It wasn’t the first time we had to make a call-back. Part of our contract with doing the Caught segment was the offering of numbers. I had to truly give the numbers.

Had to.

And I hadn’t.

I had to call back Kensley.

…I had to keep it at the counseling numbers though. I couldn’t be infatuated with this voice. I couldn’t be the crazy radio guy who offered the heartbroken caller a shoulder to lean on.

Because that would be freaky.

Awkward.

Crazy.

But I could plug her number into Facebook.

Stalker level 101, sure, but I had to know…

Did her face match her voice?

What the hell was Mark giving up?

So, yeah, it wasn’t the first time I had to call back a number, but it was the first time that I had a healthy dose of curiosity, too, and was going to go against every moral I had.

I was going to check this girl out.