Fallout (10 page)

Hunter
SATURDAY

The alarm blares again.

Second snooze cycle?

Third? Behind my eyelids,

morning is bright. Eightish?

I roll over and open one eye.

Almost nine. Damn. Up I go.

I’ve got to land an earlier

air shift, at least if I have

to keep doing remotes.

Live broadcasts are fun.

But it’s not good to do them

with bags under your eyes.

Not if you want to look

like a radio star. Okay,

maybe I haven’t reached

“star” status. The stars do

morning or afternoon

drives. I pull ten p.m. to two

a.m. twice a week. But

they
are
weekend nights,

so at least a few people

are up late, listening.

I even have groupies.

Hey, maybe I
am
a star.

THE REMOTE

Is at the football game.

The UNR Wolf Pack versus

the Boise State Broncos.

Boise is a powerhouse

team and generally cleans

our clock, but UNR has got

one radical quarterback

this season, plus an all-state

running back. Never know.

We just might take ’em.

Wolf Pack fans are ready to howl.

The game should be packed.

Which means I’d better

get a move on. Traffic

will be a bitch. A glance

out the window confirms

it’s a crystal-edged October

day. Perfect football weather.

I shave. Shower. No time

for breakfast, a quick brush

to excise morning mouth.

Jeans. Long-sleeved blue tee

sporting the X logo. It’s a little

wrinkled, but the black leather

bomber will camouflage that.

Socks. Socks? My sock drawer

is empty. Oh, well. Yesterday’s

shouldn’t be too bad. Mom’s always

griping about my dirty laundry.

All you have to do is get it from

your room to the laundry room.

Twenty-five steps total. How hard

could that be?
The word isn’t “hard.”

It’s “organized.” Not my best thing.

Yesterday’s socks it is. New pair

of Nikes, barely scuffed at all.

Out the door in twenty minutes.

If I’m lucky, I won’t be late.

IT’S A HALF-HOUR DRIVE

To the station. Another forty

minutes to load the remote

broadcasting equipment

into the company van.

Just about the time

I’m ready to roll,

a beater Pontiac burps

into the parking lot.

Oh, no. It’s Montana.

Her real name is Corrine,

but she wanted her air

name to play off

Hannah Montana.

Don’t ask me why.

Morning
, she breathes,

in her best “I’m trying

not to sound like

the dingbat I am” voice.

(Not that it works.)

Awesome day, huh?

“Uh, yeah.” I load

the last speaker. “Well,

I’m about ready. As soon

as Rick gets here …”

Montana’s head swings

side to side.
Didn’t you

get the message? Rick

has a major flu bug.

She moves closer. Too

close. Her lips are four

inches from mine when

she says,
It’s me and you.

No, no, no! It’s bad

enough working a remote

with Rick the Brick Denio,

whose “I’m God’s gift

to the world” attitude

has thirty years in radio

to back it up. Montana’s

“hey, I’m the shit” pose

comes from bottled

blond hair and way-

too-round-to-be-real

36DDs. And, fake or

no, those babies were

designed for Montana

Disney (no lie!) to steal

the show wherever she goes.

ESPECIALLY FOOTBALL GAMES

Especially with those DDs

encased in a gray angora sweater,

and her equally impressive ass

advertised by a short, tight navy

skirt. Wolf Pack colors are silver

and blue. She’s a one-of-a-kind fan,

one every guy walking by can’t help

but notice. It’s irritating, but what

really pisses me off is how she just

stands there, flaunting fuzzy silver

and tight navy blue, while I do all

the work, setting up the X tailgate

party. Even Rick would have helped.

At least we have a designated

parking spot in the alumni lot. People

are parked down the hill, a half mile

or more away. By the time they reach

us, they’re huffing and puffing.

Montana sympathizes.
Long walk?

Well, come on over here and have

a hot dog and soda, on the X.

MOST OF THEM

Are already drinking beer.

But they take the dog, if only

for the chance to stand that

close to those amazing ta-tas.

I have to admit, Montana

is great advertising, if a mediocre

on-air personality. She knows

jack about music. She’ll probably

go on to fame and fortune as

a spokesmodel or something.

Anyway, I watch her work

the mostly male crowd until,

finally, a couple of cute girls

wiggle up to me.
Are you Hunter

Haskins?
says the curvy redhead.

’Cause I
really
love your show!

Yeah
, agrees the slender brunette.

I listen every weekend. You’re good.

My turn to flirt. “Sweetheart,

I am so much better than good.”

Then I remember, “Hey, are you

interested in a hot dog?”

The girls dissolve into laughter,

and I realize how that sounded.

I flush, hot despite the nip in the air.

“Uh, I meant a Polish sausage.”

That makes Red laugh even

harder.
Is Haskins a Polish name?

The brunette’s eyes are watering.

And just how big is that sausage?

Wow. Obnoxious. So why does

the thought of a threesome

cross my perverted mind?

“I’ve never had a complaint,

if that’s what you mean.” A gasp

behind me makes me turn….

AND THERE IS NIKKI

And not only that,

but there is Nikki with

her parents, UNR alumni

and rabid Pack fans.

But not exactly fans

of Hunter Haskins.

Surely they realize this

is part of the radio

personality game?

“Oh, hey!” I reach for

Nikki, who shrinks

back a little. “Great

to see you all here.

How about a …”

Shit. If I say hot dog,

my groupies are gonna

howl. I turn my back

on them completely.

“Want some lunch?”

I gesture toward

the gathered X fans

all happily munching

Polish sausages. Nikki,

red-faced, shakes her head.

Her mom, all stuck-up,

slides her arm around

Nikki’s shoulder.
No.

Her dad looks slightly

amused, but his voice

is stiff.
We already ate.

“Oh. Okay.” How do

I make this right? “Nik,

can I talk to you a sec?”

She starts to say no,

but if I don’t fix this

now, it might be unfixable.

“Please?” I take her

arm, pull her away

from her mother’s grasp

and off to one side. “Hey.

Those girls are listeners.

You are the one I love.”