Morning Man (6 page)

The stylist switched off the dryer. “We’ll set you in rollers, so that will still give you plenty of body.”

He crossed the room and stood beside Dayna’s chair. “I say that body’s got plenty good going for it already.”

She laughed. “Meet my charming and oh-so-subtle co-host, Tack Collins.”

“Hi.” He nodded.

“So, how did your remote go?”

“Ah, all right. A few people came by to kick tires and one guy bought a fully-loaded F-150,” he said. “A couple of the sales guys tried to persuade me to trade in my Silverado, but I told them nooo way. I’ll be a Chevy man ’til I die.”

She smirked. “I hope that wasn’t while you were on the air.”

“Nope, I stayed on script and talked only about Ford’s superior standards. Yeah, it hurts, but I know which side my bread’s buttered on,” he said with a laugh. “So, what am I getting done today?”

“Shave and a hair cut,” the stylist answered without lifting her eyes from the tray of rollers.

He protectively stroked his man fur. “Sorry, but I’m not shaving.”

“Just a trim to clean you up a bit,” she said. “If your face is going to be ten feet high and twenty feet wide, you’d better make sure it looks its best.”

Dayna shrugged. “She’s got a point, cowboy.”

“Have a seat over there at the sink.” The stylist pointed toward the shampoo bowl and chair against the brick wall, and he conceded with a sigh.

Dayna smiled reassuringly. “Don’t look so glum. Girls’ day at the salon is supposed to be fun. Maybe we can get matching mani-pedis afterwards.”

“Real funny.” Before dutifully going to the sink, he went to the coat rack and dug something out of his pocket. He then returned to Dayna’s side. “Brought you something.”

“Oh yeah?” She smiled and fished her hand out from beneath the vinyl bib draped over her. “What is it?”

“Your schoolin’.” He handed her a plastic bag, tightly wound around a small box and then walked away.

Baffled, she quickly unrolled the plastic and reached inside. It was a new MP3 player. “Tack? What is this?”

“What’s it look like?” He called out from across the room.

“Well, it looks to be a shiny new MP3 player.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sugar. It’s a one-of-a-kind player pre-loaded with over a thousand country tunes from my personal music collection. If you’re going to be riding with me, then you better know your Kenny Chesney from Kenny Rogers. I can’t afford to have you blurting out some bullshit on the air now, can I?”

She smiled to herself. “No, sir. Of course not.”

“You start listening to that night and day, and I promise, you’ll be buying your first pair of shit-kicking cowboy boots in no time at all.”

“Thanks so much, Tack. Really. This is incredibly generous of you.”

“Just promise you’ll listen and that you won’t go around embarrassing me.”

“I will.” She grinned. “And I won’t. Promise.”

* * * *

While the stylist snipped the tips of his dampened hair, Tack sat enthralled by the makeup artist dusting pink blush along Dayna’s cheekbones.

“Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer,” she said to her neighboring reflection.

“I can’t help it. It’s fascinating to watch how you women do it.”

“I only wish I had my cosmetics professionally applied every day.” She leaned closer to the bulb-framed mirror and batted her long lashes. “God, I’d love to look like this in real life.”

He chuckled. “You know damn well you’re cute as a button. Stop fishing for compliments.”

“I’m not aiming for cute. I’m going straight for vixen,” she said with a low, sexy growl that he hadn’t heard before. Wow.

“Well, right now you’re wearing a head full of curlers the size of oil filters. Get back to me later and I’ll let you know if you hit the target.”

The makeup artist opened another compact, revealing a spectrum of lipstick colors. He picked up a spaghetti-thin brush and instructed Dayna to purse her lips.

Tack shifted in his seat. “Oh, this is my favorite part.”

“Dnt mk me lff,” she muttered without moving her mouth. The artist dipped the tiny tip of the brush into the palette and delicately painted her gorgeous lips candy-apple red. Tack’s mind wandered to all sorts of places where she was more than welcome to leave her mark on him. His eyes followed the brush as it filled in the curvy outline of her mouth, softly caressing her bottom lip until it shone. The artist stepped aside and Dayna admired his work in the mirror, pressing her lips together once, then puckering them into a kiss for no one. “The color’s great. Nice choice,” she said, nodding to her reflection before she noticed Tack’s glazed stare. “Drool much?”

He closed his mouth. “Sorry.”

There was a knock at the studio door. Jared, the squeaky-voiced station intern, stood in the entrance with two black garment bags slung over his shoulder. “Hey, Mr. Collins.” He waved with his free hand. “Mrs. McMulland sent over your wardrobe.”

“Great timing, kid,” Tack said. “Just hang them up anywhere.”

Jared suspended both bags from a hook on the coat rack and then walked toward them. “Wow, Miss Cook. You’re a knockout.”

She smiled. “Even wearing curlers the size of oil filters?”

The kid gave her a goofy grin. “Gee, for a moment there, I didn’t even notice you had curlers on.”

She swiveled her chair and gave Tack a dirty look. “See? That’s how you compliment a lady.”

He grimaced. “Thanks, kid. Thought you had my back.”

“Sorry about that, sir.” Jared shrugged with a sheepish smile.

She beckoned for him to lean down and planted a smooch on the kid’s cheek that left a perfect impression of her lips. “That’s for being so sweet.”

“Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Tack protested with envy. “I gave you an MP3 player.”

She smiled. “And I said thank you, didn’t I?”

“Uh, Miss Cook, before I forget,” Jared said, digging into the breast pocket of his jacket, “I have something for you.”

“Jeez, you’re not going to propose to her now, are you?” Tack said with the same petty inflection in his voice.
Just shut up, asshole
.

“Mrs. M wanted me to give you this.” Jared handed a CD to Dayna. “It’s your new show promo. She also wanted me to make sure that you and Mr. Collins got these.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and produced a dozen minibar-sized liquor bottles. “She said you should have a drink or two to help you relax before the photo shoot.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” Dayna laughed as the bottles tumbled, tinkled and rolled onto the cosmetics tray. “Well, we certainly appreciate that, don’t we, Tack?”

He nodded as the stylist turned on the clippers to work on his beard. “Uh-huh. Thanks, kid.”

“No problem. Good luck with the shoot.” He gave them a parting wave and left.

The makeup artist pointed to the disk. “We have a CD player if you want to play that. Would you like me to bring it over?”

Dayna nodded. “Thanks very much.”

“Why don’t you just kiss him too?” Tack muttered.

She plucked the CD from the jewel case, slid it into the player and turned it up.

Music: DUM-DE-DE-DUM, DE-DE-DUM-DE-DE-DUM…

Slick announcer voice:
Monday morning, Hot Country One-oh-three turns up the heat at the crack of dawn.

Clip of Tack: “I get up long before the rooster crows.”

Music up:
Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy
!

Slick announcer:
Waking up every morning with Tack and Dayna is going to give whole new meaning to…

Clip of Tack: “Rise and grind.”

Sound effect: Rooster crowing loud and proud

Clip of Dayna: “Safe to say, you’re a morning man in more ways than one?”

Slick announcer:
Early risers, get set to roll over and Wake Up with Tack and Dayna, weekday mornings from six to ten on Hot Country One-oh-three.

Clip of Tack talking: “I can’t think of anything sexier.”

Music up:
Save a horse, ride a cowboy!

Clip of Dayna: “Well, well, well. Talk about your breakfast sausages!”

Dayna’s expression fell from shocked to mortified. “Oh. My. God. Bonnie pimped us out.”

Tack snorted with laughter. “Well, I think it’s great.”

“Of course you do. It’s been edited to sound as if I’m fawning over your enormous pecker.”

He pressed his hand flat to his chest. “Sugar, hearing that come out of your sweet mouth was even better than a kiss.”

She turned to the others. “What did you guys think?”

“I think it’s cheeky,” said the makeup artist with a playful wiggle of his brow.

“Me too,” echoed the stylist. “I’m definitely tuning in on Monday to hear what you two are going to be up to.”

The makeup artist handed her a bottle of vodka. “Sex sells, honey. And with a hot commercial like that, you might even get me listening to country.”

Dayna twisted off the cap and took a swig, screwing up her face as she swallowed. “God help me. What have I gotten myself into?”

* * * *

Dayna sat wedged in the corner of her makeshift dressing room, downing her second mini-bottle and debating whether she should crack the seal on a third.

Tack knocked on the partition wall. “How you doin’ in there?”

“No worries, my good man,” she said with slight slur. “It’s all good in the ’hood.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like someone might be getting a little tipsy, hmm?”

“I’m working on it.” She grinned, definitely not feeling any pain.

“Are you dressed yet?”

The big, black garment bag still hanged ominously on her door. “Nope.”

“What’s taking so long?” he asked.

“I’ll get dressed when I’m damn good and ready,” she replied, slugging back another gulp of liquid courage.

“Jeez, I didn’t peg you to be so high maintenance.”

“I’m not high maintenance,” she said, dabbing at her mouth. “I’m a handful.”

His laugh echoed through the studio. “Well, Little Miss Handful, we’re waiting on you, so hurry up,” he said. “I’m going to play a few tunes. Let’s have some fun.”

With a sigh, she unsnapped her jeans and peeled them down to the floor before lifting her shirt over her head, careful not to smudge any makeup. Standing barefoot in her underwear, she reached up and unzipped the nylon bag. What? No.
Someone’s gotta be pulling my leg
. “Uh, hey Tack?” she called out. “I think part of my outfit’s missing.”

* * * *

The stylist lightly tapped Tack’s arm with the hairbrush. “I’ll go help her.”

He had to hand it to Bonnie, she was pretty savvy when it came to marketing. And this crazy new scheme she’d cooked up had to be one of her finest to date. It would be a damn shame if Dayna let inhibition get in the way of going through with it. Of course, the boss lady was always on top of her game, likely why she’d smartly loaded up her errand boy with enough booze to ply the knickers off a nun. With Dayna’s new MP3 player firmly implanted in the system’s docking station, he scrolled through the playlists and cranked the volume on the party tunes.

The photographer’s assistant walked up to him. “Could I get you over to the set so we can check the lighting?”

He ducked and stepped his way around various tripods, lighting reflectors and umbrellas surrounding the only piece of furniture on the sparsely-decorated set: a brass daybed piled high with fluffy white pillows. “Where do you want me?”

“Have a seat anywhere,” the assistant said, gesturing toward the bed. “We just need to get the settings right.”

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Tack squinted up at the ceiling lights emitting white-hot rays from high above. The assistant stuck a digital light meter in his face and took a reading, then disappeared behind the glare of the lights to consult with the photographer. He couldn’t quite make out what they were conferring about, but by all the intense whispering, he figured his modeling career was over before it began.

The assistant stepped forward again. “I’m afraid you can’t wear that,” he said, pointing a finger at Tack’s gray t-shirt. “It has to go.”

He gulped, suddenly a little shy and a whole lot self-conscious. If he’d known he was expected to strip, he would’ve hit the gym during the past month or six. “Why?”

“Because it’s going to spoil the visual effect we have to achieve,” the assistant said. “Mrs. McMulland was very specific about the kind of shots she wants.”

It suddenly became painfully obvious why Bonnie had supplied alcohol. He cursed not keeping a bottle within reach.

“Come on, cowboy, show us those abs,” Dayna commanded with a giggle somewhere on the dark edge of the set. “If I have to do this, then so do you.”

He got up and moved out from under the lights until she came into view. His breath hitched in his throat when he saw her, wearing nothing but a red-striped pajama top that skimmed her womanly curves and floated mid-thigh, revealing beautiful, shapely legs. The starched collar of her shirt was turned up and her hair had been mercilessly teased like she’d just rolled out of bed. Or a Whitesnake video. Gulp.