The Knocked Up Plan(30)

“There are never any guarantees of that,” I tell him. Unless you sign a deal to knock up a woman. I keep that tidbit to myself.

He huffs. “But that’s what I want most. That’s why I listen to your show. I want the best tips to get a woman into my bed, and I don’t want to put out the dough for a trapeze lesson if there’s no shot.”

Mayday, mayday.

A geometric vision appears in front of me. Cal stalks the hallway, staring with beady, judgy eyes through the studio window. I make a wrap-it-up motion with my index finger to my producer, Jason, signaling to end this call. I’d end it regardless, but Cal makes me extra antsy. The leash he has on me is so short I can feel it choking already.

“You might want to find another show, then,” I say to the surfer guy. “I can’t promise you a woman will want to go home with you because of a trapeze lesson. What I can promise the listeners is if you take your time, plan a fun evening, and don’t miss when you have to catch her, then you can have a great time with your woman. And doesn’t that increase the chances that everyone has a happy ending to the date?”

Jason gives me a thumbs-up for that save, and I feel damn good about it, too.

The second the show ends, Cal shoves in the door. It smacks the wall. Today he is a beaker, bubbling over. “Do I need to remind you this is not a hookup show? More love. Less get laid.”

I drag a hand through my hair and step away from the booth and into the hallway. The golden rule of broadcasting is this—don’t say anything in a room full of mics that you wouldn’t say on air. Doesn’t matter if they’re on or off.

“I turned the comment around to focus on the connection you can make with your date,” I say like a badgered witness.

Jason pops his head into the doorway, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “I screened the call. The caller wasn’t like that before the show, so it’s on me.”

Cal ignores Jason. The buck stops with me. Cal points at my face. “Then redirect him. That’s your job.”

“I did,” I say, exasperated, then wave off Jason, sending him back to the studio. This is my battle to fight. “What more do you want me to do? The second the caller went down Randy Road, I sent him on his way and refocused the answer.”

Cal sighs heavily as if acknowledging my point is a burden. “Yes, admittedly, you did.” He claps his hand on my shoulder. It’s not a friendly clap. “But this is the issue, Ryder. You’re attracting this type of listener in the first place thanks to the attitude you’ve had for the last several months. The advertisers aren’t marketing body spray. This is a show about love and intimacy. That is the company mission. We aren’t trying to provide hookup tips, and our advertisers don’t want to be associated with that sort of content. We have higher-end advertisers who want a show that reflects classier content.”

“And I’m working on changing it,” I say, trying to keep my cool.

“Work harder. Work faster.”

“I said the trapeze was fun.” I clench my fists tight at my sides. The more he breathes fire at me, the more I miss the olden days as the Consummate Wingman, when I set my own hours, focused on the clients, and worked on my own terms. I delivered the goods and didn’t have to convince a boxed-in boss that I had his sponsors’ best interests at heart.

“Yes, you did mention the fun,” Cal concedes, then straightens his pastel pink tie. “But why not talk about how the trapeze and the catch and the acrobatics helped you and the woman connect? That’s what our advertisers are backing; that’s the content they want to support. Talk about the romance. Talk about how you got to know her better.” He arches one salt-and-pepper brow. “Did you get to know her better?”

The question is pointed, inquisitive, and none of his fucking business.

And yet, it’s precisely his business.

Literally, because I charged the trapeze lessons to my corporate card, and figuratively, because the success of these dates is the only thing between me and keeping my fucking job.

Images snap before my eyes—a half-empty exercise room, my book in the bargain bin at the bookstore, a phone that doesn’t ring with client inquiries anymore. Good thing I socked plenty of royalties and fat paydays away in the bank, untouched by Maggie. Still, the cushion is thinning.

“Did you?” he asks again, waiting.

I rub my hand over the back of my neck, remembering the way Nicole flirted on the platform, how she announced to Callie I was going to knock her up, how she so willingly took on each challenge on the swing. But I learned, too, that she’s not balls-to-the-wall all the time. The neighbor nearly killed her drive. But even when she was embarrassed that night, she was unafraid to speak her mind.

And once she let go, boy, did she ever let go.

The woman is everything you’d think a dating and sex columnist would be—uninhibited. Goddamn, it was hot. It was hot on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday night, too.

Yes, we’ve been practicing baby-making every night. It’s not a tough job, and hell, am I glad I get to do it.

“Yes, I got to know her,” I tell Cal.

“And did you like her?”

Now he’s really getting personal. “We had a great time.”

He beams and drops a hand on my shoulder, squeezing in a paternal way. “Now, talk more about that next time. You set the agenda for the show. The callers will follow your lead. I have faith you’ll get there.”