3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Jeff

A fter polishing off a couple of fingers of moderately priced whiskey, Jeff staggered toward his bedroom, head spinning as he moved through his small rental house. He bumped the little side table in the hallway with his hip, nearly knocking it over, but luckily had the wherewithal to catch it before it toppled. Once Jeff reached the bedroom, he flicked on the light switch. One of the two bulbs in the ceiling mount made a fizzling noise before burning out entirely. Fuck.

Muttering a couple more curses to himself, Jeff started toward the bed, eager to reach the record player that was precariously balanced on the nightstand. He stopped at the repurposed bookcase on the way and then fumbled through choosing a record and setting it up to play.

Once the music started and Dean Martin began to sing, Jeff flopped backward onto the mattress, bounced, and inadvertently kicked the nightstand, sending the record player to the floor. He heard a clear zzzpp sound, and then the music stopped. Double fuck.

Jeff rolled over to view the carnage. While the player looked okay, the record itself had probably been scratched because of his fuckup. He knew he should probably get up and check that the player wasn’t broken. But instead, he simply rolled onto his back and shimmied underneath the covers .

Closing his eyes, Jeff let the faraway sound of his ever-struggling refrigerator—a low, sad hum mixed with intermittent rattling noises—lull him into a half sleep. But then his thoughts found their way back to memories he’d rather forget, mostly replaying what he had come to think of as the worst Goddamn hour of his life, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter as though that could somehow block out the images flashing inside his skull. He needed to listen to something. Anything.

Bleary eyed, Jeff sat up and glanced at the clock radio resting atop the comforter by his feet. He liked to keep it there; that way, when the alarm startled him awake in the morning, he had to sit up to turn it off, which helped rouse him, especially when he was hungover. Noticing the time—10:02 p.m.—Jeff leaned forward with a grunt and tuned the radio to WKbr. Even though he’d always hated the stupid station, he couldn’t help but want to listen now.

Because who would have thought Gary Graham would be so Goddamn fine?

“... use of malt vinegar on French fries is popular in Britain, while ketchup remains the condiment of choice here in the United States. I’m partial to ketchup myself, which rose in popularity in the 1940s, and, you know, I have to wonder whether the folks of Niles prefer...”

Resting his head back on the pillow, Jeff let Gary Graham’s radio-perfect voice wash over him, its beautiful smoothness calming and comforting, no matter the topic. Even though Jeff had been harboring a resentment for the local station over the last couple of years, mostly because the music was shit and the choices for conversation topics were asinine, he had always had a hard-on for that fucking voice. Zoning out, Jeff couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect it was—soft and cozy with a hint of roughness. Listening to Gary Graham was like being wrapped in velvet. He’d have fucked that voice if he could.

Well, now that he knew what Gary looked like, he supposed he’d fuck the rest of him too. If only—

Abruptly, Jeff shook his head. Jesus Christ. Had he lost his mind? Developing a crush on Gary Goddamn Graham. What the fuck.

“Hang on, folks.”

Gary’s fuck-worthy voice cut out. Seconds later, another voice joined in.

“Am I on the air now?”

“Yes, you most certainly are! Is this Annabelle Craig?”

“It is!”

“Ah, I knew I recognized that voice. How’s the yarn shop these days?”

“Good! Why, today alone, we sold . . . ”

Another terrible feature of Gary’s silly station—it was local. Annoyingly local. Listeners would call in, and then Gary would chat with them about their business or church or even school events. And then many minutes later , they’d finally circle back to the conversation topic of the day, which was only ever moderately more interesting than listening to some sixty-five-year-old talk about the meatballs they had eaten at the potluck at First Presbyterian earlier that week.

Against his better judgment, Jeff turned his attention back to whatever Annabelle Craig was saying.

“...so my cousin from Oklahoma pronounces it cats-up.”

“Oklahoma, huh? Have you ever visited?”

“Not yet. I’m a little too afraid of the tornadoes, you know?”

“I can imagine. Well, you can always visit in the winter, right? You wouldn’t have to worry about tornadoes then.”

“Oh, that’s true! ”

Uh . . . no?

“Or you could stay in the city. I assume you’d have some kind of protection from skyscrapers.”

Jesus, Gary, stop with the bullshit.

“Or the mountains, maybe.”

Clearly Gary was in need of someone to set him straight.

After sitting up again, Jeff took a moment to reorient himself, his mind still spinning from the effects of the three-ish fingers of whiskey he’d had earlier in the evening, and then wobbly-walked across the room. Once he reached the rotary phone on his desk, he picked up the receiver and muttered a few choice words under his breath as he slipped his finger into the hole over the number five. He proceeded to call the stupid fucking number of Gary’s stupid fucking station. God, he’d have to be on the show now, wouldn’t he?

It started to ring.

“Hello, hello. You’ve reached Gary Graham of W—”

“Yeah, I know,” Jeff said, not really caring if he sounded like a rude piece of shit. He had never been much of a people person.

“Great! Hang on a minute...” Jeff only had a second to compose himself before he heard a click. “Okay, you’re live! Now, tell me, who am I speaking to?”

“Uh, Billy.”

“You’re kidding. Billy McCoy from the Eastwood Mall?”

Damn, Gary hadn’t caught the Clint Eastwood reference, had he?

“Yeah. Right.”

“Perfect!” Jeff winced from Gary’s chipper tone, which only reminded him of how very not chipper he felt right then. Or ever, lately. “Do you prefer the sour-and-tangy taste of malt vinegar or the sweet-and-tomato-y taste of ketchup with your fries?”

Annoying. Yet still somehow sexy .

“I called to correct you about the tornado sh—” Live radio, Jeff, live radio! “Stuff.”

“Well now, that’s unexpected. What did I have wrong?”

“Tornadoes happen in the winter.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh, a couple of years ago, Tulsa had a tornado on Christmas Eve. I was there. Visiting a friend.”

Not a friend, but Chris, the only man Jeff had really, seriously tried to be in a relationship with after he had ended things with Don.

“Wow! Christmas Eve? How’d Santa make it to the children, I wonder.”

“Hah, yeah...” Though Jeff’s mind vaguely registered Gary’s silly comment, part of him was still stuck in Tulsa with Chris. Earlier that summer two years ago, when Chris had finished teaching Jeff everything he knew about storms, the two of them had started seeing each other romantically. Over the phone, initially. But then, when Jeff had traveled to Tulsa in December, it hadn’t been long before he’d been reminded of the fact that, for him, romance was no longer in the cards.

Ten Goddamn minutes into meeting up, Chris had kissed him, and somehow, that fucking kiss had made Jeff’s heart seize, icy panic flooding his veins as unwelcome memories had crashed over him, and as ridiculous and misplaced as that panic had been, he hadn’t been able to recover from it, no matter how hard he’d tried. Even though he’d forced himself not to pull back from the kiss, he hadn’t been able to enjoy even a single second of it.

Later that night, on Christmas Eve, while a storm had raged outside, Jeff had been hell-bent on making things work, and so, he’d forced himself to be okay with things progressing beyond a simple kiss. They’d eventually moved to the bedroom, and when Chris’s hands had begun roaming over Jeff’s bare torso, Jeff had tried desperately to keep all his fucked-up feelings from escaping. But the moment Chris’s hand had found the waistband of Jeff’s briefs, the metaphorical storm shelter had been breached. Jeff’s entire body had started screaming at him to stop, and yet, pathetically, Jeff had still kept trying—trying to push himself, trying to show Chris how much he liked him, trying to be the man he wanted to be.

But then fear had overtaken him. God, the way he’d panicked and crumpled in on himself, it had been so Goddamn humiliating. Chris hadn’t been interested in him anymore when it was over.

Gary’s voice cut through Jeff’s thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

“So that must have been scary. The tornado?” Gary asked, and Jeff swallowed thickly as he took a pause to bury the shame, his face still burning.

“Wasn’t,” he forced out.

Gary chuckled. “You’re a brave man, Billy McCoy.”

“No,” Jeff wanted to say. “I’m not.”

Gary continued, “I’d have been shaking in my shoes. Or, well, maybe not shaking .”

God, what a cornball Gary was. Despite the memories of that horrible Christmas season still being fresh in his mind, Jeff couldn’t help but smile a little. Because he knew exactly what cheesy Gary Graham wanted to say next.

“Because it wasn’t an earthquake,” Jeff finished for him.

“Exactly!” Gary exclaimed, sounding so excited that it was impossible not to picture his probably-silly smile. Thoughts of Don and Chris and Tulsa faded away. “I had a feeling you’d appreciate my humor.”

“ Appreciate might not be the right word.”

“Ouch!” Gary said with a chuckle. “So, was there anything else I had wrong? ”

“Well, cities and mountains won’t provide tornado cover.”

“Sounds like I need to brush up on my meteorology. I’m happy you called in to correct me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever even read a single book on weather, come to think of it. Before we return to our topic of the evening, I have to ask, are you studying meteorology for school?”

“No.”

“Just a, uh, weather enthusiast, then?”

Jeff chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of how to phrase it. “I... chase storms.”

“Excuse me, you chase storms ? Now, I know we’re supposed to be talking about French fries, but I am itching to know what you mean by that.”

“I like watching them. I, uh, head out to Oklahoma and Texas once or twice every year.”

“Tornadoes, hurricanes, thunderstorms?”

“Tornadoes.”

“Okay, I really want to know more, and I’m sure some of our listeners would too. What would you say to setting up an interview sometime?”

Blowing out a long breath, Jeff raked a hand through his hair. Going on the radio to chat with local radio star Gary Graham about his storm-chasing trips? Hm. Not exactly how he wanted to spend his free time.

“Come on, Billy, it’ll be fun.”

Jeff pursed his lips, turning the notion over in his head. Yeah, probably not the kind of fun he had suddenly found himself wanting to have with the radio man. But...

But he couldn’t resist the urge to spend some more time with him. In person.

“Yeah, okay,” Jeff said. “I’ll call.”

“Great!” Gary exclaimed. “So, ketchup or—”

Without responding, Jeff hung up.

After making his way back across the room, he flung himself onto the bed and let himself become lost in Gary’s voice.

***

When Gary’s radio show ended about one hour later, Jeff’s muscles were practically screaming from exhaustion, and he was still fighting to keep his eyes from fluttering closed, as he had been every couple of minutes since hanging up the phone. For the last hour, Jeff had continued to listen to the mind-numbing music of WKbr only so that he could hear Gary’s voice between songs. Each blip of Gary-commentary lasted less than thirty seconds (with the exception of the eight minutes he had spent talking about the upcoming events in town), and yet, somehow, Jeff couldn’t help but feel like it was worth it. During one of the brief commercial breaks, Gary had been crowing about a few local businesses, and, fucking hell , the sound of his voice had nearly sent Jeff over the edge. If he’d been feeling more energetic, he could have probably finished himself to the way Gary had said, “Come check out the new ceramic center! Thirty percent off of everything this weekend!” Wasted potential, that voice of his.

Now a little less intoxicated than he was earlier, Jeff dragged himself out of bed, stumbled across the room, and picked up the phone to schedule that interview, hoping he wouldn’t regret it in the morning. Gary answered right away.

“Hello?”

“Hey. I’m calling to set up that interview. ”

Gary sucked in a breath, loud enough that Jeff could hear it over the phone.

“Billy McCoy. Good to hear from you.”

Jeff snorted. Jesus. Still oblivious.

“ Bronco Billy ,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

Even though Gary couldn’t see him, Jeff still shook his head. “Billy McCoy is the stuntman in Bronco Billy .”

“Wait, with Clint Eastwood?”

“Right.”

“Oh! Is it because I called you Eastwood earlier?”

“Yeah.”

Gary started to laugh. “Oh my God! He was a shoe salesman too, wasn’t he?”

“Only took you...” Jeff looked over at the clock, furrowing his brow as he tried to work out the math in his head. “... seven hours to figure it out.”

“Geez, everyone in Niles must think I’m thick in the head,” Gary lamented.

“Nah, I think they’re convinced that there’s some severe-weather fanatic named Billy McCoy living here now.”

“What’s your real name, then?”

“Jeff.”

“Do you have a last name too?”

“Russo.”

“Well, Jeff Russo, when can you come in for an interview?”

“Live?”

“Whatever you want. I have to warn you, though, that my time is pretty limited. I try to stay busy. Except for a couple of hours on the weekends.”

Running a hand over his face, Jeff took a pause to consider the options. Recording was probably the better of the two. He’d be nervous enough to speak to Gary without the whole city of Niles listening in. Or however many people listened to Gary’s bullshit station.

“Recording, I think. I nearly said shit earlier.”

“Oh boy.”

“Isn’t it . . . risky to take live calls?”

“Well, yeah, but I think you’re the first person under the age of fifty to call in for, like, a year. I’m not too worried that Annabelle Craig will slip up and say ‘fuck’ on the air.”

“You think Annabelle Craig fucks?”

Gary sputtered a laugh, one so boisterous that it had Jeff smiling a bit too.

“You know, with her husband passing last year, I want to say no, but I’ve seen that fellow who owns the pharmacy—Tom Mitchell?—in her shop way too many times over the last month. He cannot possibly be purchasing that much yarn.”

Jeff huffed a laugh. “Are you ?”

“Am I purchasing that much yarn? Uh, no, but if I stop by once or twice a week, Annabelle will kick in a couple of bucks for advertisements. She’ll call in sometimes too, which makes me feel less silly when I say something like ‘who here in Niles prefers potato salad with mayonnaise instead of vinegar?’ because I’m always a tad worried that no one will call in, especially at ten.”

“Who makes potato salad with vinegar?”

“Uhm, me.”

“Sounds terrible. ”

“It’s perfection.”

“It’s potato salad .”

“Well, when we meet for our interview, I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

Unnervingly enough, the thought of seeing Gary in person was making Jeff’s stomach flip-flop strangely.

Fighting to keep the excitement from his voice, Jeff said, “Sure you will.”

“Well, if you want me to cook for you, that means I won’t be able to meet earlier than one o’clock next Saturday. I’ll need time to make the potatoes.”

Gary really wanted to cook for him. Dear God.

Nervous excitement still swirling inside him, Jeff shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and one of his hands began to play with the phone cord, wrapping it around and around his index finger.

“Uh, yeah, one thirty’d work.”

“Great!” Gary said, his voice filled with such energy and optimism that Jeff’s palms were starting to sweat, some irritating physical manifestation of his unease. He wiped his free hand on his pants as Gary continued. “Say, thanks for calling in earlier to correct my nonsense. And for calling now too.”

“Yeah, well...” Jeff trailed off, nervousness clawing up his throat.

“I’m sorry for the French fries before, at the mall. I mean, I shouldn’t have been throwing them, but Mel—she’s the friend I was with—well, she was...”

“Annoying you?” Jeff tried.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Pretending to scoff, Jeff said, “I had no idea you were even capable.”

“Of being annoyed? Of course I am. I know I’m the seemingly unflappable host of Tell Me S’more and Graham’s Flour Hour , but that’s only for show.”

“I’ve never heard you sound the least bit pissy.”

“I can’t let myself be negative on the air. Not many people’d listen to me. ”

Continuing to turn the phone cord between his fingers, Jeff said, “ I might be more inclined to.”

“Hah, right. What’ll that sad saga be called? Maybe something like ‘ This is the Way the Cookie Crumbles ’?”

Jeff nearly rolled his eyes. “Always with the food. Why is that?”

“Two things,” Gary began. “One, my last name is Graham, and honestly, I’m not that creative. Once I thought of the name Graham Cracker, that was, like, ninety-five percent of my creativity ration for the year, so I thought I’d better run with some graham cracker-related programs. And two, everyone likes food.”

“Hm.”

“Everyone likes food, everyone eats food. Food brings people together. Look, how many times have you found yourself invited to some sort of event and the first thing you think about is whether or not there’ll be something worthwhile to eat? Always. I mean, wedding? Hope they have cake. Church? Let’s see what they have for coffee hour. Voting? Gee, I hope Mrs. Schmidt brought her famous chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. Frankly, I couldn’t care less about the local candidates. I’m more worried about whether Mrs. Schmidt will remember to put the chocolate chips in the batter since she’s three hundred years old.”

“You’re off by two hundred years or so.”

“You’re right, she’s five hundred and she smells like moth balls and still her cookies are the best I’ve ever had.”

Jeff smiled to himself. Apparently, Gary Graham the Radio Man could be pretty fucking funny when he wasn’t busy trying to cater to the bland-as-white-bread listeners of WKbr.

“I’ll have to try one sometime.”

“I could probably sweet talk her into making a batch for Saturday.”

Strangely nice, that Gary Graham .

“Okay.” Jeff craned his neck to check the time on the clock radio on his bed once more. “Don’t you have to be up in seven hours?”

“Six. I can’t hop straight on the radio before I’ve even had my coffee. I need to cobble together some topics each morning too. Well, cobble or cobbler .” He paused and made a noise that sounded like a mixture between a chuckle and a sigh. “Sorry. Can’t turn off the word play sometimes. You know, I think I will ask about cobbler tomorrow, which means that I have one task out of the way already. So, uh, I’m okay to chat some more if—”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Peachy. I’m—”

“On Stillwagon Road.”

“How’d you know?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Was it weird that he had come home from his shift and immediately looked up Gary in the phone book? It wasn’t like Gary Goddamn Graham hadn’t wanted to be found. He had even put a little advertisement for the radio station in there.

“Phone book.”

“Right. Hold on.” Suddenly, there was a loud thud. “Okay, let’s see now . . . Russo . . .”

“Are you . . . looking me up?”

“Only fair.” Rustling of pages. “Oh, wow! Shadow Ridge! Not too far from me. I wonder why we haven’t run into each other before. I bike past your house sometimes.”

Jeff had seen him before. He just hadn’t known that the fine-looking man who liked to zoom through Niles every day on a bicycle was the same man who ran WKbr. A crystal-clear image of Gary’s ass in bike shorts flitted into Jeff’s mind, and he shook his head a couple of times like an Etch A Sketch, trying to clear it, but it was useless. God , that man was beautiful. Silky-looking brown hair, slightly wavy. Bright-green eyes. Thick black-framed specs that were the nerdiest fucking choice of eyewear on the planet.

“Hello?” Gary said.

And, of course, that low, velvety, radio-ready voice.

“Sorry.” Jesus Christ, he was not inebriated enough to let himself masturbate to Gary Goddamn Graham. Again. “I’m... tired.”

“Me too. I’ll see you Saturday, Billy McCoy.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

As soon as Jeff replaced the receiver, he reached up to massage his temples, trying to force the lingering Gary-related thoughts from his mind. Gary was too cute, too nerdy, too nice for him to like. Nothing could or should happen between them. Because Gary’d end up hurt and then Jeff would feel like shit.

Nope.

No way in hell he was letting himself like Gary Goddamn Graham.