Get a fucking grip, man. This wasn’t the end of the world. Sure, Mabel wouldn’t be happy with the changes, but she’d understand that the decision hadn’t involved him. And they were in a good place. At dinner tonight, he’d explain that his job literally forbade him from giving her a warning and that Brandon had brushed off his attempts to change his mind.
It would work out. It had to.
Thirteen
Having been summoned by a nervous, sweaty Skip, Mabel and Dave walked into the conference room, which was filled with their grim-faced coworkers. Brandon sat at the head of the table, finishing a phone call, Jake to his right.
As she and Dave slid into seats at the opposite end of the room, she bit back a smile at Jake’s somber, I’m-a-fancy-big-city-accountant expression. He wasso damn cute.Relief that they were still moving in the same direction after the tumult of Saturday night displaced her apprehension over this meeting. Maybe she could convince him to skip dinner entirely and go straight to her place after work.
With an obnoxious clearing of his throat, Brandon called the meeting to order and interrupted her pleasant train of thought.
“Thank you for coming in this morning, and Skip, thanks for voice tracking the next hour so we can all meet. As you all know, I’ve been acting as the general manager since Lowell Consolidated Media officially acquired this radio station back in July, and I’ll continue to do so for the next few months until I hire a full-time replacement and return to Lowell headquarters in Detroit.” His gaze swept the room, taking in the expectant faces of his new employees one by one. Then his voice sharpened. “Now, let’s talk about some changes.”
Mabel gripped her hands together tightly in her lap and exchanged nervous glances with her coworkers. Their period of post-sale calm was about to end. The question they’d all been worried about for months was how much turmoil Brandon was about to introduce.
“Starting this week,” Brandon said, “we’ll put out a recruiting call for female fans of the show to join our team of Brick Babes. They’ll dress in station shirts, show up at our public events, mingle with the fans, give everyone a good time.”
The implication of what Brandon was saying moved slowly through Mabel’s brain. “Wait, so—”
Brandon interrupted her. “The Babe program is a huge success at several of our other stations, particularly with male listeners. We can increase the number of station appearances, drive up overall attendance, goose alcohol sales at the bar events. It’ll be a crucial extension of the station brand.”
Dave sniffed from the seat next to her. “Let me guess,” he said. “Only the hottest women need apply? No T-shirts larger than an extra small will be available?”
“You got it.” Brandon pointed a jaunty finger gun at him. “It’s pandering, but dammit, it works.”
Tracy, the raven-haired overnight deejay, leaned forward now, tatted-up arms crossed over her chest. “Are you saying we’re going to pack our events with women in tight T-shirts to get more men to show up?” Disdain dripped from her voice.
“Now, now, no judgment. Nothing wrong with a group of attractive ladies mingling with fans. Men are our main listener demographic after all.” Brandon beamed like a barker at a carnival. “Tell your friends at the body-piercing studio. Our listeners love a good septum ring.”
Tracy’s hand flew up to cover the barbell in her nose. She and Mabel exchanged appalled glances as one of the advertising staff muttered, “You’vegotto be kidding.”
Brandon plowed ahead. “The Brick Babes are a key part of this next bit of exciting news. The station’s organizing a trip to Jamaica in January for its listeners. The Babes will go, and some of the deejays too, interacting with listeners for the five-day trip. Lowell has arranged events like this for its other stations, and it’s always a huge success. The station splits the profits with the travel agency that organizes it, we give away an all-expenses-paid trip for one or two lucky listeners while the rest of them book at a set rate. Our ratings go up, our fans get access to their favorite deejays and a bevy of hot women in a tropical climate, and a lucky few of you will get a paid vacation in January. It’s win-win.”
Brandon looked around the table, obviously expecting enthusiasm. But Skip looked like he was witnessing a slow-motion car crash, and Dave was so tense that Mabel could practically feel him vibrating in his chair.
“And what about playlist control?” Dave asked. “Will we still be choosing our own music?”
Brandon hesitated, which Mabel took as a bad sign. “Within reason,” he said finally. “But before I answer that, I want to talk about some staffing changes.”
The tension around the room ratcheted even higher, including with Jake, if Mabel was reading the strain around his eyes correctly.
“You’ve all met Jake by now.” Brandon gestured to the man at his side, and yep, Mabel had read his expression correctly. He was braced for something bad. Oh God. “For the past several weeks I’ve had Jake combing through the station’s numbers: ratings, polling results, ad dollars, appearances. You name it, he’s looked at it, quantified it, and put it in reports for me. I can tell who’s performing well and who could be better. So let’s start with Roman. Would you like to make your announcement?”
Across the table from her, the afternoon-drive deejay stood up and ran a trembling hand over his suspiciously black hair. “I’m calling it quits, boys and girls. I’ve had thirty-two good years at this station, and I’ll miss you all. ButMr. Lowell”—venom crept into Roman’s voice as he cut his eyes to Brandon—“made it clear that the station’s heading in a direction that I just can’t follow. Good luck, pals. It’s been a joy.”
With that, the Brick’s longest employee turned and left the conference room, squeezing Tracy’s shoulder on his way by.
Tracy was the one to break the stunned silence. “So who’s going on afternoon drive?”
Their resident black-clad curmudgeon sounded uncharacteristically hopeful, which Mabel understood immediately. Tracy liked the night shift, which suited her hard-edged persona, but this would be a higher-profile gig and better hours to boot, so of course she’d be interested.
“Well, let’s start with who’s staying put. Tracy, we’re increasing your on-air time, so you’ll start broadcasting at seven p.m. rather than eight p.m., and you’ll run until midnight. Skip, your shift will end at three p.m. rather than four p.m. But the big change we’re making is splitting up Dave and Mabel, keeping Dave on mornings and moving Mabel to afternoon drive, three to seven p.m.”
That announcement prompted gasps around the table followed by a heavy silence, which Mabel broke a few seconds later with a sharp laugh. She glanced at Dave, expecting him to join in her incredulity over what was obviously a bad joke, but his stricken face dried up her laughter. She whipped around to face Brandon.
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, Dave and I are a team,” she said, flicking a finger back and forth between the two of them. “We’re themorning show. It’s what we were hired to do.”
“Not kidding,” Brandon said. “And as a reminder, your contracts don’t specify what shows, shifts, or partners you’re assigned to, only that you’re an at-will employee of WNCB who’s got a two-year noncompete with any competitor broadcast outlet in a forty-mile radius.”
