Page 6 of Out of the Storm

Gary shook his head. “I really can’t bring myself to list out the local tragedies right before bedtime.”

“Maybe scrap it altogether, then.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

When they reached Mel’s midnight-blue Buick Skyhawk, she unlocked the passenger door before circling over to the driver’s side. Gary slipped inside, and as soon as he’d buckled in, he began rubbing his hands together to warm them. Once Mel was in her seat, she tossed her shopping bag over her shoulder into the back. When she moved to start the engine, Gary leaned over and tapped the wheel with two fingers.

“Hey, now, safety first,” he chided. “Seat belt.”

“God, Gary, you need to chill,” she said, though she still reached for her seat belt.

Gary clicked his tongue. “I’m chilly enough in this pathetic parka.” He blew on his hands to make a point. “Where’d you find this thing?”

“In the basement. It was probably my uncle Mark’s.”

“I think its efficiency is waning with age.” Gary frowned. “Olive green. Makes me look like I served in the military.”

“Maybe Billy Boy liked that,” Mel teased. “Mmm...a man in uniform.”

“Well, then he’ll be crushed to learn that I’m a conscientious objector,” he shot back, a playful hitch in his voice.

As Mel pulled out of the parking space, Gary started strumming his fingers on the seat. Thirty minutes until showtime. No time to study the newspapers or even sift through the various pamphlets and flyers that he had found in his mailbox this morning. He’d have to wing the news portion of the program. Which wouldn’t be a problem, necessarily, since everyone in Niles who listened to his programs was plentychill, as Mel liked to say. His regular listenersseemed happy enough to have a local radio personality, even if he flubbed it from time to time.

After Mel dropped him off, Gary went inside to prepare for the show. In the studio room, he took out a couple of records he’d play, balanced the stack of mail on the edge of the table where he kept his notes, and then thumbed through the encyclopedia for some ketchup-related trivia he could share with listeners.

Almost time.

Once everything was situated, Gary relaxed back in his chair, letting out a long breath to steady his nerves. Somehow, even though he’d been a radio personality for four years now, he still felt nervous before starting a show.

Three minutes left.

Gary spent the entirety of it thinking back on the chat he’d had with Billy in the food court, his mind lingering on Billy’s barely-smile—the one that had seemed to say Billy had been messing with him in some way, though Gary couldn’t figure out how. What on earth was funny about selling shoes in New Jersey? Was Billy trying to razz him about theshoes he had been wearing? Gary looked over toward the shoe rack and studied his beat-up pair of high-top sneakers. Fairly standard—white with a couple of red stripes. Was there something funny there? If so, he couldn’t figure it out.

Dismissing the thought, Gary pulled the microphone closer and proceeded to startTell Me S’more. He found himself wondering whether Billy would call in. He really hoped so.

Chapter Two

Jeff

After 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 clearzzzppsound,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 hadalwayshad 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—

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