Free Morning Man by Barbara Kellyn

drawer and proceeded to hunt for something.
    Dayna carefully lifted the base of the vase and moved the lilies to the corner of her workspace. “Great show today, partner.”
    “Uh-huh.” He continued rifling through the drawer until he came up with his stopwatch. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he clicked it on and off repeatedly to test it.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothin’,” he said with a brooding tone. He stood up and reached for the handle of his mug with his free hand. “You heard the kid. I’ve got spots to do.”
    Dumbfounded, she bit her lip and silently watched him leave again. Who pissed in his Froot Loops?
    * * * *
    Tack stayed focused on filling his gut with coffee, although there was a lot weighing on his mind. Like who the hell had sent flowers to Dayna. Probably that skeevy piece of shit she was shacked up with who never deserved a quality woman like her in the first place. Of course, what gave him the right to feel possessive? He barely knew her at all, and yet, he already wanted to know everything about her.
    There was also the uncomfortable encounter in the control room with Dub, who hadn’t even made eye contact as he replaced him behind the console during the top-of-the-hour shift change. Although Tack wasn’t certain, it sure sounded like he mumbled something like, “That girl’s only going to bring you down.” He sloughed off his former co-host’s petty resentment and hoped that Dub would get over it soon.
    But the guy from the alley haunted him most. What was his story? Where was he going? Would he be back for that box if it belonged to him? What was in it? Tack had no idea why he’d felt so much compassion for this particular fellow, but he had a hard time shaking the idea that somehow, he needed to help him. And who had the time for that?
    He reached the bottom of the basement stairs and shouldered the production studio door open. “All right, all right, I’m here.”
    Elliott, producer extraordinaire, wheeled his chair from one side of his high-tech soundboard to the other, snatched two scripts and handed them over. “I can’t believe it! Tack Collins is gracing my studio with his presence. Wow, can I get your autograph? Huh? Pretty please?”
    “Right after you kiss my ass,” he sneered, skimming over one script for the Ford dealer and the other promoting his weekly appearance at the Roadhouse’s Suds ‘n’ Spuds Night. He scanned it closer and realized it had been written as a two-voicer with Dayna. “Uh…El? This isn’t the usual copy.”
    “Nope, ’cause it ain’t your usual spot. You’re cutting it with your better half.”
    He grumbled. “As usual, I’m the last to find out anything around here.”
    “Let’s just lay down the first script now and I’ll call her down in a few.”
    Tack set down his mug and trudged into the recording booth. He picked up the headphones on the wooden stool next to the boom stand, put them on and took a seat. Positioning himself a dollar bill’s length away from the microphone, he cleared his throat and did a quick read-through of the dealer ad. Elliott flicked on the talkback switch. “Sounds good in here, Tackman. Whenever you’re ready.”
    The script in one hand and his stopwatch in the other, he sat up straight, puffed out his lungs and put on his official announcer voice, running flawlessly through the thirty-second commercial. His stopwatch froze at thirty-two-point-seven seconds. “Shit.”
    “You dragged a bit on that middle part,” Elliott said. “Let’s go again.”
    The second time, he stumbled over the enunciation of a sticky word near the bottom of the copy, but nailed it on the third take. He blew out a gust of air and his posture slackened as Miss Cook wafted into the studio like a perky puff of cotton candy.
    With a silly grin, Elliott did a three-hundred-and-sixty degree spin in his seat. “Dayna, Dayna bo-bayna…banana-fana, fo-fayna…fee-fi-mo-mayna. Dayna!”
    Her face lit up. “Hello,