The door to my office opens and the station manager, Quincy Kilborne, comes in. A long-time veteran of the radio game, Quincy’s been a strong supporter of my show from the beginning. Today, though, he looks pissed.
“What the hell’s going on in here? Why are you two yelling at each other when the show starts in an hour?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at us like we’re misbehaving children.
I swallow back an eruption of rage and stifle my voice. “Susannah played recordings of my private conversations on air. Last night’s show . . . I didn’t make those recordings and I damn sure didn’t give my permission to air them.”
“Is that true?” Quincy asks, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s be clear, we’re talking about a possible felony accusation here. What happened yesterday?”
“He . . .” Susannah says, her mask of self-control faltering as she stutters slightly. “You heard it. I played it. He gave permission to play those recordings. Go back and listen, you’ll see.”
Quincy looks at me, but before he can even ask, I’m all over it. “Bullshit. That was an edited soundbite. The whole damn thing was edited. I left during the pre-show meeting yesterday in a hurry.”
“Yeah,” Susannah scoffs. “Running off to go see your fuck buddy instead of working, just like you have every day for weeks. So typical of you these days. I’ve been covering for you every damn day.”
Quincy looks between us, and I can see it in his eyes that he doesn’t believe Susannah either. Who would? I fucking hope Kat doesn’t. “I went to the hospital to see my dad,” I explain. “He had a heart attack. He called during the pre-show and I ran to meet the ambulance at the hospital. I didn’t have time to explain. I was in a panic. Call the damn hospital. I spent the whole night there. Fire me if you need to for bailing, but the bigger problem here is how Susannah got the recordings. Those were private.”
Susannah starts to fidget in her seat for a few moments. “Well?” Quincy asks. “How did you get those conversations?”
“I recorded them!” Susannah finally explodes after seeing the silent act isn’t going to work. “You’re sitting there in the studio every night, just winging the whole damn thing by the seat of your Jockeys while I’m prepping the music, the emails, the next caller. Meanwhile, you’re fucking off talking to your latest and greatest. Fuck that. We had something good going when you were single, or at least you were focused on the show and helping me make it great.”
“Wait . . . but how’s that possible?” I fume back. “And yeah, I admitted to you I wasn’t giving a hundred percent. I apologized for that. But I was still pulling my weight. The show’s been doing fine and that’s no fucking excuse!”
“Because I’m picking up your slack!” Susannah screams. “I’m the one who sets up the callers. I’m the one who does the music. I’m the one who chooses the emails. I’m the one who does every fucking thing this show needs except, of course, milk your fucking cock when you want it milked! And for that, what do I get? You texting your goddamn girlfriend while I’m busting my ass!”
“Susannah, I already apologized—”
“Stick your apology up your ass!” Susannah screams. “I do all the work, and somehow you get to waltz in, drop some Barry White smooth tones and lame advice, and you get all the credit. The damn show’s even named after you. I’m not even a fucking side note. I’m the one carrying the whole show on my shoulders, working to get us into syndication and studio deals, and I barely get anything! ANYTHING!”
“What you do get is invading my privacy,” I seethe, my voice dropping to an enraged calmness. “I talked it over with a friend, pulled the archives of the show. That wasn’t just phone calls, and it wasn’t stuff I did in the studio. At least three of the clips you played were things I did in my apartment on my time. How the fuck did you do that?”
Susannah says nothing, crossing her arms over her chest. “I want a lawyer. This is sexual harassment.”
Quincy speaks up. “If anyone has a case for harassment, it’s Derrick. Can I see your phone?” he says, nodding to me.
I’m hesitant for a second, considering what’s just happened with my phone, but I hand it over and he starts tapping at the screen. He hands it to me, showing me the task manager with something running in the background I’ve never installed. “Uh-huh . . . thought so. Wouldn’t have had a damn clue how to check this, but saw it on TV the other day. She must’ve installed this on your phone somehow.”