“Oh, okay. That makes sense.”

“All right, I’m going to place you on hold.”

I quickly typed Monica’s information into the computer that transmitted the info to the DJs in the other room. Anything I typed would show up on the screen in front of them.

“MONICA, AGE 22—FIRST DATE WITH A GUY WHO WAS USING HER JUST TO GET TO HER ROOMMATE! ASSHOLE!”

Peering through the window that divided the on-air booth from the control room where I sat most mornings, I was excited to watch the guys talk to her. This kind of call was right up their alley. Tom read the screen first before glancing out at me, and made a funny face. I threw my hands up in the air in response and made a disgusted face, signaling that Monica’s date was a complete tool.

“Cammie! Cammie, get in here.”

Hearing my name, I snapped my gaze from the notepad I was currently doodling on. I looked through the window and into the booth where Tom and John sat staring at me. They did this to me on most mornings, included me in the show. The guys constantly needed material and I usually took the bait, volunteering to do crazy stunts, taking embarrassing photos for blog fodder, talking about the fact that I was still single, which was something they loved to bring up every chance they got. They tried to marry me off to practically every guest that stopped by. It never helped that the majority of them were musicians and singers, which meant we tended to be mutually not interested in each other.

“She’s not moving,” John said into the microphone, and his voice echoed in the speakers that surrounded me.

“I think she hates us,” Tom added with a smirk.

“She definitely hates us. Cammie, why do you hate us? Get in here!” John yelled again, and I begrudgingly pushed away from the desk and walked into the messy room.

Empty cans of soda and coffee cups were scattered over the tables and desks. A whiteboard was covered with scribbled notes of daily contests and upcoming guests that each DJ was to promote during their show, surrounded by opened bags of cookies and half-eaten doughnuts. It was a disaster area, to say the least, a place clearly run by men. Or not enough women.

Reaching for the spare pair of headphones, I slipped them over my ears and sat down at the lone microphone across from the guys that was usually reserved for guests. I found myself sitting there far too often.

“Hi, Cammie,” John said, trying to sound sweet, as if he hadn’t brought me in here to humiliate me.

“Hi, John.” I rolled my eyes and wondered exactly what they had been talking about before calling me in. I suddenly wished I’d been paying better attention.

“We were just wondering if you had a horrible first date story?”