Page 3 of Can't Help Growling in Love
I grin at her in thanks, and she leaves, shutting the insulated door leading to the entryway behind her. I stare after her for a moment, wondering how I’ll replicate this exact setup at home. The station has been perfect for getting my audiobook narration career off the ground, and Stella was happy to lend me the space in exchange for some admin work she wanted to offload anyway, but I knew from the start that I’d need to find a more permanent, private solution soon.
No time like the present.
I could find a studio to rent, though I have no clue if there’s another one in town, or build one in my house, insulate the spare bedroom. Or one of the basement rooms, next to my full moon setup. I’d be able to work from home, which would be pretty neat, even if Leo, my therapist, would disagree.
Going out every day helps, Asher. Routines are important, Asher.
He’s a great guy, but sometimes, his suggestions are in direct opposition to what I want to do, so I have a lot of imaginary arguments with him in my head.
I think of the promise I gave Stella yesterday, to not chase away any good women. What she doesn’t know is that I don’t have tochasethem away. They run all on their own.
I shake off the thought and readjust my headphones. They pinch a bit in my half form, but the author and publisher specifically requested that I narrate this entire book like this. I guess the listeners like how my voice drops half an octave, and the growl that naturally comes through when I shed my human skin.
It’s…a bit weird, honestly. I might like the increase in my per-finished-hour fee and the final sum in my bank account, but the private messages I get on my Damon Holt accountare sometimes over the top. It’s one thing to have a reader congratulate you on a job well done and totally different to get asked whether I’d be willing to record a personalized erotic story for someone to get off on.
Well, it’s notbadfor my ego, but I still like the anonymity of my pseudonym. In any case, I haven’t deleted my social media accounts yet, much to the publisher’s relief. I share audiobook releases, congratulate the authors I work with, and sometimes repost audiobook reviews if they’re more focused on the story than mysexy voice.
Dragging my thoughts away from my fans, I take a sip of water, purse my lips, and do abrrrrsound, warming up. Then I read out a paragraph of the book I’ve already done to get myself in the zone and finally hit the red button to start recording.
Forty minutes later, I’ve done not one but two chapters, and with minimal errors, too. I’ll have to go back in and listen for anything I might have missed, but I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got.
I put my tablet away and move over to the other fishtank-like recording room, where Natalie was working earlier. The first thing I do is lower the thermostat—Natalie loves to crank it up to its highest setting. Something about the snakes on her head liking the heat. I shift to my human form, but even then, the stuffy air is too much for me, so I use the remaining time I have before I need to take over the mic to air out both studios. After a few hours of recording, it gets pretty dank in there, especially since the whooshing from the air-conditioning ruins any sound clips we make.
Standing at the open front door to prop it open, I pull my phone from my pocket to check my emails and notifications. It’s permanently on silent, all the pings and buzzes turned off. Not just because of the studio rules but because they drove me nuts. After I left the Army, I had to get used to living a quiet life, andsomehow, any sounds the phone made killed that inner peace that Leo talked about.
I scroll through my feed, half-heartedly liking posts from other narrators, then thumb over to my direct messages. There’s a thank-you from an author telling me her audiobooks are doing great, to which I respond, “That’s great, I’m glad.” A repost from my publisher, complete with heart emojis. I send them a blue heart, which I was taught expresses appreciation and respect without romantic involvement. I delete a message request that includes way too many eggplant emojis for me to even open it, then stall on a request that begins with “Hi Damon, I just wanted to say…”
The user is listed as @juniper_reader, and their display pic is a photo of a shore. Innocuous enough, so I tap the message open.
Hi Damon, I just wanted to say I’m a big fan. I love how you portrayed Carter inMated to the Werewolves! But I was wondering—and please forgive me if I’m completely off—but do you maybe work at a radio station in Harmony Glen? There’s a guy who hosts a late-night program, Asher, whose voice is really similar to yours. Anyway, I’m really sorry if this isn’t you, but if it is, you have a fan club of nurses at the Harmony Glen ER. We’re all lovingSense and Sensibility. Thanks for everything you do!
My heart stops, then thumps so hard, I feel it in my throat, my head, my fucking eyeballs.
They know.
Whoever this Juniper is, they’ve figured me out, even though I never appeared on Monster Tunes in my half form. I step inside the studio and bolt the front door, working on autopilot. I’m having a panic attack, and I need to make sure I’m safe before I collapse, so I drag my body to the wall and slide down next to it, tucking my head between my knees.
I close my eyes and count to four to inhale, hold my breath for a count of three, then release for four. A few breath cycles later, I peer at the phone still clutched in my fist. It’s a wonder I didn’t crush it—it’s happened before when I lost control like this.
But maybe this isn’t a full-blown meltdown. Imayhave caught myself in time—or else Leo’s therapy is working, which he’ll be very smug about. I wipe my sweaty forehead on my arm, wincing at the nervous scent I’m giving off. Even with my human-shape nose, I can tell the studio will smell rank by the time my shift is over.
Leo would say that this is just a coincidence, but I don’t believe in those. This is just another stab of bad luck that seems to follow me around everywhere I go.
Several long minutes later, I have myself under control to the point that I can push away from the wall, stand on shaky legs, and hobble over to the bathroom to wash my face. While I’m at it, I strip my sweaty t-shirt and wash myself quickly, then put on a dry sweatshirt from the pile of clean clothes I keep in my locker so I’m at least presentable. Not that anyone is dropping by the station in the middle of the night, but you never know.
I settle into the routine of getting ready for my radio slot. I cue up more songs after the commercial break, Led Zeppelin, Tina Turner, and an instrumental cover of Metallica’s ‘Nothing Else Matters,’ just to soothe my nerves. I brew a cup of tea, skipping coffee because caffeine never helps if I’m already jittery, and stress-eat half a bag of beef jerky. I guiltily add an apple on top of that because my doc has been on my case to diversify my diet.
Every time she peers at me over the top of her wire-framed glasses and asks if I’ve been eating well, I cringe. In the Army, I worked out constantly because we always had to be in top shape, but since I got out, I’ve gained a few pounds. I run in the forest behind my house several times a week, and I’ve just finishedinstalling the gym in my basement, but I’m definitely nowhere near my form from a few years ago.
The message request is still waiting on my phone. I take my seat in front of the microphone, suck in several deep breaths, and record the opening lines to my slot, introducing myself and letting the listeners know I’m taking over from Natalie. I usually do this live, but tonight, I don’t trust myself not to fuck up the familiar words.
No two radio stations do things the same way, but Stella’s insistence that our listeners form a connection to the hosts has never grated more. Well, there’s no use being upset about it now, I guess. This Juniper has already figured me out, so hiding is pointless.
As our theme music tinkles through the speakers, I wonder if Stella would mind if I just played rock all night long and skipped the Jane Austen reading, as well as the news section.
Yes, yes she would most definitely mind.
She’s the one who preps the local news text and sends it to each of the hosts before the start of their shift. I usually enjoy reading that, too, because she picks good news stories to include but doesn’t shirk away from the more difficult topics either.Since she’s as reclusive as most trolls, she never actually appeared on air. I have no idea why she founded the radio station in the first place, but she likes to run things from behind the scenes.
