Page 1 of Beautiful Disaster

One

Desiree King

“Thank you for tuning in, my little forlorn lovers. Just a reminder, this is Desiree King, and I am the Queen of Hearts. My phone is lit up tonight. I suppose it’s only natural since V-day is in a week, and it’s safe to say a lot of you are calling in looking for love. Caller number one, you’re on the line.”

Before I answer this call, let me just tell you a bit about myself. You got that my name is Desiree and that I am obviously a radio talk show host of the wildly popular Queen of Hearts. It is my civic duty tohelp people open themselves to love, whether it be a woman looking for a man and vice versa or same sex. I just don’t deal with the psychos who have a love affair with their pets, that’s just fucking sick and twisted. Yeah, I don’t play the bestiality card. Now, some of these callers want me to perform miracles, but I can only do so much. I can’t force people to fall in love; I can only give them advice. So, here goes.

“Hello, caller - I will call you‘caller’since you wish to remain anonymous.” Safe to say this is the same man that calls in weekly. He calls himself anonymous; I call him desperate.

“Hi, yeah, Queen Desiree?” Yup, that’s him, always calls me Queen. He sounds young, he’s got a magnificent voice, but he’s mildly pathetic. Listen to this. “So, I, uh-did what you told me to. I went to Ella’s workplace, flowers, poetry, you name it.” I never told him to bring flowers and poetry, so now this man needs tough love; but I prefer not to humiliate him on the air and remain calm.

“Oh, dear, what happened?” I had to ask, although I sensed I already knew the answer to my question.

“She agreed to go on one date,” the man groaned, “I texted her, waited a couple of days for a response. I got the courage to call her and went to voicemail.”

I asked with feigned concern, “She ghosted you?”

The man seriously broke down in tears. I’m sure my question was blunt; however, I called it like I saw it. He creeped the girl out, hence, why she ghosted him. Poor guy, eventually some sad sack will pull him into her heart.

He growled, “You’re a sham, you know that. I follow your rules every fucking week and still have yet to make a love connection, you know?”

I had a mind to set the man straight, but not on the air. I texted my radio director, Randy. ‘From this point forward, block this man’s calls.”

Let him vent. Okay, I’ve had enough colorful language thrown at me; I had to disconnect the call.

“Hello, caller number two, this is Desiree, are you open to love?” The calls were essentially the same over the next hour. They met a mate and the relationship failed, blah blah blah. Or they had issues finding the perfect mate. Divorce... cheating... the same problems turned up in every show.

These listeners have no idea I’m a fraud. I’m as single as they come and share a condominium here in Vegas with my two Siamese cats—Si and Am. Don’t judge, I am a Disney fanatic and have watched Lady and the Tramp a jillion times. Yeah, I engage in casual sex, though nothing ever stemmed from it, since I was the one doing the ghosting. I don’t hate men; I have a fear of commitment, knowing a perfect mate is something dreamers only think of. I am a realist, more the Queen of Bullshit than the Queen of Hearts.

Even though my radio show is not until early in the evening, I still have work to do at the office. I loathe most of the people there and only tolerate them. Well, shit, if they didn’t feel the need to talk behind my back, spreading blasphemy about my sex life, perhaps they’d give me reason to like them. According to them, I am The Queen of Ménage à trois. As if! That is only a fantasy, I’ve never been with more than one man at any time.

The last time I was intimate was a year ago with my ex-fiancé. The fucking dickhead dumped me with the adage, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Who seriously used that excuse to break up? I should shoot them. Anyway, I wasted no tears on that man and moved on with my pathetically boring life. I work five days a week, I work out four days a week. I drink beer, stuff my face with chips and salsa, all while streaming whatever dumb movie seven days a week.

People see me—a hot chick who rides a bike— and they assume I am a raving slut who hits up biker bars to feed my insatiable sexual appetite. There are no biker bars here in Vegas and other bikers are super respectful men with women. I’d rather have a few drinks and shoot the shit with them than sleep with them.

My story is not about my sex life or lack thereof; it is about a woman who has yet to find the perfect mate for any of my listeners, much less herself. Welcome to the world of Desiree King, the ‘LONELY’ Queen of Hearts.

Two

Desiree

“Hey Millie!” I called my secretary’s name. Don’t tell her I call her that, as she prefers Administrative Specialist or Assistant, but who cares? She is my secretary, simple; admittedly, it’s more appropriate than calling her my bitch. When I leaned over her desk, I pulled her earbuds out of her ears, “Any new messages in the last hour?” I asked until she held her palm flat. “What?”

“Give me your phone, Dare! I put the messages on your Google calendar,” this girl had a mouth on her. It’s a good thing she was decent at her job, or I’d fire her based on her attitude alone. There is nothing significant in my calendar that I can see, except for a meeting in a half hour with the finance guru, Hardin Mills. It is funny, we work in the same building, yet I’ve only heard his voice, not to mention read his many emails. I’ve never met the man face to face.

“Since when did you need financial help from Mr. Boring Money Man?” Millie laughed. I was great with money; I hated spending it and have an 830-credit score. I supposed in this respect, I needed to learn a thing or two about investing some of this money I have stashed in savings, since I have no children to pass it down to.

My meeting with Mr. Mills was not for another hour, so I booted up my computer, onlyto see my ratings drop. Maybe the callers are figuring out I am a fraud. They have no clue I am fabricating my information 99.95% of the time. I am Las Vegas’s most eligible bachelorette and I’m sure that would signify to people I have no idea what the hell I am talking about. Out of curiosity, I tune into How to become a Finance Guru with Hardin Mills. The man has a sexy voice, and I am not falling asleep listening to callers ask about pensions, investing, college funds, etc. He is keeping this otherwise dry topic lively. His voice is giving me many stirrings you wouldn’t believe. But watch, he is probably some skinny, first-class nerd with allergies and glasses held up by scotch tape. I dialed my desk phone immediately and heard his voice with the thought that he obviously doesn't have many callers too jazzed to talk about money.

“Hello, caller, this Hardin, you’re on the air.”

Holy crap, that voice makes me melt in my seat. I needed to get my bearings in order not to sound like a deranged idiot. “Yes, hi, um, Hardin. I have a question.”

There was an awkward silence, until he cleared his throat, “Um, that’s what I’m here for. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Um, yes.” I had to use a fake accent. “My name is Inga, ja. I’m from Deutschland, JA. I vant to know vat I need to do to bring my credit up. Herr Schmidt divorced me and fucked; I mean messed my credit up. I am here at the dealership to buy a Volkswagen GTI. Please help.”

“Unfortunately, bringing your credit up will not take minutes, Inga. You either need to take the bus or deal with a high interest rate until you bring your credit up and refinance the car.” Whatever he said went in one ear out the other, all I heard was the droning of his deep voice reverberating through my skull.

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