A woman had done them wrong. A girlfriend had cheated. An ex refused to give the ring back. Only one caller admitted he would not request the ring back. The man didn’t want any reminders of the fiasco.
Dev l in’s feelings on the subject were as mixed as a pot of his late grandmother’s scrumptious Jambalaya . As the victim of a cheating woman, he knew how pa inful the betrayal could be. In fact, the sole purpose of him doing this show was to h elp men grow and learn from their experiences. Women had tons of magazines, talk shows, novels , and I nternet sites devoted to telling them how to overcome breakups, how to catch the man of their dreams, how to build their self-esteem, etcet era, e t cet era. Men had few avenues available to vent , o ther than hanging out with other men and asking for advice –which could be downright dangerous . Both his radio show and his blog column offered men viable solutions . Most guys were good at hear t, but clueless when it came to manipu lative women.
He heard a light tapping on the glass pane separating hi s sound studio from the offices in the main hallway . Ramon Aiello , his close friend and the s tation m anager stood on the other side signaling him through t he glass. As soon as Devlin went to commercial break, Ramon poked his head through the studio door. “Dev, it’s getting bad out there. You might want to pack up for the night.”
Houston was famous for its unpredictable thunderstorms . Even in the heavily insulated studio, Devlin could both see and hear the heavy rain bombarding the large glass windows that wrapped around the corner office studio where he hosted his radio show.
Fires in Heaven .
That’s what Devlin’s late grandmother called the eerie lightening like the kind dancing across the sky right now. His nana could smell a storm before it began, and when it finally arrived, she would hide in her bedroom, sitting in her rocker with a crotched blanket draped over her arthritic knees until it subsided. She passed away ten years ago, at the ripe old age of ninety, but he knew i f she were alive now, she’d be doing the very same thing.
Devlin removed his headphones and turned away from the brewing storm . “We’ve got a half an hour to go,” he told Ramon. “I want to try to stay on the air until the end.”
Ramon glanced at his watch, his green eyes narrowing beneath his thick brows. “I don’t think you have thirty minutes, bud. We’re under a flash flood warning now , and it’s supposed to hail. You’d better make a mad dash for the house .”
Devlin lived less than fi fteen minutes from the radio station in a quaint area of Houston called The Heights . He’d inherited his charming yellow and white cottage-style home from his nana . The house held not only nana’s antiques, but warm childhood memories as well. The only drawback was that there was no room in the small garage for his oversized pick-up truck, which was currently parked safely in the radio station’s parking garage. If it was still raining when he pulled into his driveway, Devlin would no doubt be soaked before he reached the swinging chair on his shade porch. “My listeners need me, Ramon. I can’t leave ‘ em hanging.”
“That’s why we have pre-recorded programming ,” Ramon reasoned . “ Put that sucker on auto-pilot and run thirty minutes of a repeat segment. Even better, catch a ride with me and we can chill at my place tonight . I’ ve got a case of Shiner Bock on ice. We can get shit-faced.”
Devlin laughed. Ramon had the quintessential bachelor pad, furnished primaril y with alcohol and two big screen T Vs. Devlin would love to cap off the evening with a beer or two–or three or four , b ut he felt he owed his listeners more than pre-recorded chit chat . Faithful fans didn’t want to hear a repeat performance . He was committed to providing quality. Ramon produced three other
Dev l in’s feelings on the subject were as mixed as a pot of his late grandmother’s scrumptious Jambalaya . As the victim of a cheating woman, he knew how pa inful the betrayal could be. In fact, the sole purpose of him doing this show was to h elp men grow and learn from their experiences. Women had tons of magazines, talk shows, novels , and I nternet sites devoted to telling them how to overcome breakups, how to catch the man of their dreams, how to build their self-esteem, etcet era, e t cet era. Men had few avenues available to vent , o ther than hanging out with other men and asking for advice –which could be downright dangerous . Both his radio show and his blog column offered men viable solutions . Most guys were good at hear t, but clueless when it came to manipu lative women.
He heard a light tapping on the glass pane separating hi s sound studio from the offices in the main hallway . Ramon Aiello , his close friend and the s tation m anager stood on the other side signaling him through t he glass. As soon as Devlin went to commercial break, Ramon poked his head through the studio door. “Dev, it’s getting bad out there. You might want to pack up for the night.”
Houston was famous for its unpredictable thunderstorms . Even in the heavily insulated studio, Devlin could both see and hear the heavy rain bombarding the large glass windows that wrapped around the corner office studio where he hosted his radio show.
Fires in Heaven .
That’s what Devlin’s late grandmother called the eerie lightening like the kind dancing across the sky right now. His nana could smell a storm before it began, and when it finally arrived, she would hide in her bedroom, sitting in her rocker with a crotched blanket draped over her arthritic knees until it subsided. She passed away ten years ago, at the ripe old age of ninety, but he knew i f she were alive now, she’d be doing the very same thing.
Devlin removed his headphones and turned away from the brewing storm . “We’ve got a half an hour to go,” he told Ramon. “I want to try to stay on the air until the end.”
Ramon glanced at his watch, his green eyes narrowing beneath his thick brows. “I don’t think you have thirty minutes, bud. We’re under a flash flood warning now , and it’s supposed to hail. You’d better make a mad dash for the house .”
Devlin lived less than fi fteen minutes from the radio station in a quaint area of Houston called The Heights . He’d inherited his charming yellow and white cottage-style home from his nana . The house held not only nana’s antiques, but warm childhood memories as well. The only drawback was that there was no room in the small garage for his oversized pick-up truck, which was currently parked safely in the radio station’s parking garage. If it was still raining when he pulled into his driveway, Devlin would no doubt be soaked before he reached the swinging chair on his shade porch. “My listeners need me, Ramon. I can’t leave ‘ em hanging.”
“That’s why we have pre-recorded programming ,” Ramon reasoned . “ Put that sucker on auto-pilot and run thirty minutes of a repeat segment. Even better, catch a ride with me and we can chill at my place tonight . I’ ve got a case of Shiner Bock on ice. We can get shit-faced.”
Devlin laughed. Ramon had the quintessential bachelor pad, furnished primaril y with alcohol and two big screen T Vs. Devlin would love to cap off the evening with a beer or two–or three or four , b ut he felt he owed his listeners more than pre-recorded chit chat . Faithful fans didn’t want to hear a repeat performance . He was committed to providing quality. Ramon produced three other
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