Rugged(21)

Shit. This isn’t just about my show anymore, or wiping that idiot smile off Tyler’s smug face. Flint’s putting his trust, his company, in my hands. Jeanine and Danny, they’re counting on this success as much as I am. Maybe more.

“You won’t give in,” I say, decisive. “We won’t.” He looks at me, kind of surprised. My head’s buzzing right now. My blood’s pumping faster, just thinking about how kickass I’m going to make this show. Like Mad Max, I’m a road warrior with a righteous cause, baby. “I’m not going to let you down, Flint. We’re going to turn this into the best damn sizzle reel the world has ever known. Men will testify in the streets to its perfection.” I raise my chin, prim but feisty. My favorite self-description. “We’ll get this show on the air, and we’ll save your business. All right?”

For the first time, I feel like he’s really looking at me, seeing all of me, and he smiles. My heart warms in my chest. Damn. The things we give up to get ahead.

“All right, Laurel,” he says. “Let’s get started.”





8


“You can’t see the ridge beam,” Flint says as we walk through the newest, most eastern wing of his house. He points at the ceiling. “It’s the centermost. The rafters all radiate out from that.” We’re in one of his gabled rooms, looking out onto the back yard. Flint told me he had just finished basic construction when the original buyer decided to pull out. As a result, he never got around to doing much with it. It’s a lot barer over here; no furniture, and plush gray carpeting just laid down. He knocks against the blank wall. “And, of course, there’s my world famous drywall technique. But you’ve already got that covered with the audition.”

“Great,” I say, then stop. “Hold on, battery’s running down.” My poor little camcorder is flashing a pitiful red light. “Let’s go back to the kitchen for a second.” Flint follows me downstairs. I grab my bag, pull out the charger, and plug my camera into the kitchen wall. It sucks all the electricity it can, probably enjoying its tasty little camcorder meal. I, er, like to anthropomorphize my stuff. “So. We got a few minutes to kill.”

“Taking a break?” he says, whistling. I hear Chance’s giant paws come thudding down the hallway towards us. “Let me take the beast out for a second. He needs a fast run in the afternoon, or he gets crazy at night.” Already, Chance is banging into cabinets and woofing at the sliding glass door.

“Sounds good,” I say, watching the two giants race outside and down the lawn toward the woods. Once Flint is out of sight, I finally let the smile disappear from my face. Just in time, too: my expression was so tightly controlled it was starting to give me a headache. I head to the fridge to get some water, trying to clear my mind.

Ever since I saw Flint’s store and met the employees the stakes have gotten, well, stakier. Knowing how much is riding on this, it put the whole thing in a sobering light. And there’s one big concern that I now have: this show doesn’t have a show. When I was wildly trying to get Flint to agree, I had a very simple concept of ‘rustic man teaches renovation.’ Cool idea, sure, but what ties the whole thing together? The wacky community? They’re fun, but we don’t want this to descend into sitcom levels of hilarity. The renovation itself? Sure, it’s useful, and women love staring at hot guys with huge work ethics, but there’s only so much time you can spend watching a roofing job.

I have to be honest with myself: I don’t know what the heart of the show is, what will keep people tuning in every week. And without the heart, all we’ve got are some fabulous abs. Good, sexy stuff; but not enough to hang thirteen episodes on. And it’s now Friday afternoon. Time is flying by, knocking me upside the head as it goes. That bastard.

I’m filling my glass and doing my best to think when I notice a little desk wedged into the corner, right between the fridge and the wall. Work station, probably for emergency moments when you get a breathtaking flash of an idea. I know how that feels, and can’t stop myself from taking a look. There’s a blueprint rolled up on top of the desk. Unable to help my curiosity, I unfurl the thing and find myself looking at the plan for another house. Tracing my hand over the drawing, my mouth falls open. I’m not handy in the slightest, but even I can tell this is a stunning design. I whistle softly as I look it over. It’s a little smaller and longer than this house, more of a Frank Lloyd Wright style, all flat planes and clean lines.

“You like it?” Flint says. I gasp and turn around, hand on my chest.

“Thank you. I hadn’t had a nice, juicy heart attack in a while.”

“Good, I know working in television is such a stress free career path,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. I might be, if I found someone snooping through my stuff, and I flush with embarrassment. He picks up the paper and rolls up the plan, a little wistfully.

“Who’s the place for?” I ask.

“It never got built,” he says. “It was for me.” He seems to hesitate, as if that’s not quite true. Strange. “I even have the plot of land all picked out. Well, I had,” he grumbles, cleaning up a few other stray papers on the desk, putting them away.

“The windows would’ve been huge,” I say, trying to find a good topic of conversation. It’s a little awkward all of a sudden. “You’d probably want to build it on top of a hill somewhere.”