Rugged(3)

“I need capable producers. What I don’t need are hangers on with nothing to do.” He doesn’t smile. “And with Sanderson gone, you won’t be very busy.”

Okay. It’s feast or famine, producer or unemployment line. If I succeed next week, I’ll finally be a producer, full fledged and shiny. I’ll have control of my own show. No more bowing to other people, even good guys like Brian. I’ll be running the place myself. Those sweet images of world ratings domination float through my mind.

But if I don’t make the cut, I’ll probably be back in my Ohio hometown, looking for a job at the local public access station. New mantra: Don’t f*ck this up, Laurel.

“You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Davis,” I say, almost reaching to shake his hand. But that’s not a smart move. I don’t know that he’s touched anyone below the executive pay grade since 1989.

“I better not be. All right, Young. Off you go.” He nods to the door, and I walk away, wanting to do little twirling dances and sing dumb songs. I imagine a full-on Disney musical number, complete with animated sidekicks, but not here. Outside.

Before I can touch the handle, the door opens. And I’m face to face with my worst nightmare. There he is, five foot ten of gelled, chiseled-jaw, Axe body sprayed douche canoe. Tyler Kinley.

“Hey, it’s Young Laurel. Still as sexy as ever.” He gives a smile so white it belongs at a GOP stump speech, and raises his Ralph Lauren sunglasses. His eyes go down my body, lingering on my breasts. I resist the urge to knee him in the groin.

Young Laurel. That was the “nickname” he thought was so fresh. Back when we were sleeping together, I let him get away with it. I’m not in the mood for his wacky verbal shenanigans now.

“Hey, Tyler. If you can try squeezing your ego through the doorway, I’ll be able to leave.” I give him a professional, hollow smile. He gets to leer, and I have to shut up and bear it. It’s a healthy dose of the real world over at Reel World, let me tell you.

He laughs and sweeps into the room past me, a perfumed cloud of jackass suffocating me in his wake. “Mr. D! How are you, man?” Tyler actually walks up and grabs Davis’s hand. I can’t tell if the executive is pleased or not, but he doesn’t say anything. Could I have gotten away with that? Or would it have been too ‘immature’ coming from a woman? “I heard it through the grapevine that you’re accepting pitches for Sanderson’s misfire. Happy to volunteer my brilliance.”

My stomach plummets. It takes the elevator back up and plummets again, even further and harder, when Davis says,

“We’re taking the pitches in a week. I want to see good work, Kinley.”

“If by good work, you mean good T and A, I got what you need. I’m already cooking up an angle for something totally new: breast implants for underage teen daughters of celebrities. It’ll be SAH—Sweet As Hell.”

“Have you been waiting for the right moment to use that one?” I say, wanting to run him over with a tractor. I wince; damn, I didn’t want to appear rattled in front of Davis, but Tyler will do that to you. The bastard actually winks at me.

“Came up with it in the moment. That’s what I do, Young. I’m an idea guy.”

No. You’re the guy who steals other people’s ideas. As I walk out of Davis’s office and listen to Tyler guffaw and talk about the ‘hot new assistant’ outside, I grit my teeth. It’s time for Genghis Khan to grab her pumps and get to work.





2


“I can’t believe Tyler Kinley thinks he can match me creatively,” I say to Suze, before taking a nice swallow of whiskey. It burns going down, which is exactly what I want. We’re sitting in the Tar Bar, a fancy place across from the La Brea tar pits. Nothing says a relaxed drinking environment like dead prehistoric animals next door. The lighting is soft in here, with mirrored walls, white linen tablecloths, and live piano music that tinkles in the lounge. We’re seated next to a toasty open fire pit, right beside a couple on a really adorable first date. The guy’s even sweating! Or maybe it’s just the fire.

“You created this monster,” Suze reminds me, sipping her margarita. She leaves a red-lipsticked kiss on the rim. “Remember? I told you not to share your ideas with him.”

“I knooow,” I sigh. “But he wasn’t this much of an * when we first met. He was ambitious and hot and he loved listening to all my ideas…” I can hear my voice wavering, and I quickly hide my pain in my whiskey glass, taking a healthy swallow to ease the humiliation of my best friend’s well-meaning ‘I told you so.’

I got hired at Reel World right out of college, fresh from my summer internship. Yes, a whole eighteen months ago. Tyler bumped into me in the kitchen during my first official day. Literally. I spilled cappuccino down my new work outfit. “I’m so sorry!” he’d blurted, offering to help me clean up—he hadn’t even made the obvious boob grab. The heartfelt apology paired with his hunky cover-of-GQ looks momentarily dazzled me into complete tongue-tiedness. “Hey, are you Young?” he’d asked with a grin. “Because you look pretty grown-up to me.”

Back then, that joke had been sort of charming. Tyler had been sort of charming. There was no expensive cologne, no popped collar, no frosted hair tips. He’d been working at Reel World for a while—five years, in fact—and his hunger to finally make it to a full-on producer after all that time was kind of endearing. “I just can’t seem to land an idea with a great hook,” he’d told me over drinks on our first date.