Rugged(30)

“So moral high ground gives you carte blanche to be an *? After everything I did to get us here?” I snap.

“I’m the *?” He tightens his jaw. “You talked about me like I wasn’t even in the room.” His voice lowers, deepens with anger. “Maybe you forgot your promise yesterday, about not letting them make a fool out of me. But there you were, playing along with what they wanted. ‘The hunk factor.’” He sounds disgusted just saying it. “And then that oily little bastard talking about setting me up with, what was it? Hotties to bang?” Those words coming from Flint’s mouth almost makes this situation hilarious. But he’s too pissed off for comical right now. “I won’t bring that kind of fake sexy bullshit into my home. I needed to make that clear,” he says, decisive.

Crap. From his point of view, I really wasn’t doing my all to defend him in there. I close my eyes. “I should have warned you about Tyler before we went in. That’s on me. But Flint, the project is dead now. You understand?”

“How’s that possible? They said they’d call us.” His eyebrows shoot up.

“In Hollywood, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ is an unspoken ‘thanks but no thanks.’ Very subtle, the intricacies of this business,” I groan. After Flint’s speech, all the executives had given us the blankest possible looks. Then Davis gave us the kiss off line, and I knew it was over.

“So. That means the show’s really dead then.” He actually sounds sorry about it.

I look up at him. “I lose my job. You lose your best shot at keeping the business intact. That’s what today cost us. That’s why I’m upset.”

He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I know,” he mutters. We stand there for a moment, looking at the ground in awkward silence. “Listen, it probably wasn’t supposed to work out. I mean, if I can’t handle a team full of suits—”

“The process of shooting the show would probably drive you insane.” I mean it to sound like kind of a dig, but it doesn’t. It sounds honest. I don’t want to believe it, but I saw how volatile it got back there; Flint probably isn’t ready for Hollywood. “I don’t mean gibbering insane; more like righteously insane,” I add, then sigh. “What time is it?”

Flint checks his phone. “Three. Why?”

“It’s five o’clock central time. Get in.” I open my door again. “We’re getting a drink.” Flint takes the keys from my hand.

“You tell me where to go. I’ll drive. I’d like to go close to the speed limit this time.” He gets in and adjusts the seat while I turn to the glory that is Yelp. I punch in an address, my fingers feeling numb and clumsy. This is it. I bombed the most important meeting of my life, and all I have left now is drinking in the afternoon. Wahoo.

I will not cry with someone else driving my Camaro. I will not f*cking cry.

I direct us to the cheapest, closest dive I can find. It’s a tacky Mexican-themed place, complete with Day of the Dead artwork, plastic maracas hanging from the lamps and the bartender in a sombrero. But it’ll have tequila. It must have tequila.

“Two shots of Cuervo,” I say, putting my purse on the bar and climbing onto the stool. “And another round after that.” My throat tightens. I feel like I’m on the edge of a screaming jag, which means that booze is a necessary relaxant. Very necessary.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Flint says, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Look.” I put my palms on the bar, trying not to blow up. “My dreams are dead. I failed you. Ohio looms in my future. The least you can do is make it a hard liquor night.” I nudge his elbow, though, to show I’m not really mad. Mostly, at any rate.

“Fair enough. But I’ve seen what can happen when you drink hard alcohol. I just want to make sure you don’t…do anything you’ll regret later.”

I feel my face go hot, but before I can snap back at him (I most certainly do not ‘regret’ what happened the last time I drank hard alcohol. Or do I? Is that even what he was talking about? Or was he just concerned…) our drinks arrive and Flint picks up the shot. He looks perplexed—it turns out he’s never done a big bar night before. I have to show him how to take tequila. Salt, then the shot, then biting into a lime wedge. He makes a face, but nods after biting into the fruit. “That’s an acquired taste,” he says.

“Get ready to acquire more.” I laugh—a little hysterically, but I get it under control pretty fast—and wave for the bartender.

After three of those babies, the urge to scream evaporates. Man, does that feel f*cking glorious. I’m starting to laugh. I don’t know about what, it’s just that the bartender’s sombrero is so funny. Flint’s shirt is funny. Plants are funny! Flint grins.

“You’re a lot drunker than I am,” he says. That’s probably true, but he’s also doing the ‘I’m sitting so straight, look at me, I’m not shitfaced’ thing.

“Not drunk. Tipsy. Fashionably tipsy.” I lean my face against his shoulder, just for someplace to rest. Mmm. My flannel resting place. With such a fresh, woodsy scent to it. Snort. “Is this the only kind of shirt you own?”

“I can take it off if it’s cramping your style,” he says, tilting my chin up. The look in his eyes—heated, intense—sends a wave of pleasurable sensation all the way down to my core. Something in his gaze is unguarded, as if our failure today has suddenly broken down some wall he’d kept up between us before now. I think I like it.