Rugged(38)

Step one: leave the set. Step two: dig ten-foot hole. Step three: bury self and never come out.

I don’t even have to go up to Jerri and beg for a reprieve; she calls cut at once, then stalks up to Flint. “Okay, Flint,” she says, rubbing her jaw, the tightness of fear stealing over her features. “That was a hell of a thing.”

Flint makes some kind of grunting noise. The rest of the film crew has already started whispering and stealing glances at me, which is damned irritating. I know it sucked, you guys! I’m aware! Imran at the craft service table is shaking his head sympathetically at Callie while devouring one of her muffins, crumbs spilling onto his shirt. Two of the grips walk by me, muttering to each other.

“Maybe it’s not too late to get in on Juicy Jurors,” one of them says. I think my blood pressure is spiking dangerously. Where is a squeezy stress relief ball when you need one? I walk away from them, forcing myself not to snap and start throttling the team. Raj is waiting to speak with me, glaring while he fans himself with some documents. At least he can’t pin that awful take on me.

“Just think of it this way,” he says, his voice so sickly-sweet it should come with a toothbrush and dental floss, “if America mutes it, we’ll still have a hit.”

Don’t punch the assistant, don’t punch the assistant. I go over to Flint and Jerri. Flint’s running a hand through his hair again and again, the telltale sign he’s stressed.

“I’m just explaining to McKay that he’s got to loosen up. Like, if we need to get him laid, no problem. I’m sure an intern would be happy to volunteer,” Jerri says, sounding irritated. Flint and I studiously avoid eye contact. No getting laid here, no sir.

“Let’s take a walk,” I tell him, and he falls into step with me, hands shoved in his pockets. We head over to the cliff’s edge, look down into the tree-lined ravine below. What a metaphor. Me, standing on a precipice. “What’s going on?” I ask. Flint grunts.

“I’m not a camera personality. You knew this.” He sounds annoyed, but also a little nervous. “There are lights. And cameras. And people.” He waves his hand by way of illustration. “Everywhere.”

“Well, it’s television. Cameras are bound to come into it. And the crew is nonnegotiable.” I try to keep him talking, try to ignore the glares from the crew up the hill. I know what they’re thinking: you picked a real dud, Young. This is a failure, and when Herman Davis and his gang of executive trolls come looking for someone to devour, you’re first up on the menu. “Remember when we shot the sizzle footage? That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“That was just us. And it’s not even the cameras, or the people really. It’s everything,” he says, looking back at his construction crew. There’s a tight look of pain on his face. “Smith & Warren came back with another offer. Even bigger.”

“Damn.” The giant, soulless hardware corporation wants to take Flint’s flailing chain of stores and, well, incorporate. “It must’ve been a solid number.”

“Callie even thought I should consider. She’s never thought that before.” He shakes his head. “What if this show does nothing? What if I’m wasting time on this when I could be raising capital somewhere else? What if I embarrass my family, and we still lose the business?”

His hands ball into fists, and he looks back at the production crew like a wolf with his foot caught in a snare. Usually, trapped wolves gnaw off their appendages rather than stay caught, and I think Flint’s about ready for that. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

“I feel like I’m playing dress up here while my uncle’s legacy goes to shit. I’m letting everyone down just to get my picture in the goddamn paper.”

“You won’t. You’re not. You won’t. You’re not playing dress up. Print media is dying. Okay?” I grab his arm again—I can’t help but notice the feel of his perfect, swelling bicep—and this time he doesn’t shake me off. My heart skips a little; stop it, heart. “We’re gonna go back up there, roll cameras, and kick this day’s ass.” I punctuate it with a little jab at his arm. Not so hard, though. I still kind of hurt from punching him yesterday. My pep talk brings a small smile to Flint’s face, but it’s not enough.

“I still feel like I’m talking to no one out there. Like I’m out of my mind,” he says.

Light bulb. “Well, with the power of editing, I may be able to help you there.”

“How’s that?” He looks puzzled but intrigued.

We explain the whole situation to Jerri, who doesn’t seem enamored of our plan, but agrees. Pretty soon, the cameras are rolling again, and I’m standing next to Flint. Or near to him, that is. He doesn’t address me directly, but having me there, right alongside, seems to do wonders. He visibly relaxes as he speaks. His shoulders loosen, that charming smile is back on his face. Jerri closes her eyes and nods, pleased.

“Remember, the steel-reinforced foundation walls are essential,” Flint says, patting the one right behind him. “The footings have to be poured, leveled concrete. If you try to get away with second best, like wood foundation, you’re going to end up with a sunk house and a huge mess on your hands.” He waves the camera over, makes it look right down at the poured concrete. Flint grins, his eyes lighting up at a job well done. I come over and stand beside him, nodding, the camera glimpsing me briefly. Like I said, we’ll take me out in post-production. Right now, the crucial thing is that Flint is relaxed, enjoying himself. And when he enjoys himself, America enjoys him.