Rugged(39)

That’s not exactly what I meant, but I’ll stick to it.

“That’s a cut,” Jerri yells, nodding. “All right, kids. That was pretty damn good. Let’s take it back to the top, and this time I wanna see you loose from the word go. The way you’re looking now, McKay, it’s exactly what we need.” She might be talking about his performance, or she might be referring to the way his tee shirt is clinging to his abdominal and pectoral perfection.

What? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.

“Laurel, you’ll stay in the shot again?” he asks. I try not to get too excited at the hope in his voice; I’m there because he needs me, not because he wants me. Besides, sometimes being a producer means stepping into the comfort blanket role.

A few hours later, we’ve got all the footage we wanted for the day. While we’ve been filming, the construction crew has been working where they can, nailing the beginnings of a structure together. Flint goes over to each of them in turn, shaking hands. They clap him on the shoulder. Even my own production people and camera crew look pleased. Raj blows out his cheeks as he walks past me.

“You didn’t screw it up. Good job,” he says, briefly touching my shoulder. Aw. It makes me want to murder him less.

“You were great,” I tell Flint when he comes back over to me. We’re both grinning. The awkwardness between us has completely melted away in the day’s sweaty work. For the first time since the day he left LA, I feel like we’re back to our more comfortable routine. I can learn to be happy with that.

“Tell you what,” he says, wiping his forehead. “One thing I could use is a drink.” He pauses. “A friendly drink, I mean.”

I wave away his hesitation. “Far be it for me to interfere in such a manly tradition.” I gesture towards the car. “Let us retire and get shitfaced, good sir.”





15


“Sweet holy God. Are you telling me they don’t serve IPAs here?” Raj says, sounding panicked as we all stand in the doorway to the Firefly Tavern. “Where else am I going to get my nasty-ass beer fix?” Funny, the Firefly sort of feels like home now. There’s Carl, the mightily-bearded bartender, pouring out a shot and a brew for a local. There’s Eduardo, Regina, Marbella, Christophe, Johannes, Ringo, and Bob, the seven deer heads I named during my one particularly tipsy evening. Hi, kids.

The whole production crew steps slowly into the bar, as if neon beer lights and Blake Shelton on the radio are going to entomb them here forever, like a booby-trapped cave in an Indiana Jones movie. Seeing a group of LA-centric show business people staring agape at the trucker hats and the non-ironic PBR makes me a little too happy. While the group finds a table, Flint guides me over to the bar. “Whiskey for the lady, beer for me,” he tells Carl.

“I hope they liven up soon,” I say, sipping my drink. Flint leans back, tousled hair hanging down over one eye. I have to tear my eyes away from the sheer perfection.

“I think Raj is about to be much happier,” he says, taking a swallow of beer. “It’s karaoke night.” Flint’s nailed it. Five minutes later, one of the trucker-capped locals steps up to the microphone to sing an off-key version of ‘Achy Breaky Heart.’ Raj puts his hands over his mouth, overcome with delight, and follows that performance with a rousing rendition of ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen.

Two rounds later, everyone is feeling all right. Jerri is at the microphone, wailing out ‘Have You Ever Seen the Rain?’ while Raj dances around in the center of the room, a spastic little drunken monkey. Flint and I mosey over to the pool table. Heh. Mosey. I love that word.

“McKay, why don’t you step up and impress the lady?” one of the trucker hat guys says, grinning at me. “Show her you know your way around a pool table.”

Impress the lady? Surely you jest, sir. “Actually, I’m a pretty handy player myself.” I knock back the rest of my whiskey—don’t worry, I mostly stay upright—and pass off the glass to the guy who spoke. He looks me up and down, appreciative but skeptical.

“Bernie, never underestimate Ms. Young,” Flint says as he starts setting up for a game. “She’ll kick your ass for you.”

“I could take it,” Bernie says, looking down at my admittedly nice posterior. Here we go. Casual sexism primes me for victory.

“All right,” I say. “You and me, McKay. Game on.” I raise an eyebrow as Flint grins at me.

“You going to go easy on me?” he asks, handing me a cue. His fingertips graze mine as I take it, a jolt of electricity flooding through me, which I have to pretend I don’t feel. Can’t let that perfect fake smile falter for even a second. Attempting a casual attitude, I toss my hair.

“Mercy’s not my strong suit,” I reply. I chalk my cue and line myself up, getting into the Zen of pool as I sight down the table. “Remember, no sudden movements,” I tell Flint, mock-glaring at him as he casually sidles up to me.

“I don’t cheat,” he says, crossing his arms. “Man of honor that I am, I stand by and watch, silent and observant.” I bring my arm back to take the shot. “Making no sudden—” As I shoot, he stomps heavily next to me, and I jump. The ball still rockets down the table, striking the balls and breaking them perfectly. I even manage to land two solid colors in corner pockets. Finished, I give Flint an exaggerated bow.