Rugged(5)

One video shows a guy with his shirt off and a greased and glittering six-pack of abs on prominent display. I perk up. He winks at the camera. All right, sexy and geared towards the female gaze. Off to a good start.

“Juggling chainsaws has always been my passion,” he says, and picks one up from off camera. As he revs it, he says, “Drunken Chainsaw Juggling would be a great show—” I click off really, really fast.

“Why are there so many weirdos in the world?” I push back from my desk and rub my pounding head. The office at two AM is a terrifying place. Rows and rows of empty cubicles, with the only sound the click and whirr of the air conditioning coming on and off. What am I doing? I should call it a night, Uber it home, and sleep with a bottle of aspirin right next to my bed for tomorrow’s epic hangover.

I’m slinging my purse from off the back of my chair when I notice one more file, just sitting there and waiting for me to click on it. Oh, why the hell not? Maybe it’ll be something more amusing than the hog mambo guy. Though that would be pretty hard to top. I click play and sit back, feeling my eyes beginning to slowly close.

And that’s when I get a glimpse of the hottest man I have ever seen in my life.

“Are you taping?” he asks the person behind the camera. He’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, as casual as anything. A worn, red flannel shirt is absolutely hugging his broad shoulders. The sleeves are rolled, revealing the rock-hard contours of arms that look like they could be sculpted from marble. He looks at the camera with a quiet ease, like he knows he’s got this, whatever this is. God, those eyes. They’re a warm golden brown, glowing with intensity as he stares at me—er, the camera, he’s staring at the camera.

His jaw is square and rock hard, with a distinguished cleft in the chin. I can make out the outline of his jaw through the stubble, which he rubs the back of his hand across. His hair is a chestnut brown, with glints of red that spark like embers in a fire when he catches the light in the perfect way. I think any way he caught the light would have to be perfect.

I haven’t had that much to drink. I’m aware enough to realize the rarity before me. You could write a poem about this man’s physical perfection.

“Are you ready?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. I sit up, almost ready to apologize to him when the camera holder says,

“Yeah. Here we go. So, state your name.”

“Why?” He grins, crinkling the corners of his eyes and lending his whole expression a warmth that starts melting me on the spot.

“Because intros are fun.” The voice is teasing and female. “Go on.”

“Flint McKay.” He looks about ready to roll his eyes. “Here to introduce you to the fabulous world of drywall. Once you have experienced its many mysteries, you will dare to question your place in the universe. For surely, to hang a sheet of drywall is to see the face of God.” He makes his voice even deeper and richer. The sound of it makes me hungry.

The camera holder—definitely young, by the sound of her voice—scoffs. “Come on, you said you’d—”

“All right, all right.” Flint shakes his head, a lock of that reddish brown hair falling into his eyes. Instantly, I want to brush it away. Slowly, letting my fingers trail through the silky—

Laurel! Calm down!

“First off, you want to get the width of your wall,” Flint says, picking up a measuring tape and pulling it open. I can see it, right now—every woman watching this show would dream of those hands zipping down the back of their dress with such ease. “Cut your sheet so it’s about a quarter inch shorter than that,” Flint says, looking into the camera again. He goes through the motions, and I enjoy the sight of his muscled back stretching as he displays the drywall. His jeans hug a tight, spectacular looking ass.

I know I’m being a little creepy right now, but no one else is around. So work that fabulous ass, drywall man.

Also, he’s actually great at explaining. I’m not much of a do it yourself type person—I was raised by people who called someone else to hang a picture—but the ease with which Flint shows off his abilities, the careful discussion of everything to do with drywall, it’s amazing. It almost makes me want to go down to the hardware store at first light and start on some home renovation.

It also makes me want to go home and dust off my trusty vibrator, because every time Flint looks in the camera, or winks, or even—God help me—takes off his flannel shirt so that he’s only in a tight, clinging white tee, I feel heat pooling between my legs.

“Remember,” Flint says, pointing at the camera. “We tack with nails, but we fasten with screws.” You could definitely fasten something with a screw right here, sir.

I’m starting to worry about my sanity.

Finally, the video is over. Flint displays a seemingly perfectly hung bit of drywall. “Feast your eyes.” Flint bows deeply, then grins. “Okay, Callie. Good enough?” A V of sweat has appeared around the front collar of his tee shirt, giving me a glimpse of impossibly sculpted pectorals.

“Good job,” the camera girl replies, laughing. The video turns off. I’m left trying to pick my jaw from up off the floor.

Who is this renovation god? And when did he send us this tape? I scroll through the information on hand. His name’s Flint McKay, from Massachusetts. We first got this video about ten months ago. To think it’s been languishing in a pile all this time. Then again, I can sort of understand how it happened. Doing home repairs isn’t exactly Reel World’s focus. We’re a boobs and bombastic revelations type of company. But to have a sex god teaching home improvement, that would certainly bring in the ladies. And that strange combination of studliness and craftiness would really differentiate this show. Another girls in bikini show would just be white noise. But this…