Rugged(6)

I can already feel myself bouncing in my chair from excitement. Fingers trembling, I look up the contact information. With his phone number in hand, I hesitate. It’s not even six on the east coast. Maybe it’s too early to call?

The thought of Tyler’s smug face and his underage boob jobs decides me. My fingers fly across my phone’s keypad, and I wait. One ring, two rings, three. No answer, but it goes to voicemail. I take a deep, calming breath.

“Hello, this message is for Flint McKay. My name’s Laurel Young, and I’m a producer at Reel World Entertainment in Los Angeles.” Little white lie on the producer thing, but who cares? When Davis picks up this show, I will be a producer. “I’ve reviewed your video submission, and I think this has a lot of potential. Please call me back so we can discuss further.” I leave him my number, hang up, and nearly start hugging myself. I’m a freaking genius. Soon, all of female America will be gazing soulfully into the eyes of Flint McKay. And they might even pick up a couple of good drywalling tips while they’re at it.





3


Two days later, there’s still no reply. Every morning I check my messages, sure that today’s going to be magic hot guy answer day. But I’m always disappointed. I’ve tried calling that number again, twice. There was an email on file, and I sent him a message. Played it cool, didn’t even add twenty exclamation points in the subject header. No emojis in the body of the email. Pure professional class, but no reward. Zip. Nada. Any other words for barren and desolate nothing, please bring them forward.

I watch the tape over again, almost trying to convince myself that I was really super drunk that night. But every time Flint looks up with those warm golden brown eyes, or when he reveals the muscled expanse of his body, I shake my head. This guy is the whole package.

“Suze,” I call, waving her over to my desk. She crouches next to me while I play the tape back. “Tell me if I’m crazy, but what do you think of this? Hot or not?”

Suze watches the video with her mouth practically hanging open. I expect her tongue to roll down and across the desk, Looney Tunes-style. “Where did you find this guy?” she asks, leaning closer. I’m afraid she’s going to try making out with the screen.

“Pulled him out of the slush pile. I’ve tried calling and calling, but I haven’t heard anything. Time’s running out.” Ever since finding Flint’s tape, I can’t even think of coming up with another pitch idea. When I’ve got something good between my teeth, I shake it until it gives in. My Patronus is a terrier. It’s like I can see the glinting prize at the end of the race, far in the distance. And this prize has a sculpted torso, stubble, and gorgeous windswept hair. I’m going to bring him to American airwaves if I have to fly to Massachusetts myself.

“Knock knock,” an annoying voice says. I turn slowly, trying not to scowl or throw up. Tyler’s leaning on my cubicle wall, that douchebag grin stretched across his face. That cologne he’s got on is stifling. Did his new job title come with a gift basket full of stenchy man perfume, or did he actually go out and buy it himself? “You ladies gossiping in here?”

“If by ‘gossiping’ you mean ‘working like a pair of adults,’ you are so spot on,” I say, getting up and shoving past him. I need some coffee. I could also use some pepper spray and a lit stick of dynamite, but I don’t think the vending machines carry those anymore. Tyler trails behind me, my own personal oily shadow. Lucky me.

“Why you gotta walk away so fast, Young? Go slower. Gives me a way better show of that fantastic ass.” I can practically hear Tyler licking his lips. The rage starts pulsing behind my eyes. I swear, I will Hulk out on this *.

“You know, there is such a thing as sexual harassment litigation these days,” I say, entering the fluorescent-lit, Clorox-scented kitchen and reaching for a paper cup. Tyler slides in beside me, leaning against the counter. “Though I imagine you need help with some of the bigger words. Say it with me now. Li-ti-ga-tion.”

“Cute.” Tyler smirks. “And yeah, you could go whining to HR. But you know what happens to little bitches that tell tales. They can’t even produce an Arby’s commercial.” He gets himself a cup of smarmy water. “They’re not team players.”

“Remind me why I ever thought you were charming,” I say to him, adding half and half to my coffee with murderous intensity. The worst part is, he’s right. I’m stuck with him until I figure out how to claw my way to the top.

“You know you still want me, Young. I’m the best thing that could happen to you.” He changes tactics abruptly, lowering his voice so he stops being the mega-watt *; now he’s the low voltage, seductive *. “Come on. We had a good thing going. You get with me, you can distinguish yourself.” He sidles in, leans closer.

“With me, Tyler, you can have some brilliant new ideas. And you need them right now, don’t you?” I grin as my blow lands. Tyler jerks backward, his bleached and pristine smile shut up like a pocketknife. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? The big pitch is coming, and you need content. What fascinating, original notions do we all have to look forward to?” I mockingly clap my hands in glee. “Why, a show all about rating the knockers of Amazonian tribal women? Sexist and culturally insensitive, all in one glorious, mediocre package! You spoil us, Tyler.”