Rugged(67)

“Since I got my bags and made it out of his house in Olympic record time? Like, faster than a Jamaican short sprinter record?” What is it with my sports metaphors today? “No, Suze. I have not. And he hasn’t reached out to me, either. I think he’s been pretty busy.” Probably busy with Charlotte, picking the first wildflowers of Spring and calling each other ‘darling’ and having hot sex on a bearskin rug, or whatever it is you do year round on the east coast. I keep remembering Charlotte, standing in that house in the early morning light. Her face was so open and amazed. He’d built this for her, she’d said. He’d even carved their two lovey-dovey bullshit matching sunflowers in the corners of the house, some history-laden backstory that I’d never understand.

Point is, I was disposable. A distraction. Charlotte was the goal.

Well. Get your vuvuzelas out, because Flint McKay obviously made the World Cup of ‘long lost ex-girlfriend-winning’ goals.

Okay. Enough sports.

“Are you sure you didn’t overreact?” Suze asks. I can’t help bristling at her tone.

“You didn’t see her, Suze. The look on her face. You didn’t see how amazed and touched she was. Flint wanted her back, and I guess he got her. I was just a standin.” I rub my forehead. Great, a headache and I skipped breakfast. Is it possible to have a Tylenol omelet? Perhaps with a bit of fresh-ground Vicodin on top, and a side of—

“Point taken,” she says, putting her hands up. “Scum, thy name is Flint McKay.” After a semi-awkward moment, she says, “But today’s the day, isn’t it?” It’s kind of hard to look at the sympathy in her eyes. It reminds me how damn pathetic I must appear.

“Yep. The day.” Flint day. He’s arriving in town today for us to start promotion, since the show airs in exactly a month. Hopefully we won’t have to be crammed together too much, but given my producer status and the fact that Lady Luck enjoys giving me swirlies in the women’s restroom, I get the feeling I’m going to be seeing him. All six feet four inches of the glorious, muscled, pine-scented man who broke my heart.

Can’t. Fucking. Wait.

“I figured it had something to do with the extra bad mood.” Suze puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“There is something, actually. Could you go back in there and force Juan not to add that scene with the drunk girls making out at the bar? We filmed it the first night we were in town, and he keeps trying to sneak it in there.” Pervy little bastard. It’s why we love him. “And, uh, could you mention that I’m sorry for giving him so much shit lately? Tell him it’s just show stress. And that I owe him lunch.”

“On it.” Suze hugs me, and heads back into the room. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. I’m tempted to start pounding it, to see if I can finally dislodge Flint from my brain. But that’s an impossible task with all the editing we’ve been doing. Every time I see his golden brown eyes, I think of how they’d light up when he laughed. How they smoldered when he was inside me. How walking out of that house and driving away shattered my heart, swept it into a little broken heap, and stomped on it again.

No. I’m not getting pulled into this maudlin ball of crazy. Even if I hadn’t busted out of there on Flint, even if he hadn’t gone back to Charlotte, it never would’ve worked out. He said himself that he’d never leave the woods, and I’m not going to trade the infuriating, glorious world of show business and type A insanity for a quiet life in the Berkshires. That’s not for me, and my life wouldn’t be for him.

And the headline, of course, is that he loves Charlotte. He’s always loved Charlotte. Always will. Love. Charlotte.

I can’t help feeling miserable. I haven’t felt this used and abused since—

“Young Laurel. Asleep on the job, as usual.” My oh my, another chance encounter with the smarmiest dickhead of them all. Just what I wanted.

Tyler Kinley. Asshole extraordinaire. He really should get that printed on his business cards, like I’ve been telling him. I open my eyes a crack and feast my poor tired eyes on the spray-tanned jackass, peeking at me over the rims of his Ray Bans. Scientific fact: how much of an * you are is directly proportional to how often you wear expensive sunglasses indoors.

“I’m meditating, Kinley. Helps get the creative juices flowing. You’d know what it’s like if you had any.” I shove off from the wall and try to get through the door, but Tyler leans his douchey bulk against it. Why did I ever let Davis’s henchworms talk me into keeping Kinley on this project as an executive producer? Why don’t I remember what a terrible idea he is, just in general?

Wait, I do remember. It’s just that the Hollywood boys’ club wants to keep him around to oil the place up for some unfathomable reason.

“Well, you’re a, uh,” Tyler says, squinting, trying his hardest to come up with a cutting retort. Come on, buddy. You can do this. You’re the little engine that couldn’t, but gets validated by society anyway. “A bitch,” he finishes. Man, he actually smiles a little. Clearly he feels good about himself. Let’s see what I can do to fix that unfortunate situation.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Herman Davis loves my show, would it?” I ask, practically purring. Tyler’s salon-massaged face falls. “Come on, I know all about it. Remember Dave Lantos? I went out for dinner at Mastro’s with him and a few of the execs. They told me how crazy everyone is going for Rustic.” It’s true; the big boys love my show, took me out to dinner, and didn’t even try to cop a feel or take me home. Well, one of them tried, but he got his instep stomped for good measure. And I enjoyed some fabulous prime rib. I fake-gasp with fake concern. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kinley. I forgot that you weren’t invited. How rude of me.” I smile.