Rugged(68)

“You did not forget,” Tyler says, as if the light of all knowledge has fallen upon him. “You’re trying to make me feel like shit.” Slow clap. What a genius.

“How am I doing?” I ask, leaning in. Normally, this is where Tyler would look down my blouse, but he actually backs up a step. Am I intimidating him? Wonderful. I lower my voice, drilling holes into Tyler’s eyes with mine. “Now listen to me, you entitled piece of shit. My show is going to be a hit. So you can either cooperate and get a few crumbs of credit, like a good little exec producer, or you can go nurse your hurt feelings somewhere else and get the f*ck out of my life, in which case make sure to let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, because I have absolutely had it up to f*cking here with you.”

Both of us are a little startled for a moment. Wow. Where’s that person been hiding all this time?

“You’re learning how to play the game, Young,” Tyler says. He actually sounds impressed. “All right. Keep on crowing about how awesome your show is.” He smirks at me. “That’s how you career women end up sitting alone in your apartment for the rest of your life, eating ramen and hitting on the FedEx guy.”

Ah, the enlightened feminism of Tyler the Fuckhead. After he finally leaves, I rub my eyes. It’s not that I agree with him—women can be successful in work and in love, you don’t have to choose for God’s sake—but I am a little worried about the colder, angrier part of me that’s been coming out of hiding in recent weeks. Something about how spectacularly the Flint thing failed has really gotten under my skin.

And, speak of the devil, my phone buzzes. I pull it out and see a text message from Raj. Flint is entering the building. Groaning, I turn and press my forehead against the wall for a minute. And maybe bang it once or twice, just to get the circulation going.

The ride down in the elevator sends my stomach up into my heart, or my heart down into my stomach. Either way, some organs are where they shouldn’t be, and they need to sort themselves out. The doors whisper open. My heels clack as I walk across the marble lobby to the front desk. Tyler’s there already of course, no worse for wear after our little t

te-à-t

te in the hallway, wearing his trademark shit eating grin, his shirt collar popped. A few of those producer and executive weasels are sniffing around, waiting eagerly for their newest, sexiest cash cow.

And there he is. Flint walks through the revolving doors, alone. He’s wearing a black button down shirt, his worn brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. The way he strides in, powerful and utterly confident, almost knocks me over. His eyes, normally the warmest golden brown, are hard and sparking. Tyler almost leaps in front of him, wearing a spectacularly oily grin.

“Flint McKay. Star of the show. Sex god of the east coast,” Tyler says, holding out his hand to get in on the action. “You remember me?”

“Unfortunately,” Flint tells him, looking at the hand and not taking it. “Trust me, I’d like to forget.” Tyler’s expression falls. I can’t help but smile. That is, until Flint looks at me, and I feel the color drain from my face. But I’m not going to scurry under the desk and hide. I pull my shoulders back.

“Good to see you again,” I tell him, no crack in my voice. I am blue steel, a black panther, a color combined with something awesome.

“Laurel,” he says, nodding curtly. Is it just me, or does his voice get rougher and lower when he speaks to me?

It’d be unprofessional not to shake, so I hold out my hand. Flint takes it, encasing it in his own large, calloused grip. I am titanium. A second later, he pulls away.

“We’ve got a team upstairs waiting to meet you,” I say. The executives and Tyler are all scattering before him; it’s like they know they’ve been outmanned.

“Let’s go then.” Flint brushes past me and walks toward the elevators. I follow close behind, digging my nails so hard into my palms I might draw blood.

One minute down. Seventy thousand to go.





26


The doors slide open on the fifth floor, and we walk out into an excited group of chattering people. Everyone has gathered to greet our new star. You’d think God himself had strolled in. And judging by the reactions of most of the women, I think that’s a pretty fair analogy. There are some gasps in the back, the strategic tossing of hair or batting of eyelashes. Margie from H/R actually stops breathing for a second. I catch her fanning herself with an office memo.

“Everyone,” I say, clapping my hands and calling the rampaging hormone convention to attention. “This is Flint McKay, star of Rustic Renovations, reality king in the making.” There’s a lot of applause, which I know is killing Flint slowly. He tightens his jaw, always a sure sign he wants to bolt. This much attention has got to be like shoving him on a spit and turning him over a roasting fire, apple in his mouth, shirt off and chest glistening.

Even that titillating and strange image does nothing for me. I’m too depressed right now.

“Great to see you, Flint. Remember me?” Raj, my assistant producer, sidles up and squeezes Flint’s hand. And his bicep as well. I don’t blame him.

“How could I forget?” Flint smiles, cool and gracious, and a flock of women swarm around him.

“I’ve seen some of the footage,” Bethany, one of the script supervisors, says. Has she popped a button on her top? There’s definitely some cleavage happening. “You’re even better looking in real life.” Okay, is she also licking her lips?