Rugged(71)

The elevator ride downstairs is one of the most silent in history. You can actually hear time passing. We finally reach the front receptionist’s desk.

“You know your way back to the hotel?” I ask.

“It’s that mythical Uber service you turned me on to. It’s really incredible,” he says, quirking up the corner of his mouth in a perfect half-smile. He nods. “So I guess I’ll see you at the party tonight?”

“Yes, seeing tonight. That is a thing that we’ll be doing.” Like Yoda this conversation has become.

“Suit and tie, right?” On my nod, he turns and heads out the revolving doors without another word. I walk back to the elevators, my head already throbbing.

How am I supposed to get through a month of this? Seeing Flint’s face plastered everywhere, blinking at me from television screens, that was all going to be bad enough. But now, to have to be with him all the time, riding to events, coaching him through interviews, forced to inhale his delicious, pine-fresh musk all the while? All without wanting to combust, scream, or cry?

I don’t know if any of that is possible.





27


In Hollywood, nothing is more guaranteed to make you nervous than a network event. It’s full of people in low cut gowns and expensive suits wandering around, making small talk, sipping champagne, and judging you. The trick is to walk in like you own the place, especially if you’re a woman who’s barely five foot two, and you refuse to dye your hair platinum blond. So I walk into that party with my brown hair up and my fashionable pumps on, because f*ck yeah confident women. I also sidle over to a handsome caterer and grab a glass of champagne, because f*ck yeah liquid courage. Sad thing is, the booze isn’t my helpmate for this party. I’ve got as much sang froid as the best of them.

It’s Flint. He’s tense; I’m tense. We’re all tense together. And in addition to personal shenanigans, we’re about to head into the theatre and watch the first sneak-peek episode of my very first show, and I don’t know how it’s going to go down. I’d hate to sit in the theatre, grin plastered on my face in horror, if it turns out that what I’ve produced is utter dogshit. I’d survive it, though. But having to deal with sitting next to Flint, feeling his disappointment over the whole thing? That’d probably drive me crazy. Crazier than I have become, at any rate. And hell, he might even blame the whole thing on me.

“What are you on?” Suze asks as she comes over. She purses her lips, which are a shade of kickass red lipstick. “Alcohol wise?”

“Second glass.” I shrug and take another sip. I do what I want.

“Okay, in the interest of staying vertical tonight, I’m ordering you to put the alcohol down,” Suze says, gently removing my glass from my hand.

“I’m in fine shape.”

She gives me that gentle, hate-to-tell-you-this smile that I dread. “You’re listing a little to the left, hon, and we don’t need any of the *s in this room underestimating you. So give me that glass and take this complimentary bottle of water.”

She’s got a point.

We stand together, sipping side by side. Sisters in solidarity. Across the room, I get to see Flint in a sports jacket and tousled hair. I bet his stylist made him wear it like that. I bet he hates it. But he’s shaking hands and laughing, putting in a damn fine performance. Or hell, maybe he’s enjoying himself. When all of Hollywood is enamored of you, it’s kind of hard not to love it. He’s astounding, with the corners of his eyes crinkling, his head tilted back and his copper, now artfully messy mane glowing under the lights. Everyone’s circling around him tonight, agog at his beauty. It’s like watching moons orbit a planet. A really sexy planet, with great abs and the biggest—

“You can’t be like this before every single event,” Suze says, perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “You’ll be dead by April.”

“I know,” I say, wilting. I don’t want to talk about Flint. I’m not making this night all about some guy; it’s my big shot, damn it. I turn to Suze. “Do you think the episode’s solid?” I ask her. “No best friend BS, either.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says. She throws an arm around me and leans her head against mine for a second. “That’s why I want you to be calm. You’ve paid your dues for this moment. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”

“Wise words.” I smile, and let Suze go as she excuses herself to talk with Herman Davis. He’s standing in a corner, not eating or drinking anything, dressed in an elegant, conservative gray suit. He glowers with his hands behind his back, observing everyone. He hasn’t walked up to shake hands with me yet. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad sign. Considering that right now my nerves are kicking in and I’m about ready to claw my way up the wall and hang from the chandelier making chimpanzee screams, everything feels like a bad sign.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says. Flint walks over, holding a glass of fizzing beer. I nod at it.

“Is that an IPA?” Joke, of course. He’d rather drink tar.

“Budweiser. They insisted on putting it in a glass, though. Ruins the texture,” he deadpans, taking a swallow. I can’t help it; I burst out laughing. He grins, and the line of his shoulders instantly relaxes. It’s familiar, us joking like this, even if it’s also a little painful. I’m glad the industry hasn’t changed everything about him. He looks me up and down, and I try not to feel the way his eyes track the line of my body. “You look tense.”