Rugged(73)

I’m in the footage? I’m in the f*cking footage? Why the f*ck am I in the footage? We were supposed to edit me out! That was the plan. Doesn’t everyone remember? I love it when a plan comes together, and I have an aneurysm when it falls apart.

In fact, going over it in my mind, I did edit myself out. I oversaw the whole thing, standing alongside Juan day after long, sweaty day. There was no alternate cut that we decided to swap at the end; someone literally had to have recut the entire episode in 48 hours to get this. Who has that kind of power or time on their hands?

As the episode continues, laughter and murmurs of interest sound all around me in the dark. That should be a great sign, but I don’t care, because I’m still stuck on the ‘I’m in most of the footage’ part of the evening. I’m pretty much the second star of the whole damn show. There’s even Show Me and Show Flint standing knee deep in the river, him teaching me how to fish. And then—splash—there I go, right into the water. I’m sitting there, laughing and shrieking as Flint helps me back up.

To my right, Flint leans over and whispers, “What’s going on? I didn’t know they were going to keep this.” His voice sounds so strained, it should be put on bed rest and given some aspirin and told not to exert itself like that again.

“You are not the only one,” I grind out. My jaw feels like it’s locked shut. The episode concludes with footage of Flint and me standing over by the cliff, looking down into the autumn trees below us.

“Think you’ll be ready for another day tomorrow?” I ask him. He nods, that easy smile playing on his face.

“First thing I need is a beer,” he answers. We both head up the hill. And that’s how the episode ends. Screen goes dark, lights come up. The world around me is muted, like I started shoving cotton balls into my ears. There’s applause, even, but I’m not listening to any of it. Who the f*ck did this? Was it Tyler? God, it probably was that brat, or one of the brain dead executives. I’m going to murder someone, probably with the heavy base of one of Davis’s Emmy awards. All right. First thing is to sneak up to Davis’s office, pick the lock, then—

“Laurel.” There he is, standing over me. Herman Davis is…smiling. It’s as rare as the sighting of an albino Pegasus. Which means it doesn’t exist and you’re crazy for thinking it does. “Great audience reaction, don’t you think?” Davis asks, his tone conversational. He must think it’s weird that Flint and I are gaping up at him like some open mouth bass in formal wear.

Wait a minute. Why isn’t he flustered by all this? Why isn’t he asking me questions about what the hell I thought I was doing? The cut I showed him only featured Flint. I was completely out of it. He knew that’s what the show was.

Except…no.

The only reason he wouldn’t be frustrated or angry is if he was in on it; if he was the one who suggested it. Herman Davis just threw me under the bus. And there’s no question about what to do next.

I smile.

“Mr. Davis, may I speak with you for just one second?” I say in my best light and bright tone, trying to get up as gracefully as possible. I get tangled in the straps of my own purse. It’s like the Moscow ballet up in here.

“Of course.” He seems completely relaxed. As he would.

Mr. Davis and I walk out of the auditorium, past everyone grinning and shaking my hand and telling me what a great job I’ve done. And how natural I am on screen! Wow! Thanks for that! My super high blood pressure thanks you too!

Davis and I find our way to a quiet alcove, where I take a deep breath and begin. “I don’t know if you realize this, but I’m not supposed to be on screen with Flint.”

“Do you think I’m inept, Young?” Davis says. He narrows his eyes at me behind his rimless glasses. “Of course you’re not supposed to be on screen.”

“Then why was I?” Did that come out as a frantic shriek? I hope it didn’t.

“Because I saw some of the rough footage before you edited.” He smiles, adjusting his solid gold cufflinks. “You’re funny, especially with McKay. There’s natural chemistry between the two of you that the audience is going to eat right up.”

“So you’re telling me I’m on the show? Like really on the show?” Why does my mouth feel dry? Does anyone else hear how loud the lights are buzzing? Why am I flashing back to the time in third grade when I punched Billy Sims in the face?

“Most people spend their entire lives trying to land a starring spot on television,” Davis says coolly. “You should be thrilled. It’d be smart to enjoy this.” Wow. I’m definitely starting to see the Hollywood shark come out in him. Davis isn’t a misogynistic prick like a lot of the guys in this industry, but he gets what he wants. At any cost.

“What happened to the episode I edited?” I say.

“It’s been scrapped. I oversaw this one with Wendy Spears.” Another editor. Davis had an elaborate con game going this whole time. Like he was letting me play with my toys while he did the actual work behind my back. I could murder someone.

“Wendy’s got a good poker face,” I say, seething.

“She does.”

“Did it ever occur to you to include me in the discussion?” The world around me is going hazy. I think I’m actually going to go on a rampage.