Rugged(84)

“I’m just telling you what it looks like to me,” Flint says, anger coloring his voice. “Those people I met at the premiere, Kandy Kristi, the waiter at Replenish or whatever that restaurant’s name was. Everyone’s a prostitute or a snob. The way executives in your company talk, you’d think Americans were these backwards mouth breathers who need to be told what to eat, what to drink, what to buy, what to do. That without Hollywood pulling their strings, they’d curl up and drool on themselves.” Even in the dim, flickering light of the city, I can see the emotion flashing in his eyes. “All you people want to do is take, and you never give back.”

“You people? As in me people?” I snap. Okay, that’s it. Before Flint can respond, I stomp away from the lights, back down to the car. I get in and slam the door, waiting for him to just get inside and let me drive him back to his stupid hotel. Last I remember, I gave him a one way ticket to stardom and a chance to save his floundering company. Not much taking in that department. But I’m not going to talk to him about this. It sounds too petty, and I’m too f*cking pissed off. How dare he pass judgement on all of us as he rides by on his high and mighty horse (that he couldn’t even afford in the first place if it weren’t for my soul-sucking, greedy hack of a production company)?

Flint finally gets in the car beside me, and we’re both incredibly silent as we drive back down Mulholland, back down toward the city. We’re nearing my apartment when he finally speaks again. “You know what Callie said to me right before we left?” Flint asks. His voice is still tense.

“That she wants you to use your newfound celebrity to keep her and David in expensive hotel rooms?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted amid the turmoil.

“No.” He sighs and leans back in his seat. “She told me I need to start being honest with myself. That I need to focus on what I want, not on what I think is best for the family or anyone else.”

Well, remembering how perfect Charlotte is, I get the feeling he probably has been focusing on what he wants. So what can I tell you, Callie? Your argument is invalid.

We finally pull up, and I hit the button on my building’s garage door. It takes a full minute of Flint clearing his throat before I can stand to ask, “What? What exactly is the problem now?”

“I don’t mean to bother you while you’re thinking,” Flint says, his voice cool, “but this isn’t my hotel.”

Surprised, I look back at the opening garage door and almost scream. Great, I was so frazzled I drove us directly to my apartment. I all but start banging my head on the wheel.

“Easy there,” Flint says, grabbing my shoulder. His touch is electric and completely depressing. He’s like a bolt of lightning that hits you once and then never calls again.

“Okay, let me drive you back,” I say, looking over my shoulder and getting ready to peel out and knock over some trashcans. I think Flint senses how totally on edge I am, because he instantly says, “No. I can get a cab. Let’s go inside, get you a drink, and I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. You still get your Netflix and bubble bath.”

“Fine,” I mumble, pulling into my underground parking space and turning off the ignition. Instead of getting out right away, we just sit there in silence. I’m flooded with memories of the last time Flint was at my apartment, how different things were between us just a few short months ago, and I don’t want to get out of the car at all. My, how time flies and everything gets worse. I finally take a deep breath and open my door, sliding out and into the garage. It’s dimly lit in here, but at least it’s warm and smells Downey fresh, since somebody’s got a load of laundry going in the small room just next to the elevator.

Flint gets out but stands by the car door, as if he’s not sure which way to go. Which actually, he probably isn’t. Last time he was here we stumbled out of a cab, onto the sidewalk, through the building’s front entrance, and then tumbled into my apartment devouring each other. Nope, I clearly don’t remember the details at all.

“I’m not going to bite your head off,” I sigh. “You want to come up for a drink?”

“I should probably call the cab first,” Flint says, still not moving. But there’s something about the way he’s watching me. My skin prickles with sudden goose bumps; man, where did those come from?

“I’m sorry I lost it on you back there,” I blurt out. “That’s not what I wanted.”

He shakes his head. “I honestly wasn’t talking about you. I’ve just been really frustrated with this whole process. I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s never what I want,” Flint says, his voice low and earthy. “I never want to see you upset, especially not because of me.”

Then why did you use me? Why was I just a pawn to get Charlotte back into your flannel-clad arms, you infuriating, wonderful, stupid, handsome man?

“What did you just call me?” Flint sounds shocked. Oh God.

“Um. Wait. How much of that did I say out loud?” I ask.

“Something about infuriating, stupid, handsome?” he asks. His eyebrows lift slightly. “What did you mean by that?”

Oh no. Oh, shit. I have this bad habit of talking while I’m thinking. Or thinking while talking. Or talking. I talk sometimes; always a bad option. My mouth opens and things come flying out and then disaster strikes. Flint watches me with wordless surprise while I make probably fifty different faces, ranging from terror to embarrassment.