Rugged(9)

My career is over.

I roll down Main Street and pull up outside a bar; my epic Flint failure has left a bitter taste in my mouth that can only be washed away with booze. This place is the stereotypical little joint on the archetypal country road. A swinging wooden sign reads The Firefly Tavern, and it creaks in the cool night breeze. This is the kind of place that has a neon PBR sign in the window, and a six-foot stuffed grizzly bear waiting by the entrance to give you a hug. I slam my car door and head right in, not bothering to straighten my skirt. I’m on a mission, after all, and that mission has nothing to do with my wardrobe.

Inside, it’s a lumberjack’s dream. There’re about seven deer heads hanging along the walls, all of them wearing startled expressions. Everything is hewn out of rough wood: the benches, the tables, even the menus. At the back, a group of beer-drinking, flannel-wearing guys in trucker hats are shooting pool and laughing it up. The place smells of lager and old memories. It’s exactly what I need.

I stroll up to the bar, heels clacking against the floor, determined to get wasted enough to forget how ugly things are going to be on Monday morning when I roll into Davis’ office with no pitch.

The bartender, pouring out a tumbler of whiskey for a customer, looks up at me with a lifted brow. This is definitely beard country. The barkeep’s sporting a massive, untidy bush, and a man bun to match. I sidle right up and set my purse on the bar.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks, a bit gruffly. “If it comes with fruit juice and an umbrella, I ain’t got it.”

Ah, here we go. A little sexism puts even more fire in my blood. “Two fingers of Glenfiddich, neat,” I say, trying not to bare my teeth.

“That’ll put hair on your chest,” he says, nodding in approval and sounding impressed. Considering all the excess body fur in here, he may have a point. But I’ll take the chance. He pours the drink and slides it to me. I sip, enjoying the smoky peat flavor.

A few more drinks go down and soon enough it hardly matters that I’m going to lose my job at Reel World. Hardly matters I’ll be relocating to my parents’ basement in Ohio in another week or so. Hardly matters that Tyler’s pitch is going to win, that he’s going to win.

“Pff. Hardly matters at all,” I mumble into my empty-again glass.

“I don’t see many women who take their liquor without ice,” a deep, woodsy, melodious voice says. “Especially not city dwellers.” Jeez, the way country people carry on about the perils of the city, you’d think we were about to initiate dueling banjos.

I turn on my stool to deliver a sharp retort, which requires a hell of a lot more coordination than I expected, and nearly face-plant into Flint, who has somehow managed to appear at my side and find me wallowing in personal and professional agony. For a moment, I’m stunned. Not only did he slam a door in my face, evade capture during a high-speed chase on a mountain road, and crush my career dreams, but he then adds insult to injury by turning back around and hunting me down at the very bar where I sought solace? A bar where he’s far and away the drop-dead hottest red-blooded male in here? The nerve of this guy. The nerve!

But what comes out of my mouth next isn’t an expression of drunken rage.

It’s a purring come-on.

“I’m full of surprises, Mr. McKay,” I flirt, barely slurring my words at all. Flint’s eyes graze up and down my body, but it’s not the leering, creepy look that I see from men like Tyler. He’s taking stock, sizing me up.

And if I’m not mistaken, I think he likes what he sees.

He takes the stool next to mine, which sends my pulse racing. I chalk it up to the anger I’m feeling at his refusal to participate in my brilliant-but-now-crushed dreams of Reel World domination. After he orders a draft beer for himself and a refill for me, calling the bartender by name—it’s Carl—Flint turns back to me and clinks his glass against mine before draining half the beer in one long, glorious pull.

While he’s doing that, my phone buzzes in my purse. I make the mistake of checking it and see a text message from Tyler: ‘if ur pms is over now, we should talk about co-pitching to davis on monday. smart move for both of us-u game?’

Game? I’m game, alright. But my game involves a baseball bat and Tyler’s balls.

What the actual f*ck? He can’t be serious. Co-pitching? So he can steamroller me and take all the credit for ‘our’ idea, leaving me pitchless? Was I born yesterday? What the—but before my outrage can eclipse my common sense and force my fingers to text him back with something I’ll probably regret later, I hear Flint slam his now-empty beer glass onto the bar, startling me back to reality. I throw the phone back in my bag like it’s a hot coal and look over at him.

“So what kind of surprises are you full of?” he asks. Not in a flirty way—but curious. Even so, a rush of heat radiates through me. I don’t know if it’s all the inconvenient emotions pinballing around inside my head, the mass quantity of scotch I’ve just downed, or the sheer hotness of the man sitting next to me, but I lean toward him, steel myself, and steady my nerves with a single thought:

Get it, girl.

“All kinds,” I murmur, running a hand down his forearm. “Would you like to find out?” Maybe it’s the booze, but I could swear that something passes between us—something animal, magnetic, and totally out of our control.