Rugged

by Lila Monroe

  “This is good,” I say, trying to slow my breath down. My heart is jackhammering in my chest. “All those women think you’re hot. The target demographic approves. Maybe we could bring some of them with us, to testify. Is it too late to go to Kinko’s and make a graph of some kind? People like pie charts.” I’m full on babbling. Flint touches my shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, his voice kind. He’s been nothing but polite and professional since we left Massachusetts, and I’m working hard to do the same.

  “I just don’t want you to be nervous,” I say, about ready to put my head between my knees and hyperventilate. Flint chuckles.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about me,” he says. “Keep yourself upright, partner.”

  “Oh hardy har,” I mutter, but he’s got a point. I loosen my shoulders. “Better?”

  “Much.” He reaches down and squeezes my hand once. For luck, of course. For luck.

  We enter through the revolving glass doors and check in with the receptionist, then head up to the executive floor. Flint looks around the sleek metallic elevator, watching his reflection in the chrome shine of the doors. He’s hiding it pretty well, but his own nervous energy is starting to appear. It’s a lot quieter than mine, but it’s there.

  “You don’t have to worry. I’m going to do all the talking,” I say.

  “I know. I just.” He pauses, and nods at his reflection. “I just need to stay collected.”

  “We both do.” I smile at our reflections. “Together, we can do anything. We can rule the world!”

  “Lot of paperwork in ruling the world,” Flint says.

  “Ew, no one mentioned paperwork.” We both laugh a little, tension dissipating. For about five seconds. Then the doors whoosh open, and lo and behold, who should be standing there but the ambassador to hell itself?

  “Young Laurel, looking as sexy as ever.” Tyler gives me a shit-eating grin as Flint and I step out of the elevator. It takes all the will I can muster not to give him a solid throat strike, just for old time’s sake.

  “Mmm, you know I’m so sorry I forgot to reply to your desperate little text message. I was too busy doing actual work,” I say sweetly.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. Too bad it won’t do you any good. Are you ready for me to own your perky little ass?” he asks, popping a Tic Tac. He doesn’t even glance at Flint. “I think it’s so cute that you took this whole pitch thing seriously.”

  Cute. Oh, classic Tyler. I notice Flint straightening up. He towers over the little asshole. Tyler seems to notice this, because he steps back. He takes Flint in, and I see the uneasiness register.

  “What’s cute, Tyler, will be the look on your face after I’m done running roughshod over your shitty ideas.” I mock-ponder, tapping a finger against my chin. “Let me think. Did you decide to go with the elegant simplicity of the underage boob job idea? Or will you reach for the stars? Maybe inside the down and dirty world of Beverly Hills nannies and the over-privileged assholes who use them for sex. You’ve got experience there.” I try to shove past him, but he stands in my way.

  “Don’t give yourself airs, Young. I’ve banged girls who are a lot hotter than you. It’s not that hard,” he snaps, the ‘cool dude’ façade dropping to display what an ugly little bastard he truly is. My ears buzz, and I’m about to tell him off when Flint steps into him.

  “You need to be careful about the kinds of things you say in public,” Flint says. It’s basically a growl. “Someone might think that you meant them.”

  “Yeah? What if I did, man?” Tyler tries to sound casual, but his voice goes up an octave. Flint leans down, enjoying watching Tyler squirm.

  “Then someone would have to escort your spray-tanned ass outside to have a very frank discussion about attitudes toward women in the workplace. And afterwards, someone would have to drive said spray-tanned ass to the hospital, and someone doesn’t have time for that right now. Besides, blood is bad for the car upholstery. Understand?”

  That stops Tyler cold. He goes so pale that his tan turns a weird orange-rind color. “Well. Don’t think you’re walking out with this, Young,” Tyler mumbles. He pops another Tic Tac and nearly runs away. Jackass.

  “Thanks for backing me up,” I say. Flint shrugs.

  “I know you didn’t need it; God knows you can handle him on your own. But I didn’t think it was right to stand by.” My heart beats faster as he grins at me. “So. Lead on to the big meeting.”

  Mr. Davis is sitting at the head of the conference table, flanked on either side by glasses-wearing yes men. They look at him, then at me, then at him, probably trying to read the acceptable level of douchey behavior they can get away with.

  “All right, Ms. Young. Let’s see what you’ve got,” Davis says, leaning back in his chair. I stand up, forcing myself not to smooth my skirt. Flint watches me.

  “Reel World does an expert job of catering to the male gaze,” I say, giving them a big smile. If by ‘expert’ we mean sleazy, then we are the most expert around. “But it’s time to expand our demographic. More women watch reality television than men—fact. But to get a show that brings in both women and men, well, that’s the big dream. The ratings juggernaut.”

  Davis nods. I’m not sure if it’s encouraging or not, but I proceed.

  “Rustic Renovations will follow Flint McKay as he plans and builds an enchanted woodsy retreat high in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. The spectacular vistas bring in the people hungry for beauty. The hands-on, innovative design and construction will attract do it yourselfers and Architectural Digest subscribers alike. And the hunk factor will appeal to all young women looking for something sexy but substantive on television.” I manage to keep myself from blushing as I say it. Flint doesn’t respond. The yes men look from him to me to Davis. Their heads snap back and forth so fast I’m afraid they’ll break off and fall to the floor, still spinning around.

  With that introduction, I gesture to the screen behind me, pressing play.

  I’m just gonna go ahead and say it: our sizzle reel fucking rocks. Even without the gratuitous views of Flint’s biceps and Berkshire sunsets, it’s compelling, genuinely interesting—no celebrity scandals or outrageous sex necessary. Take that, Tyler. When the video ends, I lift my chin and say, “In short, it has major crossover appeal. And, in a company inundated with celebrity boob shows, it stands out in a big way.”

  There. I lobbed the ball, and Davis connects with it. He nods even more; hopefully, it’s a sign of enthusiasm.

  But then, right on cue, Tyler comes to rain on my parade. “Like, this is all very nice if we’re watching the best of public access,” he sneers. I suppress a sigh. Tyler and I are the last pitches of the afternoon, and since they’re running us back to back we’re both in the room. What a lucky, lucky jackass I am. Davis doesn’t respond to Tyler’s outburst, and he glances at the yes men for a nice, juicy yes. “But what about the sex factor? Is he gonna be banging hotties in the back of his trailer? Are there even any hot women in western Mass, or is it just moustaches and cankles?” Wow, Tyler has brought the asshole brigade out for some fun. He knows Flint can’t touch him in here. Tyler grins while Flint sits staring at him. No reaction. Just staring.

  “There is no ‘hottie banging’ on this show,” I say, keeping my voice level. I will kill Tyler.

  “Great. Then it’s all the stuff America doesn’t want to see,” he smarms. The yes men are looking at each other with discomfort now. Davis still says nothing.

  “Maybe a little relationship drama would be nice?” one of the yes men says tentatively. He looks like he’s the type who’s permanently dewy. He grins weakly. “We can set something up. A little added tension—”

  “We don’t need added tension,” I snap. The room goes silent. Uh oh. Clearing my throat, I add, “Our audience is out there. We just have to make sure to deliver exactly what they want, and not clutter it up. This is quality programming. It’s both entertaining and inspiring, not junk.” I stare do
wn Tyler. He scowls at me as Davis nods.

  “Very nice,” he says. “All right. I want to hear from our proposed star. Mr. McKay?”

  Flint sits very quietly for a minute. He’s not looking at Tyler, or me. He’s so quiet I think I might have to stick a pin in him to get some movement, but he quickly stands up. I sit down—next to Tyler, unfortunately—and smile at him. A couple of bumps in the road, but nothing we couldn’t handle. All he has to do is talk about his hardware store, show his enthusiasm for the project, and we’re good.

  “I’m going to be honest,” Flint says, putting his hands on the table.

  Okay, that’s a bad start.

  “I didn’t submit to your company because I wanted to be famous. My sister sent in an audition tape without my knowing about it.”

  Davis furrows his brow. I’m sure, in his mind, someone not wanting to be famous is the same as someone saying they want to become a turnip: really weird and kind of impossible. My nails dig into my thigh, but I can’t stop this.

  “I agreed to fly out here and pitch this show because my family business is in trouble. I’d do anything in the world to keep it going.” He frowns, and pulls his shoulders back. In this room of manicured suits, he looks like what he is: a normal American man who has no time for their crap. “But I know that reality television is fake. It’s scripted, produced, and glossed to within an inch of its life.”

  Danger, danger Will Robinson. Someone get that cute Lost in Space robot out here to grab Flint and shut his sexily stubbled mouth. But no one, robot or otherwise, is going to stop Flint McKay on a roll.

  “If you’re looking to make my life sexy or sensational, some kind of backwoods bachelor kind of deal, you’re looking at the wrong man. I’m willing to do a show where I teach people construction, take them through the fundamentals of building a house. I want to show people that any dream can be fulfilled; I like that idea. But under no circumstance am I going to let myself or the people in my life be exploited. No one should ever give up their dignity, not for any kind of show.”

  “Even a show that pays you a lot of money, Mr. McKay?” Davis asks. His voice sounds flat as a board. He clasps his hands over his stomach. Flint nods.

  “Even that. So I need you to understand how I feel about this whole thing.”

  “You act like you’re so much better than us,” Tyler chimes in, looking at me smugly. I’m going to use my perfectly French-tipped nails to rip his damn face off. Flint whips around. For the first time, there’s some heat in his voice.

  “After hearing you talk, buddy, I don’t think I’m better. I guarantee it.” Flint’s hardened gaze makes Tyler sink back into his chair a little. One small victory. But no one in the room moves. The air feels raw and heavy now.

  “You’re pretty hostile, Mr. McKay. I don’t know anyone in your position who’d be so flippant with a group of executives who could decide the fate of his show.” Davis is sounding less and less impressed by the minute. I have to do something.

  “Integrity’s essential,” I say, my fake smile so broad I’m afraid my face will split. “Flint’s vision is different than most—”

  “Most shows that Reel World produces?” Davis says, his voice cold. “Is that what you were going to say?” Oh damn. The winds have shifted. The yes men and Tyler are all starting to turn on me.

  “No. Just…different than a lot of other reality television companies.” If I could dig a hole in the carpet and bury myself, I would.

  “I’m being honest,” Flint says, hands in his pockets. “If you want me, you take what I’m offering and nothing else. Thanks for your consideration.”

  Davis nods coolly, and Flint sits back down at the table. In the words of Winston Churchill, what the flying fuck just happened? I want to lay my head against the polished mahogany and beat it several times. It’s over. I am now going to go down in flames alongside Stubbly McHandsome over there.

  “Kinley,” Davis says, clearing his throat. “What do you have?”

  “Glad you asked,” Tyler says, shit-eating grin in place. “Picture this: celebrity dog gets penis enhancement.”

  11

  “You seem tense,” Flint says as we walk out toward my car. Well, he walks. I sort of stomp-run as fast as I can in my heels. Finally, I yank the bastards off and stomp-run across the lot in my bare feet. Yes, gape all you want, parking attendant.

  “Do I? Do I seem like the kind of tense that signifies your career has blown up in front of you? Is that the kind of tense you mean?” I fumble with the keys and wrench open the door to my Camaro, almost smacking myself in the face.

  “I’m sorry,” Flint says, closing my door before I can get in. He leans against the car, a muscular wall of ‘you shall not pass.’ “But I had to be clear about what I was and wasn’t willing to do. They can’t have my integrity.”

  “So moral high ground gives you carte blanche to be an asshole? After everything I did to get us here?” I snap.

  “I’m the asshole?” He tightens his jaw. “You talked about me like I wasn’t even in the room.” His voice lowers, deepens with anger. “Maybe you forgot your promise yesterday, about not letting them make a fool out of me. But there you were, playing along with what they wanted. ‘The hunk factor.’” He sounds disgusted just saying it. “And then that oily little bastard talking about setting me up with, what was it? Hotties to bang?” Those words coming from Flint’s mouth almost makes this situation hilarious. But he’s too pissed off for comical right now. “I won’t bring that kind of fake sexy bullshit into my home. I needed to make that clear,” he says, decisive.

  Crap. From his point of view, I really wasn’t doing my all to defend him in there. I close my eyes. “I should have warned you about Tyler before we went in. That’s on me. But Flint, the project is dead now. You understand?”

  “How’s that possible? They said they’d call us.” His eyebrows shoot up.

  “In Hollywood, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ is an unspoken ‘thanks but no thanks.’ Very subtle, the intricacies of this business,” I groan. After Flint’s speech, all the executives had given us the blankest possible looks. Then Davis gave us the kiss off line, and I knew it was over.

  “So. That means the show’s really dead then.” He actually sounds sorry about it.

  I look up at him. “I lose my job. You lose your best shot at keeping the business intact. That’s what today cost us. That’s why I’m upset.”

  He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I know,” he mutters. We stand there for a moment, looking at the ground in awkward silence. “Listen, it probably wasn’t supposed to work out. I mean, if I can’t handle a team full of suits—”

  “The process of shooting the show would probably drive you insane.” I mean it to sound like kind of a dig, but it doesn’t. It sounds honest. I don’t want to believe it, but I saw how volatile it got back there; Flint probably isn’t ready for Hollywood. “I don’t mean gibbering insane; more like righteously insane,” I add, then sigh. “What time is it?”

  Flint checks his phone. “Three. Why?”

  “It’s five o’clock central time. Get in.” I open my door again. “We’re getting a drink.” Flint takes the keys from my hand.

  “You tell me where to go. I’ll drive. I’d like to go close to the speed limit this time.” He gets in and adjusts the seat while I turn to the glory that is Yelp. I punch in an address, my fingers feeling numb and clumsy. This is it. I bombed the most important meeting of my life, and all I have left now is drinking in the afternoon. Wahoo.

  I will not cry with someone else driving my Camaro. I will not fucking cry.

  I direct us to the cheapest, closest dive I can find. It’s a tacky Mexican-themed place, complete with Day of the Dead artwork, plastic maracas hanging from the lamps and the bartender in a sombrero. But it’ll have tequila. It must have tequila.

  “Two shots of Cuervo,” I say, putting my purse on the bar and climbing onto the stool. “And another round after
that.” My throat tightens. I feel like I’m on the edge of a screaming jag, which means that booze is a necessary relaxant. Very necessary.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Flint says, raising an eyebrow at me.

  “Look.” I put my palms on the bar, trying not to blow up. “My dreams are dead. I failed you. Ohio looms in my future. The least you can do is make it a hard liquor night.” I nudge his elbow, though, to show I’m not really mad. Mostly, at any rate.

  “Fair enough. But I’ve seen what can happen when you drink hard alcohol. I just want to make sure you don’t…do anything you’ll regret later.”

  I feel my face go hot, but before I can snap back at him (I most certainly do not ‘regret’ what happened the last time I drank hard alcohol. Or do I? Is that even what he was talking about? Or was he just concerned…) our drinks arrive and Flint picks up the shot. He looks perplexed—it turns out he’s never done a big bar night before. I have to show him how to take tequila. Salt, then the shot, then biting into a lime wedge. He makes a face, but nods after biting into the fruit. “That’s an acquired taste,” he says.

  “Get ready to acquire more.” I laugh—a little hysterically, but I get it under control pretty fast—and wave for the bartender.

  After three of those babies, the urge to scream evaporates. Man, does that feel fucking glorious. I’m starting to laugh. I don’t know about what, it’s just that the bartender’s sombrero is so funny. Flint’s shirt is funny. Plants are funny! Flint grins.

  “You’re a lot drunker than I am,” he says. That’s probably true, but he’s also doing the ‘I’m sitting so straight, look at me, I’m not shitfaced’ thing.

  “Not drunk. Tipsy. Fashionably tipsy.” I lean my face against his shoulder, just for someplace to rest. Mmm. My flannel resting place. With such a fresh, woodsy scent to it. Snort. “Is this the only kind of shirt you own?”

  “I can take it off if it’s cramping your style,” he says, tilting my chin up. The look in his eyes—heated, intense—sends a wave of pleasurable sensation all the way down to my core. Something in his gaze is unguarded, as if our failure today has suddenly broken down some wall he’d kept up between us before now. I think I like it.