Rugged

by Lila Monroe

  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.”

  I don’t like him knowing my body language. It’s too damn intimate.

  “Making friends?” I ask, changing the subject. Flint clears his throat, darting glances at the crowd. He doesn’t seem fond of our group. It was a performance, after all.

  “Two people gave me their business cards. One’s a producer named Peterman who says I should think about getting into film acting. Then he tried to grab my ass.” Flint grunts. I bet he was very polite in his refusal, but he’s clearly a little flustered.

  “If it makes you feel better, hot women in Hollywood have to put up with that seven times a night. Every night.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel better. It makes me feel sorry for them. It makes me feel gross. Like everyone’s for sale,” he snaps. Rolling his shoulders, he sighs. “And then the other business card was some director’s wife wondering how many affairs I’ve had since I landed. This morning. And she offered to be next in line. I don’t know how you put up with all these vultures.” He scowls, narrowing his eyes at the party.

  “This isn’t Los Angeles; it’s Hollywood,” I remind him. I scan the crowd for the offending jerks, but it’s a sea of tanned bullshit artists. Hard to just pick two. “One’s a real place, the other’s a diseased state of mind.”

  “If you say so.” He sounds disapproving. Let’s change the subject.

  “How are things back home?” I ask, clearing my throat. Keeping my tone professional and detached. “The twins okay? Callie and David?”

  “The twins are perfect, as usual. Jessa’s taken up Bikram yoga, and she keeps talking about sweating out the toxins of her past lives. No idea what that means. As for Callie and Dave.” He shrugs. I’m not sure what that means, but I hope it’s not bad. “Everyone’s hoping this show goes well.”

  “Well, we can use all the good vibes we can get.” I laugh. See how easy I’m laughing? Showing my teeth and everything. But Flint doesn’t laugh along. Instead, a look I’ve rarely seen on his face before emerges: panic. “What’s wrong?” I murmur.

  “Things aren’t great with McKay’s Hardware,” he says. He tightens his grip on his glass. “I’ve been having meetings. The bank, Smith & Warren, potential investors. Nothing is looking solid right now. I literally had to promise my business manager that the promotion will bring people back to our stores. I know I keep saying this, but it’s really no joke. This show can’t be a failure.” He takes a deep swallow of his beer. The entire speech, he never looks at me once. No pressure. Nope. None at all.

  “That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about,” I say with way more certainty than I feel. It’s not just for him, of course. I need the reassurance too. If I fall flat today, not only does Flint lose his business, but I look like a moron in front of everybody at the network who matters. It’ll make Brian Sanderson speeding away in someone’s yacht look like a minor career blemish in comparison. “We’re going to be a success.”

  “We are?” He glances over at me. Shit. Not we. ‘We’ as in the business we.

  “Our show will be, yes,” I clarify. Flint nods, but doesn’t seem to relax.

  “I want to believe that,” he says.

  “Wanting is half the battle,” I mutter. Here we are, having a drink, loosening up. This’d be a great moment to casually ask ‘How’s Charlotte?’ Just a way of showing that I don’t care, that I’m over it. But the words stick in my throat. First of all, opening up the relationship can of worms is unprofessional, and we’re barely out of awkwardness. Second, Flint’s got other problems right now. Third, it’s like Schrodinger’s relationship: as long as I don’t open the box, he is and is not with Charlotte. I can hold on to some sanity. I wonder if they’ve set a new wedding date yet.

  Eventually, we all file into the deluxe screening room, a dimly lit theatre with reclining leather seats—with cup holders!—and an enormous screen. Flint sits next to me on one side, Suze on the other. She takes my hand and squeezes it as the lights start to go down. It’s good to have a friend here. Flint and I accidentally place our arms alongside each other at the same time, and we both pull back like we’ve been bitten. Not too long ago, I might’ve held on to Flint’s hand, even here in public, but those days are gone.

  The footage starts, and it’s…good. We open on Flint standing on the mountainside, showing off the blue prints. His easy smile instantly wins over the room; I can actually feel the shift in the air. If the suits are into this, maybe we have a real shot when the show debuts on televisions all across the country. I start to relax in my seat.

  “And that’s the basics of leveling your foundation,” Show Flint says, laughing as he looks to the side. “You got it?”

  “I caught about five words in there I understood,” Show Me says to him. There I am, laughing as the camera cuts to me. I didn’t know how enormous people on screen are until I was actually one of them. Show Me tugs at my yellow hard hat, trying to get it comfortable. “Let’s see. I understood ‘The,’ ‘a,’ ‘an,’ ‘is,’ and ‘lunch.’ I’d say we’re off to a great start.” The big screen versions of us both laugh at that. Meanwhile, back here in screening room reality, my mouth has come dangerously close to unhinging itself and hitting the floor.

  I’m in the footage? I’m in the fucking footage? Why the fuck 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 dec
ided 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 fuck 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.

  “I get what I want,” Davis says simply. He knows if he told me, I’d find a way out of it. But now, there’s no time. Now public opinion’s against me even if I recut everything myself. Now I have no choice.

  “This is my show. I produce, I don’t star,” I say, folding my arms. Davis doesn’t even blink.

  “This is your show at my company. One day, if you move up to my level, you call the shots. Until then, if you want this to air, you’re going to be starring alongside Flint McKay. Got it?”

  There are so many amazing curse words that are pirouetting across my tongue, doing pliés and arabesques. But I want to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach, so I make them sashay on down to the back of my throat. Taking a deep breath, I say, “All right. I guess that doesn’t change the interviews we’ve got set up for Flint. All the promotions are still on.”

  “They are,” he agrees. Then, “And of course, you’ll be joining him. It’s great publicity, if you think about it. Producer steps out from behind the camera and into the limelight. If you can keep that banter you have going with McKay, it’ll be even better.”

  Okay, my brain is exploding. Everyone please duck under your desk and cover your neck, this is not a drill. “I can’t join him on the press junket!”

  “You’ll learn fast. It’s one of the things I always admired about you,” Davis says. I think I read sincerity in his eyes. “You’re a fighter. Only the best are fighters. You have what it takes.”

  Yeah, but I slept with the star, and now I spend half my time missing him and the other half wanting to strangle him. If I were a man and told him that, Davis would probably pour me a drink and promote me. Being female, I know I’m going to have to keep my mouth shut to avoid being outed as ‘unprofessional.’

  “Do you understand what I want?” Davis says. The only other choice is to lose everything I’ve worked so hard to earn. But maybe it’d be worth it to save my sanity.

  I take a long, deep, steadying breath.

  “All right,” I say. It sounds like I croaked those words, but Davis doesn’t deserve my happy professional voice right now. “I just can’t believe you sprang it all on me like this. Sir.” The last word is tinged with a bit of acid. I think he likes that.

  “Get in touch with Gretchen, Flint’s publicist. She’s going to have you very busy this next month.” And just like that, he walks away.

  Amazing. It’s not just that I’m going to be jammed up against Flint this whole month. I’ll also soon be experiencing the pleasure of having our awkwardness aired on national TV, for all the world to enjoy.

  There he is, standing in a cluster of people, shaking hands and talking. He finds my eyes across the room, a look of quiet desperation on his face. I shake my head slowly, letting him see the doom. We’re stuck together. Better bend over and grab your ankles, because Hollywood just brought the lube.

  28

  “Aren’t you a little young to be having these frown lines?” my makeup artist asks, pursing her lips. Her name’s Leigh, and she works for Good Day Cali, a morning show with the brightest and most chipper host known to man. I’m pretty sure the host, Kandy Kristi, would’ve smiled while talki
ng about the Hindenburg disaster. ‘And look at that! So many lives lost in that fiery inferno! Oh my gosh, the humanity!’ Twinkle.

  “I like to think I’ve earned these lines,” I say, frowning some more as Leigh tsks and moves toward me with more foundation. She’s sassy but fierce, with platinum blond hair and on-point eyeliner, and she is not having my attitude this morning.

  “You’re nervous,” she says, and nods. “It’s your first time. Makes sense.”

  “I’m not nervous,” I say, mostly to convince myself. See that, self? You’re not nervous. No way you should try popping a few Xanax before you go out there. No way. I couldn’t even get the doctor’s prescription.

  Flint’s sitting in the chair next to me, that little paper bib clipped just under his chin to protect his clothes. He looks suspiciously at the lip gloss, but for the most part he’s being a good soldier. His makeup girl, a cute redhead, keeps blushing and giggling and quivering whenever he looks at her. I know how that feels, hon.

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” Flint tells me as Leigh moves in with some kind of cream to fight the apparently enormous bags under my eyes. “I can do most of the talking.”

  “Can you believe we’re in a position where you’re saying that to me?” I ask him. At least, as well as I can ask, what with Leigh smearing something on my lips. “What happened to that scared, rugged man ready to fling himself off a cliff before the cameras started rolling?”

  “I guess I got used to it.” He frowns as the makeup girl artfully messes up his hair, but he doesn’t fight it. “I’ve always been good at adapting.”

  That’s true. Flint usually keeps a cool head. Even now, when he’s talking to the woman he cruelly pretended to have actual feelings for, he’s chatting easily. The awkwardness of our first day back together is mostly gone—mostly. Sometimes Flint and I still don’t know what to do about eye contact, or we get into a throat clearing game of ‘please don’t make me say something, oh look, a squirrel.’ But Flint McKay now seems more at home in the glitz and glam of show business than I do. Funny, that.