by Lila Monroe
“You’re not?” Flint asks. He steps towards me, a wild, crackling light in his eyes. “Really?”
I can’t resist him anymore. I don’t even think.
One microsecond later, I’m in his arms.
32
His hands are in my hair, trailing down my back, gripping my ass as we kiss, the forceful thrust of his tongue scorching hot and needy. I’m dizzy with desire, completely overwhelmed by the taste of him, the smell of him, his touch everything I’ve longed for these past months, and as I lose myself in the kiss he walks us forward, almost like we’re dancing, until we hit a cinderblock wall.
“How fast can we make it upstairs?” he asks, eyeing my car as he pulls back. But I’ve already been down that road, at least in my imagination, and nothing says mood-killer like elbowing someone in the face or accidentally kneeling on their balls because you’re trying to accordion their gorgeous but massive body into your less-than-roomy backseat.
“We don’t have to,” I reply, grabbing him by his shirt collar and pulling him into the laundry room with me. I slap the light switch off and slam the door, twisting the lock. It’s just me and Flint and the laundry, all of us hot and tumbling around wildly in the pitch dark room. Flint’s rough hands go to my waist, pulling me hard against him.
“Flint,” I sigh into his mouth.
Wait. Stop.
Charlotte. Charlotte. We need to talk about Charlotte. I am not okay with this. I will not give myself over to this kind of stupid, horny—
When Flint lifts me in his arms, burying his face in my neck, biting me softly there, I completely lose my train of thought. The reaction is instant, perfect cause and effect. I’m not thinking anymore. He takes a few tentative steps in the dark and stops when he comes up against the dryer, setting me on top of it. The machine is vibrating with the rotation of the laundry tumbling inside it, and the steel is deliciously warm under my ass.
“Tell me what you want,” Flint whispers, an urgent note in his voice.
Literally every thought I have ever had about Charlotte, right and wrong, good and evil, up and down, fucking everything goes out of my mind as I pull him toward me, wrapping my legs around his waist. I moan as I squeeze him with my thighs, grinding against the button fly of his jeans. My hand goes up to stroke the stubble along his jawline, and I nip at his lower lip, then lap his tongue with mine, letting myself go to my happy place as my hands slide up under his shirt to feel the muscles of his chest. Mmmm.
I get that flannel off him so fast that I’m sure I deserve an Olympic medal in de-shirting hot, rugged men. Surely a bronze, maybe even a silver. My hands trail down his back, across his abs, and then I find the bulge in his jeans and rub my thumb against it.
He wraps a hand around my throat, carefully, easing me away from him.
“Tell me what you want, Laurel,” he repeats, running his other hand up my leg, over my knee, pushing my skirt up around my hips. I tremble as Flint strokes my inner thigh, his hand teasing higher, closer. The machine under me is sending light vibrations through my skin, and as Flint paws at my underwear with one hand, his grip firm but gentle on my throat, I feel something inside me twinge with the need I’ve been holding back for so long. When he dips his hand into my panties and slips a finger into me, pressing deep and sure, I buck my hips, rocking against the sweet penetration.
“I,” I pant, speechless in the moment. But that nagging idea—Charlotte, Charlotte dammit, this is wrong—keeps tugging at me, threatening to pull me out of my rampaging adrenaline. “I want you,” I whisper at last, so hungry for him that nothing else matters.
Flint leans toward me with a groan, ravaging my mouth as he tugs my panties down my legs. When he reaches for the buttons on my blouse, I push his hands back and grab at the waistband of his jeans, wrenching the buttons apart.
“No. You, now. Please.” At least I said please. “Give.”
Once his pants are down, he grabs my ass and lifts me a few inches forward on the dryer, until we’re in perfect alignment, the tip of his cock pressing against my cunt. I groan loudly as he eases into me, taking his time, inch by inch. I can barely breathe. “Fuck me,” I urge him, digging my fingers into his thick biceps, but to no avail. He glides in slowly, filling me all the way up, pressing into that good spot deep inside me, and with the beat of the dryer driving rhythmically into my ass I can already tell I won’t last long.
“Give it to me,” I command, my voice strained with lust.
“So demanding,” he chuckles in my ear, gripping my hips with his big, strong hands.
“Now,” I groan, feeling myself bordering on a climax just thinking of his cock, ready and tight inside me. “Please.”
I feel his teeth on my neck again, my shoulder, and then he drives into me so hard I see a flash of white. “Fuck,” I cry, drawing out the word. “So good.”
And then, instead of going easy, he pistons into me with everything he has, keeping up a fierce, steady beat, the length of him stroking into me over and over without stopping, totally relentless. I moan his name, not caring if anyone hears us—or, more likely, the sound of the dryer banging against the wall. None of it matters, I’m so obliterated by the sensation of getting completely owned by this man.
“I’m gonna come,” Flint grinds out, pumping even faster, holding me even tighter as his mouth finds mine in the dark.
My hands tangle in his hair and as we kiss I feel my own orgasm building, hot and fast and unstoppable. Suddenly Flint shudders in my arms, and I can hear his groan echo in the small space as a simultaneous shockwave slams through me, and I’m coming so hard I see stars in the dark and all I can do is hold onto Flint as I ride it out.
We catch our breath, leaning against each other as oxygen reenters our brains. Because yes, I do have one. It’s just been AWOL as of late. Flint turns on the light and I shield my eyes, cowering half naked on the still-tumbling clothes dryer.
“You’re really amazing when you let go like that,” he says, handing me my skirt and tucking my hair behind my ears. And all of a sudden, my eyes go wide in horror.
What have I done?
I did it again. Somehow, being a complete idiot, I let it happen all over again.
And I didn’t just hurt myself this time. I hurt another woman. I mean, Flint did, but I was part of it. I wholeheartedly took part. I could have stopped this. Should have.
“I, I have to go,” I stammer, sliding off the machine and almost falling down, my legs still Jello. I fumble for my panties, feeling like the world’s fucking derpiest contestant in the walk of shame. Flint’s buttoning his shirt, but his gaze snaps up to me and I see a look of dazed confusion cross his face.
“What do you mean?” he says. He takes my hand, but I’m already backing toward the door. “Laurel, don’t go.” The look on his face is sincere; it’s earnest. But my shame turns into white hot rage, and I yank out of his grip.
“You’re disgusting,” I shout. Flint looks like a gruff, adorable dog that I’ve kicked in the side, but I can’t stop the words spilling out of my mouth. “First you sleep with me to take the edge off while we build your goddamn dream house, and then when your ex-fiancée waltzes back into your life, you don’t even have the decency to tell me. And then, to top it all off, when you have to be without her for only a few fucking weeks, you come right back to me? I thought you were a decent guy, but you are the serious fucking worst.”
Nothing, not even Flint McKay, is worth feeling this ashamed of myself. Nothing is worth degrading myself or other people. I’m done with this bullshit. No fucking more.
“Listen to me.” He moves closer, fury radiating off of him.
“I’m sorry, do you not have pictures of Charlotte on your phone, dress shopping in New York with your little sister for your big Hollywood premiere?”
“You looked through my phone?” Great, now he’s really getting angry. Like that’s the worst thing that has happened. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
There’s a buzz and
a rumble, and I hear the grinding sound of the parking garage gate opening. Great. We have company.
I’m not doing this. Not here.
“Call a cab. I need to go,” I say. I pull open the door and storm toward my Camaro, trying not to listen to Flint calling my name. After I slam the door behind me I gun the engine and drive out so fast the gate almost doesn’t have enough time to re-open.
I can’t see Flint again. I have to go to the only place where everything makes sense to me—work.
It may be after hours, but there’s still a hum of energy about the cubicles. Even the industrial carpeting seems alive at night. Sounds stupid, yes, but it always seemed that way to me. This office is where things happen. Where people become important. Doing well here is all I’ve ever wanted.
So why doesn’t that feel like enough anymore? I turn on my computer monitor and notice, as it boots up, that my reflection has streaks of mascara running down its cheeks. Fantastic. I grab some tissues and clean myself up before I get lost in some emails I forgot to take care of this morning. This is what I need. Work. Lots of work. Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend. Or on the weekend, whichever comes first.
“Ms. Young?” someone above me says. I look up, a ball of tissues still crumpled in my hand. A young man stands above me, his eyes looking owlish behind his round glasses. “Were you just humming something from Loverboy?”
“Uh. ‘Everybody’s Workin’ for the Weekend,’” I mutter. Man. 80s nostalgia really is at its damn peak.
“We’ve met before,” he says, registering my look of total not-remembering. “Ed French. I’m working on your budget.”
Right. The guy who’s so anal about managing every penny, he asks us to verify what brand of rubber bands we’re buying. Ed sniffs and slides his glasses back up his nose. He’s a good-looking man, mid twenties, with oiled hair that’s perfectly in place. Which leads to my next question.
“What are you still doing here?”
“Work never sleeps,” he says, sounding pleasant about it. Pursing his lips, he takes out a linen handkerchief—actual linen—and leans down to wipe some smudgy fingerprint marks off my desk. “I’m working for you, as a matter of fact. Your Rustic Renovations has gotten some incredible buzz.” He looks proud. “Sherilyn, our social media coordinator, says your Instagram in particular is getting huge. Which is great. That’s the 18-25 demographic that we were—”
He then proceeds to list a bunch of facts and figures that I’m not quite sure I understand. At the end of it all, Ed grins even wider. “I’d hoped to speak with you tomorrow, but I’m glad I have a chance now. I probably shouldn’t say anything more; Mr. Davis wants to mention it himself.”
“Mention what?” I snarl, about to strangle this poor guy. Another surprise from Davis is the last thing I need.
“You’ve been preemptively picked up for a second season,” Ed says, still smiling. My jaw drops open, which pleases him even more. “We’re all very excited, of course. Mr. Davis is so sure we have a hit that he already has next season all plotted out.”
“All plotted out?” I echo, spinning around to face him more fully. Ed’s enjoying his moment as a gossipmonger, I think. I get the impression not many people talk to him.
“You’ll be back as a co-star. That’s already been arranged. They were thinking also of taking the production to Alaska—get more of the rural demographic’s interest, the Dirty Jobs people—but there’s time still to discuss.”
“So I get to go to Alaska?” I ask, my tone undeniably dry. We’d be shooting in winter, most likely. “Oh boy. I can’t wait to not see the sun for eight weeks.”
“Mr. Davis seems to think a promotion is in order,” Ed whispers to me, smiling in a knowing way. “I know that he’s been talking about you at the executive level.”
For the first time in this conversation, Ed French has my full and undivided attention. I stand up for no reason. “Executive?” I can barely breathe the word.
“Word has it that they’re waiting to find out if the second season does as well as we expect the first to do,” Ed says, leaning in like we’re conspirators. “If it does, you could be looking at a fast shoot up the corporate ladder.” He chortles. Actually chortles. “Shoot. Ladder. See what I did there?” My silence doesn’t please him. His face falls a little. “Chutes and Ladders. Don’t tell me you don’t like board games.” I get the feeling Ed plays a lot of them. But that’s not the point right now.
“I could be an executive?” My voice catches in my throat.
“The first woman in Reel World’s history.” Ed smiles again. “I think you’d do an excellent job.”
All I’ve ever wanted, and this adorable little anal-retentive man is offering it to me. Well, he’s not, but Mr. Davis is. I could finally have everything I’ve been promising myself I could have since I first headed to LA with two suitcases and a bad haircut, a dream in my heart and a glint of pure steel in my eye. Everything I’ve ever worked for.
And all it will cost is working with Flint McKay nonstop, all hours, day in and day out for months. Work with the cheating bastard who seems to think that taking advantage of my desperate libido and poor decision-making skills is perfectly all right. I’ll continue to not trust my own judgment. I won’t want to make bad decisions. But I probably will. And it’ll drive me completely out of my mind.
“Isn’t it great?” Ed says, beaming.
“Yeah.” I swallow. My voice is weak. “Great.”
When I get home from the office at three in the morning, my head finally quiet and sleep beckoning, I sit down on my couch and stare at the wall. For what feels like hours, I sit and stare and think about the job offer. This could make me or break me. I could either achieve my dreams or bury them in the cold, hard ground. Around four AM, I stumble down the hall and crawl into bed, finally able to sleep.
I know exactly what I have to do.
“Laurel. Come in,” Mr. Davis says the next day when I enter. He had his assistant make a phone call down to me; no cold, impersonal email. I shake his hand, sit and listen to the pitch that Ed told me about last night. I keep a smile on my face, and nod as he lays out all his grand plans for me. At the end, he’s actually grinning. I’ve never seen an executive this happy before.
“So. What do you say?” he asks when he’s done. I take a deep breath.
“It’s the best offer I’ll probably ever get,” I say. “Thank you. I mean it.”
“So you’ll take it.” He doesn’t make it a question.
“No, Mr. Davis,” I say firmly, folding my hands in my lap. “I’m afraid I have to turn you down.”
33
Even when you’ve fired yourself from your own show, there’s no reason not to attend the premiere. Suze comes over to my place during the afternoon, so we can let the studio-hired styling team do whatever they can with my brown, shoulder length hair (‘No highlights? My God’), fuss over my makeup, and generally make me feel subpar. It’s kind of like Katniss getting done up in The Hunger Games, except that I won’t have to fight other people to the death in an arena afterward.
Oh, who am I kidding. This is Hollywood. It’s always an on-camera fight to the death.
“I can’t believe you turned Davis down,” Suze says, as we each sip a glass of rosé. Well, I don’t so much sip as I drink my wine through a straw. Desiree, the makeup technician, doesn’t want me smudging anything.
“It was just going to get stale anyway,” I say, waving my hand. That’s good. Pretend you didn’t really want it. “No reason to do another season.”
“I don’t like you giving up your dreams over some guy,” Suze says. She angrily pops a grape into her mouth.
“It’s not just about him,” I say. I shrug, which has Desiree instantly smoothing the smock she’s draped over my shoulders. “I don’t want to be anybody’s monkey, which is what I would be if I’d agreed. Would any of the other executives let themselves be dolled up to play sexy and giggle on television?” Suze sighs; she knows I’ve go
t a point. “Men don’t have to do anything. If they push back, it’s a sign of a good leader. If I do the same, I’m not a ‘team player.’ Screw that.” I look into my now empty glass. “Flint is just the sexily confusing icing on the cake.”
“Still don’t like it,” Suze mutters.
“Yeah. Me neither,” I say. “But that’s show business.”
The limo pulls up to the Roosevelt Hotel, located in the glittering heart of Hollywood. Lights are flashing as I maneuver myself out of the car, keeping my legs together, careful not to do any flashing of my own. I walk the red carpet alone, pasting a smile on my face. Granted, Desiree actually painted one on, so I could probably scowl and still look cheery. Normally no one cares about the producer, but because I’ve been all over the press recently, right alongside Flint McKay: New American Dreamboat, people actually recognize me.
“Laurel! Look over here!” a cheery paparazzo yells, and takes a picture right in my face. It’s so bright I blink and make a weird, grimacing expression. The laughter that accompanies the snapping of pictures all around me suggests that it’s going to make a pretty picture on page five of Star Weekly. Lucky me.
I walk into the hotel, my bedazzled clutch purse in hand, my poppy red Dior gown moving on my body like a dream. Perks of being the star of the show: designers offer to dress me. As soon as I’m inside, there’s life-giving champagne. I grab a glass and walk through the lobby, down the red velvet rope lined avenues to the ballroom. Everyone is there, in a mad buzz of show business elite and old friends.
Callie and David are next to me in a heartbeat, which is a relief. Callie’s beaming, hanging onto David’s arm while he sneaks adoring looks at her. Well, if I did nothing else right, at least I get to see the two of them happy.
“The twins keep asking about you,” Callie says as we walk to the side of the room. “It’s all ‘Auntie Laurel this, Auntie Laurel that.’”