Rugged (3 page)

The camera holder—definitely young, by the sound of her voice—scoffs. “Come on, you said you’d—”

“All right, all right.” Flint shakes his head, a lock of that reddish brown hair falling into his eyes. Instantly, I want to brush it away. Slowly, letting my fingers trail through the silky—

Laurel! Calm down!

“First off, you want to get the width of your wall,” Flint says, picking up a measuring tape and pulling it open. I can see it, right now—every woman watching this show would dream of those hands zipping down the back of their dress with such ease. “Cut your sheet so it’s about a quarter inch shorter than that,” Flint says, looking into the camera again. He goes through the motions, and I enjoy the sight of his muscled back stretching as he displays the drywall. His jeans hug a tight, spectacular looking ass.

I know I’m being a little creepy right now, but no one else is around. So work that fabulous ass, drywall man.

Also, he’s actually great at explaining. I’m not much of a do it yourself type person—I was raised by people who called someone else to hang a picture—but the ease with which Flint shows off his abilities, the careful discussion of everything to do with drywall, it’s amazing. It almost makes me want to go down to the hardware store at first light and start on some home renovation.

It also makes me want to go home and dust off my trusty vibrator, because every time Flint looks in the camera, or winks, or even—God help me—takes off his flannel shirt so that he’s only in a tight, clinging white tee, I feel heat pooling between my legs.

“Remember,” Flint says, pointing at the camera. “We tack with nails, but we fasten with screws.” You could definitely fasten something with a screw right here, sir.

I’m starting to worry about my sanity.

Finally, the video is over. Flint displays a seemingly perfectly hung bit of drywall. “Feast your eyes.” Flint bows deeply, then grins. “Okay, Callie. Good enough?” A V of sweat has appeared around the front collar of his tee shirt, giving me a glimpse of impossibly sculpted pectorals.

“Good job,” the camera girl replies, laughing. The video turns off. I’m left trying to pick my jaw from up off the floor.

Who is this renovation god? And when did he send us this tape? I scroll through the information on hand. His name’s Flint McKay, from Massachusetts. We first got this video about ten months ago. To think it’s been languishing in a pile all this time. Then again, I can sort of understand how it happened. Doing home repairs isn’t exactly Reel World’s focus. We’re a boobs and bombastic revelations type of company. But to have a
sex god
teaching home improvement, that would certainly bring in the ladies. And that strange combination of studliness and craftiness would really differentiate this show. Another girls in bikini show would just be white noise. But this…

I can already feel myself bouncing in my chair from excitement. Fingers trembling, I look up the contact information. With his phone number in hand, I hesitate. It’s not even six on the east coast. Maybe it’s too early to call?

The thought of Tyler’s smug face and his underage boob jobs decides me. My fingers fly across my phone’s keypad, and I wait. One ring, two rings, three. No answer, but it goes to voicemail. I take a deep, calming breath.

“Hello, this message is for Flint McKay. My name’s Laurel Young, and I’m a producer at Reel World Entertainment in Los Angeles.” Little white lie on the producer thing, but who cares? When Davis picks up this show, I
will
be a producer. “I’ve reviewed your video submission, and I think this has a lot of potential. Please call me back so we can discuss further.” I leave him my number, hang up, and nearly start hugging myself. I’m a freaking genius. Soon, all of female America will be gazing soulfully into the eyes of Flint McKay. And they might even pick up a couple of good drywalling tips while they’re at it.

3

Two days later, there’s still no reply. Every morning I check my messages, sure that today’s going to be magic hot guy answer day. But I’m always disappointed. I’ve tried calling that number again, twice. There was an email on file, and I sent him a message. Played it cool, didn’t even add twenty exclamation points in the subject header. No emojis in the body of the email. Pure professional class, but no reward. Zip. Nada. Any other words for barren and desolate nothing, please bring them forward.

I watch the tape over again, almost trying to convince myself that I was really super drunk that night. But every time Flint looks up with those warm golden brown eyes, or when he reveals the muscled expanse of his body, I shake my head. This guy is the whole package.

“Suze,” I call, waving her over to my desk. She crouches next to me while I play the tape back. “Tell me if I’m crazy, but what do you think of this? Hot or not?”

Suze watches the video with her mouth practically hanging open. I expect her tongue to roll down and across the desk, Looney Tunes-style. “Where did you
find
this guy?” she asks, leaning closer. I’m afraid she’s going to try making out with the screen.

“Pulled him out of the slush pile. I’ve tried calling and calling, but I haven’t heard anything. Time’s running out.” Ever since finding Flint’s tape, I can’t even think of coming up with another pitch idea. When I’ve got something good between my teeth, I shake it until it gives in. My Patronus is a terrier. It’s like I can see the glinting prize at the end of the race, far in the distance. And this prize has a sculpted torso, stubble, and gorgeous windswept hair. I’m going to bring him to American airwaves if I have to fly to Massachusetts myself.

“Knock knock,” an annoying voice says. I turn slowly, trying not to scowl or throw up. Tyler’s leaning on my cubicle wall, that douchebag grin stretched across his face. That cologne he’s got on is stifling. Did his new job title come with a gift basket full of stenchy man perfume, or did he actually go out and buy it himself? “You ladies gossiping in here?”

“If by ‘gossiping’ you mean ‘working like a pair of adults,’ you are so spot on,” I say, getting up and shoving past him. I need some coffee. I could also use some pepper spray and a lit stick of dynamite, but I don’t think the vending machines carry those anymore. Tyler trails behind me, my own personal oily shadow. Lucky me.

“Why you gotta walk away so fast, Young? Go slower. Gives me a way better show of that fantastic ass.” I can practically hear Tyler licking his lips. The rage starts pulsing behind my eyes. I swear, I will Hulk out on this asshole.

“You know, there is such a thing as sexual harassment litigation these days,” I say, entering the fluorescent-lit, Clorox-scented kitchen and reaching for a paper cup. Tyler slides in beside me, leaning against the counter. “Though I imagine you need help with some of the bigger words. Say it with me now. Li-ti-ga-tion.”

“Cute.” Tyler smirks. “And yeah, you could go whining to HR. But you know what happens to little bitches that tell tales. They can’t even produce an Arby’s commercial.” He gets himself a cup of smarmy water. “They’re not team players.”

“Remind me why I ever thought you were charming,” I say to him, adding half and half to my coffee with murderous intensity. The worst part is, he’s right. I’m stuck with him until I figure out how to claw my way to the top.

“You know you still want me, Young. I’m the best thing that could happen to you.” He changes tactics abruptly, lowering his voice so he stops being the mega-watt asshole; now he’s the low voltage, seductive asshole. “Come on. We had a good thing going. You get with me, you can distinguish yourself.” He sidles in, leans closer.

“With
me
, Tyler, you can have some brilliant new ideas. And you need them right now, don’t you?” I grin as my blow lands. Tyler jerks backward, his bleached and pristine smile shut up like a pocketknife. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? The big pitch is coming, and you need content. What fascinating, original notions do we all have to look forward to?” I mockingly clap my hands in glee. “Why, a show all about rating the knockers of Amazonian tribal women? Sexist
and
culturally insensitive, all in one glorious, mediocre package! You spoil us, Tyler.”

“I told you,
Amazonian Babes
was just the first stage of an idea,” he snaps.

“Funny how all your ideas tend to live and die at the first stage. But you blew it, Tyler. There’s no me to help you out this time. I’m keeping all my bright and shiny ideas to myself.” I pick up my cup, blow on my coffee, and walk out of the room. He follows behind me, and I can feel his seething fury radiating outward. It feels glorious.

“You think you’re so damn smart,” he says. “But you forget, this is a
relationship
business. I’m already in and solid, Young. The guys around here fucking love me. I never see
you
partying at the Standard, or staying at Don Morris’s Malibu house. Bet you didn’t even know Don
had
a beach house.”

I’m doing my best to tune him out, but he’s got a worrying point. I think Don Morris and I have spoken about three times. Twice he asked me to hold his calls, even though I wasn’t his damn assistant. It’s a boy’s club and I’m trying to fight my way in.

“Like I said, Young. I’ve got a team of executives who’d love to back me up on anything I pitch. And you?” He slips in front of me, so that I almost smack into him. He leers at me, dropping his gaze down the front of my blouse. “You’re a hot piece that looks good in a skirt. That’s it.”

A million petty insults run through my mind, but I bite my tongue and strive for professionalism. I half-succeed. “This may be difficult to comprehend, stupid being your first language, but Davis personally invited me to pitch,” I say, my smile honey sweet and poisonous. “You? You bluffed your way in. So I’d say my ideas are going to be met with much keener interest.”

Tyler doesn’t bat an eye. “You’d better hope they are. Because with Sanderson gone, there’s no one left to look out for you. Is there?” He pops the collar of his polo shirt, solidifying his status as king of the douche. “You need this pitch way more than I do. But don’t worry. When the execs take my idea and toss yours in the trash—or pick out the best parts and give you none of the credit—I can always use you on my team. There are plenty of positions I can imagine you filling.” The slimy expression on his face illustrates what kind of ‘positions’ he’s considering.

Take back that half-success of mine and turn it into a big fat fail, because here comes a big dose of petty insult. “
Oh
Tyler
, you don’t have to whip out your tiny little ideas in the hallway,” I croon at him in my best talking-to-a-wittle-baby singsong voice. “There’s no point. Mine are clearly bigger.” I pat his arm as I move past. It takes him a minute to understand, and by then I’m long gone.

I walk away with confidence, but inside I’m about ready to snap. The worst part is, Tyler’s got a point. The executives around here see me as a cute little girl or a prime piece of grade-A ass. Davis has more integrity than the rest of them, but in the end he’ll go with what his stable of jackasses want. In order to get past Tyler’s posse, I’ll have to deliver such a surefire hit that Davis can’t help but take the pitch.

But the only idea I’ve got that’s surefire is Flint McKay. And he’s a telecommunications no-show. Sighing, I get back to my desk. Suze looks up at me, concern written on her face.

“Do you need a hug? Some tissues? A bullwhip?” she asks, taking my coffee cup when my hand starts trembling. I make a fist. There. That’s the way we get things done.

“My years of Krav Maga almost kicked back in. Tyler came this close to getting my spike heel embedded in his temple.” I collapse into my spinning chair and go for a, well, spin. The flickering fluorescent lights, the chatter of people on their phones, the industrial hum of the air conditioning, it all rotates around me. What am I going to do?

“If it makes you feel any better, I spent the last five minutes re-watching tall, dark and woodsy. He’s hot, Laurel. Like, combustible panties hot. There’s got to be a way to get in touch with him.” Suze takes a sip of my coffee. Well, she can have it.

“Email, phone,” I say, checking the methods off on my fingers. “Checked Facebook. There are seventeen Flint McKays in the US, and they’ve all gotten totally sane messages with ARE YOU DRYWALL GUY in the subject line. Sadly, our Flint wasn’t one of them. Let me think, I haven’t tried carrier pigeon yet. Or smoke signals. Or skywriting. Maybe I’ll go with all three at the same time.” I sigh and rub my forehead. If I were anyone else, I’d consider giving up. But Youngs don’t quit, and this Young least of all. When there’s a problem, I sit its ass down under some hot lights and yell until it caves. So how do I deal with this? I’ve called, emailed, I’ve done everything except…

Showing up in the flesh. I sit up and check back through the video’s information. Sure enough, there’s a mailing address. With that information in hand, I pick up the phone and start dialing.

“Who are you calling?” Suze asks, tossing my now-empty coffee cup in the trash. I smile up at her.

“Frequent flyer miles are the gift that keeps on giving. Hopefully, they have some 11:00 AM flights.” I get to an automated menu, where the helpful robot lady asks me to press zero to speak to a representative.

“Hold on. You’re not saying that—”

“That I’m going to fly out to Massachusetts, drive right up to this guy’s door, and hand him a once in a lifetime opportunity? I’m not saying it. But I’m steadily implying it with my actions. Here, watch me imply some more.” As Suze gapes, I start the process of getting, hopefully, a nice window seat.

This is crazy
, I think as I guide the rental car along a particularly sharp turn. I’ve got the windows rolled down, and the smell of a blustery Massachusetts evening floods the car. It’s pretty spectacular, actually. I’ve never been to the Berkshires before. It’s all rolling hills and sprawling valleys out here. It’s dark outside now, but the sunset was astonishing. The sight of the red afternoon sun dipping below a fiery canopy of autumn leaves almost had my jaw on the floor.