I do a great job of not dropping dead on the spot.
Produce the entire show?
That’s a fast track I never thought I’d be on. That’s a career-making move. Davis clearly sees this is making me too happy, because he adds,
“I need capable producers. What I don’t need are hangers on with nothing to do.” He doesn’t smile. “And with Sanderson gone, you won’t be very busy.”
Okay. It’s feast or famine, producer or unemployment line. If I succeed next week, I’ll finally be a producer, full fledged and shiny. I’ll have control of my own show. No more bowing to other people, even good guys like Brian. I’ll be running the place myself. Those sweet images of world ratings domination float through my mind.
But if I don’t make the cut, I’ll probably be back in my Ohio hometown, looking for a job at the local public access station. New mantra: Don’t fuck this up, Laurel.
“You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Davis,” I say, almost reaching to shake his hand. But that’s not a smart move. I don’t know that he’s touched anyone below the executive pay grade since 1989.
“I better not be. All right, Young. Off you go.” He nods to the door, and I walk away, wanting to do little twirling dances and sing dumb songs. I imagine a full-on Disney musical number, complete with animated sidekicks, but not here. Outside.
Before I can touch the handle, the door opens. And I’m face to face with my worst nightmare. There he is, five foot ten of gelled, chiseled-jaw, Axe body sprayed douche canoe. Tyler Kinley.
“Hey, it’s Young Laurel. Still as sexy as ever.” He gives a smile so white it belongs at a GOP stump speech, and raises his Ralph Lauren sunglasses. His eyes go down my body, lingering on my breasts. I resist the urge to knee him in the groin.
Young Laurel. That was the “nickname” he thought was so fresh. Back when we were sleeping together, I let him get away with it. I’m not in the mood for his wacky verbal shenanigans now.
“Hey, Tyler. If you can try squeezing your ego through the doorway, I’ll be able to leave.” I give him a professional, hollow smile. He gets to leer, and I have to shut up and bear it. It’s a healthy dose of the real world over at Reel World, let me tell you.
He laughs and sweeps into the room past me, a perfumed cloud of jackass suffocating me in his wake. “Mr. D! How are you, man?” Tyler actually walks up and grabs Davis’s hand. I can’t tell if the executive is pleased or not, but he doesn’t say anything. Could I have gotten away with that? Or would it have been too ‘immature’ coming from a woman? “I heard it through the grapevine that you’re accepting pitches for Sanderson’s misfire. Happy to volunteer my brilliance.”
My stomach plummets. It takes the elevator back up and plummets again, even further and harder, when Davis says,
“We’re taking the pitches in a week. I want to see good work, Kinley.”
“If by good work, you mean good T and A, I got what you need. I’m already cooking up an angle for something totally new: breast implants for underage teen daughters of celebrities. It’ll be SAH—Sweet As Hell.”
“Have you been waiting for the right moment to use that one?” I say, wanting to run him over with a tractor. I wince; damn, I didn’t want to appear rattled in front of Davis, but Tyler will do that to you. The bastard actually winks at me.
“Came up with it in the moment. That’s what I do, Young. I’m an idea guy.”
No. You’re the guy who steals other people’s ideas
. As I walk out of Davis’s office and listen to Tyler guffaw and talk about the ‘hot new assistant’ outside, I grit my teeth. It’s time for Genghis Khan to grab her pumps and get to work.
2
“I can’t believe Tyler Kinley thinks he can match me creatively,” I say to Suze, before taking a nice swallow of whiskey. It burns going down, which is exactly what I want. We’re sitting in the Tar Bar, a fancy place across from the La Brea tar pits. Nothing says a relaxed drinking environment like dead prehistoric animals next door. The lighting is soft in here, with mirrored walls, white linen tablecloths, and live piano music that tinkles in the lounge. We’re seated next to a toasty open fire pit, right beside a couple on a really adorable first date. The guy’s even sweating! Or maybe it’s just the fire.
“You created this monster,” Suze reminds me, sipping her margarita. She leaves a red-lipsticked kiss on the rim. “Remember? I told you not to share your ideas with him.”
“I knooow,” I sigh. “But he wasn’t this much of an asshole when we first met. He was ambitious and hot and he loved listening to all my ideas…” I can hear my voice wavering, and I quickly hide my pain in my whiskey glass, taking a healthy swallow to ease the humiliation of my best friend’s well-meaning ‘I told you so.’
I got hired at Reel World right out of college, fresh from my summer internship. Yes, a whole eighteen months ago. Tyler bumped into me in the kitchen during my first official day. Literally. I spilled cappuccino down my new work outfit. “I’m so sorry!” he’d blurted, offering to help me clean up—he hadn’t even made the obvious boob grab. The heartfelt apology paired with his hunky cover-of-GQ looks momentarily dazzled me into complete tongue-tiedness. “Hey, are you Young?” he’d asked with a grin. “Because you look pretty grown-up to me.”
Back then, that joke had been sort of charming. Tyler had been sort of charming. There was no expensive cologne, no popped collar, no frosted hair tips. He’d been working at Reel World for a while—five years, in fact—and his hunger to finally make it to a full-on producer after all that time was kind of endearing. “I just can’t seem to land an idea with a great hook,” he’d told me over drinks on our first date.
Hook. Reel. The bad jokes write themselves.
I’d told him I thought he had potential. Granted his ideas weren’t really great, but with some punching up from yours truly, they got better. Mostly, I’d been responsible for taking all the boobs out of his pitches. Tyler had been floored by my ideas. So much so that he came home with me that first night we had drinks, and nearly every night for the next sixteen months afterward.
It had been fun, talking in bed post coitus, discussing our ideas, sharing our hopes and dreams. It’d felt like a partnership. And did I mention he was hot? Like men’s Mach3 Turbo Razor ad on a billboard on Hollywood Boulevard hot. Like Nordic Track infomercial hot. Sriracha hot. If I’m honest, a lifetime of being the mousy brunette had sort of set me up with a Tyler-shaped hole in my self-esteem, just waiting to be exploited. Live and learn. I guess the next guy I date will have to be in his forties, balding, and with a heart of literal gold. Maybe that will teach me. Then again, maybe not.
“What about the secret, sexy lives of Renaissance festival employees?” he’d said one night. “Like, girls in those low-cut Ren Fair gowns? Wouldn’t that sell?”
“Those aren’t really period appropriate,” I’d replied gently. “Although you could do something like
The Bachelor
, but have it in period costume. You know? Women have to vie to win the heart of an actual prince,
and
learn how to survive 16
th
century court life. So it’s sexy, sure, but also competitive and interesting.”
“Huh,” he’d said. “Wish I’d thought of that.”
Then, one day Tyler went in for a big pitch meeting without telling me. He used my
Bachelor at the Court
idea, charmed the right executives, and now is riding high with his long-coveted producer job. And me? When I told him how angry I was, he only winked and said, “I’ll make you my personal assistant. How’s that sound?” He’d tried to kiss me, and I’d stomped on the inside of his foot.
Our relationship deteriorated pretty quickly after that. My resentment seemed to grow in direct relation to his mushroom-clouding ego, both of which were now totally unbearable. His shiny new producer status rotted him from the inside out, and I watched it happen before my very eyes. I finally gave him the “it’s not working” speech a few months ago—and his response was a hearty laugh in my face. Apparently he’d never considered our relationship ‘official’ to begin with.
You might say I’m still dealing with the breakup.
You might also say that if I did half the things to Tyler that I fantasized about on a daily basis, I’d be in jail serving a life term, or five. But what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, right? And as far as I’m concerned, the best revenge is runaway success.
Which means it’s my God-given duty to kick this douchebag’s ass at work.
“So. Tell me some of your brilliant ideas,” Suze says, waving for another margarita. I down the rest of my whiskey. Always polite to keep up.
“Um. Zero gravity romance? Love and science aboard the international space station?” Why does my head hurt?
“You’re not trying,” Suze says. She leans forward, a concerned look on her face. “Listen, I can see about getting you hired on
Love Lorne in Melbourne
, if you want.”
She doesn’t believe I can do it. “I’m trying! I am! It just feels like Tyler sucked all the good out of me.” Which is pretty much all he was good at sucking…heh. Okay, I probably shouldn’t have another drink. “I’m going to lose this, aren’t I?” I want to curl up into a ball and let the world go by without me. I hate this despairing feeling. That’s not who I am. Am I really going to let Tyler the jackwad win again? Do I want to admit defeat? Never.
“Think about what inspires you,” Suze says, giving me her best comforting smile. “What makes you unable to turn away from the screen?”
I groan. “That’s just it. Tyler’s what Reel World wants. It’s all about big boobs and low IQs. How am I supposed to compete with that?” I have this gross, nauseous feeling. Though a lot of that may be because of the whiskey. “Screw it!” I slam my fist on the table. “I won’t let him win. I’ll chase him ‘round the moons of Nibia before I give this pitch up,” I say, completely bastardizing
Wrath of Khan
. I get to my feet, stumble a little, and grab my phone to call for Uber.
“Where are you going?” Suze asks, looking alarmed.
“I’m going back to the office. There’s gold in them thar old casting submission tapes, and I’m going to find a nugget if it kills me.” So saying, I stride purposefully out of the bar, then come back a minute later to get my purse off the chair. I only forgot it for a second, dammit.
“Why did I think this was a good idea?” I mutter, chin in my hand as I click through digital file after digital file. Oh, right, whiskey can make anything look golden. A couple of hours and a cup of coffee later, and suddenly common sense bows back into the picture. I keep watching the auditions, shaking my head in disbelief. Can just
anyone
send us a tape? Some of these are normal, young women sitting and talking to the camera about their sordid love lives. Others are just peculiar.
One video starts with a man in bib overalls, a straw hat, and nothing else. He grins at the camera. “My name’s Ignatius Butterstock, the king of the Pig Mambo.” I watch as he gets his three prize hogs out, turns on the soundtrack to
The Mambo Kings
, and starts dancing with the first pig. It looks as confused as I feel. Skip.
One video shows a guy with his shirt off and a greased and glittering six-pack of abs on prominent display. I perk up. He winks at the camera. All right, sexy and geared towards the female gaze. Off to a good start.
“Juggling chainsaws has always been my passion,” he says, and picks one up from off camera. As he revs it, he says, “
Drunken Chainsaw Juggling
would be a great show—” I click off really, really fast.
“Why are there so many weirdos in the world?” I push back from my desk and rub my pounding head. The office at two AM is a terrifying place. Rows and rows of empty cubicles, with the only sound the click and whirr of the air conditioning coming on and off. What am I doing? I should call it a night, Uber it home, and sleep with a bottle of aspirin right next to my bed for tomorrow’s epic hangover.
I’m slinging my purse from off the back of my chair when I notice one more file, just sitting there and waiting for me to click on it. Oh, why the hell not? Maybe it’ll be something more amusing than the hog mambo guy. Though that would be pretty hard to top. I click play and sit back, feeling my eyes beginning to slowly close.
And that’s when I get a glimpse of the hottest man I have ever seen in my life.
“Are you taping?” he asks the person behind the camera. He’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, as casual as anything. A worn, red flannel shirt is absolutely hugging his broad shoulders. The sleeves are rolled, revealing the rock-hard contours of arms that look like they could be sculpted from marble. He looks at the camera with a quiet ease, like he knows he’s got this, whatever
this
is. God, those eyes. They’re a warm golden brown, glowing with intensity as he stares at me—er, the camera, he’s staring at the
camera
.
His jaw is square and rock hard, with a distinguished cleft in the chin. I can make out the outline of his jaw through the stubble, which he rubs the back of his hand across. His hair is a chestnut brown, with glints of red that spark like embers in a fire when he catches the light in the perfect way. I think any way he caught the light would have to be perfect.
I haven’t had
that
much to drink. I’m aware enough to realize the rarity before me. You could write a poem about this man’s physical perfection.
“Are you ready?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. I sit up, almost ready to apologize to him when the camera holder says,
“Yeah. Here we go. So, state your name.”
“Why?” He grins, crinkling the corners of his eyes and lending his whole expression a warmth that starts melting me on the spot.
“Because intros are fun.” The voice is teasing and female. “Go on.”
“Flint McKay.” He looks about ready to roll his eyes. “Here to introduce you to the fabulous world of drywall. Once you have experienced its many mysteries, you will dare to question your place in the universe. For surely, to hang a sheet of drywall is to see the face of God.” He makes his voice even deeper and richer. The sound of it makes me hungry.