Point is, I was disposable. A distraction. Charlotte was the goal.
Well. Get your vuvuzelas out, because Flint McKay obviously made the World Cup of ‘long lost ex-girlfriend-winning’ goals.
Okay. Enough sports.
“Are you sure you didn’t overreact?” Suze asks. I can’t help bristling at her tone.
“You didn’t
see
her, Suze. The look on her face. You didn’t see how amazed and touched she was. Flint wanted her back, and I guess he got her. I was just a stand-in.” I rub my forehead. Great, a headache
and
I skipped breakfast. Is it possible to have a Tylenol omelet? Perhaps with a bit of fresh-ground Vicodin on top, and a side of—
“Point taken,” she says, putting her hands up. “Scum, thy name is Flint McKay.” After a semi-awkward moment, she says, “But today’s the day, isn’t it?” It’s kind of hard to look at the sympathy in her eyes. It reminds me how damn pathetic I must appear.
“Yep.
The
day.” Flint day. He’s arriving in town today for us to start promotion, since the show airs in exactly a month. Hopefully we won’t have to be crammed together too much, but given my producer status and the fact that Lady Luck enjoys giving me swirlies in the women’s restroom, I get the feeling I’m going to be seeing him. All six feet four inches of the glorious, muscled, pine-scented man who broke my heart.
Can’t. Fucking. Wait.
“I figured it had something to do with the extra bad mood.” Suze puts her arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”
“There is something, actually. Could you go back in there and force Juan not to add that scene with the drunk girls making out at the bar? We filmed it the first night we were in town, and he keeps trying to sneak it in there.” Pervy little bastard. It’s why we love him. “And, uh, could you mention that I’m sorry for giving him so much shit lately? Tell him it’s just show stress. And that I owe him lunch.”
“On it.” Suze hugs me, and heads back into the room. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. I’m tempted to start pounding it, to see if I can finally dislodge Flint from my brain. But that’s an impossible task with all the editing we’ve been doing. Every time I see his golden brown eyes, I think of how they’d light up when he laughed. How they smoldered when he was inside me. How walking out of that house and driving away shattered my heart, swept it into a little broken heap, and stomped on it again.
No. I’m not getting pulled into this maudlin ball of crazy. Even if I hadn’t busted out of there on Flint, even if he hadn’t gone back to Charlotte, it never would’ve worked out. He said himself that he’d never leave the woods, and I’m not going to trade the infuriating, glorious world of show business and type A insanity for a quiet life in the Berkshires. That’s not for me, and my life wouldn’t be for him.
And the headline, of course, is that he loves Charlotte. He’s always loved Charlotte. Always will. Love. Charlotte.
I can’t help feeling miserable. I haven’t felt this used and abused since—
“Young Laurel. Asleep on the job, as usual.” My oh my, another chance encounter with the smarmiest dickhead of them all. Just what I wanted.
Tyler Kinley. Asshole extraordinaire. He really should get that printed on his business cards, like I’ve been telling him. I open my eyes a crack and feast my poor tired eyes on the spray-tanned jackass, peeking at me over the rims of his Ray Bans. Scientific fact: how much of an asshole you are is directly proportional to how often you wear expensive sunglasses indoors.
“I’m meditating, Kinley. Helps get the creative juices flowing. You’d know what it’s like if you had any.” I shove off from the wall and try to get through the door, but Tyler leans his douchey bulk against it. Why did I ever let Davis’s henchworms talk me into keeping Kinley on this project as an executive producer? Why don’t I remember what a terrible idea he is, just in general?
Wait, I
do
remember. It’s just that the Hollywood boys’ club wants to keep him around to oil the place up for some unfathomable reason.
“Well, you’re a, uh,” Tyler says, squinting, trying his hardest to come up with a cutting retort. Come on, buddy. You can do this. You’re the little engine that couldn’t, but gets validated by society anyway. “A bitch,” he finishes. Man, he actually smiles a little. Clearly he feels good about himself. Let’s see what I can do to fix that unfortunate situation.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Herman Davis loves my show, would it?” I ask, practically purring. Tyler’s salon-massaged face falls. “Come on, I know all about it. Remember Dave Lantos? I went out for dinner at Mastro’s with him and a few of the execs. They told me how crazy everyone is going for
Rustic
.” It’s true; the big boys love my show, took me out to dinner, and didn’t even try to cop a feel or take me home. Well, one of them tried, but he got his instep stomped for good measure. And I enjoyed some fabulous prime rib. I fake-gasp with fake concern. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kinley. I forgot that you weren’t invited. How rude of me.” I smile.
“You did not forget,” Tyler says, as if the light of all knowledge has fallen upon him. “You’re trying to make me feel like shit.” Slow clap. What a genius.
“How am I doing?” I ask, leaning in. Normally, this is where Tyler would look down my blouse, but he actually backs up a step. Am I intimidating him? Wonderful. I lower my voice, drilling holes into Tyler’s eyes with mine. “Now listen to me, you entitled piece of shit. My show is going to be a hit. So you can either cooperate and get a few crumbs of credit, like a good little exec producer, or you can go nurse your hurt feelings somewhere else and get the fuck out of my life, in which case make sure to let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, because I have absolutely had it up to fucking
here
with you.”
Both of us are a little startled for a moment. Wow. Where’s
that
person been hiding all this time?
“You’re learning how to play the game, Young,” Tyler says. He actually sounds impressed. “All right. Keep on crowing about how awesome your show is.” He smirks at me. “That’s how you career women end up sitting alone in your apartment for the rest of your life, eating ramen and hitting on the FedEx guy.”
Ah, the enlightened feminism of Tyler the Fuckhead. After he finally leaves, I rub my eyes. It’s not that I agree with him—women can be successful in work and in love, you don’t have to choose for God’s sake—but I am a little worried about the colder, angrier part of me that’s been coming out of hiding in recent weeks. Something about how spectacularly the Flint thing failed has really gotten under my skin.
And, speak of the devil, my phone buzzes. I pull it out and see a text message from Raj.
Flint is entering the building
. Groaning, I turn and press my forehead against the wall for a minute. And maybe bang it once or twice, just to get the circulation going.
The ride down in the elevator sends my stomach up into my heart, or my heart down into my stomach. Either way, some organs are where they shouldn’t be, and they need to sort themselves out. The doors whisper open. My heels clack as I walk across the marble lobby to the front desk. Tyler’s there already of course, no worse for wear after our little t
te-à-t
te in the hallway, wearing his trademark shit eating grin, his shirt collar popped. A few of those producer and executive weasels are sniffing around, waiting eagerly for their newest, sexiest cash cow.
And there he is. Flint walks through the revolving doors, alone. He’s wearing a black button down shirt, his worn brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. The way he strides in, powerful and utterly confident, almost knocks me over. His eyes, normally the warmest golden brown, are hard and sparking. Tyler almost leaps in front of him, wearing a spectacularly oily grin.
“Flint McKay. Star of the show. Sex god of the east coast,” Tyler says, holding out his hand to get in on the action. “You remember me?”
“Unfortunately,” Flint tells him, looking at the hand and not taking it. “Trust me, I’d like to forget.” Tyler’s expression falls. I can’t help but smile. That is, until Flint looks at me, and I feel the color drain from my face. But I’m not going to scurry under the desk and hide. I pull my shoulders back.
“Good to see you again,” I tell him, no crack in my voice. I am blue steel, a black panther, a color combined with something awesome.
“Laurel,” he says, nodding curtly. Is it just me, or does his voice get rougher and lower when he speaks to me?
It’d be unprofessional not to shake, so I hold out my hand. Flint takes it, encasing it in his own large, calloused grip. I am titanium. A second later, he pulls away.
“We’ve got a team upstairs waiting to meet you,” I say. The executives and Tyler are all scattering before him; it’s like they know they’ve been outmanned.
“Let’s go then.” Flint brushes past me and walks toward the elevators. I follow close behind, digging my nails so hard into my palms I might draw blood.
One minute down. Seventy thousand to go.
26
The doors slide open on the fifth floor, and we walk out into an excited group of chattering people. Everyone has gathered to greet our new star. You’d think God himself had strolled in. And judging by the reactions of most of the women, I think that’s a pretty fair analogy. There are some gasps in the back, the strategic tossing of hair or batting of eyelashes. Margie from H/R actually stops breathing for a second. I catch her fanning herself with an office memo.
“Everyone,” I say, clapping my hands and calling the rampaging hormone convention to attention. “This is Flint McKay, star of
Rustic Renovations
, reality king in the making.” There’s a lot of applause, which I know is killing Flint slowly. He tightens his jaw, always a sure sign he wants to bolt. This much attention has got to be like shoving him on a spit and turning him over a roasting fire, apple in his mouth, shirt off and chest glistening.
Even that titillating and strange image does nothing for me. I’m too depressed right now.
“Great to see you, Flint. Remember me?” Raj, my assistant producer, sidles up and squeezes Flint’s hand. And his bicep as well. I don’t blame him.
“How could I forget?” Flint smiles, cool and gracious, and a flock of women swarm around him.
“I’ve seen some of the footage,” Bethany, one of the script supervisors, says. Has she popped a button on her top? There’s definitely some cleavage happening. “You’re even better looking in real life.” Okay, is she also licking her lips?
“Thank you,” Flint says, giving that charming, bemused smile. Combined with the perfect wave of his hair and the strength of his jaw line, it’s a deadly combination. Bethany seems to purr in contentment. I stand aside, smiling a little. Flint is like an aftershave-anointed mountain man, an alpine Adonis. I should really just start doing marketing’s job for them.
“You got to work with him?” Margie says, coming over to me. I think she’s still fluttering a little. “What was
that
like?”
Completely perfect, until he broke my heart and I stormed off into the sunrise.
“He’s a real professional,” I say, and leave it at that. She beams, and eventually Flint makes his way out of the group of women and over to me.
“Any chance we can get out of here?” he mutters, barely moving his mouth. “I think one of them started smelling me.”
That’d be Claire, in accounting. And I can’t hold her at fault; it’s like he bathes in pine and crystal springs. Still, he’s got a point, and I clap my hands.
“All right, we’ve got a month to go, people. Confirm appearances on every morning show in town, buy up those billboards, and start skywriting the premiere date. Let’s promote, sell, and celebrate,” I say. Everyone cheers as I guide Flint down the hall. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing the temptation to look over at him. I make sure there’s a nice little distance between us. For a minute, we have nothing to say.
“Are you actually going to skywrite?” he finally asks. I think he’s legitimately concerned.
“No, but we’re printing the invites to the premiere after party on these really thin slices of wood. You’ll love it.”
“Yep,” he says, clearly straining to sound casual. And that’s it. We pause outside my office door. I don’t think either of us really wants to go in and let ourselves marinate in uncomfortable feelings in one small room. The hallway dissipates it, makes
eau de awkward
less pungent. So now we’re standing here, hands in pockets, wondering when someone is going to come and rescue us.
Maybe if Charlotte were here, she could break the ice. I try not to think about it. And I try not to think about how Flint looks right now, leaned up against the wall. His face is blank, his eyes meeting mine. He isn’t looking away. Well, he’s not a
coward
, Laurel. All I can think about is going over to him, laying my head against his chest, letting his arms wrap around me…
No. That chapter’s over. Start another one that begins with the words ‘I was so over Flint McKay, and had a bevy of oiled cabana boys eager to respond to my every whim.’
I’m not much of a writer.
“So.” Flint clears his throat. “I guess this is it.”
At first I think he means ‘this is the end of the nonversation,’ but then I gather he’s talking about start of promotion. “Yep. Ah, yes. Starting. We all start somewhere.” I try that megawatt grin that guys love so much, and get exactly zero response. He looks at the wall instead of me. We are off to such a flying start. “Was the trip okay?” I ask, clutching at things to talk about.
“Fine,” he says. He squares his jaw in the silence. Great. Is there any way I can excuse myself and go jump out the window?
“You, uh, came to LA alone?” I imagine Charlotte, her sleek dark hair pulled back into a bun, sitting beside him on the plane. Holding his hand, smiling, reassuring him that she’ll be waiting for him back at the hotel. That seeing me won’t be as bad and awkward as he thinks. This idea makes me want to recreate Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream.’ By, you know, screaming. Against a backdrop of surrealist coloring.