by Lila Monroe
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.
I’m not much of a nature girl. My idea of wildlife is spotting a drunken group of Vermont Avenue hipsters on Saturday night. But the air up here is bracing and clean. I feel like every breath is scrubbing out my city-living lungs, complete with turndown service and complimentary pillow mints. I haven’t been in country dark in a while, and the blackness ahead of me is velvet smooth.
My GPS directs me down a winding dirt road and up to the front porch of a colossal house. I park and gape up at the building. I guess I’d expected a tiny little woodland shack—maybe a rocking chair on the porch, with a hunting dog snoozing alongside—but this place is a craftsman’s delight. Aside from the enormous front porch, the house is two large stories, with gabled windows and upstairs balconies. I kill the lights, get out, and walk up the stairs. My footsteps sound like cannon fire in the quiet night.
“You can do this. You have the aura of a panther,” I whisper, repeating something a party psychic told me one time. I knock on the door, and wait. Nothing. There’s a glowing doorbell to the side, and I ring. A lovely, bell-like chime sounds through the house. It’s not one of those annoying buzzers.
I hear heavy, booted footsteps heading for the door. Pulling my shoulders back, I smile. My eyes go a little wide. This is completely insane. But right now, insane’s what will probably see me through.
“Yes?” Flint McKay opens the door and looks down at me. He frowns. “Can I help you?”
The video does him no justice. He’s six feet of tall, lean muscle. He doesn’t wear any of that cloying cologne that the LA jerks wear—there’s a bracing pine and musk scent about him. All this brawny goodness makes Tyler look like a Barbie doll. My mouth is watering already, just admiring the view.
“Do you need help?” Flint says, articulating every word neatly. He’s looking concerned now. All right. Show time.
“My name’s Laurel Young,” I say, offering him my hand to shake. He just looks at it and I pull it hastily back. “I’ve left you a couple of messages about my production company, Reel World. I think your potential is explosive, Mr. McKay. I feel so strongly about it that I flew all the way out here from Los Angeles just to make you an offer. I want to pitch your home improvement show to my executive of development, and I want to make you a household name.” I smile up at him. “What do you say to that?”
For a minute, he looks at me. There’s a grin playing at the corner of his luscious mouth, a gleam in his eyes, and I can practically see the glory of my future success unfolding before me. This is it! I got through to him. He’s totally in, I can feel it.
Then, without speaking a single word, he steps back and slams the door in my face.
4
I stand there, frozen in shock. What the hell? Surely I got that wrong. Surely instead of slamming the door in my face, he said, ‘Why yes, I would love to be on television, allow me to give you a rugged back massage as thanks for flying out here with such stupendous news. Here, take a seat, I have whittled a chair for you.’
Okay, that clearly did not happen. So I knock again, harder this time. For a minute I wonder if he’s going to let me stand out here all night, but he finally flings the door open and comes out. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket and a closed expression.
“Nope,” he says, shutting the door and pushing right past me and down the steps. “I’m not buying. Climb back in the car and go home to your noise pollution and brain-frying el
ectromagnetic waves. I don’t want any part of this.” I chase after him, almost toppling over when my heel sinks into the grass. I don’t get that problem much in LA.
“We haven’t discussed terms,” I say, toddling over as he climbs into his truck—yes, he has a rusted red pickup, which is so perfect—and hits the ignition. “I can make it worth your while.”
“Trust me. You can’t,” he says as he rolls up the window, backs up, and peels out. Awww hell no. I have flown three thousand damn miles to make this offer, and I am not about to let some gorgeous, surly hunk jump in his getaway truck and beat it.
I leap into my rental and drive down the mountain after him, catching sight of his taillights in no time. He tries to speed up, but it’s a no go. I’m right behind him, and I’m not afraid to go racing along these curves. I channel my inner Vin Diesel, and thank years of watching Fast and Furious movies for teaching me unwise and awesome driving techniques. It is Furious 11: Berkshire Bonanza up in here.
Eventually Flint makes a sharp turn into a dark, wooded area, and by the time I reach the spot where his taillights disappeared, I can’t find the back road he must have taken. I can’t even see a road, period. It’s all trees and deer trails and hiking paths as far as I can see, which admittedly isn’t very far, and I’m sure as hell not about to drive my rental car into the forest at night. My wail of defeat echoes inside the vehicle like a fire engine siren, but in the end I have no choice but to head back into town. Either that or drive back to Flint’s place, park in the driveway, and sit pretty until he returns—at which point he’ll probably call the police, and I’ve heard those prison cots are hell on your lumbar spine.
My career is over.
I roll down Main Street and pull up outside a bar; my epic Flint failure has left a bitter taste in my mouth that can only be washed away with booze. This place is the stereotypical little joint on the archetypal country road. A swinging wooden sign reads The Firefly Tavern, and it creaks in the cool night breeze. This is the kind of place that has a neon PBR sign in the window, and a six-foot stuffed grizzly bear waiting by the entrance to give you a hug. I slam my car door and head right in, not bothering to straighten my skirt. I’m on a mission, after all, and that mission has nothing to do with my wardrobe.
Inside, it’s a lumberjack’s dream. There’re about seven deer heads hanging along the walls, all of them wearing startled expressions. Everything is hewn out of rough wood: the benches, the tables, even the menus. At the back, a group of beer-drinking, flannel-wearing guys in trucker hats are shooting pool and laughing it up. The place smells of lager and old memories. It’s exactly what I need.
I stroll up to the bar, heels clacking against the floor, determined to get wasted enough to forget how ugly things are going to be on Monday morning when I roll into Davis’ office with no pitch.
The bartender, pouring out a tumbler of whiskey for a customer, looks up at me with a lifted brow. This is definitely beard country. The barkeep’s sporting a massive, untidy bush, and a man bun to match. I sidle right up and set my purse on the bar.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks, a bit gruffly. “If it comes with fruit juice and an umbrella, I ain’t got it.”
Ah, here we go. A little sexism puts even more fire in my blood. “Two fingers of Glenfiddich, neat,” I say, trying not to bare my teeth.
“That’ll put hair on your chest,” he says, nodding in approval and sounding impressed. Considering all the excess body fur in here, he may have a point. But I’ll take the chance. He pours the drink and slides it to me. I sip, enjoying the smoky peat flavor.
A few more drinks go down and soon enough it hardly matters that I’m going to lose my job at Reel World. Hardly matters I’ll be relocating to my parents’ basement in Ohio in another week or so. Hardly matters that Tyler’s pitch is going to win, that he’s going to win.
“Pff. Hardly matters at all,” I mumble into my empty-again glass.
“I don’t see many women who take their liquor without ice,” a deep, woodsy, melodious voice says. “Especially not city dwellers.” Jeez, the way country people carry on about the perils of the city, you’d think we were about to initiate dueling banjos.
I turn on my stool to deliver a sharp retort, which requires a hell of a lot more coordination than I expected, and nearly face-plant into Flint, who has somehow managed to appear at my side and find me wallowing in personal and professional agony. For a moment, I’m stunned. Not only did he slam a door in my face, evade capture during a high-speed chase on a mountain road, and crush my career dreams, but he then adds insult to injury by turning back around and hunting me down at the very bar where I sought solace? A bar where he’s far and away the drop-dead hottest red-blooded male in here? The nerve of this guy. The nerve!
But what comes out of my mouth next isn’t an expression of drunken rage.
It’s a purring come-on.
“I’m full of surprises, Mr. McKay,” I flirt, barely slurring my words at all. Flint’s eyes graze up and down my body, but it’s not the leering, creepy look that I see from men like Tyler. He’s taking stock, sizing me up.
And if I’m not mistaken, I think he likes what he sees.
He takes the stool next to mine, which sends my pulse racing. I chalk it up to the anger I’m feeling at his refusal to participate in my brilliant-but-now-crushed dreams of Reel World domination. After he orders a draft beer for himself and a refill for me, calling the bartender by name—it’s Carl—Flint turns back to me and clinks his glass against mine before draining half the beer in one long, glorious pull.
While he’s doing that, my phone buzzes in my purse. I make the mistake of checking it and see a text message from Tyler: ‘if ur pms is over now, we should talk about co-pitching to davis on monday. smart move for both of us-u game?’
Game? I’m game, alright. But my game involves a baseball bat and Tyler’s balls.
What the actual fuck? He can’t be serious. Co-pitching? So he can steamroller me and take all the credit for ‘our’ idea, leaving me pitchless? Was I born yesterday? What the—but before my outrage can eclipse my common sense and force my fingers to text him back with something I’ll probably regret later, I hear Flint slam his now-empty beer glass onto the bar, startling me back to reality. I throw the phone back in my bag like it’s a hot coal and look over at him.
“So what kind of surprises are you full of?” he asks. Not in a flirty way—but curious. Even so, a rush of heat radiates through me. I don’t know if it’s all the inconvenient emotions pinballing around inside my head, the mass quantity of scotch I’ve just downed, or the sheer hotness of the man sitting next to me, but I lean toward him, steel myself, and steady my nerves with a single thought:
Get it, girl.
“All kinds,” I murmur, running a hand down his forearm. “Would you like to find out?” Maybe it’s the booze, but I could swear that something passes between us—something animal, magnetic, and totally out of our control.
“I would,” he says, his voice going low, his gaze locking onto mine.
Suddenly it’s not about the show anymore. It’s not about my career, or that jackass Tyler, or whether this trip was all for nothing. It’s about me getting what I want in this moment—right here, right now. And what I want is Flint McKay.
It’s like a jump cut to the narrow alleyway behind the bar, because suddenly I’m pressed back against the brick wall with Flint’s strong, firm hands roaming over my shoulders, my waist, squeezing my hips, cupping my ass. His lips are locked onto mine and I moan into his mouth, so turned on I can barely stand. I don’t know how this happened, but it’s like my fairy godmother came down and waved her wand and now I get to stick my hand down Flint McKay’s pants and—oh, holy hell. Either I’m passed out drunk in my hotel room and this is all a dream, or I just won the dick lottery.
I pull back from the kiss, trying not to smirk, enjoying the groan that escapes his mouth as I squeeze his thick, hard cock in my hand.
�
�We should stop,” he growls, thrusting in my grip.
“Do you want me to stop?” I tease, circling the tip of his dick with the soft pad of my thumb.
“God, no,” he says, his breath catching.
That settles it. I haven’t hooked up with anyone since Tyler, and I can’t imagine a more delightful rebound than this chiseled god standing in front of me. I need this.
I get one knee on the asphalt before Flint says, “Wait,” and tugs me back up. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and spreads it on the ground for me to kneel on.
“A true gentleman,” I tease, but I’m getting impatient. I quickly tug his jeans down and open my mouth, letting him slide in between my wet lips. My tongue traces his head, the length of his shaft, down and back up, circling again, and then I hold him steady with one hand and take him all the way into the back of my throat, sucking with everything I’ve got, eliciting a groan. His cock is perfect.
I look up at him and when our eyes meet and hold, Flint curses under his breath. Behind his head all I see is a sky full of stars. I go back to sucking, losing myself in the task, relishing the taste of him mixed with the sweet smoky hint of scotch in my mouth.
“I’m getting close,” he warns, his hands tangling in my hair, guiding my head back and forth, thrusting against my tongue in a steady rhythm.
“Mmmm,” I reply, knowing the vibration of my moan will push him even closer.
I alternate soft suction with deep, hard sucks, stroking with my tongue the whole time. I feel him tense up, grow impossibly hard, and suddenly he’s jerking faster and deeper, his breath coming in short gasps, until finally he groans and the heat of him spills into my mouth. As he holds out his hand to help me up, I can’t get the grin off my face.
“I win,” I tell him. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.
