by Lila Monroe
“Yes,” Flint says, his voice tight.
“Then let’s roll sound! And…action.” Jerri and the rest of us sit back, watch, and wait. Flint clears his throat, opens the blueprints on the table, and points.
“See this?” he says, never taking his eyes from the camera. He pauses, swallows. “This is a house.”
Oh God, no. By the craft table, Callie looks over at me. She’s got a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and she’s shaking her head. I turn back to Flint as the madness unfolds. He adopts the world’s most rigid mountain man pose, hands square on hips, and continues.
“This house has a foundation. As most houses do. When they are built by people who build houses.” This is the Challenger explosion of first takes. Flint keeps fumbling for words, his eyes getting wider as he stares directly into the camera. “We, er, start with leveling out the base. Leveling. That’s a word everyone understands, right?” No one knows how to stop this. It’s too awkward. “Level. That means to, ah, make smooth. If your house isn’t on a level foundation, the whole thing’s tilted. And then you could go over a cliff.” He pauses once more, his jaw clenching so tight it’s probably going to snap in half. “But don’t worry. I won’t let you plummet to your death.”
Step one: leave the set. Step two: dig ten-foot hole. Step three: bury self and never come out.
I don’t even have to go up to Jerri and beg for a reprieve; she calls cut at once, then stalks up to Flint. “Okay, Flint,” she says, rubbing her jaw, the tightness of fear stealing over her features. “That was a hell of a thing.”
Flint makes some kind of grunting noise. The rest of the film crew has already started whispering and stealing glances at me, which is damned irritating. I know it sucked, you guys! I’m aware! Imran at the craft service table is shaking his head sympathetically at Callie while devouring one of her muffins, crumbs spilling onto his shirt. Two of the grips walk by me, muttering to each other.
“Maybe it’s not too late to get in on Juicy Jurors,” one of them says. I think my blood pressure is spiking dangerously. Where is a squeezy stress relief ball when you need one? I walk away from them, forcing myself not to snap and start throttling the team. Raj is waiting to speak with me, glaring while he fans himself with some documents. At least he can’t pin that awful take on me.
“Just think of it this way,” he says, his voice so sickly-sweet it should come with a toothbrush and dental floss, “if America mutes it, we’ll still have a hit.”
Don’t punch the assistant, don’t punch the assistant. I go over to Flint and Jerri. Flint’s running a hand through his hair again and again, the telltale sign he’s stressed.
“I’m just explaining to McKay that he’s got to loosen up. Like, if we need to get him laid, no problem. I’m sure an intern would be happy to volunteer,” Jerri says, sounding irritated. Flint and I studiously avoid eye contact. No getting laid here, no sir.
“Let’s take a walk,” I tell him, and he falls into step with me, hands shoved in his pockets. We head over to the cliff’s edge, look down into the tree-lined ravine below. What a metaphor. Me, standing on a precipice. “What’s going on?” I ask. Flint grunts.
“I’m not a camera personality. You knew this.” He sounds annoyed, but also a little nervous. “There are lights. And cameras. And people.” He waves his hand by way of illustration. “Everywhere.”
“Well, it’s television. Cameras are bound to come into it. And the crew is nonnegotiable.” I try to keep him talking, try to ignore the glares from the crew up the hill. I know what they’re thinking: you picked a real dud, Young. This is a failure, and when Herman Davis and his gang of executive trolls come looking for someone to devour, you’re first up on the menu. “Remember when we shot the sizzle footage? That was fun, wasn’t it?”
“That was just us. And it’s not even the cameras, or the people really. It’s everything,” he says, looking back at his construction crew. There’s a tight look of pain on his face. “Smith & Warren came back with another offer. Even bigger.”
“Damn.” The giant, soulless hardware corporation wants to take Flint’s flailing chain of stores and, well, incorporate. “It must’ve been a solid number.”
“Callie even thought I should consider. She’s never thought that before.” He shakes his head. “What if this show does nothing? What if I’m wasting time on this when I could be raising capital somewhere else? What if I embarrass my family, and we still lose the business?”
His hands ball into fists, and he looks back at the production crew like a wolf with his foot caught in a snare. Usually, trapped wolves gnaw off their appendages rather than stay caught, and I think Flint’s about ready for that. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
“I feel like I’m playing dress up here while my uncle’s legacy goes to shit. I’m letting everyone down just to get my picture in the goddamn paper.”
“You won’t. You’re not. You won’t. You’re not playing dress up. Print media is dying. Okay?” I grab his arm again—I can’t help but notice the feel of his perfect, swelling bicep—and this time he doesn’t shake me off. My heart skips a little; stop it, heart. “We’re gonna go back up there, roll cameras, and kick this day’s ass.” I punctuate it with a little jab at his arm. Not so hard, though. I still kind of hurt from punching him yesterday. My pep talk brings a small smile to Flint’s face, but it’s not enough.
“I still feel like I’m talking to no one out there. Like I’m out of my mind,” he says.
Light bulb. “Well, with the power of editing, I may be able to help you there.”
“How’s that?” He looks puzzled but intrigued.
We explain the whole situation to Jerri, who doesn’t seem enamored of our plan, but agrees. Pretty soon, the cameras are rolling again, and I’m standing next to Flint. Or near to him, that is. He doesn’t address me directly, but having me there, right alongside, seems to do wonders. He visibly relaxes as he speaks. His shoulders loosen, that charming smile is back on his face. Jerri closes her eyes and nods, pleased.
“Remember, the steel-reinforced foundation walls are essential,” Flint says, patting the one right behind him. “The footings have to be poured, leveled concrete. If you try to get away with second best, like wood foundation, you’re going to end up with a sunk house and a huge mess on your hands.” He waves the camera over, makes it look right down at the poured concrete. Flint grins, his eyes lighting up at a job well done. I come over and stand beside him, nodding, the camera glimpsing me briefly. Like I said, we’ll take me out in post-production. Right now, the crucial thing is that Flint is relaxed, enjoying himself. And when he enjoys himself, America enjoys him.
That’s not exactly what I meant, but I’ll stick to it.
“That’s a cut,” Jerri yells, nodding. “All right, kids. That was pretty damn good. Let’s take it back to the top, and this time I wanna see you loose from the word go. The way you’re looking now, McKay, it’s exactly what we need.” She might be talking about his performance, or she might be referring to the way his tee shirt is clinging to his abdominal and pectoral perfection.
What? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.
“Laurel, you’ll stay in the shot again?” he asks. I try not to get too excited at the hope in his voice; I’m there because he needs me, not because he wants me. Besides, sometimes being a producer means stepping into the comfort blanket role.
A few hours later, we’ve got all the footage we wanted for the day. While we’ve been filming, the construction crew has been working where they can, nailing the beginnings of a structure together. Flint goes over to each of them in turn, shaking hands. They clap him on the shoulder. Even my own production people and camera crew look pleased. Raj blows out his cheeks as he walks past me.
“You didn’t screw it up. Good job,” he says, briefly touching my shoulder. Aw. It makes me want to murder him less.
“You were great,” I tell Flint when he comes back over to me. We’re both grinning. The aw
kwardness between us has completely melted away in the day’s sweaty work. For the first time since the day he left LA, I feel like we’re back to our more comfortable routine. I can learn to be happy with that.
“Tell you what,” he says, wiping his forehead. “One thing I could use is a drink.” He pauses. “A friendly drink, I mean.”
I wave away his hesitation. “Far be it for me to interfere in such a manly tradition.” I gesture towards the car. “Let us retire and get shitfaced, good sir.”
15
“Sweet holy God. Are you telling me they don’t serve IPAs here?” Raj says, sounding panicked as we all stand in the doorway to the Firefly Tavern. “Where else am I going to get my nasty-ass beer fix?” Funny, the Firefly sort of feels like home now. There’s Carl, the mightily-bearded bartender, pouring out a shot and a brew for a local. There’s Eduardo, Regina, Marbella, Christophe, Johannes, Ringo, and Bob, the seven deer heads I named during my one particularly tipsy evening. Hi, kids.
The whole production crew steps slowly into the bar, as if neon beer lights and Blake Shelton on the radio are going to entomb them here forever, like a booby-trapped cave in an Indiana Jones movie. Seeing a group of LA-centric show business people staring agape at the trucker hats and the non-ironic PBR makes me a little too happy. While the group finds a table, Flint guides me over to the bar. “Whiskey for the lady, beer for me,” he tells Carl.
“I hope they liven up soon,” I say, sipping my drink. Flint leans back, tousled hair hanging down over one eye. I have to tear my eyes away from the sheer perfection.
“I think Raj is about to be much happier,” he says, taking a swallow of beer. “It’s karaoke night.” Flint’s nailed it. Five minutes later, one of the trucker-capped locals steps up to the microphone to sing an off-key version of ‘Achy Breaky Heart.’ Raj puts his hands over his mouth, overcome with delight, and follows that performance with a rousing rendition of ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen.
Two rounds later, everyone is feeling all right. Jerri is at the microphone, wailing out ‘Have You Ever Seen the Rain?’ while Raj dances around in the center of the room, a spastic little drunken monkey. Flint and I mosey over to the pool table. Heh. Mosey. I love that word.
“McKay, why don’t you step up and impress the lady?” one of the trucker hat guys says, grinning at me. “Show her you know your way around a pool table.”
Impress the lady? Surely you jest, sir. “Actually, I’m a pretty handy player myself.” I knock back the rest of my whiskey—don’t worry, I mostly stay upright—and pass off the glass to the guy who spoke. He looks me up and down, appreciative but skeptical.
“Bernie, never underestimate Ms. Young,” Flint says as he starts setting up for a game. “She’ll kick your ass for you.”
“I could take it,” Bernie says, looking down at my admittedly nice posterior. Here we go. Casual sexism primes me for victory.
“All right,” I say. “You and me, McKay. Game on.” I raise an eyebrow as Flint grins at me.
“You going to go easy on me?” he asks, handing me a cue. His fingertips graze mine as I take it, a jolt of electricity flooding through me, which I have to pretend I don’t feel. Can’t let that perfect fake smile falter for even a second. Attempting a casual attitude, I toss my hair.
“Mercy’s not my strong suit,” I reply. I chalk my cue and line myself up, getting into the Zen of pool as I sight down the table. “Remember, no sudden movements,” I tell Flint, mock-glaring at him as he casually sidles up to me.
“I don’t cheat,” he says, crossing his arms. “Man of honor that I am, I stand by and watch, silent and observant.” I bring my arm back to take the shot. “Making no sudden—” As I shoot, he stomps heavily next to me, and I jump. The ball still rockets down the table, striking the balls and breaking them perfectly. I even manage to land two solid colors in corner pockets. Finished, I give Flint an exaggerated bow.
“Too bad your cheating ways didn’t work, cheater,” I say, snorting a little bit. Flint’s shoulders are shaking from laughter.
“I was wrong. Should’ve known that a woman like you can keep her head under any circumstances,” he says. He has to lean down and say it in my ear, since the bar is getting louder. He’s so close; if I turned my head, we’d be almost touching…
“Of course I can,” I say, resisting the bad, bad idea. Turning back to take my next shot, I sight the ball. This time Flint behaves like a perfect gentleman. But being that close to him again, the heat of his body right beside me, it turns my muscles shaky and my fingers slippery. I shoot, and the white ball arcs through the air and off the table.
“Scratch!” Bernie yells, obviously pleased with himself. He grabs the ball and plunks it back onto the felt tabletop. “All right, McKay.”
“I’ll show you,” Flint tells me, taking a cue from off the rack. “A real man knows how to handle his…er, his pool game.” He clears his throat.
“Nice save. No one would ever suspect you meant to say balls,” I say, watching as he snorts and screws up his shot, fouling up a guaranteed point.
“How dare you,” Flint says in mock horror.
“Two can play at sabotage, Mr. McKay.” Someone hands me a beer—Bernie, most likely—and I take a drink. Beer’s not usually my favorite, but on a crisp fall evening, surrounded by the Berkshires’ finest and hairiest, who am I to resist?
We chase the balls around the table, enjoying the game. I’m too focused to let much of Flint’s rattling get to me, but whenever he touches my back briefly, or leans in to whisper something funny in my ear, I find my heart thudding loudly in my chest. That’s when it’s hard to concentrate on whatever’s in front of me. Heat flushes up and down my body, and I have to work to keep my breathing in check.
“Down to the eight ball,” Flint says, readying himself and shooting. It’s close, but the shot just misses. We’re tied. He hands me my cue. “Chalk up and get in there.”
As I accept the cue, my hand grazes his again, for one brief second, and again, sparks bubble in my blood. Flint winks, then steps aside to let me play. Is he doing it on purpose? I have to ignore the brief touches and the deep, sexy rumbling of his laugh. Focus, Laurel. Go for the Firefly gold, which is probably Carl’s old bowling trophy and a free drink. Using my laser producer focus, I look down the length of the cue and see the smug little eight ball just sitting there, acting like he owns the place.
I haven’t had too much to drink. I just like to imagine inanimate objects mocking me. Helps me concentrate.
I shoot, and the white ball cracks so satisfyingly against the offending eight ball that it shoots across the table and lands in the corner pocket. I win the game. This calls for a classy victor’s speech. I’ll shake Flint’s hand, congratulate him on a game well played—
“Did that hurt? The beat down I just laid on you?” I ask him, sashaying my hips back and forth. Screw it, I don’t go in for classy all that much. I work in Hollywood.
Fortunately, Flint isn’t the sore loser type. He laughs hard, then grabs me up and swings me around, very quickly. It’s a playful hug he’d give his sisters. I’ve seen him behave this way before. All very brotherly. So why do I practically feel myself melt against him? And why, when he returns me to my feet, does he look at me with a heat that doesn’t make me think of cozy family bonding at all? Unless your last name is Lannister, that is.
“You play to win,” he murmurs. I think that idea pleases him; a smile quirks up the side of his mouth.
“Guess you could say I’m competitive,” I reply, my carefree tone belying how fast my heart’s beating. Across the bar, I notice Raj glaring in our direction with his arms crossed. What? Just a little friendly, professional bonding going on over here.
“Damn, the girl’s a master,” Bernie says, whistle-laughing as he sets up for another game. “Rare I get the pleasure of seeing anyone beat you, McKay.”
“She divided and conquered my troops,” Flint says, gazing down at me. “She’s like a shorter, West
coast Napoleon.” Despite Raj’s eyes still shooting laser beams at me, I’m still pressed up against Flint’s body, and neither of us seems to be moving away. If only I could feel his arms around me, one more time…just for the road…
“Helluva lot better than the rest of us,” Bernie continues, apparently oblivious to whatever’s happening between Flint and me. Which is a good thing, damn it. “Man, last person I ever saw beat you was Charlotte. You remember?” Bernie laughs and pushes his cap up his head. “She’d never let up, that woman, ‘til she got her way.”
And just like that, I’m out of Flint’s arms. He takes a step back, the heat in his eyes quashed. Even Bernie notices it, because he clears his throat.
“I mean, just saying—”
“Why don’t you two keep playing? I’m going to get another beer,” Flint says, and heads for the bar. Bernie shakes his head and keeps setting up.
“What was all that about?” I ask. It’s not that my ears perk up as soon as another lady’s name is mentioned. No, not at all. My ears just naturally look like this. All perky and what not.
“Eh, it’s not a big deal,” Bernie says. He starts ordering the balls by solid and stripe. Meanwhile Raj saunters over to us, his checked yellow shirt and skinny jeans setting him apart from the crowd. His eyes are narrowed, but although I’m expecting a tongue-lashing of the un-fun variety, instead he unexpectedly gets in on the game.
“Can I play too?” he asks, slumping against one of the truckers. They all shoot each other looks, but shrug and let him in. “I love you fellas so much. We’re a manly buncha bros.” Then he hugs one of them. Ah. I see how it is.
I leave Raj to his ‘manly’ bro-bonding and go find Flint at the bar, staring into a beer he hasn’t touched. Grabbing the stool next to him, I smile. “You feeling all right?”
“Think I’ve had too much to drink.” That’s a lie and we both know it, but I’m not going to press.
“Yeah. It’s getting late. I should probably head back and get some sleep.” I grab my purse and pat him on the shoulder. Platonic patting, of course.
