Rugged

by Lila Monroe

“Well, by Auntie Laurel she means blah blaaahh,” David says, doing a stellar impression of his children’s shrieks. Callie giggles and kisses his cheek. Man, they really have made up. I just hope the making up doesn’t escalate, or I’m going to have to leave.

  “Great party,” Ed French says, also popping up alongside us. He’s wearing a three-piece suit with—I think—a crimson cummerbund. He frowns at me. “It’s over budget, of course. I’ll have to talk to accounting in the morning.”

  “Work later. Party tonight,” I tell him. Then, of all people, Jessa pops up alongside him. The contrast between them is huge; Ed’s tightly wound formal wear clashes with Jessa’s one hundred percent hemp, off the shoulder sundress trimmed with turquoise beads. Jessa pokes at the V crease in his forehead.

  “You must learn to find your spiritual center,” she says.

  He laughs at that. It’s such a startling sound, like a very excitable seal. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

  Jessa grins. “I feel a great force that lives inside of you.” She waves her hands in front of his face, around his shoulders. “Your mental energy is astonishing. The strongest I’ve ever felt.”

  “Well, I did graduate summa cum laude from Loyola Marymount,” he says, perking up considerably. “Economics, with a minor in art history. Do you like the Pre-Raphaelites?”

  “You would be a good student,” she muses, taking his arm. “I can help you locate your spirit’s essence.”

  “Oh. Is it like a class?” Ed looks interested.

  “Yes. A private class.” Jessa smiles slowly and leads him away from us. Ed looks a little bemused. I can’t tell if he knows Jessa is flirting with him, but I’m not going to clue him in. I’ve spent enough time trafficking in the love lives of McKays.

  “Er, pardon us. We’re going to keep an eye on my baby sister,” Callie says, tugging David after her. I sip my champagne, watching everyone as they walk around, chatting about the show, about how much money it’s going to make. I should be enjoying this. But I can’t find it in me.

  “I think Davis is looking for you,” Suze says, appearing magically by my ear. She’s wearing a kickass black Chanel dress, and a sour expression. “Heads up, I think Kinley and Flint are in the meeting as well.” She nods at the other side of the room, where a gruff, black-tie Davis is having a close conversation with Tyler.

  And there’s Flint, looking scruffily elegant in a perfect fitting suit. He hasn’t gone penguin tuxedo like everyone else; whoever his stylist is did an immaculate job. His whole outfit is cool gray, with a casual looking necktie. He looks like he stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine for the alpha working man, actually. When our eyes meet, he quickly looks away. Good. I don’t want to see him, either.

  Just get through this party, Laurel. It’s almost done.

  I walk over to them, threading my way through the crowd. Nicholas Cage knocks into me once, then apologizes by slipping me a fifty. Glamorous Hollywood parties do have their perks.

  “Good, I want to make this quick,” Davis says when I arrive. He won’t even look at me. Clearly, he’s disappointed. That makes two of us. “Kinley, you’ll be running point as producer for season two of Rustic Renovations.” The exec actually looks like it pains him to say this. Which is good, because I almost vomit everywhere when Tyler says,

  “Need someone who could actually handle the job?” There’s a smarmy, sharklike gleam in his eye. “I’m your man.”

  “I don’t think it’s that Young couldn’t handle the job,” Davis says. He glares at me one second, disappointment and dislike of Tyler radiating off of him. Flint, meanwhile, has gone completely silent.

  “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” Flint looks at Davis, at Tyler. Basically at anyone but me.

  “Young’s taking a powder,” Tyler says, fixing me with a grin. Now that he has the big, coveted position, all the fear he had of me outside the editing room is gone. “What was the problem? Couldn’t hack living rough in the wilderness?”

  “The Berkshires isn’t the wilderness,” Flint snaps at Tyler, though his gaze finally fixes on me. “I don’t get the change.”

  “I’m not producing next season,” I say, ignoring Tyler’s douchiness with a shrug. I fix Flint with my own gaze, not backing down. “Best decision for everyone involved.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Davis says gruffly. He’s still glaring at Tyler, who is still determined to make an ass of himself.

  “Young just can’t commit herself fully,” he sneers, snatching a drink off a passing server’s tray. “That’s the problem with women in the workplace. Their ovaries, like, produce chemicals that don’t allow them to have a man’s laser focus.” He beams. “I saw an article on Reddit about it.”

  “Tyler, you’re getting this job because everyone wants to see you fail,” I say, as sweetly as possible. I give him my best fuck-you smile. “You have the reverse Midas touch with people; everything you handle turns to shit. So the team will step in and save the day, and Mr. Davis will finally have a reason to can your sleazy ass.”

  Tyler laughs. “That’s bullshit. Right, Mr. D?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not as well-versed in the bullshit department as you are, Kinley,” Davis says, fixing Tyler with an annoyed stare and walking away. Tyler’s smile falters, and he goes after the executive. Flint, meanwhile, hasn’t stopped looking at me.

  “When were you going to tell me?” he asks.

  “Is now not a good enough time?”

  “We need to talk. Now,” he says, setting his drink down. Before I can respond, someone walks over to us. Hard to forget a woman that tall, beautiful, and radiant. Charlotte puts a hand on Flint’s shoulder.

  “You must be Laurel.” She smiles; her teeth are distractingly perfect. “I’m so glad to meet you formally. I know we bumped into each other at the house months back.” She laughs and holds out her hand to shake.

  She’s wearing the beautiful gown I saw in the text Jessa sent. And glinting on her left hand, I spy a diamond engagement ring.

  I look into Flint’s eyes. You bastard. You utter, complete bastard.

  “Nice to meet you,” I mutter, shaking.

  “Flint’s told me so much about you.” She squeezes his arm. He looks impatient, restless.

  “Can we talk outside?” he asks, voice tight. “Charlotte, can you give us a minute?”

  “Of course. Is everything all right?” she asks, blue eyes wide. No, everything isn’t all right. Your fiancé flew you out the day after hooking up with me, and I didn’t even begin to understand what an utter sleaze he was until now. Man, some things I really wish I could say out loud.

  “It’s fine,” Flint says.

  “Fine,” I echo. “Let’s go.” I lead Flint out, through the ballroom and down a long hallway, into a private room overlooking the garden out back. We push onto the balcony, so the only listeners are some palm trees and a blue heron standing on one foot by the pond, pecking at its wings.

  “We’ve got to talk about this Charlotte thing,” Flint growls when we’re finally alone. His eyes are blazing, his jaw clenched. “Listen to me.”

  A hysterical laugh lodges itself in my throat. “No. I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to talk. She’s got a fucking ring on her finger, and I don’t need to have that subtle mystery explained to me. It’s spelled out pretty clearly.” I push off the balcony and head for the door. Flint grabs my wrist. I know if I shake him away, he’ll let me go. But I still don’t have enough self control where he’s involved to walk away when there’s a chance to touch him again, feel the stubble along his jaw, press myself against his body…

  Stop. Fucking stop, Laurel.

  “You’re making this harder than it has to be,” he snaps.

  “Look.” I turn to him. “I don’t want to talk about Charlotte. I don’t want to work with you on another season because I don’t need the daily reminders of how blissfully happy you are. And I don’t want to be paraded around on f
ucking camera anymore.”

  “Why are you being so goddamn difficult?” Flint shouts. That finally sends me over the edge. In front of the garden, all the stars in the sky, and that pervy blue heron, I shout back,

  “Because I love you, you jackass!”

  Flint pauses, looking unsure of what to do. But I can’t stop myself, and I keep going.

  “I’ve been in love with you for months. During shooting, I thought we had a chance. But you went back to Charlotte, and I went home. Then you had the fucking audacity to play with me like this. To keep on playing. And I can’t take it anymore!”

  Flint is speechless for a minute. Whatever he’s about to say gets interrupted.

  “What’s going on out here?” Charlotte demands, walking onto the terrace. She is not kidding around; that is a steely-eyed lawyer’s gaze if I ever saw one. If I weren’t so worked up right now, I’d be damned intimidated.

  “Laurel,” Flint manages. I’m not doing this with Charlotte here. Even I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment.

  “Enjoy the premiere,” I blurt out, rushing past them both. “I can’t be here anymore.”

  I run out and down the hall, past the ballroom, and into the street. Now I give myself permission to cry just a little, mascara tracking down my face. I don’t care if there are still cameramen and paparazzi outside, who’ll probably get an up close and personal look at my transformed state, from super confident producer-slash-star to makeup-smeared crazy person. I storm out, down the red carpet, and out onto the street. Finally, I have the sense to grab my phone and call for a cab, which is mercifully right nearby.

  “Looks like you went to a wild party,” the driver says when I practically fall into the backseat. He looks me over, some concern on his face. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I mumble, staring out the window at the city lights as we drive away. Well, the party’s over now.

  34

  When I get home, I throw my phone under my bed with a guttural scream of pure agony. If this isn’t the absolute worst day of my life, I don’t know what is, and the last thing I want are a bunch of texts from Suze or anyone else asking where the hell I ran off to. Then I go into the bathroom and scrub the makeup off my face, which almost involves taking it off with a cheese grater. Damn. Desiree seriously spackles it on. After that, I change into my comfiest, most ridiculous pajamas—hello, pink skeletons with pretty bows on top of your head—and pour myself a glass of wine.

  That is, I pour almost the whole bottle of merlot into the jumbo plastic Avengers cup I got at the movies, but it’s been a hard day, dammit. I sit on the couch and flip on the TV, desperate for some mindless escapism. I will watch anything but The Big Bang Theory. That show has no respect for nerds.

  The front door buzzer sounds. Instantly I flinch, and snuggle down deeper under my fleece blanket. I wait, hoping it’s just some drunk guy looking for his hookup’s number, but nope. There it is again. Groaning, I pause and go over to the speaker. “Who is it?” I say.

  “Laurel. It’s me,” Flint says.

  I could just ask him to go away, lose my number, hit himself with the neuralyzer from Men in Black and forget my address. But we don’t have enough high tech for this situation to work.

  “So it is.” I stay there, waiting. He sighs.

  “Please let me in. I need to talk to you.”

  Go on, tell him to get the hell out of here. Start with some creative swearing; make fuck a verb, noun, adjective, hell, maybe an adverb if you can swing it. But I know, deep down, that I owe it to him to talk. I did just storm out on him and his fiancée and probably left them with a hell of a conversation. Heart thumping, I buzz him up and open my door. A minute later Flint enters, his tie undone, his jacket off.

  “Well. What do you—” And then he covers my mouth with a kiss.

  I should be mad—no, enraged. I should be punching him in the stomach—well, patting it maybe, since I know how rock solid he is—but my arms go up around his neck as if they have a mind of their own, and we stumble into my apartment and smack into the wall, just like the first time he came here. The first night we had sex.

  I’m doing it again! Oh my God, what is wrong with my hormones?

  “No,” I say, forcing myself to pull away from him after returning to unblissful sanity. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said? You’re with Charlotte. I saw her with the ring on her finger. And by the way, you are going to make a terrible fucking husband.”

  “I’m not,” he says, panting. He closes the door behind him. Good idea, since Mrs. Hernandez from 1C was staring at us with her grocery bags in hand. “That is, I’m not with Charlotte, not the ‘I’ll make a terrible fucking husband’ part.”

  It’s like the floor actually drops out from under me.

  “Wait. What? You’re not with Charlotte?” I go still, trying to breathe. “What do you mean you’re not with Charlotte? She’s your fiancée!”

  “No.” Flint is shaking his head slowly. “Charlotte showed up the day you left. We got some coffee, talked things over. We’re both still the same people, Laurel. And those people do not work together in a relationship. Afterward she went back to New York. Where she wants to be. Where she belongs.”

  Flint’s eyes blaze as he takes my face in his hands. My heart is pounding, my head swimming as I try to make sense of the nonsense words coming out of his mouth.

  “That ring you saw? She’s engaged to someone else now. I hear he’s a great guy. It took that trip to Mass for Charlotte to realize it, but what we had is over and done, and we can’t go back to what it was. That closure helped her take the next step in her life, and I guess that means marrying someone else. But I’m happy for her. And when she said she wanted to come out for the premiere, of course I said yes. I swear to God, I never connected the dots. I didn’t realize you’d left because of her until you said it last night. I was so shocked, I didn’t even think straight. I couldn’t get the words out before you left.”

  Shocked. Not together. Charlotte has a fiancé that’s not him. My brain is finally starting to process the headlines, but my mouth doesn’t know what to do. Until Flint leans in again, his lips brushing against mine—

  “It doesn’t matter!” I jerk back. “I can’t be around you, I told you that. I can’t be around you because this will never work—”

  “I love you,” Flint says. This time, when he pulls me into his arms, I don’t try to break away. “Dammit, I’ve loved you almost since the moment you showed up at my door and then chased me down a mountain before crashing my favorite bar. I don’t want to live my life without you in it, Laurel.” There’s a determined look in his eyes, and then that vulnerable flash of uncertainty I always find so irresistible.

  I place my hand on his chest, take a deep breath, and look up at him. “What about everything else? Even if it’s not Charlotte, you’ve still got the hardware business to worry about. You can’t afford to lose focus right now.”

  Flint covers my hand with his. “The business is solid. That’s another thing I wanted to tell you tonight, but you peeled out of the party. My business manager called; the promotion machine’s worked perfectly. Just like you said it would. McKay’s Hardware is seeing three times more traffic in one week than it’s seen all year. We’re not selling to Smith & Warren now.” He pulls me close, and this time I don’t resist. “I’m sure about you, Laurel. More sure than anything else. I don’t want Charlotte. I don’t want an empty house in the Berkshires. I want you,” he whispers.

  “I want you too,” I say, leaning into his chest, my hand still pressed against the warm, strong beat of his heart.

  And then we tiptoe off to bed.

  I startle awake to find Flint’s head between my thighs, his hot tongue licking me hard through my panties, which are the only stitch of clothing I’m wearing after the marathon sex we had a few hours ago. I take his head in my hands and hold him steady where he is, bucking against his open mouth until I’m completely soaked. He peels off my u
nderwear, kissing his way up my body as I moan softly, and when he finally settles his weight on top of me, his cock pressing deliciously against my hip, I reach for—

  Bzzzt bzzzt. Bzzzt bzzzzzt.

  My phone. I reach for my phone. Which is, apparently, blowing up directly underneath me and Flint, vibrating angrily against the faux hardwood floor, right where I left/threw it a few hours ago. I hop off the bed, peek into the land of dust bunnies below, and spot my cell glowing in the dark as the screen lights up with yet another batch of fresh text messages. After I grope around a bit, I manage to get the phone in my hand and blow the dust off the screen. I’ve got about twenty texts from Suze, Raj, and even Tyler, all reading some variation of:

  ‘Where the hell are you? Are you dead? In Tijuana? After party? After party!’

  “Ain’t no party like a Hollywood after party,” I say, turning the screen toward Flint. “They’re still going strong. Sorry you missed your own premiere, though.”

  “It was worth it,” he says, pulling me back into bed, up onto his chest. His eyes never leave mine as he lazily trails his hands down my back, over the curve of my ass, squeezing the backs of my thighs. “This is the only show I care about.”

  “Never to be canceled again,” I say, enjoying the rumble of his laughter as it reverberates through his body. Still, that’s enough of the Hollywood jokes. Enough of jokes in general.

  It’s time to get serious.

  35

  “Suze, we’re almost there. Walking in right as I speak,” I tell her, shrugging out of my coat and handing it to the check girl. Flint takes my hand—it feels like the most natural thing in the world—and we head back to the ballroom. Everyone is really celebrating now, drinking champagne like it’s the end of the world. I guess that means the show was a hit. Either that, or it was a total bomb and people are doing their best to forget it in a haze of oblivion. Either way, there’s drinking.

  Maybe this means no one will notice that my makeup is off, my hair is down, and my Dior gown is wrinkled beyond repair. Or not. A girl can dream.

  “Where the hell were you two?” Callie asks, throwing her arms around us one at a time. “You missed the best show of the year!”