Rugged (12 page)

“After hearing you talk, buddy, I don’t think I’m better. I
guarantee
it.” Flint’s hardened gaze makes Tyler sink back into his chair a little. One small victory. But no one in the room moves. The air feels raw and heavy now.

“You’re pretty hostile, Mr. McKay. I don’t know anyone in your position who’d be so flippant with a group of executives who could decide the fate of his show.” Davis is sounding less and less impressed by the minute. I have to do something.

“Integrity’s essential,” I say, my fake smile so broad I’m afraid my face will split. “Flint’s vision is different than most—”

“Most shows that Reel World produces?” Davis says, his voice cold. “Is that what you were going to say?” Oh damn. The winds have shifted. The yes men and Tyler are all starting to turn on me.

“No. Just…different than a lot of other reality television companies.” If I could dig a hole in the carpet and bury myself, I would.

“I’m being honest,” Flint says, hands in his pockets. “If you want me, you take what I’m offering and nothing else. Thanks for your consideration.”

Davis nods coolly, and Flint sits back down at the table. In the words of Winston Churchill, what the flying fuck just happened? I want to lay my head against the polished mahogany and beat it several times. It’s over. I am now going to go down in flames alongside Stubbly McHandsome over there.

“Kinley,” Davis says, clearing his throat. “What do you have?”

“Glad you asked,” Tyler says, shit-eating grin in place. “Picture this: celebrity dog gets penis enhancement.”

11

“You seem tense,” Flint says as we walk out toward my car. Well, he walks. I sort of stomp-run as fast as I can in my heels. Finally, I yank the bastards off and stomp-run across the lot in my bare feet. Yes, gape all you want, parking attendant.

“Do I? Do I seem like the kind of tense that signifies your career has blown up in front of you? Is that the kind of tense you mean?” I fumble with the keys and wrench open the door to my Camaro, almost smacking myself in the face.

“I’m sorry,” Flint says, closing my door before I can get in. He leans against the car, a muscular wall of ‘you shall not pass.’ “But I had to be clear about what I was and wasn’t willing to do. They can’t have my integrity.”

“So moral high ground gives you carte blanche to be an asshole? After everything I did to get us here?” I snap.

“I’m the asshole?” He tightens his jaw. “You talked about me like I wasn’t even in the room.” His voice lowers, deepens with anger. “Maybe you forgot your promise yesterday, about not letting them make a fool out of me. But there you were, playing along with what they wanted. ‘The hunk factor.’” He sounds disgusted just saying it. “And then that oily little bastard talking about setting me up with, what was it? Hotties to bang?” Those words coming from Flint’s mouth almost makes this situation hilarious. But he’s too pissed off for comical right now. “I won’t bring that kind of fake sexy bullshit into my home. I needed to make that clear,” he says, decisive.

Crap. From his point of view, I really wasn’t doing my all to defend him in there. I close my eyes. “I should have warned you about Tyler before we went in. That’s on me. But Flint, the project is dead now. You understand?”

“How’s that possible? They said they’d call us.” His eyebrows shoot up.

“In Hollywood, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ is an unspoken ‘thanks but no thanks.’ Very subtle, the intricacies of this business,” I groan. After Flint’s speech, all the executives had given us the blankest possible looks. Then Davis gave us the kiss off line, and I knew it was over.

“So. That means the show’s really dead then.” He actually sounds sorry about it.

I look up at him. “I lose my job. You lose your best shot at keeping the business intact. That’s what today cost us. That’s why I’m upset.”

He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I know,” he mutters. We stand there for a moment, looking at the ground in awkward silence. “Listen, it probably wasn’t supposed to work out. I mean, if I can’t handle a team full of suits—”

“The process of shooting the show would probably drive you insane.” I mean it to sound like kind of a dig, but it doesn’t. It sounds honest. I don’t want to believe it, but I saw how volatile it got back there; Flint probably isn’t ready for Hollywood. “I don’t mean gibbering insane; more like righteously insane,” I add, then sigh. “What time is it?”

Flint checks his phone. “Three. Why?”

“It’s five o’clock central time. Get in.” I open my door again. “We’re getting a drink.” Flint takes the keys from my hand.

“You tell me where to go. I’ll drive. I’d like to go close to the speed limit this time.” He gets in and adjusts the seat while I turn to the glory that is Yelp. I punch in an address, my fingers feeling numb and clumsy. This is it. I bombed the most important meeting of my life, and all I have left now is drinking in the afternoon. Wahoo.

I will not cry with someone else driving my Camaro. I will not fucking cry.

I direct us to the cheapest, closest dive I can find. It’s a tacky Mexican-themed place, complete with Day of the Dead artwork, plastic maracas hanging from the lamps and the bartender in a sombrero. But it’ll have tequila. It must have tequila.

“Two shots of Cuervo,” I say, putting my purse on the bar and climbing onto the stool. “And another round after that.” My throat tightens. I feel like I’m on the edge of a screaming jag, which means that booze is a necessary relaxant. Very necessary.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Flint says, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Look.” I put my palms on the bar, trying not to blow up. “My dreams are dead. I failed you. Ohio looms in my future. The least you can do is make it a hard liquor night.” I nudge his elbow, though, to show I’m not really mad. Mostly, at any rate.

“Fair enough. But I’ve seen what can happen when you drink hard alcohol. I just want to make sure you don’t…do anything you’ll regret later.”

I feel my face go hot, but before I can snap back at him (I most certainly do
not
‘regret’ what happened the last time I drank hard alcohol. Or do I? Is that even what he was talking about? Or was he just concerned…) our drinks arrive and Flint picks up the shot. He looks perplexed—it turns out he’s never done a big bar night before. I have to show him how to take tequila. Salt, then the shot, then biting into a lime wedge. He makes a face, but nods after biting into the fruit. “That’s an acquired taste,” he says.

“Get ready to acquire more.” I laugh—a little hysterically, but I get it under control pretty fast—and wave for the bartender.

After three of those babies, the urge to scream evaporates. Man, does that feel fucking glorious. I’m starting to laugh. I don’t know about what, it’s just that the bartender’s sombrero is so funny. Flint’s shirt is funny. Plants are funny! Flint grins.

“You’re a lot drunker than I am,” he says. That’s probably true, but he’s also doing the ‘I’m sitting so straight, look at me, I’m not shitfaced’ thing.

“Not drunk. Tipsy. Fashionably tipsy.” I lean my face against his shoulder, just for someplace to rest. Mmm. My flannel resting place. With such a fresh, woodsy scent to it. Snort. “Is this the only kind of shirt you own?”

“I can take it off if it’s cramping your style,” he says, tilting my chin up. The look in his eyes—heated, intense—sends a wave of pleasurable sensation all the way down to my core. Something in his gaze is unguarded, as if our failure today has suddenly broken down some wall he’d kept up between us before now. I think I like it.

“I think taking off your shirt is a great idea.” I lean back, arm against the bar. Well, we’re not working together now, that’s for damn sure. What’s wrong with a little harmless flirtation? Or a lot of it. “Despite our ignoble ending, you threatening to beat the shit out of Tyler was a moment I will never forget. Thank you for that.” I hold up another tequila shot. We clink glasses, and it goes down the hatch. You know, I think I’m going to make tequila a part of my daily life. Maybe breakfast. Great time for booze.

“I’ve seen too many assholes like that in my life. Trying to claw their way to the top so they can feel less shitty about themselves.” He shakes his head. “They have no pride. People who do good work because they love it, those people have integrity. Like you.” He takes my hand, running his thumb lightly over my palm. “I think it’s what I like best about you.” My toes curl in my faux-leather pumps.

Like? Flint likes me. Things about me, that is. But still. Things are a good start.

“So you think that’s a good quality?” I ask. My blood’s singing in my veins.“It’s sexy.” He whispers it in my ear. My breath hitches in my throat. Maybe it’s just the effects of the tequila, but my skin seems to vibrate with his touch. I playfully take his arm, and keep my hand there.

“Maybe you’re a little drunk, Mr. McKay. I’d hate to take advantage of you. Again.” My voice is low and throaty. I rub my thumb in small circles against the inside of his bicep. Flint leans in towards me, his perfect mouth curving into a smile.

“Would you really hate it?” His hand slides delicately onto my knee, and I move it higher, up my thigh. He doesn’t resist. And then something in his eyes goes dark and determined, like he’s made his mind up about something, and he gives my thigh a firm squeeze that makes me gasp. Oh God, I think I’m going to explode.

“I wouldn’t hate it,” I say. “But it might be a bad idea.” But I don’t believe it for one second. Nothing about this idea is bad. Nothing at all.

“Do
you
think it’s bad?” he asks. Our faces are so close now. There’s a kind of energy humming between us, a tension practically buzzing in my ears.

“Yes,” I say. “But in my experience, bad can be very, very good.”

Our eyes are locked. Flint’s fingers trace the sensitive skin of my inner thigh in slow, teasing circles. I’m starting to tremble, and I think—no, I know—that the light in his eyes is growing hotter. He likes this, his hand up my skirt in the middle of this bar where anyone can see us. And fuck it, so do I.

All the thoughts I’ve had for the entire shooting and pitching process—that I shouldn’t think about Flint, shouldn’t linger over memories of that night in the alleyway, shouldn’t imagine his hands all over me—are slipping away. I want him, and right now it’s clear as day: he wants me, too. It’s the revelation I never even hoped for.

So. Make a choice, Laurel.

And I do. I lick the last of the tequila from the edge of my shot glass, nice and slow so Flint can watch my tongue tracing the curve of the glass, and then I lean forward and press my wet lips against his, the kiss hard and lingering. A shock of heat builds between us and Flint growls when I finally pull back.

“Well?” I whisper, my mouth close to his. “Bad, or good?”

“Very fucking good.”

Then Flint presses a warm, firm hand to the nape of my neck and drives his lips into mine. I moan softly as our kiss deepens, as he searches my mouth with his tongue. This isn’t like last time at all. This time, our connection is stronger, more real. Everything we’ve been through together—our triumphs and failures, the trust we’ve built, the moments we’ve laughed, the pain we’ve shared—it’s bonded us. When he finally pulls away I gasp, needing more. My pulse is pounding hot and fast in my cheeks, my chest, my cunt. I stand up, dizzy, my legs so weak with desire I almost fall down.

“Let’s get out of here,” I manage to say.

“Not too tipsy, are you?” Flint asks, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me against the hard lines of his body.

“To drive? Probably. Otherwise, I’m ready for anything.”

“Then let’s get you home,” Flint says, kissing me into a lusty haze all over again. His gaze is liquid, simmering. I can’t dial up Uber fast enough. I’ll get my Camaro in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the hallway outside my apartment door. I dig through my bag for my keys while Flint kisses the back of my neck, his hot, rough hands sliding up my skirt and over my breasts, pausing only to pinch my nipples until I gasp.

Fuck it. I throw my purse on the floor and turn around to kiss him back, grinding into the bulge in his jeans like my life depends on it. Making out with Flint is a lot like sparring in Krav Maga—intense, physically strenuous, and a total adrenaline rush—except neither of us is in pain and we both get to win.

“Oh my God,” I pant, pulling back for air. I want to eat this man alive. My pulse is pounding, and his gaze is dark with need.

“Do you need me to break down that door?” he asks. “’Cause I can’t wait any longer.”

Neither can I. And I’m just about ready to fuck him right here in the hallway, but by virtue of some actual miracle (or, you know, my purple monster keychain) I spot the keys lying on the floor, along with the rest of the contents of my bag, and I make Flint unlock the door as I hurriedly stuff everything back into my purse, both of us stumbling into my apartment with barely-contained desire.

He presses me up against the wall in the dark, dominant and a little rough, and I like it. “I want you,” he whispers, hiking my skirt up and slipping his hand in between my legs, his knuckles rubbing against my clit. “I’ve wanted you since I first met you.”

Gasping, I fumble at the buttons on his shirt, but I’m too full of lust and tequila to get them undone. In a move the Hulk would be proud of, Flint tears his shirt right off, and I hear buttons hit the floor. Fuck yes.

We somehow make it to the couch, mouths and hands tangling the entire way there. Flint pulls my blouse over my head and caresses my breasts through my lace bra, dipping his head down to suck my nipples through the thin fabric. I reach back and struggle to unclasp the hooks of my bra. The second I do, Flint’s mouth is on me again, his tongue circling my nipple. I groan, my clit throbbing with need, and throw my head back, desperately trying to think of a polite way to say ‘Fuck me.’

“Fuck me,” I groan. “Please.” Hey, at least I tried.

He leans over me and our eyes lock as I run my hands over his abs, the hard contours of his muscled torso. Then Flint picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. “Where are we going?” I ask.