“That’s the damn truth,” he says, as we walk side by side out of the garage and toward the building. “I thought I was a confident driver. I don’t think we got below seventy the whole way from the airport.”
“It’s LA,” I say with a shrug. “And we did go below seventy. Twice. I think.” Flint laughs, and I sneak another look at him. He’s perfect, dressed in a blue checked flannel shirt with a leather jacket. He didn’t shave, just like I asked. He looks like a smartened-up version of a sexy mountain man. It’s working perfectly. Several women turn their heads to look as we pass. One of them almost trips and falls.
“This is good,” I say, trying to slow my breath down. My heart is jackhammering in my chest. “All those women think you’re hot. The target demographic approves. Maybe we could bring some of them with us, to testify. Is it too late to go to Kinko’s and make a graph of some kind? People like pie charts.” I’m full on babbling. Flint touches my shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice kind. He’s been nothing but polite and professional since we left Massachusetts, and I’m working hard to do the same.
“I just don’t want you to be nervous,” I say, about ready to put my head between my knees and hyperventilate. Flint chuckles.
“I don’t think you need to worry about me,” he says. “Keep yourself upright, partner.”
“Oh hardy har,” I mutter, but he’s got a point. I loosen my shoulders. “Better?”
“Much.” He reaches down and squeezes my hand once. For luck, of course. For luck.
We enter through the revolving glass doors and check in with the receptionist, then head up to the executive floor. Flint looks around the sleek metallic elevator, watching his reflection in the chrome shine of the doors. He’s hiding it pretty well, but his own nervous energy is starting to appear. It’s a lot quieter than mine, but it’s there.
“You don’t have to worry. I’m going to do all the talking,” I say.
“I know. I just.” He pauses, and nods at his reflection. “I just need to stay collected.”
“We both do.” I smile at our reflections. “Together, we can do anything. We can rule the world!”
“Lot of paperwork in ruling the world,” Flint says.
“Ew, no one mentioned paperwork.” We both laugh a little, tension dissipating. For about five seconds. Then the doors whoosh open, and lo and behold, who should be standing there but the ambassador to hell itself?
“Young Laurel, looking as sexy as ever.” Tyler gives me a shit-eating grin as Flint and I step out of the elevator. It takes all the will I can muster not to give him a solid throat strike, just for old time’s sake.
“Mmm, you know I’m so sorry I forgot to reply to your desperate little text message. I was too busy doing actual work,” I say sweetly.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. Too bad it won’t do you any good. Are you ready for me to own your perky little ass?” he asks, popping a Tic Tac. He doesn’t even glance at Flint. “I think it’s so cute that you took this whole pitch thing seriously.”
Cute. Oh, classic Tyler. I notice Flint straightening up. He towers over the little asshole. Tyler seems to notice this, because he steps back. He takes Flint in, and I see the uneasiness register.
“What’s cute, Tyler, will be the look on your face after I’m done running roughshod over your shitty ideas.” I mock-ponder, tapping a finger against my chin. “Let me think. Did you decide to go with the elegant simplicity of the underage boob job idea? Or will you reach for the stars? Maybe inside the down and dirty world of Beverly Hills nannies and the over-privileged assholes who use them for sex. You’ve got experience there.” I try to shove past him, but he stands in my way.
“Don’t give yourself airs, Young. I’ve banged girls who are a lot hotter than you. It’s not that hard,” he snaps, the ‘cool dude’ fa?ade dropping to display what an ugly little bastard he truly is. My ears buzz, and I’m about to tell him off when Flint steps into him.
“You need to be careful about the kinds of things you say in public,” Flint says. It’s basically a growl. “Someone might think that you meant them.”
“Yeah? What if I did, man?” Tyler tries to sound casual, but his voice goes up an octave. Flint leans down, enjoying watching Tyler squirm.
“Then someone would have to escort your spray-tanned ass outside to have a very frank discussion about attitudes toward women in the workplace. And afterwards, someone would have to drive said spray-tanned ass to the hospital, and someone doesn’t have time for that right now. Besides, blood is bad for the car upholstery. Understand?”
That stops Tyler cold. He goes so pale that his tan turns a weird orange-rind color. “Well. Don’t think you’re walking out with this, Young,” Tyler mumbles. He pops another Tic Tac and nearly runs away. Jackass.
“Thanks for backing me up,” I say. Flint shrugs.