I haven’t had that much to drink. I’m aware enough to realize the rarity before me. You could write a poem about this man’s physical perfection.
“Are you ready?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. I sit up, almost ready to apologize to him when the camera holder says,
“Yeah. Here we go. So, state your name.”
“Why?” He grins, crinkling the corners of his eyes and lending his whole expression a warmth that starts melting me on the spot.
“Because intros are fun.” The voice is teasing and female. “Go on.”
“Flint McKay.” He looks about ready to roll his eyes. “Here to introduce you to the fabulous world of drywall. Once you have experienced its many mysteries, you will dare to question your place in the universe. For surely, to hang a sheet of drywall is to see the face of God.” He makes his voice even deeper and richer. The sound of it makes me hungry.
The camera holder—definitely young, by the sound of her voice—scoffs. “Come on, you said you’d—”
“All right, all right.” Flint shakes his head, a lock of that reddish brown hair falling into his eyes. Instantly, I want to brush it away. Slowly, letting my fingers trail through the silky—
Laurel! Calm down!
“First off, you want to get the width of your wall,” Flint says, picking up a measuring tape and pulling it open. I can see it, right now—every woman watching this show would dream of those hands zipping down the back of their dress with such ease. “Cut your sheet so it’s about a quarter inch shorter than that,” Flint says, looking into the camera again. He goes through the motions, and I enjoy the sight of his muscled back stretching as he displays the drywall. His jeans hug a tight, spectacular looking ass.
I know I’m being a little creepy right now, but no one else is around. So work that fabulous ass, drywall man.
Also, he’s actually great at explaining. I’m not much of a do it yourself type person—I was raised by people who called someone else to hang a picture—but the ease with which Flint shows off his abilities, the careful discussion of everything to do with drywall, it’s amazing. It almost makes me want to go down to the hardware store at first light and start on some home renovation.
It also makes me want to go home and dust off my trusty vibrator, because every time Flint looks in the camera, or winks, or even—God help me—takes off his flannel shirt so that he’s only in a tight, clinging white tee, I feel heat pooling between my legs.
“Remember,” Flint says, pointing at the camera. “We tack with nails, but we fasten with screws.” You could definitely fasten something with a screw right here, sir.
I’m starting to worry about my sanity.
Finally, the video is over. Flint displays a seemingly perfectly hung bit of drywall. “Feast your eyes.” Flint bows deeply, then grins. “Okay, Callie. Good enough?” A V of sweat has appeared around the front collar of his tee shirt, giving me a glimpse of impossibly sculpted pectorals.
“Good job,” the camera girl replies, laughing. The video turns off. I’m left trying to pick my jaw from up off the floor.
Who is this renovation god? And when did he send us this tape? I scroll through the information on hand. His name’s Flint McKay, from Massachusetts. We first got this video about ten months ago. To think it’s been languishing in a pile all this time. Then again, I can sort of understand how it happened. Doing home repairs isn’t exactly Reel World’s focus. We’re a boobs and bombastic revelations type of company. But to have a sex god teaching home improvement, that would certainly bring in the ladies. And that strange combination of studliness and craftiness would really differentiate this show. Another girls in bikini show would just be white noise. But this…
I can already feel myself bouncing in my chair from excitement. Fingers trembling, I look up the contact information. With his phone number in hand, I hesitate. It’s not even six on the east coast. Maybe it’s too early to call?
The thought of Tyler’s smug face and his underage boob jobs decides me. My fingers fly across my phone’s keypad, and I wait. One ring, two rings, three. No answer, but it goes to voicemail. I take a deep, calming breath.
“Hello, this message is for Flint McKay. My name’s Laurel Young, and I’m a producer at Reel World Entertainment in Los Angeles.” Little white lie on the producer thing, but who cares? When Davis picks up this show, I will be a producer. “I’ve reviewed your video submission, and I think this has a lot of potential. Please call me back so we can discuss further.” I leave him my number, hang up, and nearly start hugging myself. I’m a freaking genius. Soon, all of female America will be gazing soulfully into the eyes of Flint McKay. And they might even pick up a couple of good drywalling tips while they’re at it.
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