“There is something, actually. Could you go back in there and force Juan not to add that scene with the drunk girls making out at the bar? We filmed it the first night we were in town, and he keeps trying to sneak it in there.” Pervy little bastard. It’s why we love him. “And, uh, could you mention that I’m sorry for giving him so much shit lately? Tell him it’s just show stress. And that I owe him lunch.”
“On it.” Suze hugs me, and heads back into the room. I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. I’m tempted to start pounding it, to see if I can finally dislodge Flint from my brain. But that’s an impossible task with all the editing we’ve been doing. Every time I see his golden brown eyes, I think of how they’d light up when he laughed. How they smoldered when he was inside me. How walking out of that house and driving away shattered my heart, swept it into a little broken heap, and stomped on it again.
No. I’m not getting pulled into this maudlin ball of crazy. Even if I hadn’t busted out of there on Flint, even if he hadn’t gone back to Charlotte, it never would’ve worked out. He said himself that he’d never leave the woods, and I’m not going to trade the infuriating, glorious world of show business and type A insanity for a quiet life in the Berkshires. That’s not for me, and my life wouldn’t be for him.
And the headline, of course, is that he loves Charlotte. He’s always loved Charlotte. Always will. Love. Charlotte.
I can’t help feeling miserable. I haven’t felt this used and abused since—
“Young Laurel. Asleep on the job, as usual.” My oh my, another chance encounter with the smarmiest dickhead of them all. Just what I wanted.
Tyler Kinley. Asshole extraordinaire. He really should get that printed on his business cards, like I’ve been telling him. I open my eyes a crack and feast my poor tired eyes on the spray-tanned jackass, peeking at me over the rims of his Ray Bans. Scientific fact: how much of an asshole you are is directly proportional to how often you wear expensive sunglasses indoors.
“I’m meditating, Kinley. Helps get the creative juices flowing. You’d know what it’s like if you had any.” I shove off from the wall and try to get through the door, but Tyler leans his douchey bulk against it. Why did I ever let Davis’s henchworms talk me into keeping Kinley on this project as an executive producer? Why don’t I remember what a terrible idea he is, just in general?
Wait, I do remember. It’s just that the Hollywood boys’ club wants to keep him around to oil the place up for some unfathomable reason.
“Well, you’re a, uh,” Tyler says, squinting, trying his hardest to come up with a cutting retort. Come on, buddy. You can do this. You’re the little engine that couldn’t, but gets validated by society anyway. “A bitch,” he finishes. Man, he actually smiles a little. Clearly he feels good about himself. Let’s see what I can do to fix that unfortunate situation.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Herman Davis loves my show, would it?” I ask, practically purring. Tyler’s salon-massaged face falls. “Come on, I know all about it. Remember Dave Lantos? I went out for dinner at Mastro’s with him and a few of the execs. They told me how crazy everyone is going for Rustic.” It’s true; the big boys love my show, took me out to dinner, and didn’t even try to cop a feel or take me home. Well, one of them tried, but he got his instep stomped for good measure. And I enjoyed some fabulous prime rib. I fake-gasp with fake concern. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kinley. I forgot that you weren’t invited. How rude of me.” I smile.
“You did not forget,” Tyler says, as if the light of all knowledge has fallen upon him. “You’re trying to make me feel like shit.” Slow clap. What a genius.
“How am I doing?” I ask, leaning in. Normally, this is where Tyler would look down my blouse, but he actually backs up a step. Am I intimidating him? Wonderful. I lower my voice, drilling holes into Tyler’s eyes with mine. “Now listen to me, you entitled piece of shit. My show is going to be a hit. So you can either cooperate and get a few crumbs of credit, like a good little exec producer, or you can go nurse your hurt feelings somewhere else and get the fuck out of my life, in which case make sure to let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, because I have absolutely had it up to fucking here with you.”
Both of us are a little startled for a moment. Wow. Where’s that person been hiding all this time?
“You’re learning how to play the game, Young,” Tyler says. He actually sounds impressed. “All right. Keep on crowing about how awesome your show is.” He smirks at me. “That’s how you career women end up sitting alone in your apartment for the rest of your life, eating ramen and hitting on the FedEx guy.”