“Funny how all your ideas tend to live and die at the first stage. But you blew it, Tyler. There’s no me to help you out this time. I’m keeping all my bright and shiny ideas to myself.” I pick up my cup, blow on my coffee, and walk out of the room. He follows behind me, and I can feel his seething fury radiating outward. It feels glorious.
“You think you’re so damn smart,” he says. “But you forget, this is a relationship business. I’m already in and solid, Young. The guys around here fucking love me. I never see you partying at the Standard, or staying at Don Morris’s Malibu house. Bet you didn’t even know Don had a beach house.”
I’m doing my best to tune him out, but he’s got a worrying point. I think Don Morris and I have spoken about three times. Twice he asked me to hold his calls, even though I wasn’t his damn assistant. It’s a boy’s club and I’m trying to fight my way in.
“Like I said, Young. I’ve got a team of executives who’d love to back me up on anything I pitch. And you?” He slips in front of me, so that I almost smack into him. He leers at me, dropping his gaze down the front of my blouse. “You’re a hot piece that looks good in a skirt. That’s it.”
A million petty insults run through my mind, but I bite my tongue and strive for professionalism. I half-succeed. “This may be difficult to comprehend, stupid being your first language, but Davis personally invited me to pitch,” I say, my smile honey sweet and poisonous. “You? You bluffed your way in. So I’d say my ideas are going to be met with much keener interest.”
Tyler doesn’t bat an eye. “You’d better hope they are. Because with Sanderson gone, there’s no one left to look out for you. Is there?” He pops the collar of his polo shirt, solidifying his status as king of the douche. “You need this pitch way more than I do. But don’t worry. When the execs take my idea and toss yours in the trash—or pick out the best parts and give you none of the credit—I can always use you on my team. There are plenty of positions I can imagine you filling.” The slimy expression on his face illustrates what kind of ‘positions’ he’s considering.
Take back that half-success of mine and turn it into a big fat fail, because here comes a big dose of petty insult. “Oh Tyler, you don’t have to whip out your tiny little ideas in the hallway,” I croon at him in my best talking-to-a-wittle-baby singsong voice. “There’s no point. Mine are clearly bigger.” I pat his arm as I move past. It takes him a minute to understand, and by then I’m long gone.
I walk away with confidence, but inside I’m about ready to snap. The worst part is, Tyler’s got a point. The executives around here see me as a cute little girl or a prime piece of grade-A ass. Davis has more integrity than the rest of them, but in the end he’ll go with what his stable of jackasses want. In order to get past Tyler’s posse, I’ll have to deliver such a surefire hit that Davis can’t help but take the pitch.
But the only idea I’ve got that’s surefire is Flint McKay. And he’s a telecommunications no-show. Sighing, I get back to my desk. Suze looks up at me, concern written on her face.
“Do you need a hug? Some tissues? A bullwhip?” she asks, taking my coffee cup when my hand starts trembling. I make a fist. There. That’s the way we get things done.
“My years of Krav Maga almost kicked back in. Tyler came this close to getting my spike heel embedded in his temple.” I collapse into my spinning chair and go for a, well, spin. The flickering fluorescent lights, the chatter of people on their phones, the industrial hum of the air conditioning, it all rotates around me. What am I going to do?
“If it makes you feel any better, I spent the last five minutes re-watching tall, dark and woodsy. He’s hot, Laurel. Like, combustible panties hot. There’s got to be a way to get in touch with him.” Suze takes a sip of my coffee. Well, she can have it.
“Email, phone,” I say, checking the methods off on my fingers. “Checked Facebook. There are seventeen Flint McKays in the US, and they’ve all gotten totally sane messages with ARE YOU DRYWALL GUY in the subject line. Sadly, our Flint wasn’t one of them. Let me think, I haven’t tried carrier pigeon yet. Or smoke signals. Or skywriting. Maybe I’ll go with all three at the same time.” I sigh and rub my forehead. If I were anyone else, I’d consider giving up. But Youngs don’t quit, and this Young least of all. When there’s a problem, I sit its ass down under some hot lights and yell until it caves. So how do I deal with this? I’ve called, emailed, I’ve done everything except…
Showing up in the flesh. I sit up and check back through the video’s information. Sure enough, there’s a mailing address. With that information in hand, I pick up the phone and start dialing.
“Who are you calling?” Suze asks, tossing my now-empty coffee cup in the trash. I smile up at her.
“Frequent flyer miles are the gift that keeps on giving. Hopefully, they have some 11:00 AM flights.” I get to an automated menu, where the helpful robot lady asks me to press zero to speak to a representative.