Rugged
Rugged
By LILA MONROE
Copyright © 2016 by Lila Monroe
Rugged
Cover Design: Najla Qambar
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Home is where the heart is, and this book is dedicated to the inhabitants of my home and my heart: the short people who cheer me and the tall man who inspires me and encourages me.
1
There’s no business like show business. Actually, let me clarify that: there’s no business that will make you lose your hair, your sleep, and your tenuous grip on sanity like show business. Especially if you’re on the production end of things, like I am. Extra especially, with a side order of especial, if you’re on the production end of a high-stress, high-competition field like reality television. And if your reality television production company is named Reel World Entertainment, purveyor of only the finest in exploitation and sleaze? Start mainlining coffee and cancel your OKCupid date: your social life’s not making it out alive.
Fortunately for me, high stress and high adrenaline are my two closest friends. We love to meet up for bestie things like getting mani-pedis and taking over the world of entertainment, transforming it from exploitative images of breasts into an empire of class. I want the corner office with my name on the door: Laurel Young, Executive and Defender of Integrity and Ratings. Think of me as a good-hearted Genghis Khan in designer pumps. Which, come to think of it, would probably be a show Reel World would love. Ugh.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m starting my regular routine at work—get in half an hour early, kick off my high heels under the desk while downing my extra shot, non fat latte, and shoot through my emails rapid fire—when my desk phone rings. I grab it and balance it against my shoulder while ripping open the top of my yogurt.
“Hey Suze. What’s up?” I ask, spying her on caller ID. I smile and lean back in my chair. Suze is my actual human best friend—stress and adrenaline never want to go to the Farmer’s Market on Sunday. I’m just taking a spoonful of key lime Greek when she says the magic, horrible words.
“Sanderson went AWOL with Maribelle on the Keys.”
To any normal person, this sounds like some weird army maneuver with a bunch of stupid names. To me, this results in a spilled yogurt on my work-chic gray skirt.
“Dammit!” I jump up, wiping at the offending breakfast with Kleenex. “Hold on. I’ll be right there,” I say, slamming the phone down. Once I’m properly de-yogurted, I run out of my cubicle and down towards Suze’s. Okay, by run I mean I urgent waddle. Pencil length fashionable work attire isn’t designed for badassery.
“Look at this,” Suze says, when I almost crash into her desk. She’s gone pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup, and brings up some footage on her computer. The video’s from the set of
Millionaires in Paradise
, a show that follows the exploits of the super hot and super rich in the super ritziest parts of Florida. Brian Sanderson, my boss, is wrapped up in Maribelle DeJour’s sweet, spray-tanned embrace.
Brian’s not supposed to be wrapped up in
anything
on screen. He’s the producer! Wincing, I squat down next to Suze and watch the madness unfold.
“We’re in love!” Brian cries, doing his best to shield Maribelle from the shaky cam that’s following their every move. “Mari’s not going back to her husband. She’s staying with me, and we’re not going to lie to you people any longer!”
Brian’s deep orange tan is going red. He actually throws his sunglasses to the floor.
“Like, exactly what he said!” Maribelle cries. She looks around, a little bit lost, like she’s not sure what the next line’s supposed to be. Maribelle’s a nice person, but she’s always been kind of confused.
“Get away!” Brian yells, throwing something else—I think it’s a diamond-encrusted vase—at the cameraman. Suze pauses the video and looks up at me.
“Apparently they got in a rowboat or something and hijacked Maribelle’s husband’s yacht. They could be in Cancun by now. Or Antarctica, if they keep going south.” Suze taps her bright red nails against her desk. “What happens now?”
We both know what this means. My boss is gone. The show is gone. My job is gone.
“How the hell could Brian do this?” I say, leaning back against the desk and sliding down the cabinets. The world around me is spinning.
Millionaires in Paradise
was my first big break here. Brian plucked me out of coffee-fetching obscurity. He was one of the only men who didn’t roll his eyes when I suggested ideas, who didn’t ask me to go pick out a gift for his wife on my lunch break. Being an assistant producer on
Millionaires
was the chance I’d been waiting for. I was learning the ropes, developing my own ideas. And now, in one shattered vase and stolen rowboat, it’s gone.
“Laurel?” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face. “Earth to Laurel. Paging. Come back to me.”
“What, Suze? I’m in the middle of a highly professional spiritual crisis.” I stand up, and Suze looks down at my feet, her eyebrow quirked.
“Are you wearing Minion slippers? Like from
Despicable Me
?”
Damn. I knew I forgot something. My face heats up. “It’s just for desk work. Very professional,” I mutter, cursing my footwear. But they’re so cute, with their fuzzy yellow heads and goggles. And heels
hurt
, dammit.
Focus, Laurel!
“This isn’t the end,” Suze says, running a hand through her sleek black bob of hair. That’s the sort of thing your well-meaning friends say when they know this is the end. I’m finished at Reel World. No one else will notice or care now. If I’m not fired outright, I’ll fade into the wallpaper. It’ll be fabulous wallpaper with a designer blouse, but still: wallpaper.
“I have to get back to my desk,” I say, trying not to sound as lifeless as I feel. The Minions and I hike back and sit down to find, joy of joys, an email bearing the cheerful title ‘Sanderson’s Departure.’ I click and read, then proceed to do a very expressive double take. It’s from the assistant to Herman Davis, executive of development. He’s all the way on top, looking down over us mere mortals. I don’t think he’s been below the tenth floor in twenty years; he probably arrives and leaves via helicopter every day. So yeah, he’s hard to talk to. But he knows reality television inside and out.
And this email says he wants to see me in his office now. Right now. No loitering. I kick off my cartoon characters and slip into my heels before dodging out of the cubicle. My heart’s pounding as I jab the elevator button and wait. Part of me is afraid this is a “clear out your desk” type of meeting, but that doesn’t feel right. One of the company heavies doesn’t want to do HR’s grunt work.
It’s quiet on the top floor. The air up here
tastes
executive. The elevator doors whisper open, and I step out onto gray carpeting that’s so lush, my heels almost sink into it. I wobble a little as I pat my hair—brown, shoulder length, boring—into place. Keep it together, Laurel. You need to project cool confidence, not little girl skittishness. Already, the men passing me in the hallway grin sideways or look down to scope out my ass. Fucking sexist dickwads. Granted, I work at Pilates to make sure it’s a nice ass, but still. Gross.
The men up here are mostly executive level, mostly middle-aged and trying not to look it, mostly creeps with oiled hair and roving hands. With their buttoned-in martini paunches and desperately whitened teeth, they see me—young, female—as either a conquest or an annoyance, depending on how horny they are. But they’re not getting rid of me that easy. Not if I’m meeting with Herman Davis. I straighten my shoulders and walk on.
The assistant looks up from her computer. “Yes?” She’s got long, bejeweled pink nails that must make it hard to type.
“Laurel Young to see Mr. Davis,” I say. No squeaky voice. Great start. She picks up the phone, hits a button, and says, “She’s here.” After a second, she hangs up and nods. “You can go in.”
I enter Herman Davis’s office without tripping, smacking my head into the door, or initiating a nuclear standoff. Always a good beginning.
At first it’s hard to see anything, what with the row of about twenty golden Emmy awards lined up against the back wall reflecting the morning sun. Blinking stupidly with my mouth open is surely not the world’s greatest first impression, but I recover fast. Behind a spacious, mahogany desk, Herman Davis waits.
Mr. Davis is somewhere in his early sixties, with a full head of silver hair, a pair of rimless glasses, and an attitude full of don’t-fuck-with-me. He looks at me without irritation or lust: already, this is new.
“You’re Young, aren’t you?” he asks.
That’s not a real question about my age. Hopefully.
“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” I try to keep my voice pitched as low as possible. Otherwise, I come off as the teenage babysitter hoping to score an extra five bucks at the end of the night.
“Brian Sanderson’s an asshole.” He sighs. “Taking off like that with the star of our show. Idiot.” Poor Brian. He’s a sweet, loveable dork who remembered birthdays and collected Funko POP! characters on his desk, not a sharky Hollywood jackass. I have to resist the urge to stick up for him. “But he told me you’re one of the best assistant producers he’s ever seen.” Davis raises his eyebrows.
Do I take a seat now? I can’t hesitate: in Hollywood, perfect confidence gets you the corner office. I sit down in front of his desk, fighting the urge to smooth my skirt. Nervous habit. He doesn’t say anything.
“Brian always listened to my ideas,” I say, sounding casual. In reality, Brian’s attitude towards women in the workplace was like a golden unicorn: beautiful and impossibly rare.
“Mmm. You were the one who suggested the Yukon expedition for
Millionaires in Paradise
sweep week.” Davis nods, looking gruffly pleased. “People didn’t expect that; pampered princesses in rugged territory.” He leans back in his leather chair. “Big ratings hit.”
Brian stuck up for me, good man that he was. He didn’t claim my idea for his own. Why the hell did he have to blow everything up like this?
“Let me explain this situation to you.” Davis leans forward again, clasped hands on the shining top of his desk. “We’ve got a gaping hole in the Thursday night lineup now that
Millionaires
is gone. It’s a hole that needs to be filled at once. I’m accepting emergency pitches for a new show.” He nods. “I want to hear your ideas.”
Oh God, does he mean right now? Frantically, I start the wheels in my brain spinning. Come on. Hot girls find love with gamer geeks? Four families are sent to the bottom of the Mariana trench to see who survives? I’m blowing this.
“You’ve got a week.” Praise Jesus! Davis stands up, and I do the same. A week. Seven whole days. I can work with that. “I want to see if you’re as good as Sanderson told me you were. Deliver me a great pitch, I’ll do more than take it. I’ll let you produce the entire thing yourself.”
