Spring Break Bride: A Virgin For The Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

by Vivien Vale

  “Good to see you working, baby cakes.”

  I cringe and look up, my pen stopping midword. The last word now looks more like a drunken spider walked across my page, and I curse Ed quietly.

  “Don’t call me that,” I say and look up.

  “They still make pens, huh?” Ed ignores my comment and comes up to my desk, sitting on the edge of it. He takes the pen out of my hand and pretends to examine it.

  “Or is this one a relic from the last century?”

  Instead of a reply, I pull the pen out of his hand and screw the top back on.

  “Only people who’ve been taught the craft of writing know how to use one of these,” I pause before I continue. “Oh, I forgot, you weren’t taught the craft of writing.”

  Ed is the one reason my job is harder than it should be. Ed is the bane of my existence at the moment.

  He ignores my comment and throws some papers onto my desk.

  “Some notes for you for the second half of the season. I thought I better give you a hand, since you are new to this gig.”

  If I could, I’d like to wipe that smug look off his milky face. Ed, as far as I’m concerned, is the opposite of sex appeal. His skin’s so pasty, I wonder if he ever goes outdoors.

  The expensive designer suits do nothing for his short stature and thin body. Exercise isn’t high on Ed’s agenda as well. Even the mere thought of seeing Ed in shorts and a T-shirt makes me want to throw up.

  Knowing Ed expects me to look at what he has given me, I randomly scan the pages.

  I read a paragraph here and there, and then I feel the world turn up side down. Is he serious?

  “You want me to do what?” I know my voice is no longer cool, calm, and collected; it probably rose an octave or two despite my best endeavor to sound perfectly in control.

  “What’s the matter, baby cakes? Not up to the challenge?”

  Ed has picked up my stress ball and looks at it.

  “What do you do with this?”

  “I told you not to call me that,” I hiss at him.

  Lines have to be drawn. Ed’s taking way too many liberties with me. Producer or not, I’m still the head writer.

  Slow down, my inner voice tries to warn me. Think before you speak. You are still new to this game. You are not quite there yet to throw your weight around.

  “So you want me to kill one of the lead characters?” I ask, just to make sure I calm down a lit-tle.

  Ed nods. “Sure, what’s wrong with that?”

  I take a deep breath in before slowly exhaling. Deep breathing helps me to calm down.

  “I think it’s too early in the show to kill one of the three brothers.” I pause and think. “The show is about three brothers. What’s the point of killing one of them already?”

  Although, as I think about Ian’s performance the other day, I’m tempted to grab this golden opportunity and kill him. It would almost be a pleasure.

  As I dwell on this, I start warming to the idea. Ian, if I am brutally honest, is hopeless.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ed’s voice stops me mid-thought.

  “What’d you mean?” I must have missed something.

  “The killing thing. People love to see someone get killed off. It brings ratings. You’ll see.”

  I’m still not convinced. Something doesn’t sound right about this. And why, as head writer, do I not get a say in this?

  “But the show has only been going for one season. I can’t see the point in killing one of the key characters already.” I try and make my point. “I don’t want to kill one of them already. Maybe later, maybe when the time’s right.”

  “You need to kill one of them.” Ed sounds firmer now as though no further discussion will be entered into. “The network expects it, and don’t forget who’s funding this project and with it, your job.”

  His words feel like a threat. My heart beats a little faster. I don’t want to lose this job.

  “Looks like I don’t have a choice then, do I?” I mutter and try to hide my disappointment. I had different views of how the story should progress, and it didn’t involve killing one of my characters.

  “Of course you have a choice, baby cakes.” Ed is smiling his sleazy, slimy smile now. “You al-ways have a choice.”

  Puzzled, I look at him.

  “You can choose which one to kill off.”

  I prick my ears, and my mood lightens just a little.

  Ian, I will kill Ian.

  While his character is a great character, Ian as an actor is hopeless. I can’t understand how he has gotten as far in the acting world as he has.

  “I–” I start, but it’s as if Ed has read my mind. He interrupts me.

  “You can kill any of them…except Ian.”

  Openmouthed, I stare at Ed. Did he really just say I can’t kill Ian? Where’s my choice then?

  Before I can say anything else, Ed’s mobile interrupts the two of us. Without another word, he leaves my office, mouthing something like “got to take this.”

  When the door shuts behind him, I feel like screaming, but I refrain myself. Swear words leave my mouth, and I pick up my stress ball. Instead of squeezing it, I throw it at the large window looking out over Venice Beach.

  I push my chair back and go to retrieve my stress ball. I don’t go back to my desk straightaway. Instead, I lean my forehead on the glass and stare at the people lying on the beach, playing beach volleyball, jogging, and walking.

  Do those people, some of whom no doubt watch my show The Kings, really want one of the brothers killed?

  And if so, why can’t it be Ian? Ian’s the weakest out of the trio. He has nothing on Brad and Scott. Why is Ian “off-limits,” as Ed put it?

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s because Ed’s got a thing for Ian…but I know that’s not the case.

  In the end, I walk back to my desk and try one more time to start writing. I put the whole “get-ting rid of one my lead characters” to one side.

  Unfortunately, I cannot think of anything other than Ed’s words.

  “Ian is off-limits.”

  Brad

  “The director’s wife apparently has an affair with—”

  “I don’t care,” I say, my sneakers hitting the hard concrete at a fast clip. I can hear Shauna huffing and puffing behind me as she tries to keep the pace, but I try to keep the focus on my own breathing.

  Having a personal assistant is fine, but I just hate it when she insists on following after me during my morning runs. Can’t a guy have a moment’s rest?

  According to Shauna, no—an actor should always be kept in the loop. Of course, that means she’s always trying to tell me about the latest gossip in the industry.

  Now I always know who’s cheating on who.

  “Oh, but this is important because—”

  “Shauna, seriously,” I tell her, slowing down my pace and looking back at her over my shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed, long locks of hair are already plastered to her face, and heavy beads of sweat are trailing down her cheeks.

  I always feel bad whenever she tries to keep up with me, but what can I do? She’s the one who insists on coming.

  “What?” she asks me, and then she stops, bending over and placing her hands on her knees. She takes deep breaths, her cheeks becoming more flushed by the second, and I stop my run and walk back to her.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m…I’m fine,” she breathes out, standing up straight, her cellphone still in her hand. “I was just trying to keep you up-to-date.”

  “Being up-to-date is fine,” I reply. “But that doesn’t mean you have to tell me every single piece of gossip you hear on the internet.”

  “Oh, I know that. It’s just that you never know what might be important,” she tells me, distract-edly scrolling through the newsfeed on her phone. I doubt she heard a word of what I just said.

  “Shouldn’t you be acting as my filter? You’re supposed to tell me only the important things.” I plac
e my hands on my hips, looking at her as she keeps her gaze fixed on her phone.

  Fucking hell, I almost want to take the phone out of her hands and smash it to pieces.

  I love Shauna to bits—she’s the best personal assistant I’ve ever had, and she’s always on top of every little thing—but she seems like a drug addict when it comes to the internet. I don’t think I can remember a single time where she didn’t have her phone in her hands.

  “Oh god,” she suddenly whispers, raising her eyes from the phone for the first time in a minute. “This is big.”

  “What’s big?” I ask her, cocking one eyebrow. Probably someone important having an affair.

  Everyone in Hollywood seems to be having an affair. Maybe someone should write a column about that—Cheater of the Week or something.

  “I’m serious, Brad,” she insists, and this time I actually believe she has something interesting for me. The look in her eyes tells me she’s worried, and it’s never a good thing when Shauna’s worried. It usually means that there’s trouble on the horizon.

  “C’mon, tell me,” I insist, resisting the urge to simply take the phone out of her hands and see with my own eyes what got her that worried.

  “Apparently, a rumor surfaced on the web about the second season of The Kings,” she finally starts, her thumb slowly sliding over the screen of her phone.”

  “We’re not getting axed, are we? I mean, the ratings were through the roof last season—”

  “It’s not that.” She cuts me short with a wave of her hand. “Apparently, one of the leads is go-ing to be killed off this season.”

  “What the fuck?” I ask her in disbelief. That doesn’t make any fucking sense.

  The whole premise of the show involves three brothers battling it out for the family’s fortune (and the heart of one girl), so why the hell would the production kill off one of the main characters during the second season?

  “That’s what everyone’s commenting on,” Shauna shrugs, furiously scrolling through the comments on the article she’s reading. “And the studio has decided not to comment on the issue, stating that creatively speaking, all choices are valid.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  “It’s not that bad. This is creating a lot of buzz. Ratings are going to be through the roof once the second season starts.”

  “Yeah, right. But what if I’m the one being killed off?” I ask her, pursing my lips as I consider the implications. A show like The Kings offers a straight path to money and critical acclaim—it is, after all, one of these once-in-a-lifetime productions—and I sure as hell don’t want to have my head chopped off during the second season while Ian and Scott stick around to reap the rewards.

  “I need to do something,” I tell Shauna without waiting for her reply. “I can’t stand around with my hands in my pockets while someone decides my fate.”

  “Maybe you could talk with Ed?”

  “Ed?” Right, like that asshole would ever hear me out.

  He only cares about one thing, and that’s the studio bottom line. He’d happily kill every single character and replace them with pink CGI unicorns if that meant his wallet would keep on growing fatter.

  “No, I can’t speak with Ed,” I finally say.

  “Then what about Kayla?”

  “Kayla?”

  “Yeah, I know you’ve had your eye on her for a while now,” Shauna comments, her lips curling into a teasing grin.

  Shit, is it that obvious? Maybe it is, I guess. After all, what kind of guy wouldn’t have his sights set on a woman like Kayla?

  Kayla’s smart (you don’t get to be head writer of a show like The Kings just because you look good) and she’s a stunner.

  There’s a sweetness to her eyes, and her lips seem to have the perfect shape for kissing. And when she walks, the sway of her perfect hips always makes my cock twitch inside my pants. I don’t even know how many times I’ve wondered how it’d feel to have her naked body pressed against mine.

  “Maybe it’s time you make your move. Get into her good graces, and maybe she won’t chop your head off,” she tells me, making a dramatic gesture as she runs one thumb over her neck.

  “Jesus fuck, Shauna. You really know how to cheer a guy up.” I sigh heavily, run one hand through my hair, and then look straight into Shauna’s eyes. “Alright, what’s the game plan?”

  “Well.” She chuckles. “Time for you to realize that knowing everything about everything pays off.”

  “Spit it out, Shauna. My career is on the line.”

  “Alright, so…Organic Express delivers Kayla’s lunch every day, and she always eats in her office alone. That’s her routine, and she doesn’t deviate from it.”

  “Well, I guess she won’t be eating alone today then.”

  Scott

  Jab, jab, right hook.

  I land each one of my punches, and Chris tries to bob his head from side to side aimlessly, struggling to keep standing. Despite his experience inside the boxing ring, he’s no match for me – especially when I’m pissed.

  “Jesus, fuck, man!” He breathes out through his mouthpiece, his words coming at me slurred and confused. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “You told me you wanted to spar,” I shrug. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “You’re not sparring,” he protests, lowering his arms and spitting it out his mouthpiece. “You’re trying to fucking murder me.”

  Harsh words, especially coming from Chris. He has been my personal trainer since forever, and I don’t remember him ever saying something like that. Yeah, I guess I’m feeling particularly pissed off today.

  “Sorry, man,” I sigh, taking off my gloves and letting them fall to the mat. I walk to the corner and sit down on the small bench, taking a bottle of water from one of the guys watching our sparring session – or my murder attempt, as Chris put it.

  “What is it? A woman? Work?” He asks me, walking up to me and placing his back against the rope. I hand him the bottle and he empties it fast.

  “Just work, I guess,” I reply, running one hand through my sweat-soaked hair.

  “Well, shit, let’s hit the heavy bag then,” he tells me, jumping out from the ring.

  Groaning, I get up from the bench and follow after him, fully knowing that almost everyone in this fucking gym is staring at me. I’m used to it by now, but this time is different – I was really putting on a show inside the ring, throwing the hardest punches I could at Chris.

  “Want to get your gloves back?” He asks me as he steps behind the heavy bag, grabbing it with both hands.

  “Nah, I’ll just go with the hand straps.”

  I need to feel the punches, even if I scrap my knuckles. I need to release all this fucking tension, even if that means my hands will be sore for the next couple of days.

  Nodding at Chris, I then start throwing jab after jab at the heavy bag. He groans with every single punch I land, grimacing as he tries to stop the heavy bag from swaying back and forth.

  “What’s happening at work? It sure got you rattled,” he asks me through his gritted teeth, pushing his shoulder against the bag.

  “Some fucking asshole…has decided to…kill off a main character,” I tell him between punches, barely blinking as I keep my eyes trained on the heavy bag, imagining the face of some anonymous producer in there.

  Who the fuck decides to kill off a main character in a show that’s a hit? The Kings is the most hyped up show on TV, and now that we’ve started shooting the second season I start hearing all these rumors. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

  “So what? Do you think you’ll be the one getting killed off?”

  “I sure hope not,” I reply, throwing a hook so hard at the bag that Chris groans as if he was the one taking the hit. “The Kings is killing it, you know? We’ve got the ratings; we’ve got the critical acclaim. We have it all, man. I can feel it, whoever’s in this project will make a killing.”

  “Curious choice of words,” Chris snorts, bu
t I shut him up really fast. Digging my right heel onto the floor, I twist my hips fast and send my right fist flying against the bag. The impact is so strong that Chris lets go of the bag and stumbles back, a surprised expression on his face.

  “Shit,” he laughs, “you’re not fucking around, are you? You really want to stay in the show.”

  “Of course.” I stop for a moment, catching my breath and wiping the sweat off my brow. “I have the money, but I want something more, you know? I want to be recognized. I want to do something great. And I can do that in this show…unless they fucking kill me off, that is.”

  “Well, shit, can’t you talk to anyone?”

  “Like who? That shithead producer, Ed? Yeah, right,” I reply, now imagining Ed’s face on the heavy bag. That fucking idiot was probably the one pitching that stupid idea. He probably wants to start cutting costs, and while we’re still at ground level.

  “There’s gotta be someone,” Chris insists, and I suddenly realize that he’s right. There’s someone, alright.

  “Maybe,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. There’s someone that might be capable of helping me…someone with real power on the show. “There’s Kayla.”

  “The writer? She’s the one penning your scripts, right?”

  “Yeah, she’s the head writer for the show. You know her?”

  “Of course,” he laughs, perhaps noticing the hopeful expression that must be plastered on my face. “I’ve trained her a few times. She’s a cool girl. And hot too.”

  “That’s right,” I nod, Kayla the only thing on my mind right now.

  I don’t know her that well – I just talked to her the few times she decided to show up on set – but she sure as hell left an impression whenever we talked. It’s not just that she’s got the perfect lips and curves; she’s smart too. I mean, she has to be smart to write something as great as The Kings.

  Brad

  “Hold on,” I tell the delivery guy as he strolls through the gates, cradling a plastic bag to his chest. He’s wearing a green cap and jacket, the Organic Express logo plastered all over his clothes, and there’s an anxious expression in his face.