The Marriage Mistake

by Natalie Knight

  “Hello!” she greets us and gleefully jogs over to wrap her arms around me and my baby bump.

  I open my arms to embrace her, too, as she pats me on the back, and then she pulls away to size me up, drinking me in with joy.

  “Darling…you look incredible.”

  “Thanks.” I shift my weight with embarrassment and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind my ear. “I feel like a whale.”

  “Are you kidding?” She clicks her tongue to protest defiantly. “You are stunning, truly glowing.”

  “Well, if you keep it up with the compliments, I just may get a swelled head, too,” I joke.

  “Anytime you need a boost of self-confidence, just let me know, and I’ll be happy to indulge you.” She winks at me and whispers, “Pregnancy looks good on you, kid.”

  “Okay, Mother.” Daniel sighs with artificial annoyance. “Give the woman some breathing room.”

  He pulls me away from his mother’s grasp, always acting protective over me and the baby.

  “No, really, it’s fine.” I laugh because in reality, I’m delighted by his mother and thrilled to have her on my team.

  We greet Ruben, and the four of us walk to the entrance to my doctor’s office just off to the right of the main lobby on this floor.

  Everyone takes a seat in the back of the waiting room while I sign in and do the usual paperwork for my appointment.

  A couple of minutes later, I join them with a smile on my face, plopping down beside Daniel, who pats my knee with exuberance.

  “I’m so excited,” I whisper to the group.

  “Me, too,” his mother squeaks, practically unable to control her enthusiasm.

  “I’m just hoping for a healthy baby,” Daniel admits, to which we all nod in agreement.

  “I concur with that,” I say. “A healthy baby is the true goal.”

  A few minutes later, we’re called to the back. I have to go through all the routine motions of giving a urine sample and getting my weight and blood pressure checked.

  After that, we head into the room where I slip into a gown before allowing everyone else back in.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Dr. Farland,” my doctor of Hawaiian descent greets the family.

  “We’re so thrilled and honored to be a part of this historical event and witness it in person,” Daniel’s mom states with a dramatic wave of her hand.

  I laugh at the adorableness of his mom as Dr. Farland squeezes the cold jelly onto my round and exposed belly. Then she places her ultrasound wand on top of it.

  The baby immediately comes on screen, waving around its beautiful tiny fists.

  “Wait a second here…” Dr. Farland trails off quietly and furrows her brow at the monitor.

  My heart leaps into my throat and threatens to be vomited up in fear.

  “Is everything alright?” I say with alarm.

  “Yes…” Dr. Farland continues vaguely as she pushes her instrument around over my stomach. “It’s just…I think I see two babies here.”

  Daniel and I glance at each other in shock, then back to the doctor to see if we’re hearing her correctly.

  “I’m sorry.” Daniel shakes his head and speaks up. “Did you just say you think you see two babies in there on that screen?”

  I glance back at Dr. Farland, waiting on eggshells for the answer, a little panic-stricken, but a little excited, too.

  Dr. Farland has been my gynecologist even before pregnancy, and I’ve known her a long time, so I trust her with my life and my baby’s life…whether that ends up being multiples or not.

  She finally grins and points to the screen. “Yes, it’s twins. See there?”

  I squint my eyes. Then after further pointing out, I can see the two bodies on the screen, swirling, dancing, and playing with each other in there.

  Tears of joy fill my eyes. “I can’t believe it! Twins!”

  “They look perfectly healthy,” Dr. Farland announces.

  “Girls or boys?” Daniel’s mom chimes in with the one question whose answer we are all dying to hear.

  “We can find that out now if the little ones will cooperate,” Dr. Farland says and pushes the wand further against my belly, trying to expose the parts between the babies’ legs.

  “This one is a…” She sticks her tongue out in concentration. “Boy!”

  The room yells with delight.

  “A boy!” Daniel yelps with excitement. “I’m going to have a son!”

  “Congratulations, sweetie,” his mom says fondly and pats his back.

  “What about the other one?” I squeal.

  Dr. Farland moves between the second baby’s legs. “This one is a…”

  She halts, and the suspense makes me feel like I might burst and go into labor right then and there.

  “It’s a girl!” she finally exclaims, and we all roar with excitement.

  I’m having twins, and I get the best of both worlds, too. Daniel leans down to hug me, and we squeeze each other tight with joy from the great news.

  I’m in tears―the pure magic of the blissful moment takes over and consumes me, so I don’t notice at first that Daniel slowly bends to one knee in front of me.

  I glance down at him from the examination table.

  “Honey, what are you doing?” I chuckle and wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  He retrieves a tiny red box from the front pocket of his jeans and places it directly in front of me. I swallow hard, knowing what’s coming, but I need another moment to compose myself.

  “Rose, I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” His breath hitches for a second. “Will you please do me the honor of being my wife?”

  Daniel is a blurry figure in front of me through the fresh batch of tears rolling down my cheeks. Today is one for the history books: it’s completely perfect.

  I can’t move because I’m so profoundly in shock by all the events of the past few minutes. I’m still trying to process and digest the splendor of the day…but I manage to whimper a tiny yes while nodding vigorously.

  I hear everyone cheering and clapping as Daniel stands up and places the rock—a huge and chunky diamond—on my ring finger.

  He kisses my lips and makes me tingle all over. “I love you so much,” he breathes into my neck, causing a shiver of pleasure to surge through me.

  “I love you, too.” I sigh with contentment and make a mental note to freeze this perfect memory in my mind forever.

  This baby bargain gave me way more than I bargained for―and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Double Feature

  A MFM Menage Romance

  By Daphne Dawn

  Copyright © 2017 by Crimson Vixens

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

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  Kayla

  I squeeze my stress ball in total frustration. What has happened to the day? About an hour ago, after my usual morning jog, I felt like I could take on the world.

  I was ready to put fingers to keyboard and watch the words fly onto the screen, but now I’m sit-ting in my office, and nothing is happening.

  My gaze travels, and I contemplate the elaborate certificate displaying my name and its various meanings, a present from my mother some years ago—one she bought during her travels to Cairo. It used to be at home, but when I took this job, with my own office and view, I decided to hang it up at work.

  According to the elaborate gold-lettered writing, Kayla has several different meanings, depending on what country you look to. To some, it means “wise one.”

  I have to say…I don’t feel particularly wise this morning. Time’s ticking, and I’m not producing.


  With a sigh, I randomly hit some keys on my keyboard so my screen no longer looks so white and empty.

  As I bring my coffee to my lips, I cringe. Can the day get any worse? I hate cold coffee.

  I bite my bottom lip.

  I haven’t produced anything this morning, and I cannot justify a coffee break already. My eyes look at the little clock in the top right-hand corner of my computer. Maybe if I write for thirty minutes, I can reward myself with a break and get a fresh, strong, and hot coffee.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. I don’t know how long they stay there without moving. With a sigh, I rummage around the top drawer of my desk, looking for a notepad.

  Sometimes words seem to flow faster and better if I use the old-fashioned writing tools: pen and paper.

  Slowly I unscrew the top of my gold nib fountain pen. I draw a few swirly lines to make sure there is still ink in it. Good, no further excuses.

  Part of me had hoped that lack of ink would mean I’d have to duck out and buy some more. But alas, I really have run out of stalling tactics.

  And so I let the pen do the work. Suddenly, a few scenes come to mind, and I make random notes.

  “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 place 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.