The Marriage Mistake

by Natalie Knight

  “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, but 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 w
hisper, 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.

  He wasn’t expecting someone to stop him.

  “I’m making a delivery for Kayla, the writer for—”

  “The Kings,” I finish his sentence for him, stepping right in front of him and flashing him my best actor’s smile.

  The moment he realizes that he’s face-to-face with one of The Kings’ main actors, his jaw almost drops to the floor.

  “Oh, shit,” he mutters in disbelief, almost dropping the bag he’s holding.

  “Whoa, careful,” I tell him, reaching for the bag before it slides off from his arms. “You don’t want to ruin Kayla’s lunch.”

  “No, I don’t want to ruin Kayla’s lunch,” he repeats after me, his tone of voice so monotone that I feel like a Jedi master implanting thoughts on unsuspecting citizens.

  Sometimes being a famous actor has its perks.

  “Actually, why don’t I take care of it for you? I’ll deliver lunch for her,” I continue, now transitioning into my no-really-I’m-a-nice-guy smile.

  “Er,” he starts, scratching the side of his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not supposed to do that. Company’s policy, ya know? I’m supposed to deliver the food to Kayla, not anyone else.

  “C’mon, man.” I laugh. “What do ya think I’m gonna do with this? Poison her? She’s my writer. I need her.”

  “Yeah, but still,” he continues, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I need to convince him to let me do the delivery—that’s my in with Kayla, and I’m not going to let it go to waste, whatever it takes.

  “Seriously,” I start, taking one step toward him and laying one hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you have a lot of deliveries to make today, and you don’t need to walk across the whole studio lot just to deliver this.” I hold the food bag in front of his face for a second. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “I don’t know…” he whispers, taking his cap off and running his tongue between his lips. He looks uncomfortable, torn between doing what some big shot TV star tells him to do and obeying his company policy.

  Maybe I can help in his little dilemma.

  “Alright, man,” I tell him, stealing the cap off his hands and grabbing the pen he has tucked in his breast pocket. Holding the cap in the same hand I’m holding the food bag, I scribble my name across it and then hand it over.

  “Oh, shit,” he whistles, his eyes widening as he looks at my autograph. The kid’s a fan, that much I can tell.

  Maybe I can make him even more of a fan.

  Reaching inside my back pocket, I grab my wallet and take two one-hundred-dollar bills from the inside. I fold them up and then tuck them inside his breast pocket before he can stop me.

  “Just a tip,” I say. “I know you’ve been coming here every day since shooting started, and I want to know we all appreciate your hard work. Take the rest of the day off if you can. Treat your girl to dinner.”

  Is this how it feels to fucking bribe someone? Because I feel like Al Capone patting a dirty cop on the head.

  Although, yeah, I doubt Al Capone would bother with bribing the delivery guy from Organic Express.

  “Thank you,” the delivery kid finally responds, rocking back on his heels and putting his cap on. “I really, really appreciate it!”

  I offer him my hand then and give him a firm handshake, my you’re-welcome smile now plastered on my lips. Yeah, I have a lot of different smiles, and they all serve a purpose.

  “Well, shit. I pulled it off,” I whisper to myself as I watch the delivery guy turning on his heels and marching back out the studio gates. I stand there, watching him get inside his van and leave while I balance the food bag on one hand.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn around and start making my way toward Kayla’s office. I’ve never been there, as the head writer’s usually someone distant from day-to-day production, but now’s the time to get to know Kayla a little better.

  My fate hangs in her hands after all.

  Three minutes later and I’m standing outside her office, my right hand hovering over the door. I rap my knuckles against it and then perk up my ears as I wait for her reply.

  “Come in!” she shouts from the inside, and I reach for the door’s handle immediately. “Just on time. I’m so hungry that I—”

  “Yeah?” I chuckle, strolling inside her office and putting down her food bag on top of her desk. I look into her eyes, enjoying the way surprise has made her choke on her words.

  She wasn’t expecting to see me here. Why would she?

  “When did you get into the food delivery game?” She chuckles softly, tucking a lock of hair over her ear. Even though she sounds upbeat, I notice there are bags under her eyes (ones she has tried to conceal with her makeup), and her forehead is creased.

  More than just stressed, she looks overworked.

  “I’m a man of many talents.” I laugh, trying to get her mind off whatever’s worrying her. I don’t know why I’m doing this—it has nothing to do with wanting my character to stay alive. It’s just an urge to make her laugh and smile.

  “Besides,” I continue, trying to keep my focus, “I might need to keep my options open.”

  “Oh, so you’ve heard of it?” she asks me, reaching inside the bag and taking the small carton boxes from the inside.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” I reply, and then I sit on the director’s chair she has next to her desk.

  I might stay here a while.

  Kayla

  As I stare at Brad, who has made himself comfortable in my director’s chair, my nerve cells tingle ever so slightly. He certainly is a bit of eye candy. Nothing wrong with looking, I tell myself before I open my lunch pack.

  Since starting on this project, I order my lunch from the same place every day. I’m almost sorry Brad brought it in today as I always enjoy the little banter young JD and I have. Of course, I know his name is not really JD; I just call him that because he does remind me a little of the legendary actor of the same initial.

  And, of course, I love the way the young man turns bright red whenever I call him JD.

  “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Brad’s voice brings me back to reality.

  I hope I’m not blushing now. There’s no way I’m going to confess I was just thinking about the young delivery boy. LOL.

  Ah, hell, now I’m thinking in acronyms.

  “Work.” I’m not a very good liar, so being vague is the best way to deal with it. I was sort of thinking about work.

  “That bad?”

  For a second, I think I can hear real concern in Brad’s voice. I revel in it.

  I can’t recall the last time someone was concerned for me.

  I weigh up my answer. Should I be truthful? Some people believe you have to maintain a professional relationship with the actors, and therefore you never confide too much in them…or anybody for that matter.

  “Sort of.” I’m still not sure how muc
h I should tell him.

  I wonder what the reason was for his appearance today with my lunch. And what exactly has he done to persuade JD not to come up and deliver lunch himself?

  “It’s a tough gig, isn’t it?” Brad prods. “Writing, I mean. It must be hard.”

  I sigh. I so want to talk about this with someone.

  To stall, I busy myself with my lunch. I spread out the serviette before I put the tub of salad on top of it. Occasionally, I glance at Brad, who has one leg crossed over the other.

  Briefly, I imagine running my hands over the muscles in his chest before letting them wander down his back.

  I must really stop my imagination from running away with me. I’m at work, not at home.

  “Can be,” I eventually answer and take a forkful of quinoa salad.

  “I reckon it must even be harder if you are woman.” There’s a deliberate pause, and I feel my heartbeat quicken as I wait for what else he’s going to say. “Particularly such an attractive and sexy woman as you.”

  Despite my best effort, I’m sure my cheeks are a little red.

  “I bet you say that to all the women,” I say before I can stop myself.

  What is wrong with me? Where’s my word filter? I never say these things.

  Brad chuckles. The sound of his warm, hearty laughter provokes a longing in me I haven’t felt in a long time. If I’m honest, I can’t ever recall feeling something quite like this before.

  I study his rugged features. He really is a spunk. And he’s got muscles too.

  “I’m not shallow,” he replies and winks at me. “I mean what I say. Nothing wrong telling a woman she’s beautiful when she is.” He pauses, and my breathing has increased a little as if I’ve jogged up and down the hallway.

  “And,” he continues, now leaning a little toward me, “nothing wrong in telling her she’s sexy, if she is. And you are sexy.”

  Now my nerve endings are tingling in anticipation. It takes all my self-control not to go and rip his shirt open and start kissing his chest.