Kicking Reality

by Kat T. Masen

  KICKING REALITY

  Copyright © 2017 Kat T. Masen

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Michelle Josette:

  FictionEdit.com

  Formatted by Integrity Formatting:

  www.facebook.com/IntegrityFormatting/

  Cover design by Soxsational Cover Art:

  soxsationalcoverart.com

  The Dark Love Series:

  Into the Darkness

  Into the Light

  Adriana

  Julian

  #Jerk

  Mr Rebound

  Roomie Wars

  Wedding Wars (A Roomie Wars Novella)

  Other Books by Kat T. Masen

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Epilogue

  Bonus Scenes from the men of Kicking Reality

  About the Author

  Preview: Roomie Wars

  “There are two voices that exist.

  My head . . . and my heart.”

  ~ Emerson Chase

  “And five . . . four . . . three . . . two. . . .”

  Our producer Cliff calls “action.” Within seconds, the cameras begin rolling. There’s three of them surrounding us, inches away as they zoom in close attempting to capture every second of this moment.

  We’re standing in front of the Eiffel Tower at some god-awful hour in the middle of winter. I’m a summer girl myself, but something about this place is magical during this season. Perhaps it’s the beautiful snowflakes falling around us or the twinkling lights from the tower. There’s also the sound of heavenly silence from our empty surroundings.

  I breathe it all in: the beauty, the silence, and the man standing in front of me wearing a black Versace suit—no overcoat. Bearing the cold yet still as dashing as the first moment I laid eyes on him three years ago.

  “Em, there isn’t a day that goes past that I don’t imagine you in my life. We have been on this journey together, and the moment you walked into that restaurant, I knew you were the one. Wearing that red dress—you looked absolutely breathtaking.”

  A puff of cold air escapes his mouth, followed by a nervous bite.

  “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and only you.”

  Wesley lowers himself to the ground on one knee, eyes fixed on me as he produces a small black box. He clicks it open, and inside sits a beautiful diamond ring. His eyes glaze over—a signature move he often does when he chokes up. And for a moment—if only a few seconds—I forget that the world is watching. It’s just him and me standing alone during this very intimate moment.

  “Emerson Chase, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  The camera zooms up closer; Cliff watching behind the lens with his arms crossed. I try not to pay attention to the way his face has tightened or how his lips remain flat. Never a good sign.

  Somewhere, deep inside, my heart asks if this man is the love of my life. If marrying him is the best thing to happen to me. It’s all about relationship progression; we can’t stay boyfriend and girlfriend forever. Words spoken by our publicist.

  I begin to blink my eyes, and within moments, the tears build up and one falls graciously down my cheek.

  “Yes.” I smile through that lonesome tear.

  Wes’s face lights up with joy. His messy brown hair flicks against the slight wind as he pulls the ring out of the box and slides it on my finger.

  It’s beautiful.

  I stare at it in complete and utter awe. The rock is huge—no doubt some designer looking for a promotional opportunity. The second this image hits social media, it’ll be sold out everywhere and the designer will be laughing their way to the bank.

  In a swift and overexcited move, Wes pulls my body against his and kisses me deeply, moving his warm tongue against mine before pulling back with a grin on his face.

  Wes is a very attractive guy. Sweet, yet at times, arrogant and a know-it-all. The fans love him. The ultimate pin-up boy that every girl has in her bedroom and imagination. Yet his boyish grin coupled with exuberant attitude to make me his wife, rubs off on me as the excitement slowly sinks in.

  HOLY SHIT! I’M GETTING MARRIED!

  I take another look at my ring, glancing sideways to read the white cardboard that Cliff is holding up. I should have practiced my lines, and Cliff’s annoyed face tells me he thinks the same.

  “It’s such a beautiful ring,” I comment with a sheepish smile. “Where? How?”

  Wes quickly kisses the tip of the ring, not letting go of my hand, holding them preciously as if they belong to him.

  “Harry Winston, of course. Nothing less for my fiancée.”

  “Fiancée.” I beam without effort. “I really like the sound of that.”

  Wes runs his finger along the base of my jaw, tracing it with his eyes before raising them to meet mine. Closing my eyes briefly, I take a breath and allow myself to feel this moment. This is it. The moment you imagined your entire life. The man you love proposing marriage. This is what all little girls dream about—Mr. Prince Charming, sweeping you away and creating this perfect memory that sets the foundation for a happily ever after.

  “I love you Em, nothing will stop you from becoming my wife.”

  “I love you too,” I breathe slowly.

  We both lean in for another kiss, lingering until Cliff yells “cut.” Wes pulls away first, but maintains his position. His body begins to shiver; the brutal cold finally settling in.

  “You like it?” he strains while his teeth shatter uncontrollably, cradling my waist in his arms and using my body to warm him up.

  “It’s beautiful,” I respond. Speechless and mesmerized by the exquisite piece of jewelry that sits on my finger.

  “Great work guys, but we have one problem. Wesley, for fuck’s sake, you got the dress color wrong!” Cliff shouts, disgruntled, shoving his coffee cup towards the chest of his assistant, causing the brown liquid to spill all over her white coat.

  “I did?” Wes replies with a half-assed laugh.

  “That’s right,” I confirm, remembering only now, the moment we first met. “It was white.”

  “Oh.” Wes’s face drops, his jaunty smile disappearing quickly. “That dress.”

  The dress that caused our first major fight which ended up in the tabloids. It all started because his jealousy reined in when he caught an ex-cast member commenting on how I looked ‘fuckable’ in that dress.

  “Sorry guys, since we have that first episode aired, we need to get the facts straight,” Jenny, our co-producer, informs us.

  “You mean I have to do this again?” Wes complains, removing his hands from my body, folding his arms while kicking the snow beneath his feet.

  “Wow,” I drag, “God forbid you have to propose again?”

  “C’mon Em, I didn’t mean it like that. I just want this over with.”

  His face softens, and perhaps I’m a bitch for pointing out that my feelings were hurt. But like everything that’s happened in my life, it all felt staged. And this so-called perfect moment suddenly felt very imperfect. The cold became unbearable. My feet are frozen in the expensive pair of boots I’m wearing. The dress I wore had
long sleeves but because we had to get this proposal right, the designer requested I didn’t wear an overcoat either. The million-dollar diamond necklace adorning my neck felt like cold steel against my already-frozen skin.

  I should have taken it as a sign. Everything about this is to bring in ratings. To make the TV network rich. And somewhere amongst this scripted moment, Wes and I are supposed to make it come alive. Show everyone what true love is all about.

  I did love him. We had built a life together for the last three years. We purchased our first home, moved in together, and spent the last year growing our fitness line. We even adopted a dog—George Puggington.

  Everyone referred to us as the ‘unstoppable duo.’ We were taking the world by storm, and at the ripe old age of twenty-six, Forbes predicted we would be billionaires by the time we reached thirty.

  It was win-win in everyone’s eyes. Everyone’s but my own.

  There’s a commotion around us; the crew touching up my makeup and hovering over me while my knees shake in the cold. Wesley taps his foot, frustrated and impatiently waiting for them to finish, when the ring box slips out of his shivering hands and onto the pile of snow in front of me.

  I don’t know what compelled me to bend down and pick it up. As I lean down, ignoring my fingers stiffen from the cold, I lift it towards me until my focus moves to the scar on my knee. Three stitches from when I fell off a zip line at the age of ten. When I didn’t have a care in the world. When life was nothing but unicorns, rainbows, and making my brother’s life hell.

  The good ol’ days before life became a circus show.

  But who do I have to blame?

  The man professing his love to me in front of the entire world?

  The millions of fans that tune in at seven every Monday night?

  Or myself . . . for thinking I had to prove a point?

  Cliff directs all the cameramen to take their places. With everyone positioned as before, Wes stands on the black cross—taped to the ground—and I follow his lead.

  “And five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”

  “Em, there isn’t a day that goes past that I don’t imagine you in my life . . .”

  “There are signs everywhere you look.

  You just need to ignore the bullshit that clouds them.”

  ~ Emerson Chase

  “What is it like to be the hottest couple on TV?”

  I should have seen it coming. A frenzy that could only be described as pure madness. My publicist, Nina, warned us this would happen. The producers and network executives knew they would top the ratings with that episode. Everyone was on a high, including me.

  “We just go on about our lives as if the cameras aren’t watching. Hottest? We honestly don’t think that of ourselves.” Wesley laughs, resting his hand comfortably on my thigh.

  What a load of shit. I hold back the predictable eye-rolling as Wesley charms the reporter from Hot Entertainment News—the biggest entertainment program around the globe.

  We’ve been asked this question numerous times and each time, Wesley lies through his teeth that labels aren’t important. To clarify: they aren’t important to me. I couldn’t care less. But he has this desperate need to be number one in everything he does. When we first met, his competitiveness was a major turn-on. Now, I simply ignore his immature behaviour.

  The proposal was filmed two months ago and aired only last night. We were under strict contractual obligations to not let it slip which meant that I was forced to keep that beautiful ring in my closet and not showcase like a happy, newly engaged woman. Aside from our parents and entourage of management, no one else knew. But last night, at exactly 7:42 PM, the world watched and social media blew up.

  Many congratulatory messages from fellow actors and fans, then, the trolls started. How dare I marry Wesley Rich? Emerson Chase is nothing but an ugly gold-digging whore wanting to tie him down and ruin his reputation.

  I was also called too fat, too skinny, and Oh My God—I hate her hair!

  I’d heard and seen it all, ignoring the nastiness and avoiding social media if it weren’t for Wesley reading the tweets to me late last night.

  “Babe, check it out. This chick has photoshopped you onto a cow’s body.”

  I grabbed the phone to look at the photo. It was kinda funny but still hurt my feelings.

  This industry called for tough skin. I knew that. I just didn’t anticipate three years ago that our show, Generation Next, would be the highest-rated show for the network. They didn’t anticipate it either. When we were scouted on campus to do the show, they simply wanted some college kids with different majors.

  I’m not stupid, I knew they wanted me because of who my mother was and the fact that my brother had just been picked up to play premier-league soccer in England. But nevertheless, I signed the dotted line because I was bored and had zero social life. College was depicted as one big social orgy. Yeah, I may have gone to a few frat parties and drank like tomorrow didn’t exist, but for most of the part, I kept to myself with the goal to finish my major sober.

  My attention is brought back to Donna Mack—the slutty reporter showing way too much leg that Wesley is pretending to ignore.

  “According to online polls, you guys are finalists as the hottest couple on TV. The fans love you. They’ve even started Instagram accounts dedicated to only pictures of the both of you.” She’s quick to smile, as if it’s some sort of compliment.

  Wes places his arm around me, pulling my body closer while planting a kiss on my neck. I am all for affection in private, but dislike it when he purposely does it in interviews. Something he has been doing more of in front of the camera and less in the bedroom. Perhaps that is what’s causing this crabby, irritable mood. I need to get laid.

  Blame it on busy schedules, back-to-back filming or the fact that George claimed the middle of our bed as his territory. Either way, it is causing major friction in our relationship.

  “Wesley is a very affectionate guy. We’re flattered that our fans take time out to praise our relationship,” I answer in a confident tone.

  Lies . . . more lies.

  She asks a couple more routine questions before wrapping up the interview. When she leaves the area, Wes takes the opportunity to slide his hand along my thigh and into the slit of my dress. Attempting to push him away, I scan our surroundings to make sure no one is watching. Someone is always watching us.

  “Let me finger you, you know you love it,” he begs, tempting me with his eyes.

  I squeeze my legs tight, ignoring the sensations building. “Can’t you wait? Seriously, they’ll be back any minute now.”

  Wes ignores my comment, pressing further on the base of my clit until we’re interrupted by one of the assistants carrying two bottles of water. She spots his hand buried between my thighs, turning her red face in the opposite direction and almost crashing into the camera.

  “I’m sorry . . .” she stammers while eyeing the ground.

  Wes snickers, retracting his hand with a satisfied smirk. Annoyed at his childish behavior, I offer her a genuine smile ignoring the voices warning me this would end up in the headlines like everything else.

  The camera crew closely follow with the interviewer at their heels. Great—Hot Gossip magazine. I despise this group. You could say the sky was blue and somehow, they would capture that quote and make you a homewrecking whore sleeping with Will Smith.

  I manage to put on a smile as Wesley tilts his head towards me and carefully moves his fingers across his nostrils. Breathing slowly against my ear, he whispers, “I can smell you on me. When this is over . . . you’re mine.”

  Wesley Rich has a way with words. He also has a way with using them in the bedroom. I disguise my grin by covering my mouth and letting out a small cough. Knowing that he is suffering from lack of sex makes me feel better.

  I place my hand on his, keeping it on his lap as the magazine starts interrogating our lives. We had our answers down pat, having done this hundreds of tim
es. To add to this, we often prepped our answers to avoid being caught out. We are professionals. To the world, we are reality stars off the hit TV show, but to us, we are actors. Actors that happened to fall in love while filming.

  An hour passed and finally, we are done. Removing our microphones, Wes hops off the stool and pulls his cell out of his pocket the same time I do. There’s a dozen notifications but the only one that catches my eye is the text from my mom.

  Big news kiddo. Call me when you’re free.

  I love my mom, but she is the most annoying woman to walk this planet when she vague-texts me, which is something she does often to prompt a phone call.

  “I’m going to call my mom,” I tell Wes. “I’ll meet you outside?”

  He nods, head buried in his cell, typing profusely and barely acknowledging my presence.

  I wander towards the exit, smiling politely as I pass the crew. There are a few younger kids hanging around that stop and ask me for a selfie. I happily oblige, though desperate to find out what the big news is.

  At the end of the hall is a small conference room which I slip into, closing the door behind me. I hit dial on mom’s number and wait impatiently for her to answer.

  “Kid, can I call you back? I’m just in the middle of writing this complicated scene and my characters are screaming at me,” she says in one breath.

  “Uh, no,” I argue back. “You don’t just vague-text me and leave me hanging. Hand your characters a Xanax and tell them to chill out.”

  Mom laughs, letting out a sigh. It’s the same sigh she often lets out when caught in the middle of a deadline and brought back into reality.

  “Okay, you have my attention.”

  “Mom!” I yell in frustration. “What’s the big news?”

  “Your brother will be in town tomorrow. He has some news and has asked if you can come home.”

  My brother, Ashley, hasn’t been home since last year, busy with his own life and career. This proved a point—as his twin sister, we do not have the ESP thing going on. The last text he sent me was yesterday and it was a picture of his injured foot which completely grossed me out.