by Vivien Vale
I pause to take a sip of my wine. “Although you could maybe delve into that ghost stuff, you know? Like they did in that other show.”
“I don’t think Ian has the talent to play a ghost,” Angela points out.
I groan. “And he’s off-limits.”
“I heard. Can’t you do that? Just kill one of the guys and have him come back as a ghost…that way, you’re only changing his character. Solved. Easy.”
More wine dances across my tongue, tantalizing my taste buds. Briefly, I contemplate the story line put forward by Ange before I dismiss it. Ed would never go for it.
“It wouldn’t work.”
“What’s the other problem?”
“I’ve had the best sex ever with Brad,” I confess, and Ange chuckles.
“And since when is that a problem? About time you loosened up and looked after your sex life. You and Angelo were never meant to be together.”
“And then today,” I continue, ignoring the reference to Angelo. Angelo has been shelved over twelve months ago, after I found him banging his personal assistant. “I fucked Scott.”
I wait for the rebuke.
“I still can’t see the problem?”
“Are you serious?” I rouse on my best friend. “Have you been listening? I’m having sex with two different guys.”
As I say it out loud, I groan inwardly. When did my life become so complicated?
What had happened to my goal of becoming a successful screenwriter, find a supportive man, live in a nice mansion downtown along with all the other successful writers and…and what? Be bored out of my brain?
“Lighten up, Kay,” Angela says.
“Easy for you to say.” I grumble. “You’ve always been more adventurous than me.”
I’m sure Angela doesn’t tell me everything that’s going on in her life. She’s a wild one.
“About time for you to catch up. Enjoy it and see where it takes you. I wish I had two spunks like Brad and Scott lust after me.”
We laugh. We both know Angela is not short on admirers.
“But what am I going to do?” I persist.
“Enjoy it.”
“What about this killing off scene? How can I kill either Brad or Scott?” I know the minute I do, our relationship will be over. Am I selfish in not wanting it to end with either one of them?
“You need to think creative. You’re the writer. You’ll work something out.”
Angela sounds full of optimism.
“But I still don’t know what to do about Brad and Scott.” I know I sound like a broken record, but I can’t help it.
“Again you need to think creatively. You might not need to choose between either one of them.”
I frown. What does she mean?
“You’re not suggesting…?” I hesitate. Is she really suggesting I keep both going at the same time?
“I’m suggesting you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. How do you know they would be against doing it with you,” Angela pauses, “together?”
“At the same time?” I blurt the question out before I can stop myself.
“Duh.”
“I don’t know. That sort of bad girl stuff doesn’t suit me.”
“How do you know?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Because I’m not like that. You’re like that.”
“About time you get with the program, girl.” Angela laughs before I hear her talk to someone else.
“Sorry, gorgeous, got to go.”
“Company?”
“You bet. Just go with it. Stop thinking about it, and you’ll see it’ll all work out.”
I feel marginally better when I press the end button on my phone…emphasis on marginally.
It’s too early to go to bed, and I know I won’t be able to sleep, not with the way I’m feeling right now. And so I try one more time to plan my scenes for the next upcoming season.
Angela’s words ring in my ear: “get with the program,” and “be a bad girl.” I’ve enjoyed sex with both Brad and Scott. Perhaps my best friend’s right.
Maybe I should just go with the flow.
Scott
I pull up at the Starbucks drive-through for a triple espresso. I need to bring my A game for today’s read through, and a heavy dose of caffeine is just what the script doctor ordered. I need to be wide awake and ready for action.
I pass my credit card through the window, pay for my coffee, and drive to the studio.
The top’s down today, and the sun is fucking magnificent. I love LA mornings when there’s no smog and the air is almost fresh.
When I get to the lot, I park my car, and who do I see? Brad. Bam!
What a way to start the day.
I mean, he’s a nice-enough guy, and if we weren’t in a competition about whose character is gonna live and who’s is gonna die, I might really dig him. Maybe grab a beer together after a long day on set—if I weren’t competing.
I guess I need to cut him some slack. This wasn’t his idea.
The whole situation is just fucked. Seriously.
I need to stop thinking like this.
Before I get out of the car, I pull down the visor and give myself the once-over in the mirror. I check the hair, give a big smile, and make sure there’s no breakfast stuck in my teeth. Looking good. Time to move on out.
“Breathe,” I tell myself. “Stay calm. People can smell desperation.”
There are certain things that are out of my control, but I refuse to believe this is one of them. I will act my ass off (and any other body parts necessary) at this table read to make sure I’m the character they can’t live without.
“Yo! Brad,” I call as I jog over to him. “Wait up.”
“Hey, Scott. What’s going on?”
“Ah, you know, the usual.”
“Yeah? Kinda tense around here lately, don’t you think?” Brad asks.
“Yeah, just a little,” I say, trying to sound like I’m tossing off the remark.
We push through the revolving door, and we’re greeted by Sam the guard.
He’s about a hundred years old and can’t see worth shit. If there were any type of disturbance, we’d definitely be on our own. But he’s been with the studio for twenty-five years, and no one has the heart to fire him.
He just scowls at us as we say our hellos. We sign in and head toward studio A.
Most of the cast for The Kings is already at the table, and the only person missing is Kayla.
I hang my jacket up in the corner, take the script from my back pocket, and head over to the table with my triple shot and plop down in the seat next to Brad.
I inch my chair a little closer. I bet he can feel me breathing on him. I figure a little intimidation might throw him off.
My mother used to say, “Whoever has the upper hand has control.” And I want control.
The truth is, I gotta have it. I hate, absolutely hate, not knowing what’s coming next.
When I read a book, I skip to the end so I know who did it. I can’t take the anxiety of not immediately knowing what’s going to happen.
Like right now, I want to know what Brad knows, and the best way to do that is to get him talking.
“Kayla’s late,” I say and blow a breath out as if I’m exasperated.
“Not really,” Brad says, looking at the clock on the wall. “She has another five minutes.”
“Aren’t we precise, and protective.”
Brad sits back in his chair and looks at me. “Meaning?”
“Let’s just say I have my sources, and I know what goes on around here.” I make a circular motion with my hand, indicating the studio.
“I’m not sure that’s something you want to brag about. It’s a little girlie, if you ask me,” Brad says.
“So now you think you’ve got comedy chops? ’Cause that wasn’t funny.”
“I just call it like I see it.” Brad folds his arms over his chest. “Who would have pegged you as gossip girl?” And then he chuckles.
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It’s the chuckle that gets me. It’s a little superior, so now I’m feeling like I gotta pounce.
I lean in and whisper, “I know you think you’ve got it all going on with Kayla.”
“Jeez!” He turns in his chair and frowns. “Was your last gig as a code breaker, because you’re being incredibly cryptic. What are you talking about, and what is it you think you know, Scott?”
He sounds pissed, and a the few cast members are starting to look our way.
“Well, I know about that little lunch run you did for Kayla.” I shake my head. “Dude, that was so freaking lame. What makes you think wining and dining with the head writer saves your ass? It’s gonna take a lot more than that.”
Brad just stares at me and shrugs. Smug is all over his face.
“I’m seriously asking, why do you think that’s your save?”
“I’m not just a pretty face,” Brad fires back, pointing to his head. The rest of the people at the table are definitely staring at us now. “There is actually something underneath this hood. And I have a plan.”
I so wanna wipe the smirk off his face. But it’s true, the guy is good-looking, and clearly he’s working as hard as I am to stay in this game. So I gotta give him some props.
“If you know so much about what’s going on around here,” Brad continues, “and if you have your finger on the pulse, as you claim, why don’t you know who’s getting written off?”
I gotta admit, this catches me slightly off guard.
Now it’s my turn to shrug.
“If the studio is looking for an easy answer,” Brad says, “I have a tire iron in my trunk. I’ll make it painless, I promise.”
“Look, all I’m trying to say is it’s going to take a lot more than bringing Kayla lunch to beat me. It’s going to actually take some acting skills. And sorry. Last time I checked, there was no contest. Mine were front and center.”
I slap the table for emphasis, and the girl across the table jumps.
“Oh, ho, ho, ho…you think? Dream on. Who got twelve, count them, twelve script pages in the last episode?”
“Bro, what the fuc—” I shake my head, “Your character’s name was on twelve pages, but you were lying unconscious for ten of them. It’s not as if you had to act, for God’s sake!”
“Remember who won the People’s Choice Award? Right, that would be me.” Brad gives a low whistle. “Man, why don’t you go sit on the other side of the table?”
He pushes to his feet and walks over to the craftytable, all eyes on him.
I get up and step right in line next to him. “Listen, this is getting out of hand,” I say in an angry whisper.
“Asshole, you started it.”
“I am not the asshole. You’re the one who’s playing Kayla. And if I find out that’s the case, they won’t have to figure out who to write off, ’cause I’ll kill you.”
Brad grabs a bottled water from the table and takes a long chug while I stand there and wait for a response.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I feel the same way. If you’re using her to keep your job, then I really will take out that tire iron.”
Now I’m pumped the fuck up. I want a piece of this guy. I’m about to take a swing when the door opens, and in sweeps the director’s assistant, a girl named Sandra.
“What the fuck are you guys doing?” she asks, her foul mouth fast at work while her gaze sweeps the room. “You’re in the wrong fucking room. Kayla has been waiting for you for ages.”
As the rest of the cast starts getting up from their chairs, Sandra raises her hand and stops them. “No, today’s just the three wonder brothers—Brad, Scott, and Ian.”
Ah, fuck.
Kayla
Play it cool,” I remind myself as I pretend to be busy reading from my laptop. Sandra has gone out to look for the cast, and a few minutes later, the door opens and Brad saunters in. My nose recognizes his aftershave, distinct yet subtle.
I briefly glance at him, smile, and return to reading. My heart is bucking in my chest like a wild bronco. Take deep breaths, I think, but I steal the occasional glimpse of Brad.
How I would like to be doing something else right now, other than sitting through a reading with our director and three actors.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says casually and sits to my left.
I pretend to only just notice him now.
“Hi, Brad. How’re you today?” I am pleased with how casual I sound. There isn’t a hint of a quiver in my voice.
“Party started already, huh?” Scott has come in without me noticing it.
I reach for my coffee and take a sip. This is going to be an interesting reading.
Since my romp with Brad and Scott the other day, I haven’t been in the same room as the two of them.
“Where’s Ian?” Scott breaks the silence first.
“We don’t’ need him,” quips Brad. “A threesome is much more cozy, don’t you think?” He shoots a meaningful glance in my direction.
I notice Scott narrowing his eyes and leaning back on his chair, his lips a thin line. Have they been fighting?
Ah, and the tingling between my legs has me on edge. Perhaps I should ask for a jug of ice-cold water to be brought in.
“Who says Kayla would be interested in you?” Scott is quick with a comeback.
Brad shrugs.
“Dude, you gotta go on a limb to get ahead in life.”
Scott’s eyebrow raise to a perfect arch.
“A limb? Looks like you’ve’ gone out on a twig, my friend.”
My nerve endings are on fire. I’m trying to search for something to say to diffuse the tense situation.
“You learned your lines?” is all I manage to say. Not very imaginative, but at least both of them are looking at me now.
With each of their gazes on me, I feel heat spread through me, together with electric shock waves, as if I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket.
“For our next blow job,” Brad starts, Scott coughs, and I’m not sure what to say. “Sorry. I mean for our next con job, I suggest we target the jewelry place.”
I see Brad grin from ear to ear. He seems to be enjoying himself. He oozes relaxation.
Scott leans back in his chair, glancing at Brad sideways. His lips curl into a little smile.
“I thought we’d agree not to go after the diamonds but focus on the one gem.”
It is my turn for my brows to furrow. I flick through my notes on the computer. I’m pretty sure I didn’t write those lines.
“Ah, yes. Previous plans. The trouble with previous plans is, they are too predictable.” Brad doesn’t miss a beat.
“Now the gem. The gem is worth going after.”
Open-mouthed, I watch the wordplay between the two of them, and I’m not sure what script they’re reading from.
“You started without me?”
I didn’t notice Ian come in, followed closely by Derrick, our director. Both sit down. Derrick pulls out some papers from his bag and spreads them out in front of him.
Ian crosses his arms in front of his chest.
He’s not bad-looking—it’s just the opposite, actually. Pronounced jaw, deep voice, and piercing…not to mention the sleek haircut. But he isn’t like Brad or Scott.
While the other two exude confidence, their energy a raw and manly one, Ian seems…off. I don’t know what it is, but he doesn’t strike me as the manly type.
All that would be alright if he could act, but Ian is a complete disaster.
Neither Brad nor Scott acknowledge Ian.
“Hi, Ian,” I greet the actor and nod at Derrick. “Ignore them, they’re just—”
“Comparing the size of their dicks,” completes Ian, and for a second silence descends over the room. Thankfully, I register there are no heavy objects any of them can pick up and use as a weapon.
“Kayla.” Derrick sits directly opposite from me. “Everyone’s got your next scenes, I assume?” The director, like me, has chosen t
o ignore Ian’s outburst.
Clearing my throat, I nod. Part of me wants to laugh, and the other wants to end the reading and hide in my office.
“Let’s take it from the top,” I say and look at Ian.
His expression is blank, and he makes no attempt at doing anything other than glare at each of us in turn.
Scott leans toward him and whispers something I cannot understand.
“I’m bored,” mumbles Ian, and I frown. I scroll to the correct spot on the script.
“And I think we should come up with something fresh.” I add for him, feeding him his line.
The man is driving me insane. He never seems to know his lines. And when he does deliver them, he lacks any kind of conviction or passion for his role.
Mental note to self: reduce Ian’s dialogue for future scenes. He may be off-limits, but I can make sure he takes a considerable backward step.
“Fresh, you say,” Scott butts in. “I think I can help with fresh.”
“You don’t know how fresh,” Brad adds, even though I’m sure it’s not his turn.
What are they up to?
“Like I said before.” Brad moves his head in Ian’s direction. “Before he came in.”
“What are you guys doing?” Ian cuts Brad off.
Scott chuckles.
“Antiques—we need to start dealing in antiques,” Brad continues without paying any attention to Ian.
“I’d rather deal with a fresh young thing.” Scott winks at me as he speaks.
“I’m tired of being—” Ian stumbles over the word being and stops.
“Ian.” I’m getting pissed off. “It’s not that hard—I’m tired of being the actor in your heist. I want to be more involved.”
I scowl at him, reading his lines from the script. The Kings is a TV show about three brothers planning a heist, not a goddamn Shakespearean play! What’s so hard about getting these lines down?
“Just keep up with the other two, would you?” My patience is running on super low today.
“If your writing wasn’t so extraordinarily bad, I wouldn’t have any trouble remembering or speaking them.”
At his words, I grip the arms of my chair. How dare the little shit insult my writing. And that smug look on his face is enough to want to make me hit him.