3
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 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.
4
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 insid
e. 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.
5
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 much 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.
Stay cool, I think to myself and smile. I nod in a graceful thank-you gesture, like one of those old-fashioned movie divas. At least I hope that’s what my gesture looks like.
I take another forkful of my salad.
“It’s a good show, you know.” Brad is leaning back in the director’s chair again, with his right leg now at an angle over his left one. He’s the picture of relaxation.
If I were an artist, I would paint him in this posture, naked.
I try not to smile from ear to ear. Brad has paid me another compliment. None of the other ac-tors have done so.
“Do you really think so?” I search in his eyes for mocking, but can’t see it.
“I do, Kayla. I’ve worked on a few shows, but I’m really enjoying this one. I enjoy working with you.”
I swallow the lump that has suddenly appeared in the back of my throat. He could just be saying this because he’s worried about being killed off.
“And I’m not just saying it to get you to keep me in the show.” He winks at me as if he can read my mind. “Although, you know, I would do what it takes…” He leaves the sentence unfinished, a delicious grin on his lips.
It’s my turn to laugh. He really is a very good actor, or a real charmer.
“I have to say, so far I have enjoyed writing the episodes.” I decide to open up just a little.
Brad’s brow furrows just a little.
“So far? Something changed?”
Not only is he good-looking, charming, and entertaining, he is also perceptive.
My left hand brushes through my hair as I sigh.
“I suppos
e every job has its good and bad days, and today’s a bit of a bad day.”
His left eyebrow rises just a little, but he says nothing.
“I love writing. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I think this could be my big break into the screen world.” I pause and take a sip of my coffee.
Boy, this is good. “And I don’t want to stuff it up,” I add.
When I finish my little unburdening, it’s as if a weight has been lifted off my chest.
“Who says you’re going to stuff up?” Brad sounds genuinely concerned.
I decided he’s not acting. He sounds too interested.
“No one yet. But this killing off scene has me worried. It doesn’t feel right, and I see a different potential in the show. I think it needs to go in a different direction.”
Brad studies me. As his eyes slowly travel over my face and down to my chest, I feel as if he is undressing me, slowly, deliberately.
Part of me is tempted to check if my blouse is still buttoned up to the second button from the top, but I resist the urge. It feels incredibly sensual.
Desire sweeps through me like a wildfire.
His eyes find mine again. He smiles at me.
“I think you’re a good writer.” He holds up his hand. “No, I think you’re a great writer. And I think you are good for the show. You have written fantastic stuff for all of us. You even managed to write lines Ian couldn’t stuff up.”
At the mention of Ian, Ed’s words come back:” Ian’s off-limits.”
I toy with the idea of sharing Ed’s words with Brad, but I decide against it. I barely know him, or his intentions. Although I wouldn’t mind betting his intentions right now were only on one thing.
And strangely, I don’t mind.
“Thanks,” I mumble, not sure what else to say.
“Kayla.” His voice sounds a little more serious. “Whatever happens, this show won’t ruin you. Even if you don’t agree with what is being asked of you, I know you’ll turn it into something great. That’s what great writers do—they turn ordinary stuff into extraordinary things.”
The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance Page 51
