by Vivien Vale
"What’s all this?" I ask. Liam is normally sweet, and he sweeps me off my feet with his grand gestures sometimes, but I don’t recall planning for anything special today. It’s too early for anything anyway.
And then, I see him get down on one knee and it becomes apparent what's happening. The moment I've been waiting for since I was a girl is before me.
"Claire," he says holding out a box containing a very large diamond ring. "Will you do me the great honor of never leaving my side, being mine forever, and marrying me?"
"Yes!" I say without hesitation. "A million times yes. I love you, Liam. I think some part of me always has, since the moment we met."
His eyes gleam with happiness and satisfaction. He gets up and places the ring on my finger. Then, instead of brunch, he grabs a bottle of champagne from the table and picks me up in his arms.
"I have to consummate this," he says, and I can sense the hunger in his voice.
Our connection is as deep as ever. It's something between us that no one could ever explain. We both feel it all the time as if we're soul mates or something.
I know it's meant to be. I know he's the one and I guess I've always known since the first moment I laid eyes on him. I guess it’s the undeniable connection I’ve felt with him ever since.
Tears stream down my face, and he smiles softly at me.
"Look at you, vulnerable as ever. You're mine, Claire. Let this ring prove that."
He takes me back to the bedroom and I know I can't escape. I’ll never want to escape this intimate connection that we have which defies all words.
I kiss him, and he throws me down on the bed. I can tell, this is just the beginning of our wild adventure together.
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 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.
“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.
