by Vivien Vale
Kayla
Can my day get any worse? The freezer is empty, and there’s no ice cream left. The cupboards are bare, and there’s no chocolate.
I frown. How did I forget to stock up on the essential food groups? What’s a girl to do when there’s no sugar in the house?
Briefly, I toy with the idea of having a glass of wine. But I know drowning my sorrows will not solve anything.
What will solve my problems?
The answer is obvious, sort of. I know once upon a time the sensible me, the one who never stepped out of line, would say the way forward is to break it off with Scott and Brad and then bow to Ed’s demands and write one of them out of the show.
Everyone’s replaceable, I know that.
But something is changing in me. I don’t want to dump Scott and Brad. I can’t explain it, but I love them both.
I want them both.
So the other option is to work on Ed and Ian.
The niggling feeling deep inside with respect to Ed and Ian is intensifying. There’s something not quite right about the two of them. I’m sure there’s some kind of secret—a secret I need to discover.
A knock on the door is a welcome distraction.
When my eyes feast on my visitors, my bad mood vanishes for a little while.
“Come in.” I step back and hold out my cheek to receive a kiss.
Both oblige.
As soon as our skins touch, there’s an explosion of desire. Perhaps I won’t need sugar or fat today to make myself feel better.
Scott produces three large cups of coffee.
“Strong and black.” He holds out a cup for me. “Just the way you like it.”
I grin.
Our fingers touch. “You know me too well,” I purr.
Brad clears his throat.
“And something fatty and full of sugar.”
I wink at him.
“Did you bring cream as well?” As I ask the question, I lick my lips. “There’s so much one can do with cream.”
Brad chuckles.
“We forgot the cream.” He turns to Scott and gives him a playful slap on the shoulder.
Scott shrugs.
“Never mind. I’m sure next time we can try the cream.”
We laugh.
I walk to the kitchen to get plates and a knife.
Several minutes later, we are seating on the floor of my living room, backs to the couch.
Mmm, this is nice. I grin inwardly. Pity about the other problem in my life, the one called Ed and Ian.
By my third mouthful of chocolate cake, I decide I better fess up.
“I know you’re both worried about all these articles. I’ve read them.”
Scott and Brad exchange a quick glance.
Before I say more on the subject, I take a sip of coffee and stuff more cake into my face. Boy, this feels good.
“I can’t understand why the gossip columnist is going after us,” I say with my mouth full.
Neither Brad nor Scott say anything.
“All this gossip, innuendo, and hinting is making me sick. Why do journos need to write this crap?”
I take another piece of cake. I’m sure later I’ll regret it, but right now I crave more.
“People want to read that shit,” Brad answers my question.
Scott has gone into the kitchen. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but it feels right he treats the place as his own. It shows commitment on his part.
I lean my head against the back of the couch.
“Do people really want to read about what I have for breakfast, who I fuck, and when I fart?”
Brad laughs.
Scott returns with three tall glasses and a bottle of sparkling red.
“It’s low alcohol,” he announces and deposits his goodies on the coffee table. Then he’s gone again.
“I mean, I don’t really want to know what Ed gets up.”
“You’re not Ed. You’re Kayla, head writer of a successful television show. People want to read your gossip.”
“And what’s this bullshit blind gossip anyway?” I feel my insides bubble with anger.
“Well, it leaves it open to speculation.” Scott has come back into the room. This time, he’s carrying a platter of cheese and biscuits.
“Hardly,” I interject and grab some cheese. “I mean, whoever wrote yesterday’s piece may as well have used my name.” I try and recall the exact words. I’m sure the writer had referred to the hot new talented head writer from the show about the three brothers.
As if that leaves people guessing about the identity.
“Come, Kayla.” Scott has come to sit next to me. “It wasn’t that bad.” I see him glance at Brad. “And we’re taking care of it.”
I roll my eyes. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what they’re trying to do, but the enormity just hits me.
“At this rate, I’ll soon be more famous for my sex life than for my writing.”
Don’t cry, I think to myself and bite my bottom lip. “I want to be known for my writing.”
Life sucks, I decide. Sure, I know I should be grateful to have these two caring blokes by my side, but it still sucks.
I’ve worked hard to become a writer, and here I was still trying to prove myself to some dickhead who shouldn’t be doing the job he was doing.
“Kayla, listen to me.” Brad has taken a hold of my arm.
At his touch, nerve endings tingle in anticipation. Brain activity changes to a different mode.
“Scott and I are looking into it, and we will take care of it.”
“We will Kayla. We won’t let anyone ruin your career.”
I look at Scott and then at Brad.
“And we will make sure we fix it before any major damage is done. Promise,” Brad adds and kisses me on the tip of my nose. The touch of his lips is light like a feather. A yearning manifests between my legs for his touch and his lips.
They both sound so earnest and sincere.
“Thank you,” I whisper, a smile dancing on my lips.
Brad
I’m watching Scott and Kayla discuss the gossip column and all the trouble it’s causing us. It’s maybe the fifth time they go through it all. I’m starting to get sick of the whole ordeal.
I want it over. Now. I want to get back to my life, and I want to see where this thing with Kayla could go, without all this added drama.
Truthfully, I’m feeling bad: bad for Scott, bad for Kayla, and bad for myself. I’m imagining all the crazy things this blogger’s story can say if we don’t stop the madness.
Whoever it is, and whatever information she (or he) has, I know they won’t stop at the truth. Soon enough, the lies will start, and we’ll be accused of things—truly crazy things. Bat-shit crazy things.
Then it hits me.
Before I know it, I’m formulating a plan in my head that can possibly save the day.
God damn, I’m fucking brilliant.
“…that’s why Brad’s got his assistant out there trying to find out who is responsible. She’s tracking down sources, reaching out to the bloggers. Brad said she is putting on some serious heat, but I don’t—”
“I got it,” I say, interrupting Scott. “I fucking got it.”
“Got what, Brad?” Kayla asks.
“I have a plan. One that should work. I mean, it works all the time. Why not work for us, right?”
“What’s the plan?” Scott asks.
I smile, beaming and nearly laughing. “You’ve all heard of fake news, right?”
Kayla gives a nod and Scott says, “Of course.”
“Well, what if we start leaking a ton of fake gossip? Some really crazy shit and some really weird shit. Like crazy, impossible-to-believe, fucked-up shit.”
Scott’s nodding now. He smiles and adds, “We flood the blogs with all sorts of news. These articles, whatever they keep on saying, will be lost in a sea of other gossip items.”
“People wouldn’t care. There would be so much fake sh
it out there that they would not know what is real or fake.”
“And they would stop caring…” Kayla sees it too now. “Brilliant.”
“Exactly!” I cheer. “Think about it. When you are on Facebook and click one of those links—the ones that say ‘15 reasons to and 10 reasons not to….blah, blah, blah’—what do you do when you are on the third item and an advertisement pops up and interrupts you?”
“I ‘x’ out. I hate that!” Kayla says, grumbling.
“Me too.” Grinning ear to ear, I keep on, “I hate it, so I just quit and move to another post.”
“Brad, you might have just saved all our careers. I see this as working, I really do. And I can think of a few crazy things to put out there that will make people realize this is all just…”
“Whacky shit.”
“Yeah. Whacky shit.”
“I can write up maybe…forty or fifty items. But how do we distribute them?” Kayla asks.
“Emails. All we need are some fake Gmail accounts to go with our fake gossip stories.”
Scott pulls out his phone, waving it in the air. “I’ll start making email accounts.”
Kayla rises from her chair and bounces up and down—a show, I, for one, am glad I do not miss. “I’ll get my laptop and start writing blind times and fake stories.”
“Great,” I say, whispering to myself. “Damn, you look hot.”
As she’s dashing out of the room, she yells back, “This could be fun.”
“Hey, Kayla, write a story about me being abducted by aliens.”
“And make sure you note how he was anally probed.” Scott’s laughing before he can finish the joke. “And loved it.”
I run my fingers through my hair and then pick up my drink. After a sip, I reply. “Takes one to know one, Scott.”
“Alien?”
“Um, no,” I say, sneering. “Someone who loves being anally probed.”
“Epic comeback, Brad. You’re stepping up your game.”
“Thanks.”
I text Shauna, wanting updates. She replies that she has none. Following up, I simply dial her number and call her.
I explain to her the whole plan, and she just listens to it.
“Brad,” she finally says when I’m done. “I have a list of all the blogs I was searching and looking into. These are the blogs you need to send your fake gossip to. These are the ones people visit the most.”
“Excellent. Great work.”
“I must say I’m proud of you, Brad. This is a great plan,” Shauna says over the phone.
“Thanks. Sometimes I surprise even myself.”
“Like I say all the time, all you need, Brad, is the right inspiration. And Kayla is just that.”
Looking at Kayla, the smile on her face as she’s typing away, I cannot disagree with Shauna.
She’s right.
Scott
There’s the same fucking cockroach staring at me again. What’s wrong with this dude?
As I walk past him, I do a double take. Is this thing wearing armor? And boxing gloves?
Without getting too close, I peer at it. I know I’ve not consumed any alcohol, so I can’t be drunk. Maybe the stress is getting to me, but I swear this bug is not normal.
This time, Dick Burstfly is not there to open the door for me, but I’ve come prepared.
I retrieve a tissue from my pocket and use it to first knock and then turn the door handle.
“Come in,” calls Dick, and I wonder if he has any kind of filing system or if it simply pushes the papers from a finished case onto the floor.
I walk in and trip over something soft and squishy. My insides turn as I imagine what it might be.
“Get out,” yells Dick, and I’m shocked until I see the grey fur ball.
With a hiss and a spit, the cat leaps up and disappears through a cat flap in a side door.
I sneeze. I’m allergic to cats. Great, fucking fantastic.
I don’t have my allergy medication on me. I sneeze again. My eyes are starting to water, and I resist the urge to rub them.
“You got something?”
I need to get out of here quickly.
Dick rubs those sausage fingers together and grins.
“Take a seat, Scotty. Take a seat.”
I’d rather keep standing, but it seems the PI won’t part with any information unless I’m sitting.
With a sigh and another sneeze, I perch on the edge of the seat.
I look around and wonder if it is possible for this place to have gotten filthier and messier in such a short amount of time.
“Now.” Dick’s voice stops me midthought.
“Hope it’s good,” I mumble and keep an eye out for the mutant cockroach, who I suspect is planning a takeover of the apartment, office, and maybe even the business.
“Let’s start with this one.”
Sausage fingers fumble through a pile of papers and produce the photo of Ed.
“He’s in real strive.”
Images of Ed with multiple prostitutes fucking him in compromising positions come to mind. Yuck. Disgusting.
“Your man, Ed, basically has no money. He’s broke, or almost broke.”
I frown. What’s so bad about not having money? I feel disappointment wash over me like a bucket of ice-cold water.
“I don’t see,” I start, but Dick interrupts me.
“The man’s got a gambling problem.”
It still doesn’t seem so bad to me. I’m sure there are plenty of other people who have a gambling problem.
“That’s it?” I try not to sound too annoyed. Maybe Dick Burstfly is losing it. That’s what happened to some people, they got to the top of their game and stalled at the height of their success before crashing to the ground, landing hard.
Dick shakes his head.
“Now this fellow,” he says as he points to the picture of Ian, which by now has multiple other unidentifiable stains all over. “This one was a lot harder to crack. But crack him I did.”
I sure hope this is better than what he’s given me so far.
I’m not sure how well Brad will take the news that all we can get on Ed is a gambling habit and hardly any funds in the bank.
“You see, sometimes its less obvious, the connection, the dirt. Know what I mean?”
I shake my head. Fucking lunatic is talking in riddles. I sneeze again.
“Okay. So I told you Ed here has a gambling problem…”
“Got it,” I reply and resist a smart-ass remark.
“However, even though Ed is broke, he is able to maintain a pretty good lifestyle and stay afloat, unlike some other gambling tragics. Now you might wonder why that is.”
I don’t really fucking care, but I don’t say this to Dick. Instead, I wait, my patience wearing thin.
“So after some digging around, I discovered someone is funding him. Someone is giving him money.”
I wonder where this is going and glance at my watch. Ten minutes of my life wasted sitting in this dump. I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly. Stay calm.
“It wasn’t too hard to work out who was giving Ed money. Ed has a sister—a sister who seems very attached to her brother, or so at least it seems on the surface. Sibling or not, it seems strange to keep giving him money.”
“Is there a fucking point to all this, Dick?” I’m getting pissed off with this long-winded story of the PI.
“Sorry, Scotty. Of course there’s a point. Ed’s sister has a son. A son called Ian. A rather useless, unemployable son called Ian.”
Finally, the light globe turns on.
I get it.
“Papers?”
Dick hands me a surprisingly clean-looking envelope.
“All in here, my friend.”
Before he hands it over, he holds out his other hand.
“For a reward, it’s yours.”
I pull out my wallet and throw five thousand bucks onto the desk. With greedy fingers, Dick grabs the money and shoves it in his top dr
aw.
With the evidence in hand, I leave.
“Pleasure doing business,” Dick calls to me just before I close the door.
I hope I won’t have to come back to this dump ever again.
The fucking roach is still sitting where it was when I walked in. I stop and glare at it, and I swear it glares back.
I’m tempted to take a photo and show it to Brad and Kayla. But then again, I don’t want them to think me a fool.
Outside, I mull over the information Dick gave me. Only now I realize how bad the gambling habit and being broke really is if one is a producer.
I don’t know many networks who want to employ a producer who cannot manage their own finances and are reliant on someone else’s money. When this gets out, no one will hire Ed ever again as a producer.
I can’t wait to tell Kayla and Brad what I’ve found out.
Brad
Sitting at home, I’m feeling pretty darn good. I’ve spent the afternoon with Scott and Kayla. We wrote and distributed fifty-five fake gossip items about the three of us.
I’m sure that will be enough—no matter what the gossip is about, the blogger releasing all these stories will just be washed away in the flood we created.
Fuck you, whoever you are. You and the asshole leaking information. Fuck you both.
Shauna’s coming over for dinner. Actually, she’s bringing dinner. Chinese food from my favorite restaurant.
I’m really looking forward to some egg rolls and some pork low mien tonight.
I’m flipping channels on my big screen plasma TV, looking for a something with a sci-fi flare that I can watch until she gets back.
I’m kinda hoping this one movie, the space movie with the giant bugs, is on. Every time I flip by it, I end up watching it. It gets me. Every damn time, it gets me.
Unfortunately, I’m not finding it. Lots of teen drama movies are on. Not even the good kinds with a touch of horror, just the sappy, whiny kinds.
When I was that age, I was busy playing video games and hitting on the hottest girls in class, not crying and moping about. Times sure have changed.
I can hear Shauna’s car pull in the driveway. My stomach growls. Just in time.
“Hey, Shauna. Your timing is absolutely perfect. I’m just—”
Shauna runs into the living room. I’ve never seen her so happy or excited before. You’d think she won the lottery.
