4 Men Of The House with correct Also By page

by Natalie Knight

  It’s good neither one of them are here right now because I’m so tempted to lash out physically. I ache all over.

  Next time Ian makes some smart-ass remark about my writing, I swear I won’t be held responsible if I hit him.

  My gaze moves around the office. What suitable object could I use? I don’t want to hurt my hands or get blood on them.

  I shake my head migthought. What’s happening to me? What level am I stooping to?

  I don’t believe in violence.

  And yet thoughts of smashing something heavy over Ed’s head are overwhelming.

  With a sigh and another sip of my coffee, I straighten up and start typing again.

  If I want to change the show, I had to get writing.

  My eyes glance at the clock and the little reminder that has been bopping up and down in the top right-hand corner of my screen.

  Shit.

  I’m meant to be on set for filming. In my haste to get out the door, I knock my cup of coffee. Hot black liquid splatters everywhere. Some land on the ke“

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter and grab some tissues to wipe up the mess. Quickly I turn the keyboard upside down. Coffee drips onto my desk.

  After I’ve mopped up most of the mess, I leave my keyboard upside down to make sure it dries out completely. I doubt the budget would allow for a new one, particularly if I have to confess to being responsible for its malfunction.

  At the lift, I frantically press the down button. For some reason, it seems to take forever to come.

  Why is it that when you are in a hurry, technology moves extra slowly? Newton’s law, or was the guy called Murphy?

  With the elevator a no-show, I race to stairs. It’s probably faster to walk.

  By the time I’m on the ground floor, my hair is in my face, little beads of sweat are rolling down my cheek, and I know my makeup will is smudged.

  A glance in a mirror from another set confirms my worst fears. I look like a mess.

  Breathing heavily, I arrive on set.

  All eyes are on me as I open the door. Filming had not started.

  “You’re late,” Ian says and sneers. He then looks at Scott and Brad. “Again.”

  There’s that intense desire to hit him again. I brush the hair out of my face and

  quash the temptation to plant my fist right between his eyes. Deliberate and slow, I walk over to Derrick. He greets me with a smile and a wave of his left hand.

  “Don’t worry, Kayla. You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re about to start.”

  With a nod at everyone else, I take up my seat next to the director.

  Silently, I congratulate myself for not losing my cool and keeping it together.

  Kayla

  I settle into my chair and busy myself with my e-reader. If past takes are anything to go by, I know I will need to be on hand to help Ian with his lines.

  When my fingers find the spot, I finally look up.

  Brad and Scott are on set and ready to go. Ian hovers on the edge and seems to be arguing with a young girl.

  “Problem?” I turn to Derrick, who shrugs.

  “Let’s roll,” he calls, and everyone takes their place.

  This time the scene takes place in the garage of the brothers’ home. They’re about to head out to a party where they plan to meet their unsuspecting female victim.

  I watch Brad and Scott deliver their lines near perfect. I hang on their every word. They are good—really good.

  My decision to write the show my way intensifies. I don’t only owe it to these two great actors, I also owe it to the viewers.

  Ian comes on set. I hold my breath. I watch and listen.

  Today at least he remembers most of what he has to say. Luckily, he only has a few words to recall. It’s really Brad and Scott’s scene.

  To an outsider, it might look deliberate. But it wasn’t. For this scene, the focus had to be on what the older brothers were doing. Ian just had to take a little back seat.

  Whilst he remembers what to say, his delivery was still nowhere near as good as that of the other two. Ian stumbles over some of his words, and as far as delivery is concerned, well it could be done a lot better. I groan inwardly and shake my head.

  The part might only be minor today, but that does not mean it is not important. And of course, it is no excuse for a poor performance.

  I sigh. Ian really needs to go, off-limits or not.

  During the break, I see Ian flick through his script. I watch him. His piano fingers move the pages back and forth.

  A storm cloud travels across his face. And then he looks at me.

  As he walks over, I know whatever he’s got to say, it’s not going to be complimentary.

  “A word,” he hisses, and I can feel some of his spit land on my cheek.

  Disgusting.

  “Yes?”

  I try and remain cool, calm, and collected.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’re trying to do.” More spits come flying my way, and I try and move to the left to avoid being showered in it.

  “It won’t work with me playing the innocent little girl.” Ian is overcome with rage. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Brad move in my direction.

  It is heartwarming to know he’s concerned for me; however, at the same time, I don’t want a repeat of the other day. Life’s complicated enough.

  “You are trying to reduce my part. Don’t think I haven’t noticed I have far fewer lines than Brad or Scott. I’m not stupid.”

  Someone, I’m not sure who, whispers that’s debatable, but I don’t laugh.

  “If you think you can write me out of the show, you’re wrong. If you don’t start to write more scenes for me, you’ll be sorry. Really sorry.”

  Silently, I pat myself on the back for having stayed calm.

  “Finished?” I ask and rise out of my chair.

  For this I don’t want to be having to look up at the enemy. And I have decided that is what Ian is, the enemy.

  Part of me wants to wipe his smirk off his face with a heavy object, but there’s nothing suitable nearby.

  “Well, let me tell you something, Ian.”

  Someone is putting his hand on my arm. I think it might Derrick, but I shake it off.

  “If it wasn’t for your bumbling, idiotic attempts at acting, this show could be fantastic. You are dragging it down. Not only do you never remember your lines, you can’t deliver them. A dead fish would have more delivery presence than you do. I have never seen an actor as bad as you.”

  “How you can even call yourself an actor is beyond me,” I continue. “You are a disgrace to all other actors. I’m not sure how you got the job, but if you want to keep it, you should start to put some effort into it. Better still, why don’t you have someone teach you the basic skills of acting, speaking, and enunciation? Half the time, I can’t hear what you are saying.”

  I take a deep breath in before I continue. “But maybe it’s just that you can’t get any better. Maybe it’s time you look for a new career. I hear they have a vacancy in garbage collecting right now. Surely even you with your pea-sized brain should be able to do something like that.”

  I stop.

  Silence.

  No one says anything.

  My arms are by my side, and I feel a little quiver run through them.

  Ian takes a step toward me.

  “You’ll be sorry,” he hisses. “You’ll be sorry you spoke to me this way, and you’ll be sorry you’re trying to write me out of the show.”

  I lift my head and pull my shoulders back. “Appearance is everything,” my ballet teacher used to say. If you look confident, you will feel confident and ooze confidence.

  “Not as sorry as you and your lousy acting career,” I yell at his retreating figure. “You may be pretending to be an actor, but I’m still the writer.”

  I’m not sure if he can hear me. I don’t care. Someone will tell him what I said, I’m sure of it.

  Without tak
ing any notice of the other people in the room, most of whom are not quite sure where to look, I turn to Derrick.

  “I’m going home,” I say and pick up my device. “There’s some major rewriting I’ll need to be doing whilst it is fresh in my mind.”

  I leave the set quickly. I don’t want anyone talking to me.

  Brad

  I drive to Scott’s house.

  I was hoping to avoid this moment, but it can’t be fucking helped; Shauna has warned me that a few more articles are circulating online, some of which seem to point to the fact that someone knows about what happened between me, Scott, and Kayla.

  I have to let him know all. Maybe he has some insight—maybe he knows who is releasing information to these stupid celebrity blogs.

  But what if he’s the one behind it? I wonder for a moment, but then I just dismiss that thought. Nah, no, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t hurt Kayla.

  He must have heard my car pulling into his driveway as he is looking out the window when I put my car in park. I glance at him for half a second, and something in his expression immediately tells me he knows I’m not coming as a bearer of good news.

  “Hey, Scott,” I say as he opens his front door.

  He steps out.

  “Brad.”

  “Hey. I want to talk to you about something. You got a minute?”

  Scott is clearly uncomfortable; his face tells a tale of stress and worry.

  “I got a few minutes, and I think I already know what you want to talk about too.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay…” I leave a pause for him to fill in.

  “These fucking articles, man...they’re making the rounds.”

  Oh shit. He does know. If he’s seen it, who else has?

  How far spread is this stupid thing? “The fucking articles.” I nod. “Yeah. That.”

  “Fucking bloggers. Nothing better to do.”

  I chime in. “Fucking bloggers. Sitting at home on their fat asses…”

  “Kayla hasn’t seen any of these articles yet?” he asks.

  “As far as I know. She knows something is up, but she never reads those filthy gossip sites.”

  “Thank god for that.” Scott sighs. I can see that at least that info relaxed him some.

  “We are going to have to tell her, Brad,” I add. “And soon.”

  “We?”

  He puts his serious face on to answer. “Yes. We.”

  “Shit, Scott. I was hoping to clear this all up before having to tell her. You know. Dodge the fucking bullet.”

  “Clear this up? What have you done? Have you found out anything?” he says while grasping my shoulder.

  “I put my assistant on it. She’s a stone-cold killer. For real. There are bodies. I don’t know where they are buried. But I know there are bodies.”

  “Seriously, Brad?”

  “Yeah.” I don´t like his tone. “Well…what have you done?”

  “I visited a private investigator who handles these types of things,” Scott explains. “Hollywood things. Just like I told you. I had him investigating Ed and Ian, but I told him to keep an eye out for something that might reveal who’s leaking all this fucking information.”

  I can’t believe we’re now working with PIs. Soon enough, we’ll be running some shady black-ops thing.

  “And what did you find out? Anything?”

  “Well, clearly someone knows about the three of us. I mean they know-know us. Know us personally. Most likely, it is someone who is working on the show.”

  “No shit.” I have to repeat it to believe it. “Knows us. Works at the show. Fuck. That’s kinda creepy, Scott.”

  “Very creepy.”

  “If it is someone who is involved with the show, then they must hate one of us.”

  “Or all three.”

  “Seems more likely that it’s just one of us. You know, like they are holding a grudge or…” It suddenly hits me, and I can see Scott is thinking the same thing.

  “They want Kayla’s job.”

  “Another writer. Shit! They are the jealous types. It’s gotta be, right?”

  Scott is silent for a moment. I can see his brain at work. “Maybe? I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter anyway. Whoever they are, they are going to regret messing with us. And they are really going to regret messing with Kayla.”

  “Fuck with Kayla and get the horns,” I say. “All four of them.” I then look at Scott and grin. “Four, right? Shauna normally does my math.”

  “Self-deprecating humor? That’s impressive, coming from you. But four’s right, Brad.”

  “Good.” I nod. “’Cause I’m pissed. And cowardly little bloggers won’t like me when I’m pissed.”

  Scott nods and pats my back. “Let’s go. We got work to do.”

  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 l
ater 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.