Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (12 page)

“Please sit back down.”

I do as bid, and so close to me, she holds my face between her frail, shaking hands. They’re icy cold and feel good on my fiery skin. Her warm breath heats my chilled bones. Our eyes lock.

“Mr. Taylor, you’re not here just for tea and sympathy.”

“Bella, I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.”

“What did I always tell you to do in my classes?”

The words whirl around my head. “Act with your heart.”

“Yes. And what else did I insist on you doing?”

The unforgettable, very first words of my mentor pour out of my mouth. “Don’t follow your dreams. Lead them and land them.”

“Yes. Do it, Brandon. Do it.”

A rush of love for this incredible woman surges inside me. Not like a gush of hot lava the way it used to, but more like a sprinkle of refreshing water wanting to give life to a withering rose. She’s still irresistible. My lips are about to touch down on hers when her caretaker reappears. The chinoiserie grandfather’s clock in the corner starts chiming.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, you must leave now. It’s Miss Stadler’s bedtime.”

I nod. Bella, still cupping my jaw, submits to my lips, and we both lose ourselves in a soft, tender kiss. Not the kiss of two lovers but rather of two souls connected forever. I know in my heart it’ll be our last. On the final, ninth chime of the clock, we break away. Her soulful eyes hold mine.

“I don’t have much time, Brandon. Make yourself happy. Make me proud.”

Zoey

I
was only half-lying to Brandon. I do have a boyfriend. Well, sort of. He’s someone from my acting class who’s been crushing on me. After we performed a scene from Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
in which he played Puck, the bumbling love fairy, to my lead of jilted heroine Hermia, he built up the courage to ask me to lunch at the Greek deli next door. And I said yes.

His name is Albert Schwimmer. Maybe because he’s on the chubby side, I can’t help thinking of
Fat Albert.
That cartoon series.

“Why did your parents name you Albert?” I asked right after our order was delivered to the table.

After biting into his overstuffed, greasy gyro sandwich, he responded, “They thought it would make me smart. Like Albert Einstein.”

I almost choked on my low-cal veggie burger. “That’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.”

He laughed back and then asked me out on a real date…

Tonight of all nights, right after my emotionally devastating encounter with Brandon. Sick to my stomach, I’ve thought about canceling it. Saying I have Ebola. Which, with the way I feel, is almost true. But after much deliberation, I decide not to. A new person in my life might be the best medicine to cure me of my real, potentially fatal disease. The disease that’s ravaging both my body and my heart. Brandonitis.

Still tasting him and wearing the intoxicating scent of him, I eschew a shower, unable to wash him away. I hastily throw on an outfit. Albert is taking me bowling at a nearby bowling alley in Hollywood. So jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt—my
Kurt Kussler
one—will suffice.

While I haven’t done it in ages, I love to bowl. Pops is in a league and he started me out at an early age. Bowling helped me funnel my anger toward Mama’s murderer. When I hurled that big ball down the long, narrow lane, I fantasized striking him down. It really helped me with my game.

At seven p.m. sharp, a horn honks outside my window. Taking a final glimpse of my pathetic self in the mirror, I trudge downstairs from my second-floor apartment. Albert’s gray Toyota Corolla is waiting for me outside. I hop in.

Bowling should be fun, but tonight it’s not and I’m off my game. Distracted, I can’t get my mind off Brandon. He totally unraveled me and reactivated every physical and emotional feeling I have for him. It was bad enough just seeing him, but when he kissed me, that’s all it took for me to succumb. The touch of his lips on mine melted me, turned every bone in my body into molten liquid. If he hadn’t pinned me against a wall, I would have crumbled. And then I let him ravish me on the massage table until somehow I found the strength inside me to make him stop before he made me fall apart again. It was bad enough putting the pieces of myself back together the first time and I knew I could never do it again. Yet, here I am once again, a total train wreck.

With a forceful swing, I hurl my last bowling ball down the glistening lane. My eyes stay fixed on it as it rolls smack down the middle at a dizzying speed.
KABOOM!
The ball rams into the pins, knocking all but one down.

While I wait for the ball to return, I narrow my eyes at the sole pin that’s standing at the very far right. The erect pin challenges me. And suddenly it has a face. Brandon’s! Fuck you, asshole! My purple bowling ball comes back to me. Curling my fingers into the three holes, I toss it down the alley with as much force as I can muster. My gaze never wavers from it as it speeds down the lane and knocks down the lone pin with a POW. A spare.

“Wow! You’re amazing!” says Albert. “You won! How’d you learn to bowl like that?”

One of Pops’s mottos comes to mind. “Practice makes perfect,” I say glumly as I realize my victory. Final score: One hundred fifty to Albert’s gutter-driven ninety.

I should be elated, but I’m not. My heart’s way heavier than my lucky ball.

After a quick bite—chilidogs which I barely touched—we’re back at my Beachwood Canyon apartment complex. Albert parks his car in front of it. We share a short awkward silence and then he breaks it.

“Can I come up?’ His bespectacled eyes stayed glued on me.

Another tense moment. After much deliberation, I say, “Sure.” Regret immediately sets in.

“Cool digs,” he says, taking in my small apartment five minutes later.

“It’s okay.” I shrug. “Want a glass of wine? Or a beer?”

“You got milk?”

Milk?
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.”

When I return to the living room with a glass of milk in hand, Albert’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s split. No such luck.

“Cool beans,” I hear him shout out. His voice is coming from my bedroom.

Upon entering it, my jaw drops to the floor. Fat Albert has taken off his pants and polo and is now clad only in his Superman briefs. A big red and yellow insignia “S” lines up with his cock while a major pair of love handles hangs over the waistband.

“Here’s your milk,” I say, keeping my eyes on his face as I hand it to him.

“Thanks.” He gulps it down and then sets the glass on my dresser. A white mustache lines his upper lip, and I can’t help but think of that famous ad campaign, “Got milk?” I wish I hadn’t.

He burps.

Still wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, he stares at my
Kurt Kussler
poster, which is leaning against the wall facing my bed. Like a kid in a candy store, drooling and in awe. A comforting thought. Maybe he’s gay, but then I remember men love Kurt. They long to be the devastating action hero.

“Wowee cowzowzee! You have a signed poster of
Kurt Kussler
!” Albert gushes. “How’d you get it?”

“I found it at a garage sale,” I lie.

“Lucky you! He’s amazing!”

“Yeah.” So
fucking
amazing.

“Do you watch the show?”

“Sometimes,” I stammer.

“I can’t wait to see the season finale. It’s going to be a killer.”

“Maybe I’ll try to catch it.” My lackluster voice masks the torrent of emotions coursing through me.

“Man, no one can act like Brandon Taylor.”

“No one can act like a bigger asshole than Brandon Taylor” is what I want to say, but instead I say he’s just okay.

“Just okay? C’mon. He’s fucking unbelievable. That dude could recite the phone book and win an award. I wish I could be as good as him.”

No one can be as good as him. Not only can he act better than anyone, he can also sing like a rock star. That unforgettable night in Cannes seeps into my brain. Dancing in his arms as he sang Mama’s favorite song. Pressing my fingertips to my temples, I try to make the memory disappear from my mind. It’s impossible. He’s unforgettable in every way.

“Are you okay?” asks Albert.

I nod. “Yeah. Just a bit of a headache. I had a hard day at work.” A
really
hard day. Avoiding eye contact with anything below his shoulders, I focus on my companion.

“Albert, you shouldn’t be so tough on yourself. You’re very talented.”

His eyes light up. “Really? You think so?”

“Yes. I’ve seen you in class. You’ve got great comedic timing.”

He grins. “I bet Brandon could do comedy. He can do everything.”

Yes, he could make me laugh as much as cry. And sometimes he made me laugh so hard I was crying. Like the time he couldn’t get his fly down with his sprained fingers and the night he made me sleep with him in my pajamas with little Gucci. All the fun, sexy moments we shared dance in my head—from our first sensual shower, both fully clothed, to that delicious bath in Cannes that ended it all. Albert’s nasal voice cuts into my beautiful but excruciating memories.

“Are you going to watch him get married to that reality star, Katrina Moore, this weekend?”

My heart clenches and my stomach churns. Their televised wedding is just two days away. I falter for an excuse. “Um, uh, no. I don’t own a TV.”

“You can watch it with me,” Albert says brightly.

“I-I don’t think so. I don’t like reality shows.” The truth: I can’t face the reality of Brandon marrying her. Or the pain. I inhale and exhale as if it’s my last breath.

“Albert, can we please change the subject?”

Albert leers at me. “Can we talk about your poonani?”

My poonani?
“Excuse me. What’s that?”

“You know. Your vagina.”

I gulp while he rubs his dick with his hand.

“Superman would really like to get to know it.”

Gah! He calls his cock Superman. My eyes shoot down. Maybe it’s super big though the bulge in his cotton briefs doesn’t suggest that.

Before I can say a word, he starts fondling me. His touch is nothing like Brandon’s. He’s touching me in all the wrong places, and he’s doing nothing to arouse me. I feign a moan. Acting 101.

“Zoey, you’re very appealing.” He lifts his glasses to the top of his head, and then his lips collide with mine like a bad car accident. Mentally, I wish I’d swerved off course or put my brakes on, but it’s too late.

Ugh! His slobbering kiss tastes of milk and hot chili, and it’s accompanied by snorts. He’s giving my face a full-on tongue bath with his drool. I want desperately to break away. Then rinse my mouth with mouthwash and spit it all out.

Deepening the kiss, his sharp teeth scrape along my teeth. Almost as bad as nails to a chalkboard, the grating sound gives me shivers and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s hurting me—not in a good way. Okay. Three words: Worst. Kiss. Ever.

And if that’s not bad enough, Superman comes flying out. I feel his dick poke against me. All measly five inches of a semi-hard curl. Undoing my jeans, he pulls them down along with my panties just below my hips and then attempts to shove Superman into my poo-poo-poo-poo…I can’t wrap my head around that word nor get my legs to spread. They’re super-glued together.

“C’mon, Zoey. Open up for Superman. Let me be your man of steel.”

He keeps nudging. But I’m not wet. And I can’t pry my legs apart. My wide-open eyes dart to Brandon’s poster. His intense violet eyes are on me, and I can practically hear him saying his words: “Get it. Got it? Good.” Nothing’s good. I can’t take this. Finally, I push Albert away. He stumbles, almost falling to the floor.

“Zoey, why’d you do that?”

“I’m s-sorry.”
I really am
.

He looks wounded. “You’re not attracted to me. You think I’m fat, right?”

I pull up my panties and jeans. “No, Albert. It’s not that. I mean, look at me. I’m hardly Miss America.”

His voice grows more despondent. “Is it because my pee-pee is small?”

“No, Albert. Your dick is just fine.”

“Then, what is it, Zoey?” he asks, sliding up his caped crusader briefs. “I thought you liked me.”

Setting his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, I run a hand through his bristly ginger hair. “Albert, I need to be honest with you. I just broke up with someone. It was very painful. It’s been a month. I thought I was ready for another relationship, but I’m not.”

He looks at me earnestly. “Then, maybe I can be a friend with benefits.”

I shake my head. “No, Albert. You can’t.”

His expression grows deflated; his voice wavers. “Just a friend?”

“Yeah. Just a friend. I’d like that.”

Albert’s face brightens. “Okay. Maybe it’ll blossom into something bigger. I’m a patient kind of guy.”

I shoot him a half-smile. “Maybe. But right now, I think you should put your pants back on and go home.”

Silently, he does as I ask him. My head stays bowed as he gets dressed.

“Night, Zoey.” He turns on his heel.

“Albert, wait.”

With a glimmer of hope, he steps up to me. I give him a small peck on his cheek.

“Thank you, Albert, for a very nice evening. I’ll see you in class next week.”