Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (13 page)

“Yeah…See ya.” Shrugging with defeat, he lumbers toward the bedroom door.

Once I hear my front door slam shut, I slide my jeans back off and collapse onto the bed. Under the watchful eyes of Brandon Taylor, I lean back against my headboard and bend up my knees. There’s a fire that’s been raging all night between my thighs. I slip my hand beneath my panties, and with the scarred finger I cut when I trashed the poster, I rub my clit vigorously. My eyes stay on the poster. Wetness seeps through the cotton crotch. My heartbeat accelerates and the T-shirt beneath my sweatshirt clings to my heated chest. I rub harder and faster. Oh God! Why can’t I come? Aren’t my magical hands good enough anymore? I feel pressure but no pleasure. Frustrated, I jump out of bed and scurry to my dresser. I yank open the top drawer and rummage through my underwear until I find it. The vibrator I bought at the Pleasure Chest. Sparky. It’s time to break it open. Frantically, I tear the plastic package apart.
Whoof!
I’m not prepared for the stench—it smells like a fifty-foot high pile of unwrapped condoms—and hurry back to my bed before it puts me into anaphylactic shock. Resuming my bent-knee position, I switch the stinky pink vibrator on and place it between my legs so the little rabbit’s ears stimulate my clit while I thrust the penis-shaped latex into my chasm. A loud buzz sounds in my ears. I feel like I’m at the dentist getting a cavity filled.

BUZZZZZZZ!
I hate the buzz! I hate the way the vibrator feels. The pathetic, ticklish rabbit feels nothing like the kneading of Brandon’s long magical fingers, and the vibrating latex penis thing inside me is no substitute for the exquisite sensation of his enormous, thrusting cock of velvet. I long to hear his savage grunts and groans while feeling the heat of his weight on top of me, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart, organ to organ. Yes, savor his magnificence deep inside of me. And then hear him roar my name as I break into an epic orgasm around his explosive rock-hard length.

Screw Sparky. He’s not creating any sparks. Instead of getting turned on, I’m getting turned off. In fact, I’m numb. Impetuously, I withdraw vibrator and hurl it at the
Kurt Kussler
poster. It narrowly misses and lands with a clunk on the floor. Oh, God!! Why won’t that awful buzzing stop? That rabbit’s like the fucking Energizer bunny. It keeps going and going and going. I clap my hands to my ears hoping to drown it out as a horrible reality hits me. Brandon Taylor has ruined me for all other men. For toys with benefits. And made me my own worst enemy. The unbearable ache between my legs returns with a vengeance as does the ache in my shredded heart.

“Fuck you, Brandon!” I shout at the
Kurt Kussler
poster, and then I cry myself to sleep.

Brandon

A
cab takes me back home. My head is still killing me. I should probably take another Advil, but instead I stagger to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a Scotch. I down the shot in one gulp and then pour myself another. Outside my house, I hear a car whip into the driveway. And then shortly, I hear the front door open and slam shut with a bang so loud it hurts my head. She storms into the living room, her spiky heels clickety-clacking and likely making dents on my wood floor. Fucking Katrina.

“Where the hell were you?” she barks.

Polishing off the Scotch, I turn to face her.

Her face scrunches in disgust. I’m not sure if it’s at the sight of me or because she’s simmering mad. I have my answer on her next blazing question.

“Why the fuck didn’t you pick up your phone? I called you a dozen times. Mommy was totally pissed off.”

Any other person in their right mind would say something like: “Oh my God! What happened to you? Are you okay?” upon seeing my mess of a face. While I haven’t yet taken a look at myself, the rawness of my skin and the excruciating pain behind my eyes are enough to clue me in that I look disastrous. A pang of sadness stabs me. For sure Zoey would care.

“Answer my question,” she hisses.

“I got into an accident. I didn’t know you called. I left my phone in my car.” Balls. It’s probably gotten towed. Something I’ll have to deal with tomorrow—all by myself since I once again don’t have an assistant. I’ll probably also have to file some kind of police report. My Zoey would have taken care of everything, including my pounding headache. Draining the Scotch, I pour myself yet another shot and chug it while Katrina rants on.

“Moron. And just look at you. We’re getting married in two days and you look like fricking Frankenstein.”

The truth: Compared to the way I must look, Frankenstein could be
People Magazine’s
“Sexiest Man Alive.” I rub my throbbing head. My headache’s getting worse, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my injury, the Scotch, or a combination of both—or maybe just breathing in toxic Katrina—but nausea is rising in my chest like a tidal wave. I feel sweat beads cluster on my face and my breathing grows uneven. Katrina is totally oblivious.

“Well, you should know, Mommy thinks we need more security. And she also came up with a last minute brilliant idea. Everyone’s going to have a jar of butterflies on their seats. After we say our vows, they’re going to release them. All those butterflies flying in the air will be so Cinderella-ish.”

Her words drift in one ear and out the other. I could give a flying fuck about butterflies. Right now, all I can think about is the horrific nauseous feeling that’s consuming me. I break into a cold sweat and my head starts spinning like a Disneyland teacup. I’m on the verge of throwing up. I need to get to a toilet fast! Except I’m so queasy I can’t take a step. I sway on my feet and clutch my stomach. And then BLECH! I wretch. Hot vomit pours out of my mouth like molten lava from a volcano and spreads like a puddle on the glistening floor. I hear Katrina shriek in disgust as I continue to puke my guts out. I puke until I can’t anymore and my throat is so sore it hurts to swallow. Holding on to the edge of the liquor cabinet, I straighten. Katrina glowers at me. The expression on her face is one of utter contempt.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, my voice a mere croak.

“Dammit, Brandon. If you’re coming down with something, I’m out of here. The last thing I need on my wedding day is to be sick.”

She pivots on her heel and stomps to the front door. I hear it open and slam shut, and then her car peels away. Shivering and dizzy, I sag down against the liquor cabinet until I’m crouched on the floor, my pool of vomit surrounding me. I bury my head between my knees to block out the odiferous smell and to soothe my monster headache along with my unyielding heartache.

All I want is Zoey. For her to be here to take care of me and to let me hold her.

My beloved mentor’s words swirl through my head.
Act with your heart. Lead your dreams and land them.

The next to last thing
I
need on my wedding day is to be sick. Sick with regret.

The very last thing I need is Katrina.

Zoey

I
t’s been a non-stop busy day with one demanding client after another. To top it off, I’ve had to act cheerful when inside my heart is splintering. Tomorrow, Brandon and Katrina are getting married. And the wedding of the century is going to be televised live on TV. It’s been the talk of the tabloids and the Internet as well as every news and gossip show on TV. There’s been a ton of speculation about the cost—with some saying as much as ten million dollars—as well as about Katrina’s dress, the celebrities attending, and Bratrina’s secret honeymoon destination. The massages and soft music do little to soothe my mind or my heart.

Just as I’m about to call it a day, Madelyn, the spa’s high-strung, bag of bones manager, comes bursting through the door. While Posh is known for its tranquility, she’s an exposed nerve. Behind her bony back, everyone calls her Madwoman.

“Zoey, you can’t leave. We have a VIP client who needs a massage. Her regular masseuse fell ill, so you have to step in. Of course, we’ll pay you overtime, and the client is a very generous tipper.”

With a shrug and a sigh, I say, “Fine.” I was so looking forward to going home and having a hot bath—my new form of relaxing. But what’s another hour. Or another dollar?

Madelyn flashes a smile. “Wonderful. I’m going to personally bring her back. Remember, she’s one of our very important clients.”

I set up the table, light a scented candle, and dim the lights. The soft relaxation music is still piping through the sound system.

Draping a clean sheet over the massage table, I hear Madelyn’s voice. “Zoey, this is our very special client…”

I spin around. Our eyes clash. Not Madwoman’s.

Rather, another mad woman far more evil…

“…Katrina Moore.” Madwoman’s voice drifts into my ears. “Be sure to give her extra special attention. She’s getting married tomorrow to Brandon Taylor, so she wants to look and feel her very best.”

Katrina smiles at me wickedly as she slips out her cell phone from the pocket of her spa robe.

“Enjoy your massage, Ms. Moore,” singsongs Madelyn before sauntering off. Smirking, Katrina makes a call.

“Hi, darling.”

My heart stutters. She’s called Brandon.

“What are you up to?” she purrs, drumming the pink rhinestone-studded case with one of her long manicured fingers.

“That’s wonderful. I’m just having a massage. And then I’m going home to get ready for our
wedding
rehearsal.” Thumbing her blinding ten-carat diamond engagement ring, she puts a special emphasis on the word “wedding,” flinging it at me like a dagger. “Love you too.”

Another dagger. How much pain can I take?

She ends the call and smugly gives me the once over. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Miss Fatty Pants. I’m glad to see you’ve found yourself a new job. That hideous uniform suits you well.”

Rage replaces the pain. My blood is curdling.
Nice to see you too, bitch.

“I’ll be right back,” I hiss, gritting my teeth. “In the meantime, please take off your robe and lie on the table face down.”

Before stepping out of the room, I heat up the oil in the warmer. I then make a quick bathroom run and return. Katrina is stretched out as instructed on the massage table. Her long, toned, bronzed body glows under the dim lights along with her lustrous platinum hair that’s piled high on her head. The thought of her lying in bed with Brandon sickens me. And tomorrow they will be husband and wife.

“What’s taking so long?” she snaps. “I’m ready.”

I’m ready too. Oh am I. In my massages classes, they taught us beauty equals pain. I’m about to put that equation into action. The massage oil is warm. Make that very warm. As in scorching hot. Taking a washcloth, I lift the bottle into my hand and careful not to burn myself, pour a generous amount on Katrina’s taut sculpted back.

Jolting, she yelps. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Whatever you put on me is burning my skin!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have overheated the oil.”
Hehehe!
“It’ll cool off in no time. How do you like your massages?”

“I like them hard. The way I like my men. By the way, I asked for a hot stone massage not a deep tissue one.”

“No problem.” I grab a couple of stones—the largest ones—from my supply counter and pour the cooled off oil on them until they turn a lustrous black.

One in each hand, I press them against her sublime flesh, making circling motions on her upper back.

“Harder,” she grunts.

She asked for it. She wants it hard. I’m going to give it to her just the way she likes it. An evil smile snakes across my lips.

I press the rocks deeper into her skin, and then as she moans with pleasure, I begin to pummel her. Harder and harder and harder. Her moans morph into shrieks.

“Oh my God!” She bolts up. “What are you doing, you bitch? You’re trying to kill me!”

“You told me you like it hard.”

“Fuck you, you jealous cunt! She jumps off the table and throws on her robe. “You’re going to pay for this! I’m going to get your fat ass fired.” Tying the belt, she storms out of the room.

I don’t give a shit. I hope I’ve left her with a lot of ugly bruises. Maybe her wedding gown or rehearsal dress is backless. She can show them off.