Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (16 page)

What!? Katrina fired me? Hacked into Brandon’s e-mail account and pretended to be him?

My fingertip sizzling with rage, I scroll back further. The lazy psycho bitch never erases her texts. After a few exchanges about the terms of her reality show deal—the greedy bitch wants $50,000 per episode!—my eyes grow as wide as saucers. My already rapidly beating heart accelerates.

Katrina:
Come over for a quickie.

Scott:
A little whipping?

Katrina:
I’m going to give it to you hard.

Scott:
I’m hard already.

I gasp. Oh my God! Scott and Katrina are having a sordid affair?

Frantically, I continue to scroll, my fingertip flicking the screen past a bunch of gobbledygook until another round of texts brings me to a sharp halt. They’re dated March 22, three days after my encounter with Scott and Donatelli at The Farmer’s Market.

Scott:
Some asshole detective may question you. Be careful.

Katrina:
Don’t worry. He questioned me ages ago.

My mind races. Scott must have been smart enough to delete all his texts with Katrina from his phone so my father wouldn’t see them. For sure, Pops would have issued a warrant for both his cell phone and computer to check for evidence. It’s standard operational procedure. He confiscated and checked Katrina’s phone as well but early on in his investigation of Brandon’s hit and run. I recall him telling me he didn’t find anything suspicious. Yes, there were numerous phone calls between her and Scott, but they couldn’t be construed as incriminating evidence since Scott is her manager and they likely talk all the time. My eyes stay focused on Scott’s last two words:
Be careful
. The detective in me wonders what they mean. With baited breath, I scroll back further and then this:

Katrina:
The fat bitch is getting in the way
.

Scott:
We need to get rid of her.

Rage whips through my bloodstream, then my heart thuds with trepidation. Scott’s words whirl around in my head like a tornado. Could they have possibly intended to kill me? After scrolling through more disgruntled texts about Katrina’s reality show contract, I come to yet another set that makes my eyes flutter and my heart practically jump out of my chest.

Katrina:
Worried. His memory is coming back. What if he remembers I hit
him?

Scott:
Relax. I have it covered. He won’t be able to prove a thing.

I gasp out loud. The phone shakes in my hand. My skin bristles. I can’t believe what I’ve just read.
Hit
…as in hit and run? It has to be. Katrina ran over Brandon!! She wanted to kill him? And now, she’s marrying him to get his money? And then run off with Scott?

Oh my God! It’s 5:30 pm. In just a half hour, they’ll be saying their vows live on TV. Panic pulses through me. Without wasting a second, I call Pops. Thank goodness, I know his cell phone number by heart. His phone rings and rings and rings. Shit. Since I’m using Katrina’s phone, he won’t know it’s me. Pick up! Pick up! My thudding heart’s in my throat. Come on, Pops! Please pick up! After the fifth ring, he does. Breathlessly, I tell him everything. The words fly out of my mouth. He listens intently and then says:

“Get dressed, Babycakes. We have a wedding to crash.”

Brandon

I
t’s a fucking spectacle. A circus. Hordes of fans and paparazzi surround us as our Cinderella-inspired horse and carriage heads down Doheny en route to The Four Seasons. Katrina, dressed in her five hundred thousand dollar gown that takes up most of the carriage, smiles brightly and waves to the crowd as if she’s royalty. Gucci, dressed in some frou-frou pink concoction, is on her lap and cocks his head at me, confounded. Butterflies swarm my stomach. I’m nervous as shit. The biggest moment of my life awaits me. I don’t know if I can pull it off. But, at least, I’m wearing my lucky cufflinks. The gold monogrammed ones that belonged to my father. As I fiddle with them, the memory of Zoey trying to put them on the night of the Golden Globes flashes into my head. Her incompetence was so adorable! When I look back, I loved her even then. The fond memory sparks a small smile, but it falls off my face as soon as we pull up to the entrance of the imposing hotel. My anxiety returns full force and crashes through me like an avalanche.

Shouts of “Bratrina” echo in my ears. The pumpkin-like carriage comes to a halt and, after we’re helped out of it, we’re whisked away by security. As we’re led to our holding quarters, I glimpse the sprawling garden where our ceremony is taking place. Hundreds and hundreds of guests are being escorted to their seats, and a production crew is running around attending to last minute details.

The holding quarters are no less frenetic. Hair and makeup people are scuttling about the spacious, elegantly appointed suite, putting finishing touches on the bridesmaids and groomsmen, all hired from Central Casting. Katrina’s mother Enid, dressed in a peach gown, is shouting into a walkie-talkie.

“Where the hell is the last groomsman?” Her brows furrow as much as Botox will allow them. “What!? I don’t care if he’s got pneumonia. Call Central Casting, you moron, and get someone over here NOW!”

She catches sight of us and her face brightens.

“Mommy!” exclaims Katrina, running over to hug her. “My special day is here at last!”

“Darling, you look absolutely divine. Monique’s dress is perfection.”

“I hope Daddy will see it on TV. It’s such a shame they wouldn’t let him out of prison for my special day.”

Enid rolls her eyes. “There’s a reason your father is behind bars. For all I care, he can rot in his cell.”

“Whatever. Talking about cells, I think I left my phone at the rehearsal last night. Did anyone turn it in?”

“No, darling, I’m sorry.”

Enid’s attention is thwarted. Another x-ray thin, chicly dressed woman with a tight black chignon and skin so taut it may crack joins them. After giving Katrina the once over, she fluffs out her poufy white gown. She must be the designer, Monique Hervé. She gives Enid a flirtatious wink before addressing her client.

“Katrina, my love, I want you and Brandon to take a photo with the
In Style
photographer. A picture’s worth a million bucks.”

Before I can blink, I’m posing with Bridezilla.

“I’d like to get a shot of the two of you kissing,” says the young female photographer who has us huddled side by side on an elegant loveseat. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap. With the width of her gown, there’s barely any space for me.

Katrina makes a face. “Absolutely not! I don’t want to mess up my lipstick, and besides, I’m the only one who belongs on the cover. A close-up.”

To my great relief, Katrina gets up, leaving me with The Gooch, and poses for the photographer. Blowing kisses. Swirling around in her voluminous gown. Flinging back her platinum locks that are held back by a diamond tiara and a mile-long tulle veil that trails along the carpet. While she continues to prance around the suite, the production staff mikes me up.

“We’re going to need some cutaways and sound bites,” says a jeans-clad AD from Katrina’s reality series as she hides a mike under the lapel of my tailcoat. A scraggly cameraman aims a handheld camera at me. I vaguely remember seeing him before in my hospital room when I woke up from my coma.

“Fine,” I mumble, responding to the AD.

“Just answer my questions, but make sure you repeat what I say. For example, if I ask you how do you feel…you respond by saying I feel blah, blah, blah, blah. And be sure to look into the camera.”

I nod. “Got it.”

“Great,” she says with a smile and then gets right into it. “Brandon, how do you feel about marrying America’s It Girl?”

“I feel very excited and nervous. This wedding is going to be unforgettable.”

“Are you marrying the girl of your dreams?”

I twitch a half smile. “I’m marrying the girl of my dreams.”

Before she can ask another question, Enid shouts into a megaphone. “Listen up, people. The procession is about to start. When I give you your marching orders, file out the door. Be sure to smile.” Her eyes dash around the expansive room and land on Scott.

My manager, the best man, is in a far corner, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His face pinched, he seems to be spewing some angry words at whoever is on the other end. A lit cigarette dangles from his other hand.

“Scott, put the phone away and get rid of that awful cigarette,” chides Enid. “You’re first. Let’s move it.”

Slipping the phone into the breast pocket of his tux, my manager takes one more inhale of his cigarette before tossing the butt to the floor and stamping it out. His left eye is twitching and a deep frown line is etched across his forehead. He seems on edge. Passing by me without as much as saying a word, he heads out the French doors to the garden. Blowing an air kiss to Enid, Monique, the maid of honor, follows him outside.

Enid does a headcount of the groomsmen, who all look like Ken dolls. Seething, she lifts her walkie-talkie to her pursed lips. “Where the hell is that replacement? What do you mean he’s stuck in traffic? You’re fired!” She hurls the handset across the room. “Screw it.”

“Groomsmen, move it!” she shouts out with a loud snap of her bony fingers. “Let’s go. Chop chop!”

My stomach tenses as I watch them file out the door.

The dozen blond, busty Barbie-lookalike bridesmaids are next. Followed by two professional children who have been hired to be the flower girl and ring bearer. Then it’s my turn. I can’t get my feet to move. It’s like they’re stuck in cement.

“Jesus, Brandon. Move it already!” Enid yells.

Katrina fires me a scathing look. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Taking a deep breath, I finally get up and amble toward the exit. Here goes nothing.

I take slow, hesitant steps down the flower-lined aisle as a harpist with an angelic voice performs “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” from Disney’s
Cinderella.
Inside, my heart is beating a hundred miles an hour. I call upon all the acting skills I have to act the part of the excited groom. My eyes dart left and right to meet the celebrity-filled crowd—a glittering blend of men in black tie and women in dazzling gowns and jewels. The Hollywood elite. There’s only one special person I’m searching for. My wishful heart’s only dream. She’s nowhere in sight. I do, however, spot the cast and crew of
Kurt Kussler
among the gazillion guests as well as Blake Burns and his wife Jennifer. They meet my gaze, and by the concern written on their faces, I know they sense my anxiety. Two cameramen flank me as I head up to the canopied altar, capturing my movements and expressions for the live televised event. The walk to the altar seems like an eternity. I just want this day to be over.

I join a very anxious Scott, beaming Monique, the plastic bridesmaids and groomsmen, the bickering children, and the craggy preacher, who looks to be an out-of-work actor in need of rehab, under an extravagant gazebo draped in tulle and a multitude of exotic white flowers. Several photographers and cameramen surround us, including one who is operating an overhead camera. As the orchestra starts playing “The Wedding March,” I turn to watch my Cinderella-bride stroll down the aisle arm in arm with her mother. In her free hand, she holds an extravagant bouquet along with a leash that’s attached to Gucci. The poor little dog seems freaked out. My bride, however, is enjoying every glorious minute and mugging for the cameras that follow her march down the aisle. I wonder if the real Cinderella—my beloved Zoey—is watching. That night after our James Bond marathon, she promised she’d be here, but I have no hope she’ll show. Why should she? My already rapid heartbeat speeds up as Katrina reaches the altar. While her mother steps to the side, she sidles up next to me. We turn to face the preacher. The scent of alcohol on his breath is so thick I can taste it.

“We are gathered here today…” His slurred words go in one ear and out the other. My brain is focused on only one thing. I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to! Every nerve in my body is buzzing with anxiety. Every muscle clenched. Before I know it, it’s vow time.

“Do you, Brandon Taylor, take Katrina Moore to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer or poorer, in sickness and um…
hiccup
…in health until death do you part?” Gucci growls at the drunken preacher.
Sic him!

I can feel Katrina’s eyes on me. In fact, the whole world’s eyes are on me. I draw in a sharp breath, and on the exhale, I ready myself to face Katrina and respond. My heart is hammering like a jackrabbit’s. I hesitate.

Katrina grows impatient and hisses, “Brandon, just answer his question. For God’s sake, how hard is it to say ‘yes’?”

One little word is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get my lips to move, a familiar gruff voice sounds in my ears.

“Katrina Moore…”

I spin around. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. And my heart practically stops.

Marching down the aisle are Pete and Zoey. My true princess! Pete is holding up his badge.

Zoey, looking totally ravishing in a body-hugging, ivory chiffon dress and matching stilettos, stays behind while her father steps up to the altar. Our eyes connect, sparks flying. My dormant cock is finally up for the wedding of the century.