Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (4 page)

“No, No, No! Oh Brandon, my love! Take that back! Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me! You promised you’d love me forever!”

“I…will…love…you…” Each word is a harsh breath. “For—”

Impulsively, as he takes his last breath, I slam my lips onto his, and parting them, I breathe into his mouth. Aren’t kisses in fairy tales magical? The kisses of life?

In my ears, Katrina’s maniacal laugh reverberates. “You pathetic girl. Fairy tales don’t come true. Such stupid urban myths. There’s only an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. You took him away from me. And now, I’ve taken him away from you.” She laughs again, more maniacally and louder.

“You wicked bitch!” I sob out. The sequins of her dress blind me.

“You know what they say. Nice girls finish last. Time to say goodbye to your life, you fat slut!”

“NOOOOOOO!!!!” A deafening scream pours out of my mouth as she aims the sharp heel dripping with blood between my eyes. Gucci barks madly, but it’s too late…

Fade to black
. In a cold sweat, I blink my eyes open and try to take hold of my bearings. I’m dazed and confused. And sobbing.

“Are you okay, Ms. Hart?” comes an unfamiliar female voice before I can get a grip. How does she know my name?

Reality slaps me across the face at the realization of my real-life unhappily ever after. Still blubbering, I nod. I’m on a plane, heading back to LA. I must have fallen asleep and had a terrifying nightmare. Katrina took Brandon away from me. Destroyed my fairy tale dream. My waking life, however, is far more devastating. Brandon succumbed to her. He chose her over me. And he let me go. I’m bereft of both the job and the man I loved with all my heart and soul. Beautiful memories of Cannes do a slow, sad dance in my head until they’re abruptly curtailed by the email Brandon sent me. With my eidetic memory, I can see the cold-hearted words in my mind as if I’m reading them off a computer screen.
I have no
choice but to terminate your employment contract effective immediately
. He even threatened me with legal action should I ever talk to the media about him. I hit delete, but the bone-crushing words are permanently etched on my brain. I wish I could forget them. And forget him. Delete him from my mind. Rip him out of my heart. My soreness prevents me. I can still feel the sting of his lashes on my ass and the throb of my pussy with the hum of the plane. My clit aches as much as an open wound. I know these sensations will go away, but the ache in my heart will always stay. Brandon Taylor will always be unforgettable. My shoulders heave and my wails grow louder.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asks the flight attendant again, her eyes narrowing with concern. “Are you having some kind of episode?”

The word “episode” only upsets me further. I was supposed to be going to the red carpet screening of the last episode of
Kurt Kussler,
the season finale, with Brandon tonight. But now, he’ll be going with another. America’s stunning It Girl—his fiancée, Katrina. How could I have been so blind? So blind, so naïve, so stupid? I gave myself to him—my body, my heart, and my soul. And now all that remains is a pathetic skeleton of who I am. There’s nothing left in my life that matters. I fight back the nausea that rises to my empty chest and manage two little words: “I’m fine.” I’m so very far from fine it’s a joke. I choke back sobs against the giant lump in my throat.

The flight to Los Angeles is estimated at ten long, painful hours. My sobs lessen, but the tears continue to pour. The flight attendants pay special attention to me. There’s always a set of suspicious eyes on me as if I may be some kind of threat. I don’t eat a thing, but when I ask an attendant for some wine, she refuses to serve me any, saying it may not be good for me in my state of being. Soon afterward, another attendant sweeps down the aisle and gives me the evil eye. When I go the bathroom, one of them follows me and waits outside the door. I swear everyone’s acting like I’m bipolar or some kind of terrorist. I’m not. Can’t they tell I’m simply heartbroken? I’ve lost both my job and the man I love. I let myself be used. I fell for an act. Seeking an escape, I put on my headset and choose Celine Dion’s “Love Theme” from
Titanic
. No, my heart won’t go on. The tears multiply until I can cry no more. I close my eyes and let her beautiful voice lull me back to sleep.

Upon landing in Los Angeles, two flight attendants insist on accompanying me to baggage, and after I collect my one bag, an airport official helps me hail a cab. It’s pouring rain—something rare for LA. The gloomy weather is fitting. Sheltering me with an umbrella, the young Latino lands one quickly.

“Where to?” asks the craggy driver.

I give him Brandon’s address so I can pick up my car and my possessions. Though emotionally and physically drained, I’d better do it now with neither Brandon nor Katrina there. Due to the heavy rain and a few accidents along the way, it takes almost two hours to get to the Hollywood Hills. Numbness sets in during the long ride. And my cell phone dies. We finally reach Brandon’s private street. My chest tightens; my pulse quickens. The cab winds up the long, twisting road; flooded, it’s practically a river. I soak it in, knowing I’ll never drive up it again. As we pass the spot where Brandon had his accident, a pang of sadness stabs me and a dark cloud shrouds my heart.

When we arrive at Brandon’s gated property, I lower my window and reach out my hand to punch in the security code to let us in. The massive iron gate slides open. The driver pulls into the long driveway and stops in front of Brandon’s front door.

“Nice place you have here,” he says.

“Thanks,” I mumble, handing him my credit card. I take care of the exorbitant hundred-dollar fare, tipping him generously. Grateful, he kindly helps me carry my bag to the front door and then due to the rain, he runs back to his car and takes off. The cruel droplets pelt me as I run through the private entrance to the guesthouse. As the sky continues to cry, my eyes cry too.

Once inside, I don’t bother packing. All of Brandon’s furnishings are staying so all I need to take are my personal belongings. Soaking wet and teary-eyed, I hastily gather them up and throw everything into my Mini, making several trips. There’s only one thing remaining—my shattered
Kurt Kussler
poster. Chilled to the bone, I stare at it, and as my teeth chatter, the tears fall faster.

“I hate you, Brandon Taylor. Do you hear me? I hate you!” Marching up to the poster, I give it a hard, angry kick. To my astonishment, it resists further damage. It’s as if Kurt Kussler is invincible. Mocking me.
I can hurt you, but you can’t hurt me. Get it. Got it? Good.

Fuck it! Fuck him! The large poster, which won’t even fit in my tiny overstuffed car, is staying behind. It’ll be a house warming present for the bastard’s next unfortunate assistant.

Burning with rage, I peel out of the driveway. Ironically, I arrived at Brandon’s house in the pouring rain and now I’m leaving it in the pouring rain. As a rare lightning bolt flashes in the dark gray sky, that first fateful day flashes in my mind. The live wire of electricity that connected us when our fingertips touched is as vivid now as it was then. I fell for him hard and fast. I didn’t even think I could work for him without falling apart. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have. A painful knot of regret balls in my stomach. My aching heart clenches. Rage gives way to sorrow. The rain falls harder. My tears fall harder. Drenching me. I turn on my windshield wipers. If only I had a pair to swipe at my fast and furious tears. The electronic gate slides open and I tear through it, not looking back in my rear view mirror. As I whip down the hill, an afterthought about the poster hits me. Not about collecting it. But rather leaving it outside his gate for garbage collection. Too late. There’s no going back. My life with Brandon Taylor is over.

Between the rain and my tears, it takes all I have to concentrate on driving. The roads are slippery and flooded. For LA, a heavy rainfall is like a blizzard. Praying I won’t get into an accident, I drive straight to Pops and Auntie Jo’s, taking La Cienega rather than the freeway because I’m in no shape for speeding, lane-changing idiots. Bleary-eyed and shivering, I drive slowly. The thunderstorm mirrors the torrent of emotions raging inside me.

I make it there safely. Thank God, Auntie Jo’s home. One look at my tear-soaked face, she knows something’s wrong. She also knows I wasn’t supposed to be back from Cannes until the end of the week. At the front door, she gives me a hug. In her warm, comforting arms, my sopping wet body heaves sobs, the tears falling as fast and hard as the pellets of rain.

Brandon

T
hank God for my acting skills. It takes all I have to walk down the red carpet and flash a big smile at the hordes of paparazzi and spectators trying to get a shot of me. My heart is in my stomach. All I can think about is Zoey. She’s been on my mind all day. I counted down the minutes till she touched down in LA. I know from checking with American she landed safely at 10 a.m. West Coast time, but she hasn’t responded to my numerous phone calls, emails, and texts. I even tried her every which way before I left the hotel. And still no answer. I so badly need to talk to her, though I’m not quite sure what to say. Maybe I can, at least, woo her back to her job. Offer her double the salary and all kinds of perks. Who am I kidding? She won’t come back. Truthfully, I don’t think she’ll ever speak to me again. I fucked up. If only I hadn’t dozed off. I should have told her what went down with Katrina right away, but she fled before I had the chance. Now, I’m not sure if I’ll ever have the chance. As if it really matters. I can’t have Zoey. I’ve been trapped by the psychopath into a loveless marriage that I don’t know how to get out of. Believe me, Katrina made it loud and clear before we got here that she would expose her gash and tell the media I assaulted her if I made one wrong move—right on the red carpet before thousands of spectators if she had to. She’s got me by the balls. Every nerve’s on edge.

“Bratrina! Bratrina!” the crowd roars wildly. I wish they’d all shut up. Katrina, on the other hand, decked out in a sleek silver sheath, hangs like a piece of jewelry from my arm and is relishing every minute of the hoopla. Wearing long matching opera gloves that cover her bandaged arm, she waves to the crowd and blows kisses. Flashing her dazzling smile, my sicko fiancée gives the paparazzi everything they could hope for. The walk down the red carpet feels like an eternity. Along the way, a chill sweeps over me. While the weather in Cannes has been perfect up until now, the air is now brisk and damp. April showers are in the forecast and they could start tonight.

Click! Click! Click! Click
! Everywhere I look the flashes of cameras blind me. I’m sure photos of us will be plastered all over the Internet way before the screening ends. In fact, they could be up in mere minutes. A dark thought besieges me at the entrance to the theater. Shit. What if Zoey sees them? For sure, she’ll think Katrina and I are back together again and in love. My stomach bubbles with sudden panic. Though she must loathe me, that’s the last thing I want her to think. I’ve got to reach her before the photos go viral! But with the screening and Q&A session, that’s going to be next to impossible. I’m fucked every which way I turn.

While movies at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival usually screen at the stadium-sized Grand Théâtre Lumière, Conquest has set up a more intimate screening for five hundred broadcasters from around the world at a much smaller but elegant Art Deco theater in the center of town. The theater is jam-packed. A stunning blond usher, who could be a starlet herself, escorts us to the front row.

I take a seat next to Blake Burns and his wife Jennifer. They’re both wide-eyed with shock to see me with Katrina, who remains standing.

“Why, hello, Blake, darling!” breathes out Katrina, bending to give him a double cheek kiss. Visibly repulsed, Blake doesn’t stand up or return the favor.

“Where’s Zoey?” he asks me after Katrina and Jen exchange icy hellos.

Katrina shoots me a look that could kill. My skin heats under her scathing gaze. “Um, uh, she had to go back to LA. An emergency came up.”

Concern washes over Jen’s face. “Oh, Brandon, I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope everything’s all right.”

Nothing’s all right. I have the burning urge to blurt out everything, but Katrina’s a dangerous ticking time bomb. With a haughty fling of her platinum mane, she responds to Blake’s wife before I can.

“Jennifer, everything’s
perfectly
fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Smirking, she sits down next to me and clasps my hand for good measure. Her gloved fingers feel like fetters holding me prisoner. The rest of the
Kurt Kussler
cast, along with the series’ show runners, take their seats, sparing me from having to talk more about Zoey’s whereabouts. Perceiving her only as my assistant, they have no idea I planned on taking her to the red carpet premier of the
Kurt Kussler
season finale. Everyone’s here—my co-stars Kellie Fox, Jewel Starr, and Jibran Abdoo (the big-hearted French actor who plays my nefarious nemesis, The Locust) as well as Executive Producer Doug DeMille and Jewel’s husband, Director Niall Davies. Also sitting in the front row are Blake’s parents, who flew in earlier today—Saul Bernstein, the venerable head of Conquest Broadcasting, and his elegant wife, Helen.