Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (9 page)

Brandon

W
hy won’t she call me? Or text or email me? It’s been over a week. I know she must have gotten the poster. I called the precinct and Alma at the front desk told me that Pete was in the office when a messenger delivered it. A noble, thoughtful gesture. I even added a heart above my signature. In retrospect, maybe I fucked up. I should have written, I love you, but I was hoping she’d call and I could say those words to her on the phone. Scrunching her little panties in my hand and nursing a Scotch in the other, I sink further into despair. Slumped on the couch, I stare at my cell phone on my lap. I’m losing hope. Stupid fucking me.

I’ve been an utter basket case since Cannes. With
Kurt Kussler
on hiatus until July, I haven’t even had work to distract myself. While I should use the time to start on the outline of next season’s premier episode, I can’t get motivated. For all intents and purposes, Kurt Kussler is dead and I’m barely alive.

The last few weeks have been pure hell. If I could, I’d drink myself to oblivion, spend my days in bed, the covers over my head, and tune out the world. But I don’t have that luxury. Despite the show being on hiatus, I’ve been swamped with publicity engagements, including one talk show after another to promote the season finale as well as my upcoming televised wedding. Many of my bookings have been with sickening Katrina. I’ve had to put on a happy face, play the part of Prince Charming to her Cinderella, and tell the world how excited I am to marry her while dread swims in my stomach. I wonder if Zoey’s seen all the hype. It’s everywhere. Katrina is the sweetheart of the media. Long live Bratrina! If only they knew.

I miss Zoey terribly. Words cannot describe what I’m going through. I miss seeing her adorable face and hearing her raspy voice. I miss every curve of her body and the touch of her soft skin in my arms. Sadly, I don’t even have a photo of her. I looked online and couldn’t find one. She’s not on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, nor does she have a LinkedIn account. And when I call her cell phone, I get a message that her number is no longer in service. There’s been no way to reach her. I even went around Pete and tried both Chaz and her brother. They both refused to tell me her whereabouts or give me her new number. I told Jeffrey to tell his sister that I love her. He called me a douche (which I am) and then threatened to sic the gay mafia on me if I ever got within an inch of her. Chances for that are unlikely. It’s like she’s fallen off the planet.

I’m bereft. It’s like I’m in mourning. My big, sad, limp cock should be sheathed in a black sock. It’s still attached to my shredded heart by a fragile, tethered string. With Zoey forever gone, I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it up again. Or feel like a whole man.

And it’s not just her heart and body I long for. I desperately need her back at my beck and call. I haven’t been able to find anyone to replace her. I’ve been through new assistants like toilet paper. One right after another. They’re either trying to get into my pants or are totally incompetent. A bunch of useless bimbos. I’ve missed important meetings and have been late to others because not one has been able to maintain my hectic schedule like Zoey did. Even worse, all of my social media stuff is seriously backed up. I’ve got ten thousand unanswered emails from fans, an equal number of Facebook messages, and I can’t even begin to count the number of tweets I need to respond to. Or rather my assistant needs to reply to. It’s going to be next to impossible to catch up. I fired the latest bimbo this morning after she brought me the wrong size Starbucks. I think her name was Dawn. Or was it Fawn as in fawning all over me. I can’t even remember. Zoey is not only unforgettable. She’s irreplaceable.

“Brandon, why aren’t you ready?” Katrina’s grating voice breaks into my depressing mental ramblings. Draining my Scotch, I quickly tuck Zoey’s lace panties under the waistband of my sweats. No need to set the maniac off. We’re having cocktails at The Four Seasons with her mother and our mutual manager Scott along with the producer and director of her reality show to go over the final wedding details. The last thing I want to do. According to Enid, the headcount is now at fifteen hundred and RSVPs are still pouring in. The big event is just two short, miserable days away. I so badly want to call the whole thing off, but the psycho bitch’s threat looms. Though she acts as if nothing happened in Cannes, she slithers around me like a cobra ready to strike at any moment. The timing absolutely sucks. I owe Conquest Broadcasting my life almost as much as I owe it to my beloved Zoey. With the highly anticipated finale of
Kurt Kussler
airing on the Monday after the wedding, Blake Burns is one tightly wound up bundle of nerves. He fears Katrina is a loose stick of dynamite that can explode anytime, anywhere. And he’s right.

“Jesus, Brandon, can’t you answer a simple question?” Katrina’s voice grows snippier as she gets closer. “What the fuck is with you lately? You sure as hell better not be having second thoughts.”

“Just leave me alone, Katrina.”

“Aren’t we in a mood?” she snaps. Wearing her usual stilettos and a short halter-neck dress, she stops to admire herself in a mirror. Gucci, newly groomed for the wedding, catches sight of me and jumps out of her arms. He skedaddles onto the couch and cuddles next to me.

Not even the adorable pup can get me out of my funk. Nothing can. Not a swim. Not a hike. Not even a bottle of Scotch. I’m as depressed as I am stressed. Goddamn accident. Goddamn Katrina. My mind is confused; my cock is confused; and my heart is confused. I’m totally fucked up.

Katrina’s sharp voice breaks once more into my thoughts. “You should get yourself a massage.”

Ping. A light bulb turns on in my dark, muddled mind. Just like I’d seen them pictured in the Sunday funnies when I was a kid. I have a bright idea. For a change, Katrina’s right.

“Brandon,” she barks again, “let’s go for God’s sake.”

“Katrina, why don’t you head out? I have to make a few calls. I’ll catch up with you and your mother shortly.”

Gathering Gucci into her monstrous designer bag, she narrows her eyes and huffs. “Fine. Don’t be too late. Mommy hates tardiness.”

As soon as she leaves, I text my latest assistant with an assignment. After twenty frustrating minutes, she texts me back saying she’s had no luck.

Keep trying.

Can’t.

WTF?

I have a date with my girlfriend. See ya.

Jesus. I thought a gay assistant would be my answer. Someone who would have no interest in me physically and be willing to work 24/7. With rage blazing on my fingertips, I text her back.

YOU’RE FIRED!

To add insult to injury, she sends me a happy face emoticon. :)

Fuck. I’ve got to do things myself. Luck. After just one call, things are looking up.

Zoey

“T
hat was fucking amazing,” says my client, a paunchy fifty-something Hollywood type named Sheldon. His privates draped by a sheet, he sits up slowly and throws his hairy, veined legs over the edge of the table. Rolls of fat spread across his ungainly torso. The fragrant lavender body oil I’ve rubbed him down with has only minimized the stench of his perspiration. And his fart. Adjusting his tacky comb-over across his sweaty scalp, he leers at me hungrily with his lustful eyes.

“Sweetheart, did anyone ever tell you, you’re sexy?”

Only one man ever has ever had told me that. A beautiful man I’m trying hard to forget.

“No,” I sputter, my heart clenching at the memory of my time in Cannes with him. “I just want to eat you up alive, you sexy little beast,” Brandon said to me, holding me in his loving arms in the warm Mediterranean. Sheldon’s salacious voice cuts the heart-wrenching flashback short.

“Well, gorgeous, let me tell you, you are. Whatcha doin’ later?”

The gold wedding band on his ring finger has not been lost on me. Womanizing bastard! I bet he cheats on his wife all the time. She’s probably one of those blond, aging big-boobed types who hang around because of the extravagant lifestyle he offers and looks the other way. He disgusts me. Makes my skin crawl.

I scoff at him. “Sorry. I’ve got a date with my boyfriend.”

The sleazeball is hardly affected. He gives me a lecherous smile that I want to rip off his slimy face. “Maybe next time, sweetheart. And by the way, do you do private massages? You know…”

I
do
know. He wants me to give him a testicular massage and beat off his cock. I so badly want to tell him to get the hell out of here and never come back, but I bite down on my tongue and cut him off. “Sorry, I don’t do private appointments. If you don’t mind, would you kindly get dressed? I have to get ready for my next client.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re missing out on.” Eyeing me lasciviously, he hoists himself off the table and hands me a five-dollar bill. The fucker. He’s also a cheap bastard! I slip it into a pocket of my clinical white uniform and mumble thank you. While he gets dressed, I step out of the small windowless room and amble to a nearby sink area to wash my hands. Thank goodness, the soap is antibacterial. I squirt a generous amount on my palms and scrub them vigorously under the hottest water I can tolerate. It’s like I’m washing off cooties. If I had the time, I’d take a shower. Wash off every filthy ounce of him.

When I return to the massage room, he’s gone. Donning a pair of latex gloves, I remove the sheet on the table, throw it into the hamper, and then re-drape the table with a fresh, clean one for my next client. All I know is his name is Dick Long. He’s coming from another appointment—a scrub—so the aesthetician is walking him to me. I hope he’s not like my previous client. But with a name like Dick Long, I wonder. Being a masseuse comes with a few plusses and a whole lot more minuses. It can be both physically and mentally draining—so many clients blabber on about their issues as if I’m their shrink while others like Sheldon come on to me. It’s far from glamorous. Being cooped up in a small massage room all day is not my idea of fun. I don’t know how long I’ll last here, but for now it helps make ends meet and has let me continue with my acting classes, which I adore. In addition to learning so much, I’ve met a nice bunch of aspiring young actors like myself. There’s even one guy who I think is kind of cute in a Jonah Hill kind of way and who seems to have a crush on me. His name is Albert. He even asked me out on a date for tonight. And I said yes. Progress.

A tap at the door brings me back to the present. My next client is here. My last one for the evening—it was a last-minute appointment. Scurrying over to the door, I swing it open. My heart practically stops and my knees wobble. I’m going to vomit.

“Zoey, this is your next client…Dick Long. He’s booked for a two-hour deep tissue massage,” says my lovely Asian colleague Esther, who, though blind, possesses renowned, magical hands.

Padding off with taps of her long white cane that can’t drown out my frantic heartbeat, she leaves me alone with him. I can’t get my mouth to move. I’m in a state of shock. All the air has left my lungs. I could possibly swoon.

It’s Brandon. All six-feet two of his manly perfection. We’re face to face, a strangled breath apart.

“Hi,” he says softly, fidgeting with the belt of his long white spa robe.

A painful tangle of emotions assaults me. I blink my eyes several times, not sure if I’m going to burst into tears or explode with anger. Finally, I get my mouth to move and I do the latter.

“What are you doing here?”

“Zoey, I had to see you.” He attempts to put his hands on my shoulders, but I hastily shove them away.

“Don’t you dare touch me.”

His eyes flutter. He looks taken aback. “I need a massage.”

“How the hell did you find me?”

“It wasn’t easy. Your father wouldn’t tell me nor would your brother. But I had a hunch. So I had my new assistant call every spa and massage joint in town. And then
I
found you.”

“Then she’s doing a good job.” A sickening feeling fills my chest. I’ve been replaced. I was replaceable. Doormats are a dime a dozen.

“Actually, she didn’t work out.” His violet eyes burn into mine. “Zoey, I want you back.”

Tears threaten. “So you can use and abuse me again?”

“Zoey, I didn’t mean to—”

“Break my heart?” I hurl the words at him.

“I’ve come to apologize. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Oh, it was accidental? Maybe with your amnesia, you forgot people have feelings?”

“I do have feelings toward you.”

“You could have fooled me. You’re some actor.”

“I swear to God, Zoey, I wasn’t acting. Everything I said and did with you was real.”

My eyes begin to sting. Rage is rising. “You and Katrina are two delusional peas in a pod. You belong together.”

“I can’t leave her.” He pauses for a sharp breath. “It’s complicated.”

That word again. A sorry excuse for an explanation.

“I have no choice. If I don’t marry her on Saturday, she’s threatened to say some horrific things about me to the press that could have dire consequences.”

My blood boils. His words make me sure that all the things he did to me he’s done to her. “Don’t you have all your submissives sign confidentiality agreements?”