Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) Page 3

  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

  Thank 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 a
re 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.

  The theater filled, Blake runs up to the stage amidst thundering applause. He welcomes everyone and then, without further ado, tells the eager audience, “Relax and enjoy the exciting season finale of Kurt Kussler.” As he returns to his seat, the lights dim and the red velvet curtain rises. Butterflies swarm my stomach. This is the first time I’ll be viewing the completed episode with sound effects and music.

  The crowd enthusiastically applauds again when the opening credits roll on the big screen. “Get it! Got it? Good!” they shout out in unison with my gun-wielding character at the end. Goosebumps. Wow! I seriously didn’t know they were that into Kurt Kussler. I wonder if that’s what home viewers do each week when they tune into the show.

  Following my signature line, Kurt Kussler: Season 5 Finale Screener pops up on the screen followed by: Written by Brandon Taylor. At the sight of my name, the audience yet again breaks into raucous applause, complete with cheers and whistles. I’m at once humbled and blown away. Excited and nervous. My skin prickles. For the first time in my career, I’ve been credited as a writer. This episode was my idea. My dream. My reality. One small thing’s missing—a title. I still haven’t thought of one, and the ones that were bounced around in the writers’ room didn’t do it for me.

  Another onslaught of butterflies assaults my stomach as the special two-hour episode begins. Will they like it? Playing without commercials, it’ll run approximately ninety minutes. The theater is so quiet you can hear a pin drop. I swivel my head to check out the audience; even in the pitch-black theater, I can tell they’re spellbound. I return my attention to the screen, and I’m spellbound myself. The episode looks amazing. Our editing team has done such a great job, and the state-of-the-art sound system and big screen make it even more compelling to watch.

  Close to the conclusion, Katrina, who I’ve all but forgotten about, whispers in my ear. “Darling, I have to use the restroom.”

  “Fine,” I whisper back. “And don’t bother coming back,” I add silently.

  Letting go of my hand, she rises and exits. I’m glad to be rid of her. My eyes stay riveted on the big screen, and my stomach muscles clench. The romantic tension between Kurt and his assistant Mel is heating up. Something that’s always been there, and now at last, it’s coming to a climax. I wrote this scene so quickly it was as if the words were flying out of my brain. Or perhaps my heart. Emotionally, it’s hitting me so hard I’m not sure I can watch it. My chest tightens painfully. And then, BANG! It’s over! Loud gasps fill the theater along with audible sniffles and sobs from female audience members. The screen fades to black. The lights go back on while uproarious applause and chants of bravo bellow in my ears. I turn my head. Holy shit! A standing ovation! I’m overwhelmed. It’s almost as big a moment as winning the Golden Globe.

  Blake gives me a man hug. “Brandon, they fucking loved it! Congratulations, man!”

  My fellow cast members and the production team also congratulate me with exuberant embraces. I give a special hug to my co-star, Kellie Fox, whose extraordinary portrayal of Kurt’s impassioned assistant Mel contributed so much to the impact of this episode.

  “It’s Kellie’s night as much as mine,” I humbly tell everyone.

  “Oh, Brandon, the finale was wonderful! Totally heart-wrenching!” Blake’s teary-eyed wife Jen gushes before smacking my face with a kiss. “It’s really a shame Zoey couldn’t be here.”

  Her words hit me like a punch to my gut. My Zoey. Yes, she should have been here. That was my intention—to have my adorable assistant experience the episode with me. To show her what she means to me. My eyes flit to the vacant seat next to mine. Katrina’s still MIA, but I don’t give a damn. I’m glad she missed the gripping, emotionally charged climax. That scene belongs only to Zoey. She may be six thousand miles away, but deep in my soul, I’m sharing this triumphant moment with her. Maybe Katrina could steal her seat, but she can’t rob me of the place Zoey has in my heart. She’s the love of my life, even if I can’t have her anymore. My high gives way to the depths of despair. My heart aching, I call on my acting skills again to plaster a big smile on my face as I head up to the stage with Blake and the rest of the cast and crew for a short Q&A session. Chairs have been brought out for our comfort.

  Questions from the audience are tossed our way at a rapid fire pace. While some are directed at my co-stars and Executive Producer Doug DeMille, the majority of them are targeted to me. Several ushers with mikes in their hands dash around the audience to handle the queries. So many have their hands raised, eager to ask one. For sure, given our twenty-minute time frame, we won’t be able to get to all of them. A cocktail reception in the lobby awaits us and perhaps those who are not chosen can interact with us there. Personally, I just want to get the fuck out of here. I’m in no mood to schmooze. Wearing my tux, I play with my father’s lucky gold cufflinks and think of Zoey as the questions come hurling at me.

  Q: “Brandon, what was it like writing your first episode?”

  Me: “It was very challenging. But I was very inspired.”

  Q: “What inspired you?”

  Me: “The question should be: Who inspired me?”

  Q: “Okay, who inspired you?”

  Me: “Someone I love.”

  Q: Your fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

  My heart stammers and then I answer:

  Me: “No.”

  On my next agonizing breath, Katrina re-enters the theater and saunters back to her seat. All eyes are on the platinum-haired beauty. I avoid eye contact with her and am thankful the usher moves on to someone else before I have to answer the question—“Who?”

  Q: “Can we expect to see the rel
ationship between Kurt and Mel to flourish next season?”

  I hesitate.

  Me: “I’m not sure…”

  My voice trails off. My dark reality consumes me. Our relationship, if you can call it that, is already over. Zoey and I will never be. Words are trapped in my throat. Blake, to my relief, chimes in.

  Blake: “We’ll be focus-group testing the episode right after it airs to make sure we’re going in the right direction. But previous groups, with both men and women, loved the idea of Kurt hooking up with his assistant Mel.”

  Mumbles of approval sound in the theater.

  Blake: “We have time for just one more question.”

  An attractive, petite Asian woman is selected among the many who are zealously waving their hands and crying out: “Me, me, me, me!” Animated, she gives her best shot at English.

  Q: “Bwandon, I want to ask you a pawsonal question. You excited about upcoming mowage to Katwina, Amewica It Gawl?”

  Her question catches me off guard. Before I can say a word, Katrina leaps up from her seat and turns to face her. “Of course, he is. It’s going to be the wedding of the century. And please, if any of you would like to attend, just let me know. Mommy will send you an invitation. We’d love to have you. It’s going to be televised live—a special edition of my reality series. I’m sure you’ll all want to air the episode on your networks as well. It’s going to be a ratings blockbuster!”

  Mortification races through my bloodstream. Jesus. She’s already invited half the world to our wedding. And now the whole world may get a chance to watch it. My body wants to jump out of my skin, leap off the stage, and shout out, “Fuck you, Katrina!” End it right here, right now. Put the kibosh on Bratrina and follow my heart. But I know if I did that, all hell would break loose. The fucking psycho bitch would tell the world I assaulted her. Fling off her glove and the bandage beneath it to expose the damage I did. Then, show everyone the photos on her phone to prove it. God knows what else she would say or do. It would create a media frenzy. Without a doubt, kill the ratings of Kurt Kussler and destroy my career. “Brandon Taylor: It Girl Slayer.” Would Blake Burns, who knows she’s evil and demented, come to my rescue? The question really is: Could he? It doesn’t take a lot of soul-searching to figure out the answer. It’s simply no. The raving lunatic is out of control. Totally uncontrollable. Chances are anything Blake would say or do would come spitting back in his face. Possibly even destroy his career and marriage. That I’m caught between a rock and a hard place is the understatement of the century. Even if I once really loved Katrina and I doubt it, that can never be possible again after what she’s done. I will never forgive her nor will I feel for her what I feel for Zoey. I’ve always loved Zoey. But sadly, she will soon just be a memory in the vortex of my mind. Blake once shared his father’s words of wisdom with me. Some things are meant to be forgotten. Not Zoey. A sickening feeling sweeps over me. Amnesia comes with its benefits.