Unforgettable Read online

  The truth. Well, almost. “I need a job, and you pay me decently, plus you give me room and board along with a car allowance. It sure as hell beats being holed up in a dark, claustrophobic massage room.” I add in one other reason. “And despite what you may be thinking, I actually really like my job.” And could look at you all day long.

  He studies me. I can feel his eyes raking over my body.

  “How old are you?”

  I think that question is banned by some equal opportunity employment act, but I tell him anyway. “Twenty-four.”

  “Have I ever fucked you?”

  What? That out-of-the-blue question takes me aback. Every muscle in my plus-size body tenses while my ovaries do a somersault. I somehow manage not to fall off my stool and find my voice.

  “Your cock is the one thing I don’t handle.” I rebound nicely. “Unless you count all the times I’ve booked a hotel room for you and your hook-ups.” And dreamed about it.

  My eyes flick to the bulge between his legs and then quickly return to his pensive face. I feel myself flush and my awareness only heightens the sensation.

  “Do I share my social life with you?”

  “Uh…no. I just know what I read online and in gossip magazines.”

  A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

  At her name, my blood curdles and my chest clenches. I gulp my bottled water and swallow it over the rising lump in my throat.

  “I’ve met her a couple times,” I stammer. Two times too many. The second encounter flashes into my mind—at the hospital after Brandon came out of surgery. The bitch was with Scott and she told me three was a crowd. Especially with a heifer like me. Her insult stung me, and if the tears from Brandon’s life-or-death condition weren’t enough, I shed another round and fled. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. It was just too much.

  Brandon’s voice hurls me out of the painful memory. “What do you think of her?”

  Mama always told me if you have nothing nice to say don’t say it all. But growing up with my uncle and his family, I learned to speak my mind. So, this is hard. I take a deep breath. “She’s okay.” Fucking stuck up bitch. I hate her guts! “I guess I owe you a congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Brandon’s voice is distant. He polishes off his Scotch, and I take a last sip of the water. A blue feeling washes over me.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to settle back into my quarters. I’ll have your Starbucks for you first thing in the morning—right after your swim.”

  “I like to swim in the morning?”

  “You never miss a day.”

  “That’s good to know. Can I help you with your bags?”

  Well, that’s a first. It’s just a simple roller bag that’s in the trunk of my car, so I politely decline.

  Brandon’s eyes stay on me as I hop off the stool. “Good night, Zoey. I hope you can help me piece together the last ten years of my life.”

  Silently, I pray and hope they include me.

  Zoey

  It’s good to be back home. Three weeks at that new age spa was unbearable. It was closer to being in prison. Cell phone and computer usage was banned, and even if you managed to sneak some time with your devices, there was no cellular or Internet access. I bunked in a small room no bigger than a jail cell, and there was no air conditioning in the hundred-degree desert heat. And I’m the kind of person who’s always hot to begin with. I almost died doing hot yoga. I couldn’t even cool off in the pool since I’m not a swimmer. And don’t get me started on the food. The food Nazis forced me to do a cleanse. All I ate—or should I say drank—was vile-tasting green juice that looked like Nickelodeon slime. I learned a new four-letter word. KALE. I hate the way it tastes and hope I never see another one of those monster-ugly leaves ever again. Ugh! Cabbage with a bad perm.

  Next to my “spa” accommodations, the furnished guesthouse I reside in is a palace. It sits on the edge of Brandon’s property just off the pool. With a bedroom, living room, and kitchenette, it’s small but functional. Mimicking Brandon’s main residence, the contemporary furniture is high-end Italian stuff—not exactly my taste, which leans toward funky, but I can’t complain since I live here rent-free. Plus, the multiple windows offer a view of the city that so many would kill for. On a clear day, I can see all the way to the ocean. As I stash away my garments, the sky darkens and the timed lights of the city kiss it a gentle goodnight. Twinkling like stars, they never cease to amaze me.

  Just as I unpack my last bra, my cell phone pings. Sure enough. It’s a text from the slave driver. I haven’t been back for more than ten minutes and he’s already bugging me. So much for wishful thinking. Nope. Nothing’s changed. Scrunching my face, I read it.

  I’m hungry. Pick up a burger and fries.

  Fucking great. I was looking forward to curling up in bed and watching some TV before getting some work done, but now I have to run out to service his majesty. And it’s not like I can just go down the hill to close-by McDonald’s. Mr. Taylor is very particular about his burgers—and in fact, just about everything. The only burgers he’ll eat are from In-N-Out, so I have to schlep all the way down Sunset in rush hour traffic to get him what his heart desires. But wait! Maybe he doesn’t remember what he likes and I can go to McDonald’s. I almost give in to temptation but in the end decide weathering his bad temper isn’t worth it.

  If battling the insane traffic is not enough, the drive-thru line at In-N-Out is thirty cars deep. Moving at the speed of a slow freight train, it takes me forty long minutes to get my order, and by the time I get to the pick-up window, I’m famished. I ask for another cheeseburger with everything on it but then change my mind. Thanks to the spa, I’ve lost some weight (the one and only benefit), and I’m determined to keep it off. So instead, I force myself to order a Protein Burger—a measly hamburger that’s wrapped up in a lettuce leaf and not sandwiched between one of those delicious toasted buns. My stomach rumbles. Trying to be thin sucks.

  “What took you so long?” snaps Brandon as I strut into his living room. Now wearing perfectly ripped jeans and a white tee, he’s sitting on the couch fiddling with the remote.

  “Can you show a little appreciation, please?” I snap back at him before handing him the bag with his burger and fries. “I got you a cheeseburger exactly how you like it with ketchup and grilled onions.”

  Without thanking me, he reaches into the bag. I watch his toned biceps flex as he bites into his burger.

  Bite me, asshole.

  With my burger bag in hand, I march off.

  “Where are you going?” he asks before I’ve taken two steps.

  “To my living quarters. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my dinner in solitude.” And in peace and quiet.

  He grabs a couple of fries. “That’s not going to work. We need to make this a working meal. I have a lot of catching up to do. Now take a seat.”

  “Are you going to pay me overtime?”

  “Yes.” His voice borders on a growl. “Now, please take a seat.”

  Well, at least he said please. I search for a good place to sit, the farther away from him the better. I head toward a corner chair. His voice stops me in my tracks.

  “No. I want you to sit next to me. There’s a lot to go over.”

  Grrr. Reluctantly, I meander back to the couch and plop down on the leather cushion beside him, curling up in a cross-legged position. He stretches his long legs out on the coffee table in front of us. My knee brushes against his rock-hard thigh and my eyes glimpse the sizeable package between his legs. It’s quite a chunk of meat. My hunger consumes me. I take a bite of my pathetic burger.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” I ask after swallowing. The Protein Burger isn’t as bad as I thought. It’s pretty juicy.

  “I thought we’d screen some episodes of my show, mainly from this past season.”

  My insides light up. I love Kurt Kussler and could totally bi
nge on it. I’ve been watching the series since the day it premiered. I’ve seen every episode a dozen times and, with my crazy memory, know many of them by heart. When I found out from the job recruiter that I’d be working for the superstar, I practically drove my car off a cliff. I should have. Little did I know at the time what I had in store.

  “Sure,” I say casually, masking my excitement as he presses the remote with one of his long tapered fingers. Just like the rest of him, his hands are beautiful, sculpted works of art. The action-packed opening credit sequence set to the pulsing theme song instantly plays on the built-in big screen TV. A fast-paced montage of memorable clips culled from various episodes, each ending with Kurt in a sexy pose. Kurt Kussler is hot. So scorching hot. My heartbeat speeds up and a heat wave melts my entire being. I feel like the deconstructing Wicked Witch of the West. All hot molten liquid.

  Brandon presses a button on the remote and the opening credits speed up.

  “What are you doing?” I yell.

  “Fast forwarding. We don’t need to waste time.”

  “Stop! I love the opening credits.” I snatch the remote from him and slow down the credits to normal speed just in time to see Kurt do his signature line at the end. Lunging, he aims his big gun straight ahead and says:

  “Get it. Got it? Good.” I say the words with him.

  Brandon gives me an odd look as Kurt pulls the trigger and a loud BOOM! fills the room. I gasp. There’s something about Kurt holding that big gun and looking directly into the camera with those fierce violet eyes that makes my heart ricochet out of my chest every time.

  “Are you okay?” asks my companion.

  Is it that obvious I’m totally in love with Kurt Kussler? Just like every woman in the world. “Yes,” I pant out and then chomp into my burger to satisfy my carnal craving.

  “Have some fries,” he orders after I gulp it down. He holds out the bag.

  Without losing eye contact with the TV, I lose my willpower and dig in. God, they’re good. Crispy and lightly salted. Worth every sinful calorie.

  The opening credits segue right into the episode. Holy moly! It’s one of my favorites. The one in which Kurt doesn’t know he’s standing right next to The Locust, Alisha’s killer.

  Every inch of me clenches while my eyes stay glued to the TV. Oh God! The way he swaggers in those tight jeans! Snarls his lush lips! Smolders his violet eyes! Every word that comes out of Kurt’s mouth sets my body on fire. The suspense is killing me. I gasp when the disguised assassin almost runs him off a cliff. Kurt can’t die! And then toward the end, up comes my favorite scene of all—a flashback to Kurt and Alisha’s nuptials. The perfect church wedding, the beautiful, happy couple surrounded by loved ones. My heart pounds madly. I just hope the sound of the TV drowns it out so Brandon doesn’t hear it. I glance at him. He’s into it as much as I am. I can tell by the intense, unblinking expression on his face. I return my attention to the TV. Thanks to my eidetic memory, I know every line.

  The Pastor: “Do you, Kurt Kussler, promise to love and cherish this woman for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

  Kurt: “I do, sir. I will love, cherish, and protect her forever.”

  Oh my God! The passion in his sultry voice! The love and lust in his eyes!

  The pastor asks Alisha the same question. She holds Kurt in her impassioned gaze, whispers her vow, and finally says, “until death do us part.”

  I softly say the words with her. Tears well up in my eyes. Knowing the cruel fate that awaits Alisha, her vow gets me every single time. By the time they embrace (oh, what a kiss!), tears are streaming down my cheeks and I’m heaving.

  Brandon turns to me. “Jeez Louise. What’s the matter?”

  My tear-stained lips are quivering. Words are trapped in my throat. Snot is dripping from my nose. I’m a blubbering mess.

  Finally, I get my mouth to move. “It’s so sad. I can’t take it,” I splutter as the show fades to black and the closing credits come on. “He’s going to lose her!”

  Brandon turns the TV off and hands me a paper napkin. “Here. Blow your nose.”

  I gratefully take the napkin from him and put it to my face. I honk into it.

  “Thanks,” I stammer, totally embarrassed.

  “It’s just make-believe.”

  I sniff. “I know, but still…”

  Brandon’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You like my show?”

  Duh! “I love it! I love you!” Gah! “I mean, I love Kurt Kussler.”

  His brows lift. “Really?”

  “Totally,” I say convincingly, moving past my slip-up.

  “What makes him appealing?”

  He seriously doesn’t know? He must have major brain damage. “Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, my tears subsiding.

  He draws in a sharp breath. “With this damn amnesia, nothing’s obvious.”

  Obviously. So, I tell him.

  “First of all, he’s sexy as sin—”

  He cuts me off. “You think I’m sexy—”

  I cut him off. His pending question unnerves me. “No!” Big fat liar. “Kurt’s sexy as sin.”

  The conceited egomaniac looks a little deflated. “What makes him sexy?”

  “He may think with his cock like most men, but he’s ruled by his heart.”

  Clueless Brandon screws up his face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “He’s damaged but so passionate. I mean, just look at his abiding love for his wife, Alisha. He won’t stop until he finds her killer.”

  Brandon is all ears, listening intently. I continue.

  “Every woman wants a Kurt Kussler to love, protect, and cherish her.”

  “Yes, don’t we all.” A sardonic breathy voice enters the room. I look up. My stomach churns. It’s Katrina. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees as the willowy blonde stomps toward us in her gazillion dollar stilettos.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Miss Chubster.”

  My boiling blood heats my skin. “Hi. Nice to see you again too.”

  I remember the first time I met her. I thought she was here for a business meeting with Brandon and Scott. She acted like I was invisible and then had the nerve to tell me to take her Mercedes for a car wash. As if I were her servant. I told her to take a hike—no pun intended—and pissed her off royally. Until I started seeing pictures of them together online and in various tabloids, I had no idea they were romantically involved. And truthfully, knowing Brandon’s reputation as a player, I thought it was just another casual hook-up. His latest conquest. You can only imagine my shock when I learned of their engagement—the news broke just hours after Brandon’s horrible accident. It was bad enough that the gorgeous man I worshipped was lying in a coma but then to find out he was engaged sent my emotions into a tailspin. I cried for hours, knowing that even if he lived, I was losing him to America’s It Girl.

  Fraught with jealousy and loathing, I meet her predatory gaze.

  She smirks and then snubs me. “Brandy-Poo, are you ready to go out with Mommy and me?”

  Brandon’s eyes blink several times. “What are you talking about?”

  “Seriously, don’t you know we have a reservation at The Ivy to go over wedding plans? We made it weeks ago.”

  Brandon looks perplexed. “I’m sorry. It’s one of those things I don’t remember.” He turns to me. “Zoey, did you write it down somewhere or put it on my calendar?”

  “This is the first time I’m hearing about it.”

  “Maybe, I forgot to tell her,” mumbles Brandon in my defense.

  Katrina huffs. “Honestly, darling, you really should look into getting a competent assistant. This one’s a bigger waste of space than the space she occupies.”

  I’m seething. Bitch! I bite back my tongue. Katrina again ignores me and plants a kiss on Brandon’s forehead.

  “Well, darling, don’t just sit there. Throw on a jacket. I don’t want to keep Mommy waiting.”

 
Slowly, Brandon stands up. His eyes penetrate mine. “Set some time in my schedule to review more episodes tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I murmur. I stay seated while Brandon dons an outrageously sexy leather bomber jacket. It’s just what Kurt Kussler would wear.

  Emptiness fills me as I watch Katrina shuffle Brandon out of the house. And then a wicked thought brightens my spirits. Maybe the bitch and the asshole deserve each other. My moment of satisfaction is fleeting. Who am I kidding? I wish it were me.

  Brandon

  Located on nearby trendy Robertson, The Ivy is a bustling but charming restaurant that feels more like an eclectic cottage with its vintage floral décor and jugs of colorful fresh roses on every table. According to my fiancée, this is one of our favorite places to “see and be seen.” It’s a popular LA hangout with A-list celebrities, agents, and other movers and shakers. I, of course, don’t remember ever being here.

  Katrina’s mother is already seated at a corner table in the front room. Upon sighting us, she waves a bony hand, the other curled around the base of a fluted glass. Holding my hand, chicly dressed Katrina leads me with long strides in her direction. All eyes on us, whispers of Bratrina stir the air.

  Katrina rounds the table and gives her equally chic mother a double-cheek kiss. “Hello, Mommy.”

  “Darling, I’m so glad you could make it, and of course, this must be Brandon.” Enid formally introduces herself and extends her hand.

  I assume we’ve never met and shake it, careful not to crush it. I help Katrina into a chair across from her mother and then I slip into the one next to hers. Enid is effervescent.

  “I hope you don’t mind¸ but I ordered a bottle of champagne. Cristal, only the finest. I thought we’d start off the evening with a toast.”

  Like mother, like daughter. “Sure,” I say, studying her cosmetically enhanced face. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her skin so taut it may split into puzzle pieces.

  “Wonderful.” She raises her glass and we follow suit. “To the most unforgettable wedding ever!”