Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) Page 6

  The classes also help me stop dwelling on my mother’s killer—Frank Donatelli. To my frustration, Pops’s investigation has been moving forward at a snail’s pace; the elusive Donatelli is nowhere to be found and clues to his whereabouts don’t abound. Though Brandon’s hit and run may be connected to Donatelli, I refrain from asking my father about the status of that investigation. All I know is that Pops’s colleague, Lieutenant Mancuso, is handling it.

  It doesn’t take long for me to realize I’ve discovered a passion. The acting workshops are intense, but I love them. They give me the chance to completely transform myself into another person and not hold back. I’m able to act out my emotions and be a master of my actions and words. While memorizing lines can be challenging, with my eidetic memory, it’s a piece of cake, much to the envy of my classmates. Both my peers and instructors think I have real talent. I’m humbled. Many want to know if I’ve had previous experience. I tell them I took a few acting classes after high school, but wasn’t serious. I don’t, however, tell a soul that I was Brandon Taylor’s personal assistant. No one needs to know.

  Nor do I tell anyone about my birthday. On Monday, May eleventh, exactly one month to the day that I fled from Brandon and Cannes, I turn twenty-five. I have no big plans. I’m just having dinner with Auntie Jo and Pops. Auntie has promised to make me my favorite meal—her delicious roast beef with mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. It’s been a while since I’ve had a real meal. Between work and my acting classes, I’ve been surviving on take-out and ramen noodles. You’d think I’d stuff myself to fill the emptiness I still feel so often, but it’s just the opposite. Heartache has decreased my appetite. If there’s one thing for which I can be beholden to Brandon, I’m the thinnest I’ve ever been in my adult life. I’m a size eight. Okay, a plus size by Hollywood standards but a dream size for me.

  After a stimulating acting class in the morning and my last massage client in the early evening, I head over to Pops and Jo’s house in Culver City. With the ridiculous rush hour traffic, it’s almost an hour drive. I flip on the radio and my heart fists.

  “Unforgettable”—the Nat and Natalie version—is playing. A torrent of emotions hits me as tears trickle down my cheeks. I think of Mama. I think of him. To make matters even worse, I pass a gigantic billboard promoting the season finale of Kurt Kussler with a three dimensional Brandon aiming his gun. On the other side of the street is one of Katrina, practically naked and clutching Gucci, promoting her live televised wedding to Brandon at the end of the month. I’m so emotionally distraught I run a red light and narrowly miss being hit by another car. An angry horn blasts in my ears as I pull over to catch my breath. Trembling and teary-eyed, I turn off the radio. But I can’t turn off my emotions. I can’t fucking forget him. I can hardly breathe.

  Despite my unstable condition, I manage to make it to my parents’ house. After parking on the street, I ring the doorbell. The front door swings open and a loud “Surprise! Happy Birthday!” resounds in my ears. My jaw crashes to the floor. Oh my God! Jeffrey and Chaz are here too! I thought they both were away on business—Jeffrey in San Francisco for a billionaire’s son’s bar mitzvah and his fashion designer fiancé Chaz in D.C. for a trunk show, but they’ve both flown in for my birthday. And to top things off, my event-planner brother has decked out the house with Mylar balloons and a glittery disco ball for my silver birthday. Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday” blasts on the stereo system as I run up to give them each a big hug. The frown I was wearing earlier is replaced by a smile. I love them both. They’ve been so instrumental in my healing process. They loathe Brandon as much as I do, calling him every pejorative name in the book of gay insults, from douchebag to bitch.

  I’m simply wowed. The dining room table is spectacular, draped with shimmering silver fabric upon which exotic white flowers in tall silver vases and silver candleholders are artfully arranged. We all take a seat. Just Pops is missing.

  “Where’s Pops?” I ask Jo, looking her way with admiration. God bless her. After telling her about the Brandon affair, she swore off Kurt Kussler, which was a huge, selfless sacrifice, considering how much she loved the series, especially this season’s episodes. So looking forward to the season finale, she even donated her signed DVD collection and photo to Out of the Closet, a local charitable thrift store. The bottom line: she wants nothing to do with the man who broke my heart.

  Before she can respond to my question, I hear a car pull into the driveway.

  Jo smiles. “That must be him now.”

  Two minutes later, Pops, still wearing his ubiquitous trench coat, joins us. He’s carrying a huge flat carton. It must measure four feet by six.

  “What’s that?” I ask him as he sets it down against a wall.

  He plunks down in the vacant chair at the head of the table. “It’s something for you. It came to my office today.”

  I knit my brows. “Who’s it from?”

  Draping his coat on the back of the chair, he shrugs his shoulders. “No idea. There’s no return address.”

  “Open it! Open it!” singsongs Jeffrey who loves surprises.

  “Maybe it’s from a secret admirer,” chimes in Chaz.

  I let out a little laugh. “I don’t think so.” There is one guy in my acting classes who seems to like me, but he has no clue today’s my birthday. Nor does he know where Pops works.

  “C’mon, Zoester, open it!” urges my impatient brother.

  “Okay, okay.” With my sharp meat knife in hand, I amble over to the huge package and slice through the center seam with the blade’s serrated edge. The hissing sound of the splitting cardboard gives me goosebumps. With the long slit I’ve made in the box, I’m able to peek inside. My eyes grow wide and my breath hitches in my throat. I’m totally taken aback.

  Oh my God! It’s the Kurt Kussler poster I left behind at Brandon’s place. Except now it’s in a brand new frame with glass and it’s signed.

  ♥

  Brandon Taylor

  My emotions teeter between rage and anguish, the latter winning by a landslide. Bile rises in my throat.

  The fucking, fucking egotistical bastard. How could he do this? Torture me, make me suffer on my birthday? Though it was on my resumé, he never acknowledged it before. In fact, he made me work straight through it. The fucker. The sadistic fucker. How dare he put himself in my face? My lungs constricting, I blink back traitorous tears.

  Jo’s sweet voice intercepts my emotional turmoil. “Honey, what is it?”

  Her query can read two ways. What’s inside the box? Or what’s going on inside me? I opt for the former interpretation.

  “Um…it’s just a poster I ordered from Crate & Barrel for my new apartment,” I stutter. “I-I had it sent to Pops’s office just in case I wasn’t home.”

  “Ooh! I want to see it,” croons Jeffrey.

  “Yeah. C’mon, show and tell,” coos Chaz.

  I meet Pops’s discerning gaze. His keen mind can cut through bullshit like a knife. He knows I’m lying up my ass.

  “Um, uh, I’d like to keep it in the box. I don’t want it to get messed up in my car.”

  Jeffrey and Chaz shout “Boo” in unison. Jo unknowingly comes to the rescue.

  “C’mon boys, behave. Leave Zoey alone. You’ll see it when she hangs it up in her new apartment. And by the way, you must see it. It’s really quite charming.”

  I quirk a fake smile. Inside, I’m falling apart into a million little pieces.

  As I stumble back to my seat, Jo excuses herself to serve dinner.

  Nausea washes over me. My appetite gone, I pick at my food. And when Auntie Jo brings the extravagant homemade buttercream cake to the table after the main course, I barely have the strength to blow out the twenty-five sparkling candles plus the one for good luck. The loudly sung words of “Happy Birthday” drift into my ears.

  The day Mama died was the unhappiest birthday of my life. Despite thoughtful presents from my family, including a month’s worth of acting le
ssons from Pops and Auntie Jo to supplement my scholarship and a gorgeous ivory spaghetti-strap dress from fashion designer Chaz, this is a close second.

  My heart splintering, I make a wish. Despite the good luck candle, I know it won’t come true.

  Brandon

  Why 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

  “That 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.