Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2)

by Nelle L'Amour

  “Scott, why are you here?” Though he’s been my long-time manager, my relationship with him since I awoke from my coma has been on shaky ground. I don’t like the fact he’s shown up here uninvited.

  He takes another drag of his cigarette. “I have something to ask you.”

  “I want to ask you something first.”

  His face tenses. “I thought we were done with that Farmer’s Market incident. And I’m going to level with you. I don’t like the smell of that cop on my trail. What’s his fucking problem?”

  You. But I keep my mouth shut. Pete’s instructed both Zoey and me to not talk about it with him or make any mention of the fact that we know he lied when he told me he called in my accident. I tell him I don’t know why he’s being investigated and assure him my query has nothing to do with the incident. I brave my question.

  “Did I ever share anything about my sex life with Katrina before my accident?”

  “You told me it was off the charts hot. And Katrina told me the same thing. You two were going at it like bunnies.”

  I don’t know whether to believe him. Since discovering he lied to me about my accident, I can’t trust him. All is not what it seems.

  “Have I always been honest with you?”

  “You’ve never held back.” He takes another puff and then flicks the ashes on the patio. Fucking slob. I should get him an ashtray, but by the time I get back, there’ll be a mountain of ashes. No point.

  “Was there anything else she or I told you? Anything unusual?”

  He puffs again on his cigarette. “Other than she likes to be on top?”

  I’m getting nowhere with him. It’s strange he knows what she likes but has no clue about my kinkiness. I’m definitely not going to tell him about it. Or that I’ve been having wild sex dreams about my assistant. Even when I’m not dreaming about her, I fantasize about spreading her legs and bending her over. Making her come a thousand different ways and hearing her scream out my name. Oh, that pretty mouth. So beautiful when it opens wide. Wide enough for me. In my mind’s eye, I picture it wrapped around my massive shaft, sucking, licking, and sending me over the edge. I feel my cock swell beneath the table.

  “How did it go in New York?” asks Scott, bringing my focus back to him. “It’s too bad you couldn’t go with Katrina to Paris.”

  I squirm in my chair, painfully aware of the ache between my legs. I’m going to tell him the truth and gauge his reaction.

  “Katrina and I still aren’t getting it on. And I still don’t have any feelings toward her.”

  Scott’s jaw tightens. “Well, you sure could have fooled me on Letterman. The two of you rocked it. It was one of his highest rated shows ever. The public can’t get enough of Bratrina. Fan mail has been pouring in everywhere—CBS, Conquest, and at Celebrity-TV. The world can’t wait for you and Katrina to tie the knot.”

  My stomach twists. The words spew out.

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  Scott’s cigarette practically falls out of his mouth. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Maybe we should postpone the wedding until my memory comes back.”

  Scott’s left eye twitches while his face darkens. “You’re out of your fucking mind. You’re talking career suicide. Listen, Brandon, just get the hell married and everything will come back to you.”

  Maybe he’s right. He nervously takes another puff of the cigarette and then blows out an offensive cloud of smoke in my face. He goddamn better not give me cancer.

  “Scott, do me a favor. Put out the cigarette.”

  A troubled expression washes over his face. He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and stamps it out.

  “Listen, Brandon, let’s change the subject. I came over here because I have a personal favor to ask of you.”

  “What?”

  “I need to borrow a couple grand. I’ll pay you back.”

  I digest his words. I just paid him his weekly salary. Twenty grand. He needs more money?

  His anxious eyes stay fixed on me. His left eye is twitching considerably. More than before.

  “Sure,” I say, no questions asked. “I’ll write you a check when we go inside.”

  He smiles with relief. “Thanks, Brand-man. I appreciate it.”

  Five minutes later, we’re in my office. I unlock my safe and pull out my large checking ledger. Transporting it to my desk, I sit down and make out a check to him in the amount he requested. Two thousand dollars. With my felt-tipped pen, I write “loan” in the memo before signing it. Somehow, I think I’m never going to see the money again.

  While I tear it out of the ledger, my manager eyes my computer screen. “How’s the script going?”

  Shit. I didn’t close the file on my desktop. I’ve got to be more careful. The story is top-secret. Not even my manager can know about it. Especially one I don’t trust. I hastily stop what I’m doing and shut down the computer.

  “Good,” I stammer as the screen goes blank.

  While I finish with the check, Scott sets his leather briefcase on the corner of the desk and unzips it. Overstuffed, it tips over and the contents splatter onto the floor.

  “Fuck,” Scott mumbles, under his breath. He squats down to gather the assorted papers. Jumping up from my chair, I join him. The repulsive scent of his cloying cologne and smoke-filled clothes wafts up my nose.

  “Thanks, man,” he says, stuffing his briefcase.

  Helping him, I eye what looks to be an itinerary that includes a round-trip three hundred dollar ticket to Vegas and a three-day stay at The Venetian. He’s departing tonight. Not making mention of it, I slip it into his briefcase. He throws in the last remaining papers and a fallen box of Camels and then zips up the case. We stand up in unison.

  “Don’t forget this,” I say, handing him the check.

  “Yeah, thanks again, man.” With jittery fingers, he shoves it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m gonna be out of town for a couple of days, but call me if you need anything.”

  “Good luck in Vegas,” is what I want to say, but I bite my tongue. There’s a reason why he didn’t volunteer his destination.

  As soon as he’s gone, I call Pete and tell him about Scott’s mysterious trip to Sin City. “He’s on Southwest Flight 389 departing tonight at 7:50 from LAX.”

  “Me and the missus haven’t been to Vegas in a while.” I can picture Pete smiling on the other end. “Thanks for the tip.”

  My next call: Zoey. I share the news with her. To my surprise, her voice is flat and emotionless. Almost cold.

  “Thank you for letting me know. I’m sure Pops will keep me informed.”

  She hangs up.

  That’s not the only time Zoey hangs up on me. Since the spanking incident, the dynamic in our relationship has changed. She avoids me as much as I avoid her, and when we do see each other, we avoid eye contact. I wish I never spanked her. I crossed the line. It was totally unprofessional. Yet, I think she enjoyed getting it as much as I enjoyed giving it to her. She refuses to talk about it.

  It’s been three days. Zoey’s become totally closed off. I can’t even share her father’s latest findings about Scott. He’s a big gambler. Likes to play blackjack, the slots, and craps. Donatelli, however, was not spotted anywhere in Vegas. Pete’s not any closer to nailing Zoey’s mother’s murderer or solving my hit and run.

  Whenever I begin a conversation, she merely says, “I know” or gives me the cold shoulder and walks away. Her emails and texts are equally terse. Every rejection of one of my advances shreds me. On Tuesday, Zoey delivers my Starbucks in the morning while I’m in the pool doing laps. I’ve decided I’m going to have a come to Jesus meeting with her. Enough with this shit. I want my assistant back. The way she was before. But when I emerge from the water, she’s gone. The sound of a car peeling out of my driveway screeches in my ear. What the fuck? Sopping wet, I hurry to the table where I’ve left my cell phone and where she’s deposited the Starbucks bag. I speed dia
l her. No answer. I text her. No answer. I call again. No answer. She’s playing games with me again, and it’s pissing me off. Mad as hell, I reach into the bag for my caffeine fix. To make me madder, there’s no coffee. Only a note scrolled in her elegant handwriting on a paper napkin.

  Brandon~

  I’m taking some time off. I’m using my vacation time. Please do not call or text me. I won’t answer.

  ~Zoey

  PS I don’t know when I’m coming back.

  I crumple the napkin in my fist. I’m so blood-curdling mad I can feel steam coming out of my nostrils. I should just fire her sorry ass. But I can’t. I love that ass. And that’s not all I love about her. I love her curves, her big brown eyes, those kissable lips. Her fire and pride. The way she laughs and makes me laugh. Fuck. She’s under my skin and in my bloodstream. She’s everything Katrina isn’t. I relive the spanking. How she submitted to me yet stayed so strong. Obeyed without questioning. She’s awoken my sexual desire and made me realize I need to be in control. Dominate. With Katrina, I can never be in control. She submits to nothing and to no one. Including me. She’s either pussy whipping me or busting my balls—and that’s when she’s not as frigid as Lake Michigan in the winter. How could have I fallen in love with her? Was I different before my accident? Did my accident change me?

  A familiar voice cuts my thoughts short. “Brandon, that bitch assistant of yours almost ran into me!”

  Damn. Katrina. She’s back from Paris.

  I wish Zoey had.

  I don’t know when I’m coming back.

  A horrible thought hits me. Panic grabs me by the balls.

  Zoey’s leaving me.

  Zoey

  I’m heading back to that spa outside Joshua Tree. The one that slimeball Scott banished me to, of all places, while Brandon was comatose in the hospital. Call me nuts but don’t shred me. As much as I loathed it the first time around, it’s exactly what I need right now. An escape. It was relaxing; it made me think clearly, and I shed a few pounds.

  On the lonely drive down the 10 Freeway, I call only one person, knowing once there, cell phones are banned. Get caught with one and say goodbye to both the phone and the spa. Pops picks up on the first ring.

  I tell him I’m taking a vacation.

  “Are you having a problem with Brandon?” he asks, always so intuitive. My father knows how I feel about my boss and is convinced it’s mutual. I don’t agree.

  “No, Pops. I just need to get away for a few days.” Far away from him.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “To the Vipassana Wellness Center. Don’t worry, Pops. It’s a retreat in the middle of the desert. I’ll be safe. Have you found out anything more about Scott?”

  He updates me. Pursuant to his trip to Vegas with Auntie Jo, he conducted an investigation into Scott’s finances.

  “Is he in debt?” My detective mind is at work.

  “It’s hard to tell. All his credit card accounts have been closed, and he only uses debit cards. While his bank account is relatively small, he’s got substantial assets—including a two million dollar condo, a place in Aspen, and a fancy yacht. Plus, I learned Brandon pays him a heftier salary than you thought.”

  “Like what?”

  “A million bucks a year.”

  “Wow!” I seriously didn’t think it was that much. Rage whips through me. The douche deserves shit. Fucking asswipe!

  “Interestingly, he asked Brandon to borrow some dough.”

  “How much?”

  “Two grand.”

  My heart sinks. Like Pops, I know that’s not enough to raise an eyebrow. With his hefty salary, Scott can easily pay him back.

  “Do you think he owes Donatelli money?”

  “Don’t know. But killing Brandon off wouldn’t solve the problem. He’d be literally cutting off the hand that feeds him.”

  Frustration peppers Pops’s voice. “I can’t connect him to Brandon’s hit and run. He says he never left his Wilshire Corridor condo until late afternoon—way after the accident. The doorman corroborated this as did the building’s surveillance camera.”

  “What about Donatelli?” I ask, feeling less and less hopeful.

  “Zippo. We can’t trace him. He covers his steps all too well.”

  When it comes to detectives, Pops is the best of the best. Yet, he can’t get to first base with either Mama’s case or Brandon’s hit and run. I know how defeated he must feel.

  “What about Katrina?” I ask impulsively.

  “She’s in the clear and has an alibi too. She says she was at her mother’s house. Her mother backed her up.”

  What was I thinking? With all she stands to gain from marrying Brandon, she’s the last person who’d want him dead.

  “Pops, did you show her the green glass heart?” It’s the one unusual thing that Pops found at the scene of Brandon’s accident. While I think it belongs to some local jogger, Pops is convinced it belongs to the person responsible for his hit and run.

  “There’s a prob—”

  “Pops, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”

  Shit. As I turn onto the 29—the Palms Highway—I lose my connection. Even if I could keep my phone at the spa, chances are I wouldn’t get service so deep in the desert.

  With a leaden heart, I soak in the scenery. Though I’m not far from the Palm Springs hotel where I stayed with Jeffrey and Chaz just a week ago, this feels like a million miles away from civilization. Driving in silence, I pass miles and miles of exotic cactus, geologic rock formations, and spiky, twisted Joshua trees that look like they belong in a horror movie. In the distance surrounding me, the snowcapped Santa Rosa and San Jacinto mountains glow umber under the setting desert sun. It’s almost surreal.

  Twenty minutes later, a campus of unpretentious adobe buildings rises from the desert landscape. I’ve reached my destination and pull into the entrance. I check in, surrender my phone, and then retreat to my quarters in the women’s building.

  The room is small and utilitarian. It’s actually closer to being a jail cell than a room at a spa. There’s just a cot, a set of drawers, and a bathroom—a perk for returning “students of life.” Newbies have to use a communal one. I quickly unpack and put away the few things I’ve brought along, mostly yoga pants and tees plus my swimsuit, and call it a night. Except I don’t fall asleep. Fucking Brandon’s in my dreams. And I’m fucking him.

  Over the next few days, I set out to accomplish what I’ve come here to do. The spa is renowned for offering peace and tranquility, quietude and beauty. Rooted in a form of meditation that originated in ancient India, Vipassana is a refuge for the human spirit, self-discovery, and healing. Each morning after a sparse breakfast of blended organic juices, I retreat to a meditation room and meditate. As I sit cross-legged on a mat surrounded by a dozen other similarly posed individuals, I focus on my breathing and try to cut him loose from my conscience. But I can’t. All this visualization crap is backfiring. His gorgeous face fills my mind as I contemplate my resignation letter:

  Hi Brandon…

  Yo Brandon…

  Dear Brandon…

  Dearest Brandon…

  My Dearest Brandon…

  My Beloved Brandon…

  Hey Dickhead…

  Tears sting my eyes. I can’t get past these words. Vipassana means seeing things for what they really are. After three days, it’s as clear to me as the desert sky—I can’t leave him. I’m addicted to him…in love.

  I make it through a week. Meditating and juicing. On my eighth day in the late afternoon, after a vile green liquid lunch that I can barely swallow, I retreat to the heated mineral pool that’s like a grotto in this giant mosaic of nature. Using the techniques Brandon taught me, I swim laps and laps until I lose track of time and all I can think about is lifting my head out of the bubbly natural spring for a breath of air. After about an hour, I get out. The desert sun beats fiercely and I relish the heavenly clean air. I don’t even need a towel to dry mysel
f. Invigorated from my long swim, I take a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs that surround the pool. I close my eyes and let my bones soak in the heat. Aah! It feels good.

  When I open my eyes, I find an older woman sitting next to me in a wheelchair. Her thick silver hair trails down to her waist in a loose braid, and though gaunt, her strong, defined features with cheekbones like apples tell me she must have once been a great beauty. A light cotton blanket covers her. I notice that she shakes. The more I look at her, the more she seems familiar. But even with my eidetic memory, I can’t place where I’ve seen her before.

  “Hello, my dear,” she says. Her voice is husky and theatrical. “I enjoyed watching you swim laps. You have lovely form.”

  I smile. “Thank you. I had a great teacher.” The memory of Brandon teaching me how to swim floats into my head. I can feel his strong arms holding me in the water and then wrapped around me after I completed my first lap. I can almost hear his heartbeat in my ears though we’re miles apart.

  The woman smiles back at me. “I used to be a teacher. But, now due to my health, I only occasionally instruct classes at my school.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I venture, instantly regretting my words.

  But the woman is not offended. “I have advanced Parkinson’s. I come here once a month with my nurse for the special Ayurvedic spa treatments they offer.”

  “What exactly are those?”

  “A variety of mineral massages and herbal hydrotherapies as well as a special organic diet specific to Parkinson’s sufferers. The treatments originated in ancient India. They help halt the progression of the disease though I’m not sure if they can cure it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of something better to say.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me, my dear. I wake up happy every day of my life. I’ve lived a full life and have no regrets.” She holds me in her warm, soulful gaze. “So, tell me, why are you here?”