Two minutes later, a beaming Libby steps into the observation room.
“Great job, Libby,” Blake commends.
The show execs second the motion.
Her smile widens. “Thanks. I think you got the answer you were looking for.” Her eyes zero in on me. “Brandon, viewers love your idea.”
My ears perk up as she continues.
“Of having Kurt finally realize he’s in love with his assistant Mel.”
So, that was my story idea. I wonder what inspired it. Before I can utter a word, Executive Producer Doug opens his mouth.
“So, Brandon, are you still up for writing the season finale? You said you wanted to.”
I did? I gulp. “Yeah, sure. It’s my idea.”
Blake smiles broadly. “That’s great. We’re going to run it as a two-hour special and promote the shit out of it.”
Christ. What have I gotten myself into? I don’t think I’ve ever written one word of a script. How am I going to do this?
Doug picks up on my anxiety. “Brandon, don’t stress out. We’re all going to work with you.” He turns to Mitch. “Mitch and his team will be there every step of the way.”
Mitch gives me a thumbs up. Maybe I should ask him to write the script, and I’ll dot a few i’s and cross a few t’s.
Trevor, the network executive, looks up from his cell phone. “I already texted the Publicity Department.” He smiles triumphantly. “They’re on it. Your writing debut will be headline news in tomorrow’s trades.”
“Great,” says Blake.
Not great. I’m doomed. There’s no backing out. I call on my acting skills and bullshit a couple of ideas I have for the episode.
“I’m going to end the episode with a passionate kiss between Kurt and Mel.” I pause searching my mind for more. Bingo! “And one of them will have their life in jeopardy.”
“The Locust?” asks Trevor.
“Fantastic! A killer cliffhanger!” exclaims Blake before I can respond. “Our viewers are going to love it! The ratings will go through the stratosphere, and they’ll be salivating for more.”
Kiss-up Doug pats me on the back “Brandon, I’ve got to hand it to you. At first when I heard your idea, I had my doubts, but now I’m totally convinced. I have to ask you—what inspired that twist?”
I stare at him blankly and stammer, “I don’t remember.”
I truly don’t. Damn my amnesia. Maybe I discussed my storyline idea with Zoey and she knows. Mental note: Talk to her.
Blake packs up his briefcase. “Listen, everyone, one last thing…I don’t want any of you to share what’s going to happen on the season finale with anyone. And I mean anyone. Especially your co-workers. I want this to be top secret. It stays in this room. You’ll each be receiving a non-disclosure agreement from Legal tomorrow. Trevor, take care of that.”
Blake’s soldier readily agrees.
Well, I guess that means I can’t discuss my script with Zoey. That sucks. She could be helpful since she knows the show so well. Read over what I’ve written and make suggestions. Even fix lines and typos I miss. Take dictation. My stomach tenses at the daunting task that lies ahead. Will the action hero make it as an action writer?
With this ponderous question weighing on my mind, I follow Blake to the exit door. As I’m about to split, Libby corners me.
“So glad to finally meet you. Give my best to Zoey.”
My brows shoot up, “You know her?”
“Yes. My brother Chaz is dating her brother.”
“I didn’t know that.” The truth is I don’t know much about Zoey at all.
“I’m surprised she never told you.”
I heckle. “Maybe she mentioned it once, but I must have forgotten.” That’s likely the truth too.
Blake, checking his briefcase before he leaves, chimes in. “Libby and Chaz happen to be my wife’s best friends.”
Confused, I say, “Five degrees of separation.” Part statement, part question.
Libby corrects me. “In this town, it’s more like two.”
I laugh lightly. She’s right. Given her connections, I bet she knows my fiancée. I give it a shot.
“Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?” I ask after Blake and the others take off.
She snickers. “Sure. Everyone knows your fiancée. She’s America’s It Girl.”
“I mean, do you know her personally?”
She gathers up her belongings. “I have to go. I want to start writing up the focus group report while the findings are fresh in my mind.” She extends her right hand, the one that’s not holding a giant tote bag. “Really, so great to finally meet you, Brandon. And way to go on the season finale story direction. I can’t wait to see the episode.”
I shake her hand. My mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all. Libby totally avoided my question. There’s no doubt in my mind she has nothing nice to say about Katrina. Does anyone?
Five minutes later, I’m back outside. The night air is crisp and I walk briskly back to my car. Ideas for the season finale are already spinning in my head. The idea of Kurt Kussler finally acknowledging his feelings for his assistant Mel feels right to me. With all the emotional and physical obstacles my alter-ego faces, I just don’t know how he’s going to get there. I only wish my assistant Zoey could help.
CHAPTER 16
Zoey
I have a terrible case of the uglies. I’m not talking a bad hair day, major zit, or bloat. I’m talking hate, jealousy, and anger. I hate Katrina. I’m jealous of her. And I’m angry with myself for feeling the way I do.
It’s seven o’clock. Brandon must be back on the Conquest Broadcasting lot watching the Kurt Kussler focus groups. After my meeting with Pops, I came home and put together a file of the people who would be attending from the network and show. Rather than reviewing it with him face to face, I texted him and told him that I was leaving it on the coffee table. He texted back with one word: Fine. While I should have been relieved, disappointment rippled through me. I was expecting him to ask me to meet with him. Wishful thinking. I’d set myself up for a letdown. An emotional slap in the face. Reality stung. He was probably too busy fucking Katrina. Finishing what they’d started in the afternoon.
That tormenting image moves to the back of my mind as I picture the focus groups. I wish I could be there and hear what viewers think about Kurt. I did a focus group once when I was a masseuse—to test out a new line of aromatherapy oils and lotions. It was a lot of fun. I got to give my opinions and I even got paid one hundred dollars. Plus, the beauty supply company gave all the participants a bagful of their expensive products.
I imagine what it would be like to be in the Kurt Kussler focus group. While I change into some comfy sweats, I play a silly game in my head: Intimate Focus Group of One.
Moderator: “What do you think about the character, Kurt Kussler?”
Me: “Oh my God. He’s so sexy. Every word that comes out of his mouth makes me swoon.”
Moderator: “Be more specific. What exactly do you like about him?”
Me: “His sultry voice. His gorgeous body. Those piercing violet eyes. The way he moves. His fearlessness. His passion.”
Moderator: “Is there anything you don’t like about him?”
Me: “I can’t think of anything.”
Moderator: “What about the actor playing the part?”
Me: “You mean Brandon Taylor?” (I say his name to myself dreamily.)
Moderator: “Yes. What do you think about him?”
Me: “He’s perfect…I mean, for the part.”
Moderator: “Is there anything you don’t like about him?”
Me: “Just one thing. He can never be mine.”
While the moderator laughs at my response in my head, hopelessness sweeps over me. I curl up on my bed with my Kindle and some erotic romance I downloaded before my spa “vacation.” I can’t get past the first paragraph. My mind jumps back to that unfortunate encounter. A
ll I can think about is what I saw. Fucking Katrina turning on the tears and then sucking Brandon off. Believe me, I know fake tears and Katrina’s were the premium crocodile type. But Brandon fell for them and then fell for her blowjob big time. The scene, culminating with his ecstatic groan of relief and his impassioned expression, plays again and again like it’s on a loop.
Stop it, Zoey. Stop it! You’re a chunky, lowlife assistant who gets lost in the crowd. Brandon has never looked at me as anything more than his go-to girl. His personal slave. Sure, the slave driver’s been a little nicer, but that’s likely because he’s lost his mind. Maybe he’ll remember…
One hour later, I’m still on the first page of the book. Make that the first sentence. I just can’t focus. I need to clear my head. Maybe chill outside…inhale the cool evening air…and watch the lights of the city twinkle like stars.
Once outdoors, I pick a chaise by the deep end of the pool and stretch out. The mid-January night air is chilly, easily in the forties, and I’m glad I threw on my treasured Kurt Kussler sweatshirt. It was another Christmas gift from Brandon—again nothing special since he gave one to everyone in the world. But no one wears Kurt Kussler on their heart the way I do. My ventricles thrum.
I inhale an invigorating deep breath of the crisp, quiet air. On the exhale, all the tension of the day dissipates. A much needed peacefulness washes over me. Brandon’s property is a little bit of heaven so high above the hustle and bustle of the City of Angels below. Lit with soft pastel lights, the heated pool shimmers, throwing off a cloud of steam, and blends in beautifully with the canvas of the twinkling LA skyline. Numerous photographers and set designers have begged to shoot up here, but Brandon always makes me turn them down. He enjoys his privacy.
Talking about privacy, it looks like I have company. A tall, lean figure in a long white robe slinks around the pool, moving like a lioness. Katrina. Unaware of my presence, she shrugs off her robe at the edge of the deep end. My eyes stay riveted on her. I’m in awe of her beauty and her grace. The full moon illuminates her flawless porcelain skin, long sinewy muscles, and broad sculpted shoulders. She’s wearing a sleek white tank bathing suit that’s cut to make her impossibly long legs look longer and to bring out every sensuous curve of her perfectly proportioned body. The slender five-foot nine beauty looks like a goddess. The perfect mate for a sex god like Brandon. I watch as she gathers up her golden mane into a high ponytail, lowers her goggles over her eyes, and then lifts her long, toned arms above her head into a diving position. Without hesitation, she springs off the side of the pool, headfirst into the water. Her arched form is perfect, elegant just like her, and she meets the water with only the tiniest of splashes. She immediately segues into a graceful yet powerful breaststroke, lifting her head minimally for a breath of air. Swimming lap after lap, she looks like a siren. I can’t take my eyes off her.
About twenty swift laps in, she catches sight of me on a breath. She swims my way to the edge of the pool. Lifting her goggles atop her head, she rests her elbows on the ledge and meets my gaze. A wicked glint lights her cat-green eyes.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the gopher.”
I simmer. “My name is Zoey.”
“Just hanging out?”
“Yeah, just hanging out.”
“You should come in for a swim. The water is warm and delicious. And God knows, you sure could use the exercise.”
The insult stings, but I bite back my tongue. “I’m not dressed for a swim.” And it’s not my thing.
“Just take off your clothes and go for a skinny dip. Or should I say fatty dip.” She laughs at her own cleverness.
Rage whips through my bloodstream like an angry cobra. I want to sink my fangs into her. But I can’t. She’s my boss’s fiancée.
“Katrina, I’m going to head in.”
Her face darkens. “Please don’t. We need to have a little chat.”
“There’s nothing to chat about.”
Her eyes narrow into poisonous arrows. “I don’t like you hanging around Brandon so much. I want you to stop it.”
“That’s my job and I don’t take orders from you.”
“Well, you better get used to it because soon I’m going to be the boss of this house.”
I’ve had enough. “I’m leaving.”
Katrina scowls at my defiance. “Show a little respect, Zo-eeeey.”
“Excuse me.” I push myself off the chaise to a standing position.
“Don’t leave me.”
I don’t respond and start to walk away.
“Excuse me. Do you have a hearing problem? I said not to leave.”
On my next step, I feel a cold clamp clutching my ankle. I look down. It’s Katrina. I try to free my foot from her grip, but her hand grasps it tight like a shackle.
“Let go!” I yell, struggling to free myself.
“Bitch! You’re not going anywhere.”
Tightening her grip, she yanks my ankle so forcefully I lose my balance, and on my next breath, I’m flying into the deep end of the pool. I hit the water hard and open my mouth to scream, but as I go under, the warm salt water rushes in, choking me, burning my throat. Tumbling in all directions, I somehow manage to rise to the surface.
“Enjoy your little swim,” snickers Katrina as she hoists herself out of the pool.
Flailing, I plead, “Don’t leave me.”
She looms above me and scoffs. “Funny, that’s just what I said to you.”
My head goes back under. Water rushes through my mouth and my nose, this time filling and searing my lungs. I frantically wave my hands and kick my legs in all directions. I rise to the surface again, only to see Katrina loping toward her robe. Terror fills me.
“Katrina,” I shout out. “Come back! I can’t swim.”
She ignores me. Panic sets in.
Oh, God! I’m drowning! I’m going to die the same way my mother did.
The weight of my soaked sweatshirt—and pure panic—pulls me under again. I try breathing through my nose, only to have more water break in and enter my lungs. The terrifying cycle repeats itself. I manage to surface, but it’s only a few seconds until I’m back under. More water gathers in my lungs, permeating and burning every crevice.
Gasping for air, I resurface, my head barely above the water. I struggle not to sink back under, but I’m literally and figuratively in over my head. I shout out another desperate plea for help. I glimpse Katrina, smirking. Tears of despair gather in my eyes.
In full-blown panic mode, my mind races. Think, Zoey. Think! If I could only grab on to the edge. It’s my only hope. But all my thrashing is pulling me farther and farther away, closer to the middle of the pool. I feel helpless and hopeless. And I’m growing exhausted.
This time when I go under, I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe it’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. This can’t be happening to me. No, it can’t be! It’s not my time. I try to wish it away. But as more water seeps through my lungs, my horrid reality sets back in. I don’t know how to swim. The pool is my nemesis. I’m a drowning fool.
When my head slices through the water, I blink open my eyes and see Katrina hovering over me. A smug smile plays on her lips.
“Katrina, please! Help me!” I choke. Tears pour from my stinging eyes.
She sneers. “You are so pathetic.”
I grow desperate. “Help! Help! Help!” Maybe God will hear me and rescue me.
He doesn’t because after my next fading cry for help I’m under again. My lungs are aching. It feels like my chest is going to burst because the air wants to come out so badly. But I don’t want to let it go. It’s the only air I have. For the first time, I notice swirls of colorful lights beneath the water. Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in a sea of Kool-Aid. And then, a peacefulness washes over me. I’m floating. I belong to the water now. To my astonishment, I see my mother’s serene face, her long Celtic-red hair fanned out all around her. She’s floating toward me, her slender arms extended with those be
autiful fingers beckoning me. I reach out for them. Oh, Mama! You’ve come back for me. We’re together again!
“Baby girl, I’m going to take you to Papa.” Her melodic voice ripples in my ears.
A vortex of white light shrouds me and then I sink into a black abyss.
CHAPTER 17
Brandon
After the focus group, I drive straight home. Before I dive into the season finale, I need to finish reading the script that’s shooting this week and go over my lines. In just two days, I’ll be on the set again, something that both excites and unnerves me.
I pull my car into my garage and head into my adjoining house. I step into the kitchen and go straight to the fridge. I swing open the door and pull out a beer. Then, I meander to the living room. The sides that Zoey printed out are still on the coffee table where I left them. Twisting open the bottle cap, I sink into the couch and take a swig.
I haven’t seen my assistant since the Katrina incident. After coming back from her meeting with her father, she avoided me like the plague and figured out a way to get all my requests done without having to see me. Maybe I should have asked her to undress me, but the smart-mouth would have probably told me: “Taking your clothes off is not part of my contract.” Nah-nah-nah-nah! The truth, disrobing me probably isn’t one of her job requirements. Whoever negotiated this contract should have their ass fired.
My eyes shift to my sides. An uplifting thought crosses my mind. It’s almost a light bulb moment. I can ask her to rehearse my lines with me. She told me she does that as part of her job. Setting the beer down next to the sides folder, I slip my phone out from my jeans pocket and text her.
I need u to help me with my lines. I’m home.
I hit send and wait for a response. Nada. The little tease is playing games with me again. Tick. Tick. Tick. My patience is wearing thin. I text her again.
COME NOW!
My cock twitches as I type those two shouty words. And my pulse quickens. Why does this girl affect me? Considering Katrina and the gorgeous women I’ve been associated with in the past, she’s definitely not my type. Plus, she’s got the bristly personality of a porcupine. I’m always waiting for her to shower me with quills. Yet, inexplicably, I’m attracted to her—her lush curves and her sharp wit. Her fine ass and sass trump Katrina’s fine bones and class.
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