Unforgettable

by Nelle L'Amour

  Blake inhales and on the loud exhale, he says icily, “So, Kat, you’re a big star now.”

  Blakey? Kat? Do they know each other intimately? Former fuck buddies? This is not the time to ask. I keep my big mouth shut.

  Katrina sneers. “I would have been a bigger star if you’d picked up my show instead of that rinky-dink cable network.”

  “It wasn’t a good fit.”

  “I’m sure it was a better fit than your wife’s skanky little pussy.”

  Blake’s cheeks flare and I can feel my own reddening. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “Jesus, put a lid on it, Katrina. What’s wrong with you?”

  With a smirk, she slides out of the chair and saunters off. “See you later, Brandy-Poo.”

  I’m mortified. How could she embarrass me like that in front of my boss? The second most powerful man at Conquest Broadcasting.

  “Man, I’m sorry for that. I don’t know what got into her. Maybe she had too much to drink.” Which I know isn’t true because there was no trace of alcohol on her breath, and she sure as hell couldn’t walk in those heels sloshed.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I can’t help myself; I need to know. “Did you and she have some kind of thing?”

  Blake tightens his lips once more. “My father always says: ‘Sometimes the past is better left behind.’ I’ll leave it at that.”

  The irony of his words gets under my skin. If only I could remember mine. In the meantime, I’m going to find out what their story is.

  Brandon

  I’ve barely stepped inside my house when Katrina comes sprinting up to me. She’s dressed in a very skimpy bright red bikini that exposes her voluminous tits and her long, toned legs that seem to extend to her armpits. Her eyes are bloodshot and her face is streaked with tears. Looks like she’s been crying.

  She flings her arms around my shoulders, clinging to me, pressing her firm breasts against my pecs, so I can’t take another step without taking her with me. In her mile-high mules, she’s eye level with me.

  “Let go of me, Katrina.” My voice is gruff. I’m still reeling from her mortifying behavior in front of Blake Burns.

  She runs one hand along the side of my jaw and bats her eyes. “Oh, Brandon, you have the right to be mad at me. The way I behaved today was so out of line. I’m so, so, sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

  She holds me in her feline gaze imploringly. I draw in a sharp breath through my nose and exhale. “We need to talk.”

  She nods. And then a seductive smile slithers across her billowy lips.

  “Let’s take it outside.” Her cloying floral cologne is smothering me. I need some fresh air.

  “Can I pour myself a glass of champagne first?”

  “Fine.” I stab the word at her while she ambles to the kitchen with the grace of a gazelle. Her platinum mane cascades down her back and bounces along.

  Five minutes later, we’re seated on my terrace, my back to the guesthouse where Zoey resides. The January air is balmy. I cut to the chase.

  “So, what’s the story with you and Blake Burns?”

  Seductively folding one bare leg over the other, Katrina takes a sip of her champagne. “I never really wanted to tell you about him, but I suppose I have no choice.”

  “Level with me, Katrina.” My voice is authoritative. I’m all ears.

  She sets the crystal flute on the small table between us. And with a lick of her upper lip, she begins.

  “Blake and I have known each other almost our entire lives. Our families were best friends, and we went to the same schools right through high school. During a vacation in Capri, we fell in love. And I never stopped loving him. I thought I was destined to marry him and so did Mommy. It was a match made in heaven. Like royalty. We were practically engaged.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Then that repulsive peon, Jennifer McCoy, stepped into the picture, and when he chose her over me, it totally broke my heart.”

  My eyes bore into her. “Are you saying you’re still in love with him?”

  She flings her head and huffs. “Hardly. I hate his guts for what he did to me. And I hate his wife even more. The bitch did something really evil and manipulative that I can never forget. Or forgive.”

  “Like what?”

  Her face darkens and her voice grows cold with fury. “I can’t talk about it, but let’s just say it’ll follow me everywhere.”

  She brushes her long manicured nails across a faint scar below her collarbone that shimmers in the late afternoon sun. I’ve never noticed it before on account of the high necklines she favors. It looks like the remnants of a former tattoo. A five-letter name. I can vaguely make out the first letter—a “B.” “B” like in B-L-A-K-E? While curious, I fold my arms in my lap and let her continue.

  “So, darling, when I found out you were having lunch today with Blake, I couldn’t resist.”

  Despite her explanation, another surge of anger blasts through my chest. “It was an important business lunch, Katrina. You had no right to be there. Your behavior and the things you said totally mortified me.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I was just acting out my anger.” Her pouty expression begs for sympathy. “I hope you can understand.”

  No, I don’t understand, but the past is the past. Not dwelling on the irony of that thought, I blow out a breath. “Just don’t let anything like that ever happen again.”

  “Is that a threat, Brandon?” Her voice is pitchy, as if she’s challenging me.

  “No, it’s an order.”

  Tears cluster in her cat-green eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m working on my anger issues with my therapist.”

  “That’s good.” My voice is monotone.

  “Can you forgive me?” She returns to the champagne.

  “Yes.” I don’t tell her that I’m not going to forget about this incident. Forgetting anything is the last thing I want to do in my amnesiac state.

  “Thank you, darling.” A few fat tears roll down her high cheekbones, taking some of her mascara with them. My eyes stay on her as she rises and repositions herself in front of me. Squatting down, she works the button of my jeans and then yanks down my fly. My big flaccid dick sits parked between my legs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to make it up to you,” she purrs.

  I don’t stir. And then without warning, she dumps the remainder of her champagne on my shaft, soaking my cock, my balls, and my jeans. I jolt from the sudden cold sensation.

  “Jesus, Katrina. What the fuck?”

  “Do you still love me?” She rolls her tongue around the circumference of my dripping wet crown.

  My breath hitches. I seriously don’t know the answer to that question. And it’s like my drenched cock is rolling its eyes and saying: Don’t look at me. I have no clue.

  “Show me you love me,” she lilts, gripping the base. Her billowy lips descend on my length and then make their way back up. She repeats the movements, picking up speed. My soft cock doesn’t respond. I just want to tuck it back into my jeans and get away from her.

  “Dammit, Brandon. What’s wrong with you?” she growls before going down on me again.

  Squeezing my eyes, I groan loudly and almost leap up from my chair. “Christ. What the hell are you doing?”

  An unexpected answer. “I’m delivering your sides—the lines you need to rehearse for this week’s upcoming shoot.”

  My eyes pop open. Shit. Zoey.

  She slaps a folder down on the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt something so important.”

  “Zo—”

  She cuts me off. “I’m off to a meeting with my dad. I’ll have my phone with me so call or text me if anything else ‘important’ comes up.” In addition to air-quoting the word important, she puts a sarcastic emphasis on the last two words.

  “No, wait.” My voice takes on urgency that borders on panic. Like I’m silently saying, “Please don’t leave me alone with Katrina.” My cock smarts.
<
br />   Too late. She stoically marches off after her eyes clash with my fiancée’s.

  Sliding my sore cock back into my soaked jeans, I jump up from my chair to tell her what happened, but lithe Katrina springs to her feet simultaneously and shoves me back down.

  She snaps at me like a rabid beast. “We have business to finish up here.”

  I leap back to my feet and this time I shove her out of the way.

  She gasps. I curse under my breath. Zoey’s gone. I grab the file on the table.

  “I’m heading back in. I’ve got lines to figure out.” And that’s not all I need to figure out. My mind’s confused; my heart’s confused; and my cock’s confused.

  “Fine.” Katrina flings the word at me and then dives into the pool.

  Zoey

  A trip to the precinct is just what I need to banish the image of Brandon and Katrina. Right before I caught Bratrina in that lurid sex act, I got a call from Pops, asking me if I had time to come in for some questioning. The timing was perfect.

  I haven’t been here in ages. The last time I was here was when I was in high school. When the kids in my civics class found out that my father worked for the LAPD, they all wanted to see what that was like. After learning this, Pops arranged a field trip to the precinct with my teacher. My classmates loved every minute. Especially the part when they got to look through a one-way mirror and watch Pops question a suspected murderer—a wealthy woman whose millionaire husband had mysteriously been poisoned. Pops was so good at squeezing information out of the suspect. My very own Columbo! All of us gasped when the suspect broke down in tears and finally confessed everything. It was just like a scene out of CSI—of course, the husband was having a secret affair, and the vengeful wife wanted him dead to inherit all his money.

  The downtown precinct is bustling with a colorful cast of characters, and phones don’t stop ringing. I walk up to the bulletproof front desk window and tell one of the busy clerks on duty that I’m here to see Detective Billings. Her name, Alma Lopez, is on her badge. I give her my name and tell her I have an appointment. She scans her computer and calls my father to let him know I’m here.

  “You’re Zoey Hart, Pete’s daughter?” she asks, filling out a visitor’s badge for me.

  I smile at her. “Yes.”

  Her eyes brighten. “The one who works for Brandon Taylor?”

  “Yeah.” There’s little enthusiasm in my voice.

  Alma grows animated. “Oh my God! You’re so lucky! I’m so jealous! What’s it like to work for him?”

  Taking the badge from her, I paste it on my short-sleeved tee. “Trust me, you’re much better off working here.”

  At that moment, Pops bursts through the door, chomping on a fat sandwich. As usual, his shirt is rumpled with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s a mustard stain on it. Jacketless, his holster is crossed over his torso. My adoptive dad may be a loveable schlub, but there’s something so powerful about him carrying a gun. After my mother’s horrific murder, I felt he could protect me. I only wish he’d found her killer. It’s still an unsolved case that haunts us both.

  “Pops!” I run up to him and give him a hug.

  “Hi, babycakes,” he says with food in his mouth. “Glad you could come by. Come on back.”

  Five minutes later, I’m in his office. It’s rare for any LAPD detective to have his own office, but the force felt he deserved one. Pops has been on active duty for almost forty years—the longest serving member of the department. A legend. No one has cracked as many cases as he has or brought so many heinous criminals to justice. He keeps saying he’s going to retire, but both Auntie Jo and I know that’s never going to happen.

  The office is small and windowless, lit by unflattering fluorescent lighting. Some of his awards hang on the grungy walls, but they’re mostly covered with a messy array of cases in progress. His simple wooden desk is piled high with thick folders. Next to his computer is a large framed family photo—the four of us, Auntie Jo, Pops, Jeffrey, and me. And there’s also a photo of him and Mama when they were kids. Despite being twins, they look as different as night and day. Mama, frail and pale with a mop of flaming red hair; Pops, big-boned and swarthy with a crown of jet-black locks. He’s told me so many hilarious stories about their New Jersey childhoods. Poor elegant Mama was always trying to turn him into a proper gentleman, but she could never even get him to tuck his shirt in. I wish she were alive to see him now.

  After that melancholy thought, I inwardly laugh. Things haven’t changed. Pops is as disheveled as ever. The clutter on the walls and on his desk goes with his personality. Buried on his messy desk is a paper plate with the other half of the pastrami sandwich along with a bottle of root beer. He sinks into his faded pleather desk chair while I take a seat in one of the two worn out upholstered chairs facing him. His office furnishings are rather decrepit, but budget cutbacks have prohibited replacements. And truthfully, knowing Pops, he wouldn’t replace them if he could.

  “Late lunch,” he says, taking another chomp of his sandwich. “Want the other half?”

  I’m tempted. The juicy Pastrami sandwich looks and smells so good, but I force myself to pass.

  “You not feeling good or something? You look like you lost weight.”

  My dad, the detective, is very perceptive. “I’m fine. I’m just watching it.” God, I’d love a bite. But I know I won’t be able to stop with just one.

  Pops puts down his half-eaten sandwich. “Thanks for coming by. You know I’m investigating the Brandon Taylor hit and run.”

  I nod. My stomach twists at the mention of his name. “Jeffrey told me you met with him.”

  “Yeah, he couldn’t have been nicer.”

  Ha! He must have met the wrong person.

  “He even autographed the box of DVDs I brought along for your mother. She’s in seventh heaven.”

  Jeez. How embarrassing! I suddenly feel bad I never got her a signed set. She begged me for one so many times. I just never felt comfortable asking. Leave it to my outspoken, fearless father. A total charmer.

  Pops takes a long swig of his soda and then sets the bottle down. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t very helpful. The poor bloke’s got post traumatic stress and can’t remember a thing. Lucky he didn’t get killed in that accident.”

  “Jeffrey told me you’re treating it as a possible homicide.”

  “I have no choice. He’s a major celebrity. Something in my gut tells me someone wanted him dead.”

  A shiver creeps up my spine. As many times as I’ve wanted to kill him for driving me crazy, including today, the thought of Brandon Taylor dead rattles me. Pops’s gut feelings are always spot on. A troubling thought crosses my mind. My stomach knots up and my pulse accelerates.

  “Pops, am I a suspect?”

  Pops laughs his hearty laugh. “Of course not, babycakes. You’re the one who found him. If you hadn’t, he would have bled to death. Plus, if you recall, you were running errands at the purported time of the accident. All the shop owners have confirmed that as well as Brandon’s gardener, who, by the way we questioned, and is not a suspect either.

  Though I’ve tried to block it out, I flashback to that fateful day. Driving home from my final stop, the drycleaner, I was halfway up the private road to Brandon’s house when I spotted his lifeless body sprawled on the ground. Blood was pouring from his head. Wearing his running clothes, he was already swimming in a crimson pool. My car came to a screeching halt and so did my heart. In a panic, I leapt out of my car and rushed over to him. At the time, I had no idea what had happened—I thought perhaps he’d taken a terrible tumble—but I knew he needed help. Fast! With trembling fingers, I called 911. I cradled him in my arms as I awaited the paramedics. Tears filled my eyes. Fear filled my mind. Grief filled my heart. I talked to him. Told him to hang in there. Told him it wasn’t his time. And then I spilled my heart out. My tears trickled onto his soft face and I…

  My father’s husky, Jersey-accented voice catapults me back to the mo
ment. “You okay, babycakes?”

  I nod though I feel shaken. “Yeah, I was just thinking about that day.”

  “It must have been hard on you.”

  “Yeah, it was.” He has no idea.

  “Do you remember anything unusual about it?”

  I shake my head. “It was just like any day. Brandon went for a jog. I was doing errands.”

  Pops takes a deep breath. “Can you think of anyone who would want Brandon Taylor dead?”

  I rack my brain and shake my head again.

  “A crazy fan? An ex-assistant? An employee? Someone who works on the show?”

  “No, Pops. To the best of my knowledge, everyone worships him and he’s never been stalked.”

  “What’s his manager Scott Turner like?”

  “A total slime bucket.”

  “A murderer?”

  “No, Pops, he’s slimy in that icky slick Hollywood kind of way, but that’s about it. He’s been with Brandon since the beginning of his career. He’s the last person who would want Brandon dead. He’s all about Brandon. And Brandon, in return, treats him well.”

  “How much do you think he makes?”

  “Not sure, but probably a couple hundred thousand dollars a year. Plus, he gets hefty bonuses. Last Christmas, he bought himself a brand new Corvette thanks to Brandon.”

  “What about Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

  The mention of her name makes my stomach churn, and once more the repulsive image of her sucking him off flashes in my mind.

  “She’s a piece of work, but again no murderer. I mean, she’s marrying a superstar. The sexiest man in the world. Something every woman in the world dreams of. If that was me, I sure wouldn’t want him dead.”

  If that was me. I inwardly sigh. I don’t hold a candle to Katrina. She’s Hollywood royalty. Supermodel beautiful. America’s It Girl. She may be a bitch to me, but she’s the perfect woman for Brandon. Second thoughts bombard me—maybe, I should implicate the bitch. Get rid of her!

  My father bites into the other half of his sandwich. “Sure you don’t want some?”

  It looks so damn delicious. I’m mentally drooling, but I pass once again. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.