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.
Once again, she doesn’t respond. From where I’m sitting, I can glimpse her little house and the lights are out. Maybe she’s sleeping and doesn’t hear her phone. Or has it turned off. Or maybe she’s out with her boyfriend again. The unsettling thought rattles me. Mental note: Talk to her tomorrow and make it crystal-clear she must tell me where she is and what she’s doing at all times. Maybe throw in some restrictions. Like you can’t see your boyfriend while working for me.
It’s late. Taking another chug of beer, I remove my sides from the folder and begin to study my lines. Repeating them over and over. Forget it. I take a deep, frustrated breath. I’ve gone over this scene a dozen times today, and I’m just not feeling it. And it’s shooting in just a couple days. It’s a flashback—a heavy-duty love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. It takes place in their shower. It’s not like there are many lines. More moans and groans than words. But I can’t seem to instill the few lines I have with any real emotion and make them convincing. I sound passive when I should sound passionate. Apathetic when I should sound orgasmic. Have I lost it?
Rehearsing the lines again, I have a small memory breakthrough. I hear the husky voice of my acting coach, Bella Stadler, telling me to draw from experience. Bring what you’ve lived to every part you play. If you need to feel sad and cry, think about your pet dog or a loved one that died. Thinking about putting down my lab Buddy or my parents’ fatal car crash is not going to help me. This is a love scene, a very sensuous one. From what I’ve read, me-the-player never did love…well, up until Katrina. I’ve loved her enough to ask her to marry me and exchange “until death do us part” vows, but still cannot remember a damn thing about our history or relationship. Thanks to my amnesia, it’s a void in my life. I feel nothing toward her. Dig deep, I tell myself. I try to remember. America’s It Girl doesn’t do it for me. Nothing comes to mind.
Halfway into my next line, screams for help steal my attention. I listen carefully. A woman’s voice; the cries grow louder. They’re coming from the pool area. It must be Katrina. She told me she loves to take late night swims. My panic button sounds. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Dropping the pages of the script, I fly out of my house.
Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I arrive at the pool in no time. Breathing hard, I need to reset my mental button. Katrina is there, but she’s not the one in trouble. It’s Zoey. Her body is floating across the surface of the water. I brush past my dumb-founded fiancée and, fully clothed, jump in. With a few adrenaline-powered strokes, I reach my assistant and immediately flip her onto her back and then manage to drag her through the water to safety. Cradling her in my arms, I hoist her lifeless body out of the pool onto the cement deck. In a rapid heartbeat, I’m by her side on my knees. All color is drained from her angelic face; she’s as limp as rag doll.
“Zoey!” I shout out. No response. “Zoey!” Then it hits me.
Panic grips me by the balls. “She’s not breathing!” I say aloud while a half-amused Katrina with her arms folded casually looks on.
“Puh-lease. It’s just an attention-seeking act,” she snips.
I think my fiancée is wrong. Not wasting a second, I begin to administer CPR. Having been a lifeguard before I was an actor, it’s something I know and remember how to do. Parting Zoey’s bowed, bluish lips, I immediately cover them with mine and breathe into her mouth. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The kiss of life.
“C’mon Zoey, breathe,” I plead as I take a brief reprieve to catch my own breath. Renewed with oxygen, my mouth goes back down on her hers. I resume breathing into it. “C’mon, Zoey,” I silently pray. My sinking heart almost beats out of my chest.
“Jesus Christ.” Nada.
Zoey
“Zoey.”
It’s God. His warm lips are breathing life back into me. His strong hands pump my heart rhythmically.
“Breathe, Zoey, breathe!” The heavenly voice is louder, more desperate. He pumps me harder, faster, his soft lips touching down on mine once again.
“C’mon, Zoey!
All life is ebbing out of me. I’ve gone to a higher place.
“Jesus Christ!”
He’s called out his name. I’m with Mama. I’m His.
“Damn it, Zoey. Breathe!”
The words drift into my ear. Consciousness seeps into my veins. Wait a minute. God doesn’t cuss. I’m not in heaven. Nowhere near. Heaven, so close to the sun, is supposed to feel light and airy. Wherever I am feels cold, hard, and wet. My eyes flutter open, and as they do, I cough up water. Reality sets in. Soaked to the bone, I’m lying flat on my back on a slab of cement. I blink again. The vision of my blurred, stinging eyes grows clearer. Kneeling next to me is another god. My boss. The sexiest man on the planet…Brandon Taylor. His glistening face looms over mine. His lips are dangerously close to my mouth, his breath so close I can feel it heat my cheeks. His violet eyes are wide with worry. When I cough again, his anxious expression eases up. Dripping wet in a T-shirt and jeans, he gently lifts my head into his arms.
“Hey.” His voice is soft and breathy.
Still choking, I can’t get a word out.
“You all right?” Genuine concern fills his eyes.
Catching my breath, I nod and give him a little smile.
He smiles back with a sigh of relief. “Jeez, Zo. You almost drowned.”
The memory of my near-death experience rears up like an angry sea serpent. Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina, yanked me into the pool. On purpose. I’m almost sure of it. And she just watched me flounder even though I was crying out desperate for help. My eyes dart around the circumference of the patio. Katrina is nowhere to be found. I shiver. In part, because I’m so wet and cold; in part, because of the harrowing experience, and in part, because Brandon is holding me.
Rage and revenge rising, I debate about telling him what happened, but in the end, I simply don’t have the strength. Or desire. Besides, I can’t prove the evil bitch’s actions were deliberate. It could easily end up being a nasty my word against hers shouting match with my ass getting fired.
“I guess I’d better be going.” My voice is hoarse, and my throat burns from all the salt water I’ve swallowed.
Slowly, I lift myself to sit up, but before I can get into an upright position, Brandon scoops me into his strong arms as if I’m a mere waif. An incredible lightness of being sweeps over me as he carries me to safety. Depleted of energy, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean my head against his wet, chiseled chest. His heart beats into my ear like a psalm. Now, I’m in heaven.
Brandon
Zoey clings to me like I’m a lifesaver. In reality, that’s what I am. If I hadn’t jump into the pool as fast as I did, she might have been a goner. The thought rattles me in my steps.
She feels so light in my arms. Wet and delicious. I could carry her for miles, but arrive at her guesthouse at the end of my property in no time. I kick open the front door and transport her straight to her bathroom. I set her gently down on the tiled counter. It’s impeccably neat and organized.
A reflection of her personality.
The question—how did she end up in the pool?—is hot on my mind, but right now my assistant needs attention. Dripping wet, she’s shivering like crazy, her teeth chattering madly. I rake my fingers through her soaked straggly hair, brushing errant strands out of her eyes. I meet her waterlogged gaze. “You need to take a hot bath.”
“I prefer a shower.” She smiles at me, her bluish lips quivering from the chill. “You need one too.”
She reminds me that I’m as drenched as she is, and I admit I’m a little chilled too. With a shudder of my own, the thought of taking a shower with her enters my mind. While her soaked oversized sweatshirt and baggie sweats leave a lot to the imagination, in my mind’s eye, I picture her luscious curves, scrumptious ass, and her bountiful tits. What would it be like to shower with her…wash every ounce of her…part her long chestnut hair and plant a kiss on the nape of her neck…trail my mouth down her spine to her ass… and spread those sweet cheeks and…
What’s wrong with me? I keep fantasizing about my assistant. Maybe this hit and run accident messed with my head in more ways than one. Is it possible that my inexplicable attraction to her is related to my amnesia? Her soft raspy voice cuts into my mental ramblings.
“Brandon, you’d better get going. The last thing you need is to get sick before your first day back on the set.”
She’s right. After being out of commission from my accident for almost a month, I don’t need to get sick. And I sure as hell don’t need to get carried away with her, especially when she’s so vulnerable. I should say goodnight, but I don’t want to leave her quite yet. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? I can make you some tea.”
Her eyes light up with silent laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
She grins. “The thought of the macho man who plays vigilante Kurt Kussler making and drinking tea. It’s so… contradictory.”
A sudden electrical current zaps my brain and I blink several times. A mixture of pain and pleasure consumes me. It’s like a memory is trying to poke through my thick skull. Tea. There’s something special about tea. I like it and drank it with someone before. But who?
“Are you okay?” asks Zoey, responding to the pinched look on my face. I can see my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom counter. There’s a deep crease between my brows and an equally deep frown line that slices across my forehead.
“Yeah. I was just remembering something. Nothing important.”
Her eyes search mine, and then she struggles to pull off her sopping wet sweatshirt. Her arms flailing, it’s quite amusing. And sexy.
“Here, let me help you,” I say, moving my hands toward her. “Keep your arms up.”
She obliges. With ease, I lift the top over her head and toss it onto the nearby hamper. Beneath it, she’s wearing a cotton T-shirt. She’s braless. The thin, wet fabric molds to her ample tits. They’re nothing like Katrina’s all too perfect man-made ones. They’re supple, rounded mounds that complement her curvy body. The inviting kind you want to hold in your palms. I can see the outline of her puckered pink nipples, the bullet-like crowns straining against the sheer fabric. They’re so enticing. I fight back the impulse to tweak them between my fingers and then nip them between my teeth. Instead, I grab a bath towel off the nearby rack and wrap it around her to warm her. The truth is I’d rather be wrapping my arms around her and blanketing her body with mine.
“Well, I’d better get going.” My voice is unsteady. Unconvincing.
“Yeah.” Her shaky voice mirrors mine.
“Sleep tight. And stay out of trouble.”
Another small, smile plays on her face. “Yeah, you too.”
Her voice is suggestive. Has she been reading my mind? Leaving her on the counter, I turn on my heel. One foot out the door, her voice sounds once more in my ears.
“By the way, Brandon, thanks for rescuing me.”
I keep moving without looking back so she can’t see the proud, triumphant smile on my lips. Move over Kurt Kussler. Brandon Taylor is a real-life action hero.
And she doesn’t see it fall off like a scab when the reality of Katrina sets in.
Where the hell is she? My eyes circle the pool area. My fiancée is nowhere in sight. My rage mounting, I storm back to my house, taking angry giants steps. I need answers. Now!
“What the hell happened out there?” I yell as I tear into the living room. Katrina, freshly showered and now in a jade silk robe, is curled up on the couch, her long legs tucked beneath her and a magazine in her hands.
“Oh, darling! There’s a wonderful article about us in The Enquirer,” she responds, not once looking up from the tabloid. “With such a great photo. Don’t you love the way everyone’s now calling us Bratrina?”
I don’t give a rat’s ass. And I hate that name Bratrina. I stomp up to her and rip the magazine out of her grip. I toss it across the room, thankful I don’t break anything in its path.
Katrina straightens. Fury washes over her face. “Why the hell did you do that?” she hisses, examining one of her long crimson nails. “You almost broke one of my nails.”
“Right now, I don’t give a shit about your nails or some stupid ass magazine.” My voice grows louder by an octave and my gaze fierce. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
Katrina huffs. “Doesn’t someone need a chill pill.”
Her response enrages me further. Trust me, nothing can calm me down. Not even the world’s best Scotch. I almost lost my trusted assistant and want to get to the bottom of this.
Katrina is totally non-plussed. She rises, taking a graceful step toward her precious magazine. Impulsively, I shove her back onto the couch. She gasps.
“Jesus, Brandon. Is this anyway to treat your fiancée?”
“Just tell me what happened out there.” My voice is fiery.
She flings her head back and runs her fingers through her long wet platinum hair. “If you really want to know, I was just protecting you. That ungainly assistant of yours was insistent on seeing you at this ungodly hour, and I told her it wasn’t a wise idea. I tried to hold her back, but she tripped on the slippery deck and fell into the pool. A total accident.”
Leaving her insults aside and the fact that I did text Zoey to help me with my lines, I ask my fiancée why she didn’t help her when she saw she was obviously drowning. Katrina’s a strong swimmer.
“Darling, a combination of factors, but mostly, I thought that conniving little twit was just faking it. Just a clever maneuver to have me jump back into the pool so she could get me all wet again.”
“She almost drowned.” The frightening, unforgettable image of her unconscious body floating in the water flashes into my head.
“Actually, with her weight, I’m surprised she didn’t sink.”
I clench my fists by my sides so tightly I can feel my nails dig into my palms. It takes all my willpower not to slap her or fling her across the room. I may have a history with so-called bad girls, but Katrina keeps testing my limits. The rage I feel toward her disquiets me. Almost frightens me.
Breathing through my nose with my lips pressed tight, I try to control my temper. Silence. Tense silence. And then Katrina looks up at me. Her eyes flutter. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean that. I just really don’t like that girl. She’s everything I’m not.”
Unpretentious. Funny. Sassy. Caring. And she has an inviting body with soft, luscious curves that I find more attractive than Katrina’s razor-sharp edges and plastic enhancements. After several deep breaths, I calm down enough to retrieve Katrina’s tabloid. She snatches it from me and immediately goes back to scanning the pages.
“I’m going to call it a night,” I say stiffly, eager to get away from her and out of my wet clothes.
She looks up from the magazine and smiles. “No problem, darling. I have an early call in the morning. I’m going to head home shortly.”
Great. I need to sleep alone tonight or at least not with her.
We still haven’t spent a night together since my hospital release.
Still seething, I head for my bedroom. I strip off my soaked clothes and then lope to the adjacent bathroom where I turn on a hot shower. The cascading water immediately warms me. But it does nothing to undo my stress. I’m wound up as tight as a spring. I beat myself off to release the tension that’s been rising in me like a fever. My rage toward my infuriating fiancée fuels my libido and my undeniable attraction to my indispensable assistant sets me off. I come powerfully and quickly. My first orgasm since my accident. It’s like my cock is saying: “Now what?” I don’t know. Stepping out of the shower, I gaze out the bathroom window, which offers me a perfect view of the guesthouse. The lights are out. At least I know Zoey is safely asleep.
Zoey
The sound of my phone alarm comes as a rude awakening. I hardly slept a wink. Tossing and turning, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night’s events.
Brandon Taylor saved my life. My real-life Kurt Kussler rescued me from drowning. Gave me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and carried me in his arms. I couldn’t stop reliving the feeling of his soft lips on mine, breathing life into me, his heartbeat singing in my ears, and being in his strong arms, mine wrapped around his neck, clinging to him. Never wanting to let go. Never wanting him to leave me.
Peeling one eye open after the other, my exhilaration gives way to the reality that today is just another humdrum day of being his overworked assistant and back at his beck and call. What happened last night was just a fluke thing. He did what any good Samaritan would do. Except Brandon Taylor isn’t any ordinary citizen. He’s my boss. TV’s highest paid actor. People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” And let’s get very real. He’s totally unavailable. He’s engaged to Katrina Moore, America’s It Girl. And they’re getting married on national TV.
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