Unforgettable

by Nelle L'Amour

  “Can’t. I have some pickup lines to take care of.”

  “Too bad. Hope you’re getting her something expensive and taking her out for a nice, romantic dinner. That would definitely help calm her down. The Polo Lounge would be a great place for the two of you to be seen.”

  “Done.” Crap. I haven’t bought a thing for her or made a reservation. Mental note: Email Zoey and tell her to go to Tiffany’s and pick up a bauble. Plus, make a dinner reservation at the Polo Lounge.

  Scott flashes his pearly white teeth. They glow against his fake tan. They’re perfect. In fact, too perfect. They’ve got to be caps.

  “Good. You know, Katrina’s mentioned you’re still having a little problem in the equipment department.”

  I cringe. She’s been sharing our sex life—or lack of one—with Scott? Okay, he might manage both of us, but it’s none of his fucking business. Fucking Katrina.

  Scott takes another puff and winks at me. “Brand-man, you should treat yourself to a little bauble too. A ring.”

  I glance at Scott’s flashy pinky ring. So not my style. “I don’t do a lot of jewelry.”

  He snorts. “I was thinking jewelry for your weiner. Trust me, those cock rings work wonders. You’ll be as hard as nails and going at it for hours. Take my word, Katrina will love it.”

  Who is Scott to know what Katrina will or will not like when it comes to sex? Just how much does she confide in him? Or is there something more? Or maybe I’m just reading into things and Scott’s just trying to be helpful.

  He gives me the name of a nearby sex shop—a name that rings a bell—and I hesitantly thank him for the tip. Another errand for Zoey. She’ll need to be discreet.

  “Brand-man, you’ll be thanking me again after you use it. Katrina will be way over the Globes screw-up.”

  I inwardly cringe and tell him I’ll have Zoey handle it.

  Scott’s beady eyes darken. “You know, Brandon, I’m a straight shooter. I don’t like that girl.”

  And she doesn’t seem to like you. “What’s your problem with her?”

  “She’s a little smartass. She thinks she owns you.”

  She does. In more ways than one.

  “On top of that, she’s been very rude to Katrina. If I were you, I’d fire her fat ass. It’s something I told you to do before your accident. You probably don’t remember.”

  I don’t. And I don’t like the way my chain-smoking manager talks about Zoey. His cigarette is down to the butt. At this point, it’s moot to ask him to put it out, and I’ll wait till he lights up another. My mind right now is burning with more questions.

  “Why did you force Zoey to go away while I was in the hospital?”

  “For your own good. You don’t remember shit, but that little twit’s a thorn in your side.”

  “You had no right to do that.”

  “I made a big mistake.”

  “You did.”

  His lips snarl. “You’re not kidding. I should have fired her sorry ass while you were in a coma and saved you the time and effort.”

  My blood is sizzling. It takes all I have to hold it together. “Scott, you may be my manager, but you have no authority to ever act on my behalf. I control all of my decisions at all times. Do you understand that? Don’t ever cross that line again.”

  Scott’s eye twitches. My gaze stays on him. With silent rage, I watch as he tosses his cigarette butt onto the deck and stamps it out with one of his shiny leather loafers.

  “You’ll be sorry you didn’t listen to me. Trust me, you could do a lot better.”

  Zoey is perfect for me. Maybe what I need is a new manager.

  Zoey

  Breakfast at Tiffany’s was one of Mama’s favorite movies. She made me watch it with her a few months before she died. I didn’t understand it. I thought the cat was cute and begged for a kitty afterward. I was allergic to cats so we never got one. But many years later, I watched it again with Jeffrey, and it brought tears to my eyes. It made me think of Mama. Unlike me, she was waifish like Audrey Hepburn, and I could hear her singing “Moon River,” her angelic voice better than any movie star’s. While Jeffrey gushed about Audrey’s Givenchy wardrobe, I, the romantic, wished I could find true love like Holly Golightly. And could be ballerina-thin.

  The melody and lyrics of “Moon River” play in my head as I float through the high-end jewelry store in Beverly Hills in a trance-like state. I hear Mama’s voice. Memories of last night flicker in my head. After dressing my boss and hearing him thank me on the Golden Globes, I had high hopes. Now, I know my erotic dream was sending me a message. I’m delusional. I can never have him. Brandon Taylor is my heart breaker, not my dream maker.

  The reality is he’s in love with Katrina or I wouldn’t be here. Believe me, the last thing I want to be doing is shopping for a glitzy birthday present for the stuck-up, evil bitch. The morning was bad enough, having to perfect a statement from Brandon about his undying love for her and assuring all his fans that their relationship was intact. Long live Bratrina! It took me hours. By the time I was done, I hated myself as much as I hated the bullshit words I finally locked down. Unshed tears brimmed in my eyes.

  With a heavy heart, I roam through the main floor of the store. The Rodeo Drive outpost is not exactly the Fifth Avenue Tiffany’s featured in the movie, but still it’s Tiffany’s. Dazzling diamond jewelry fills the display cases. Happy couples in love and wealthy matrons surround me. I don’t really belong here.

  “Can I help you?” asks an impeccably groomed, Audrey-thin sales associate. She tells me her name is Beatrice.

  “Um…uh…yes,” I stammer. “My boyfriend’s looking for something special to give me for my birthday. He wants it to be right.” I have no clue why I’ve launched into this fantasy. Maybe I’m so mental I need to see a shrink.

  The saleswoman beams. “You’ve come to the right place. Your boyfriend must be someone really special.”

  “Y-yes,” I stutter. She has no idea.

  “I suggest this diamond necklace. It’s one of our signature pieces. Classic Elsa Peretti.” She takes out a necklace from the display case and lays it on a black velvet pad on the counter. Under the overhead halogen lights, the bling blinds me.

  “It’s platinum and the diamonds are all D-colored stones…VVS1 quality.”

  Having no idea what all that code language means, I admire the stunning necklace with its abstract pavé diamond heart pendant. So sleek. So elegant. So Katrina.

  “Yes. This is perfect,” I splutter. Too perfect! “My boyfriend has an account here and told me to put it on his credit card. I hand her the “dummy” credit card Brandon gave me. To protect his identity, he has many with false names.

  I stare at the exquisite necklace while Beatrice swipes Brandon’s card. It’ll look beautiful around Katrina’s long, slender neck. I’m sure he’ll give it to her at their romantic dinner tonight. The reservation at the Polo Lounge is all set. I almost didn’t make it, but I was driven by my unquenchable desire to please him.

  The saleswoman’s breathy voice brings me back to the moment. “Wonderful. The charge went through.” Handing me the receipt, she smiles brightly. I eye it and gasp silently. Twenty-five thousand dollars. A bolt of jealousy tears through me. Score one for Katrina.

  “Is your boyfriend coming by to pick it up or does he want it sent?”

  “Actually, he’s out of town right now and wants me to take it with me.”

  “Would you like it gift-wrapped?”

  “Yes,” I mutter, still drowning in jealousy. “He’d like that.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll call someone.” Moments later another Tiffany’s staffer comes by to take the necklace to gift-wrapping.

  “Thank you,” I mumble as he skirts off.

  Beatrice clears her throat. “In the meantime, can I show you some engagement rings? With that extravagant gift, I’m sure he’s going to pop the question sometime soon. Perhaps Valentine’s Day?”

  Valentine’s Day is just a
few weeks away. The only question that pops inside my mind is—what will Brandon get Katrina for the occasion? I’m sure I’ll be back here.

  “So may I?” asks Beatrice, her voice pitchy.

  “Sure,” I say with hesitation. My stomach knots. Why am I playing this cruel game with myself?

  Beaming, she leads me to the engagement ring section. I immediately spot Katrina’s ring. It’s hard to miss. The sparkling elliptical-shaped diamond outshines and outsizes the others by miles.

  “How much is the ring in the front row center?”

  Beatrice’s smile widens. “Just a little over a million dollars. It’s a flawless ten-carat D-colored marquise.”

  GAH! A million dollars? He spent that much on her? I feign composure.

  “Would you like to try it on?”

  Just the thought of this mega-expensive ring on my finger gives me butterflies. I shake my head. “It’s lovely but not my style.”

  I sidestep to the next display case. Beatrice tracks with me.

  Scanning it, my eyes take in the various beautifully displayed rings. And then I see it. A magnificent rectangular amethyst flanked by two glittering triangular diamonds. The stone is the color of Brandon’s eyes. My favorite color. It’s calling my name.

  “May I please see the ring with the amethyst?”

  “Of course.” With a somewhat haughty attitude, Beatrice sizes me up. “I’m not sure if it’ll fit your finger. It’s a sample that’s made for a very slender hand.”

  Inside, I’m simmering. She just called me a fattie. Well, I’ll show her. In a calm, collected voice, I assure her it will.

  Doubt is written all over her face. “Very well. Let’s give it a try.”

  While she removes the ring from the case, I plant my hands on the glass countertop.

  Beatrice’s eyes widen with surprise. “Why, I think it’ll fit you just fine. You have the most elegant fingers I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” I say proudly. Thank you, Mama.

  She sets the ring on another velvet pad. My eyes stay fixed on it. It’s so, so beautiful.

  “This is one of our newest settings. Many young brides prefer a colored stone to a traditional diamond. This one consists of a five-carat amethyst of the highest quality. The Trillian baguettes weigh over a carat. I think it will look lovely on you.”

  My heart and hands tremble in unison as I slip the exquisite ring onto my long, slender ring finger. It fits perfectly. Holding up my left hand, I admire it. My heart hammers against my chest.

  Beatrice flashes a smile. “It fits you perfectly, and it looks absolutely stunning on your hand.”

  “It does.” My voice is small and dreamy.

  My eyes stay riveted on it. My pulse speeds up. Yes, this is the ring I’d want Brandon to give me.

  Beatrice cuts my fantasy short. “Should I put a hold on it, dear?”

  “Yes,” I mutter. A permanent hold.

  “Wonderful. Why don’t you and your boyfriend come back over the weekend? You can show it to him. When he sees it on your hand, I’m sure he won’t be able to resist.”

  I twitch a faint smile. “We’ll try to do that.” The tone of my voice is far from chipper. While Beatrice assures me the ring will be waiting for me, the assistant returns with a gift-wrapped blue box containing Katrina’s birthday present.

  “Enjoy your lovely necklace,” Beatrice says as she places it inside a small Tiffany-blue shopping bag. Just like the one Audrey carried in the movie.

  I take one long last look at the amethyst ring before I remove it from my finger. Reality stares back at me. Who am I kidding? Even if Brandon wasn’t engaged, he’d never marry an overweight nobody like me. My aching heart tanks. There’s no rainbow’s end for me.

  Zoey

  With now the heaviest of hearts, I run a few more errands for Brandon in Beverly Hills. I drop off a pair of his expensive Italian loafers at the “shoemaker to the stars” for re-soling, go to the beauty supply store to pick up more of his favorite grooming products, and then run into an exclusive wine store to pick up a bottle of Cristal—which I’m sure is for Katrina. Of course…he’ll propose a toast before he showers her with that gorgeous necklace.

  I have one last chore before I head back: a stop at a store in West Hollywood called The Pleasure Chest. A package is waiting there to be picked up under the name “John Steele.” Another birthday present for Katrina?

  When I step into the store, my eyes grow wide with shock. It sure as hell isn’t Tiffany’s. It’s an emporium filled to the gills with all kinds of sex toys and accessories for both men and women. To my amazement, it’s packed with customers, including many who look like they’re close to sixty. I guess with the huge success of Fifty Shades, everyone’s into kinky sex. An unsettling thought hits me: Is this the kind of sex Brandon and Katrina have? Or maybe tonight they’re going to experiment, and he’s going to surprise her with some birthday toys?

  With a mixture of curiosity and apprehension—and an undeniable twinge of jealousy—I wander up and down the aisles. In the toy aisle, there are dildos and vibrators in every shape, size, and color, ranging from monstrous latex cocks to tiny vibrating bullets. I gravitate to one of the vibrators. “Sparky.” It’s molded like a huge pink penis and has an amusing rabbit ear attachment.

  “Bubala, get that one,” says a petite silver-haired lady standing next to me. She’s got to be in her eighties and looks familiar—like maybe she’s on TV or something. I’m sure I’ve seen her photo in one of those gossip magazines. She blabbers on in what sounds to be a Yiddish accent.

  “Trust me, the other ones are feh. My Luigi loves using this vun. OY! Vee have so much fun. He loves to vatch me come! He says it’s so sexy shmexy.”

  Her adorable bluntness cheers me up a bit. I have to bite down on my tongue to stifle laughter. “Thanks for the recommendation,” I say while she throws a couple of vibrating eggs into her shopping basket and sprightly heads down the aisle.

  I follow “Grandma” down the next aisle, where she loads up on blindfolds, paddles, handcuffs, and whips. Everything you need for the total BDSM experience. “Have you ever tried these?” she asks me, holding up a small package. Nipple clamps!

  “Don’t they hurt?” I reply.

  “I don’t know, bubala. Ve’re going to try them out tonight. Surprise your boyfriend.”

  She takes off while I continue to explore the various accessories. Rhinestone-studded cuffs with a leash? I have to admit I’m as aroused as I’m awed. Kinky eye candy.

  My inquisitive mind wonders—what kind of toys does Brandon use? In my wildest fantasies, I’ve never imagined him using any. But now in my mind’s eye, I picture him totally naked, wielding a whip. Handcuffed to a bed, I’m on all fours, wearing nothing but the skimpiest leather thong. My ass is in the air.

  “You’ve been a naughty girl, Zoey.”

  Oh have I! I nod my head feverishly.

  “And do you know what happens to naughty girls?”

  I flinch and squeak out “no.”

  “They get punished.”

  On my next harsh breath, he growls and strikes the leather against the flesh of my ample ass. I wince in pain. And then another lash and yet another, not stopping until I’m screaming out with erotic sobs. Satisfied, he sits down on the edge of the bed and flips me over his knees, He caresses my fiery ass. The pain dissolves into exquisite pleasure but not for long. Whack! A paddle crashes down on my sore ass.

  “Do you like being spanked, Zoey?”

  “Oh yes!” I moan out.

  Whack! And then another and another. I lose count. My moans morph into whimpers that get louder with each strike.

  In my mind, I feel the sting, but in my core, I feel hot tingles. Fire and wetness co-mingle between my legs. I have the burning desire to touch myself, to make myself come. A hand reaches down, but just as my fingertips crawl to my hot, throbbing center, a voice sounds in my ear. My hand flies off my crotch.

  “Can I help you find a
nything?” An androgynous, spiky-hair male in leather fetish attire faces me. A salesperson. Piercings dot his nose, lips, and ears, and tattoos glove his upper limbs.

  Mortification races through me. “No, um, I’m good. I’m just here to pick something up. Where might I find my order?”

  The young sales associate tells me it’s probably at the cashier. Sheepishly, I turn in that direction.

  The inky hair girl behind the counter could be the twin sister to that kinky sales dude. She’s similarly clad in black leather with an abundance of piercings and tattoos; maybe it’s The Pleasure Chest employee uniform. I ask her if she has a package for someone named John Steele. It doesn’t surprise me Brandon used a pseudonym. The last thing he’d want would be for it to get out that he’s some kind of pervert and frequents this place.

  She smiles, revealing a tiny ring on the tip of her tongue. “Yeah. I have it right here.” She reaches below the counter and produces a surprisingly small bag. I have no clue as to what might be inside. There’s a part of me that wants to ask. And there’s a part of me that wants to flee and leave the package behind. And tell Brandon that they misplaced whatever he ordered. Or didn’t have it in stock so I can ruin his night with Katrina. But my loyalty to him and work ethic triumph over deceit.

  “How much?” I ask with hesitation.

  “It comes to forty-three fifty. Would you like me to charge it to Mr. Steele’s account? He’s on file with us.”

  I blink hard. Brandon has an account here? Does he know this, or is this something he’s forgotten with his amnesia? Either way, the shocking news feeds into my wildest imaginings. Gah! Maybe he’s like one of those men I’ve read about in my erotic romances who has a secret playroom where he stashes all his toys, fetishes, and gizmos. In my head, I picture a dark dungeon filled with spanking benches, ropes dangling from the ceiling, and racks of whips, paddles, and floggers. I inwardly shudder, but to say I’m not aroused would be a lie. A new tingly sensation invades my inner thighs.