Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3)

by Nelle L'Amour

  Katrina’s pompous voice hurtles me back to the moment. “Does anyone else have a question for me?”

  Is she fucking serious? To my relief, an incensed Blake ends the Q&A session and shuts her up. I still don’t know exactly what went down between the two of them. He’s been tight-lipped about it. Even over drinks on the plane over here, he wouldn’t spill the beans. Maybe I can get further with his wife Jennifer. But what’s the point? That’s not going to make the nightmare go away either.

  Heading out the side door, I retreat with Blake and the others, who participated in the Q&A session, to the lobby where the cocktail reception is underway. I need a drink desperately. Before I can get to the bar, broadcasters from all over the globe swarm me. It’s like a shark feeding frenzy—the whole world wants a taste of me. Either to have their picture taken with TV’s number one action star or have me autograph the official Kurt Kussler photo they received in their swag bags. I’m every man’s macho aspiration and every woman’s fucking fantasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Katrina flitting about, posing with one broadcaster after another for the paparazzi and Conquest publicity photographers.

  It doesn’t take long before I’m feeling claustrophobic. Tightness of breath and dizziness are accompanied by beads of sweat that break out across my skin. Blake Burns comes to my rescue and pulls me aside.

  “You okay, Brandon?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Just jet lagged.”

  “You did great with the Q&A.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m curious. Who was your inspiration?”

  “Zoey.” I blurt out her name.

  “That’s what I thought. Why did she end up going back to LA?”

  “It’s complicated.” My fallback word.

  He harkens back to our conversation on the plane. “Are you still having second thoughts about marrying Katrina?”

  My jaw tightens. “No.” I change the subject when I see her making a beeline our way, champagne in hand. “Listen, Blake, would you mind if I cut out early? I could really use a good night’s sleep.”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll have security get you out the back way.” He wraps an arm around me. “Pal-y, sometime later this week after the convention, let’s meet for a drink at The Carlton bar, okay?”

  I agree to his request. Five minutes later, I’m in a dark alley outside the theater. Balls. It’s raining. Pouring. Coming down like a spray of bullets. In a matter of seconds, the violent pellets soak me. Chill me to the bone. Shivering, I dip my hand into my pants pocket and pull out my cell phone. With the nine-hour time difference, it’s early afternoon in always-sunny Los Angeles.

  I speed dial Zoey. Once again, her phone goes straight to voice mail.

  “Hi, it’s Zoey. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

  Her sultry rasp guts me. Leaving no message, I try again. Nothing. I text her: Call me as soon as u get this message.

  Gripping my phone, I continue to walk. The needles of rain sting me as I await a response. Nada. Growing frantic, I call her one more time. Again no answer. After several more attempts, I finally leave a message. “Zoey, I need to talk to you. Please. Call me!” I only hope my desperate plea isn’t drowned out by the pounding rain. With only a glimmer of hope, I wait for a call back and then my phone dies. My heart hits rock bottom. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s seen photos of Katrina and me hand-in-hand on the red carpet. Last night, I was fucking her. Loving every minute. Loving all of her. Tonight, I’m totally fucked. And I hate who I am. Showing no mercy, the relentless rain hammers me as I turn onto the Croisette. A cruising taxi, hoping for a passenger, pulls along the curb, but I wave it away and let the pitiless rain bombard me. Totally soaked and painfully numb, I trudge back to The Carlton, knowing I may never see or hear from her again.

  Brandon

  I don’t know how I make it through five long, tortuous days at MIP. My only saving grace is I rarely see Katrina during the day. She spends most of her time shopping with Gucci along the Rue D’Antibes while I hang out with Blake and meet with broadcasters and licensors from around the world at the swamped Conquest Broadcasting booth inside The Grand Palais. My nights, however, are an entirely different story. She’s wrapped around me like a noose and insists on going to every dinner and event I’m invited to. We’re the darlings of both the press and paparazzi. They can’t get enough of Bratrina. Photos of us together are splattered all over newspapers in Cannes and I’m sure all over the world. Not wanting to make myself sicker than I am, I’ve totally avoided the Internet. I’m sure it’s a Bratrina fest.

  Finally, on the last day of the conference, I have a chance to sit down with Blake for a drink at The Carlton Bar. He’s managed to score us a corner booth that gives us a modicum of privacy in the bustling Belle Époque space. It’s a popular spot among broadcasters to hang loose after a busy day at the convention. I’m dressed casually in ripped jeans and a T-shirt while he’s in a dark, sleek suit that’s tailor made for his body. Blake may look like an actor, but first and foremost he’s a businessman. And let me tell you, after seeing him in action on the floor, he’s great at his game.

  Over expensive Scotches, we start off with small talk about MIP.

  “We rocked it,” says Blake after a gulp of his cocktail. “Thanks to the screening, we renewed the show in every major territory at a premium price and even picked up new broadcasters along with lucrative licensing and merchandising deals.”

  Since I have profit participation, that’s going to be a big chunk of money to me. Yet, right now, I could give a shit. “That’s great,” I say, my voice lackluster.

  “Brandon, you don’t seem too excited.”

  I take a swig of the Scotch. “I am. I’m just tired and stressed.”

  “Brandon, I’m going to level with you. I didn’t ask you to have drinks with me to talk business. I’m worried about you, bro. You’re our biggest star. And a friend. I need to know what’s going on.”

  I shift in the booth and take a deep breath. “It’s Katrina. I have a problem.”

  His brows knitted, Blake takes another sip of his drink. “Problem isn’t the right word. Katrina’s a fucking nightmare. I’ve tried to tell you this.”

  I take another chug of my Scotch and set the tumbler down. If Blake’s going to open up to me about their past, it’s now or never. Here goes. “What went down between the two of you?”

  Blake drains his Scotch. He breathes in and out through his nose. “Listen, man, this is what I can tell you. She almost cost me my life and my marriage.”

  “Jesus. She tried to kill you?”

  “Not quite, but she could have. She’s a fucking psychopath.”

  His words sink in. Did she run me over and leave me for dead? Did she intend to kill me last night in her rampage?

  Blake continues, cutting my disquieting thoughts short. His eyes flicker with rage.

  “And when we were in high school, she did something really sicko that hurt both me and my family.”

  Questions are burning on my tongue, but I can tell Blake’s being cryptic. He’s not going to tell me everything, at least not tonight. He plays with his empty tumbler while I try to extract more information.

  “After my lunch with you back in January, she told me you were the love of her life and you broke her heart.”

  Blake huffs and shakes his head in dismay. “She’s so fucking delusional. I was never in love with her. She couldn’t handle it and had a breakdown. She was sent to a mental institution after we graduated.”

  Christ. She really is insane. What have I gotten myself into? I polish off the Scotch. Blake orders another round from a passing waiter.

  “So, what shit is she doing to you?” he asks me while we await our drinks.

  “She’s blackmailing me.”

  Blake furrows his brows. “What exactly do you mean?”

  Loosened up by the alcohol, the words tumble out. “If I don’t marry her, she’s going to tell the media I assaulted
her and tried to kill her.”

  Blake’s crisp blue eyes widen. “Did you?”

  “Christ, no! She staged the whole thing in my hotel suite and then took photos with her phone to prove it. She has a self-inflicted gash on her arm that must be six-inches long. She’s been covering it up.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. It’s a fucking nightmare.”

  Just in time, the drinks arrive. We’re both in dire need of them and take several gulps.

  “I fucked up, Blake. And I hurt someone else really badly.”

  “Your assistant, Zoey?”

  My lips press thin. “Yeah. I’m in love with her. Katrina caught us together. That’s what set her off. I intended to break up with her before this trip, but the timing was off. She went out of town to visit her father in prison and wasn’t reachable.”

  “It’s water under the bridge at this point. Trust me, the psycho bitch would have figured out a way to bring you down.”

  Despite Blake’s comment, I bow my head with guilt and remorse. “I should have never brought Zoey here.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You did what any guy would do.”

  “Yeah, I listened to my cock.”

  “No, you listened to your heart.”

  I look up, lifting a brow as Blake continues.

  “While going after my wife Jennifer—and that’s a wild story for another time—I did some seriously stupid things but learned my cock is connected to my heart.”

  I digest Blake’s words. He must be right. At the thought of Zoey, the ache in my heart gives way to an ache in my cock. I still haven’t been able to reach her. It’s like she’s shut me out of her life.

  “Does Zoey know what’s going on?”

  “No. She split from Cannes right after Katrina showed up. I’m positive she thinks I went back to Katrina because she wrote me a goodbye forever note.” The moving words of that letter make my heart stutter and I pause. “I haven’t been able to reach her.”

  We both imbibe our drinks in silence, our faces pinched in deep thought.

  “Blake, I don’t know what to do.”

  Setting his tumbler down, Blake blows out a breath of hot air. “This is really fucked. I don’t know either. If she goes to the press, all hell will break loose. And even if I came to your defense, it’s going to be an ugly shooting match—your word against hers. The public adores her. Her clout-score is through the roof. And the timing couldn’t be worse with the season finale of Kurt Kussler airing only two days after your highly anticipated televised wedding. Ditch her and you may kill the show. And your career.”

  Pending doom. Swelling with despair, I sweep my hand across my forehead and then along my jaw. “I know. Fuck. Blake, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

  Blake cheers me up a bit in what is otherwise a dire, futile situation.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to talk to my wise old man. He’s a whiz when it comes to shit like this.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather you not.” The thought of Saul Bernstein, the mighty head of Conquest Broadcasting, knowing my fucked-up dilemma is unsettling to say the least. Blake’s father’s words of wisdom, which he shared during our lunch on the lot, whirl around in my head. “Sometimes it’s better to forget than remember.”

  If only I could make everything with Katrina disappear with a snap of my fingers…abracadabra. It’s not going to happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the psycho bitch strutting our way—Gucci in one arm, a dozen designer shopping bags in the other. A long-sleeved cashmere cardigan camouflages her bandaged wound.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my two favorite men doing some male bonding,” she coos as she approaches our booth.

  “Hello, Kat,” Blake says icily.

  “I hope you and Jennifer will be coming to our wedding.”

  Blake narrows his eyes at her. “Not if we can help it.”

  A suspicious Katrina shoots me a scathing look. “Don’t fuck with me, Brandon, if you know what’s good for you.” And then she turns to Blake. “We’ll expect you both there.” She turns on her heel and saunters away.

  Blake and I exchange a look of doom. Then, he orders another round of drinks.

  Brandon

  Back from Cannes after five tortuous days, I let the driver bring my bags into my house while I dash to the guesthouse. A ray of optimism brightens my forlorn state. The lights are on. I knock loudly on the front door.

  “Zoey, are you there?”

  No answer.

  I bang harder. So hard I shred my knuckles.

  “Zoey, if you’re there, open up!”

  Still no answer.

  “Dammit, Zoey. I know you’re there. Stop playing games with me.”

  Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I’m ready to knock down the door but on a whim try the doorknob first, giving it a jiggle. To my surprise, the door swings open and my eyes grow wide. The place looks like it’s been ransacked. My first thought, a dark one, almost suffocates me—oh no, Donatelli got to her! While the bastard who murdered both Zoey’s mother and my parents was the last person on my mind in Cannes with all I had to contend with, he now totally consumes me. My heart pounds so forcefully it hurts to breathe. Then my heartbeat calms down when I realize all her personal belongings are gone. Empty closets and cabinets have been left wide open as have drawers. A few are strewn on the floor. There’s only one thing that remains in her bedroom—a shattered Kurt Kussler poster. The one I gave her for Christmas and didn’t even bother signing. My heart leaden, I gather it into my hands and transport it to my house. I feel like I’m carrying some dead version of myself. Reality sinks in—Zoey’s gone for good. She said goodbye in her note and she meant it. There’s someone I need to call.

  Setting the poster against a wall in my living room, I scavenge my house. Where the hell did I put it—her father, Pete’s number? He handed me a business card the first time I met him; it’s got to be here somewhere. After a desperate search in which I turn the house upside down, I finally find it tucked under my computer in my office. Pulling out my cell phone from my jeans pocket, I immediately dial his number. He picks up on the first ring.

  “Detective Pete Billings, LAPD.”

  “Hi, Detective, it’s Brandon…Brandon Taylor.”

  “Hello, Brandon.” The coldness in his voice could freeze over Lake Michigan in the summer. It unnerves me.

  “Um, uh, sir, I’ve been trying to reach Zoey. I-I’m worried she lost her phone.”

  A beat of silence. “No, Brandon, she didn’t lose her phone.”

  “Is she all right?” Panic creeps into my voice.

  “No, as a matter of fact, she’s not all right.”

  Fuck. Does he know what happened in Cannes? Chances are he does. Zoey’s very close and open with her father. She’s the apple of his eye.

  “Is she ill?”

  “Yes, Brandon, she’s very ill.”

  My heart thuds in my ear. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “You know as well as I do.” His voice rises with anger. He knows.

  A long beat of silence on my end. Guilt and remorse claw their way up to my vocal chords until I have to clear my throat just to be sure I can talk.

  “Can I possibly see her?” I sound like a frightened mouse.

  “No, Brandon.”

  “Can I possibly talk to her?”

  “No, Brandon.”

  “Detective—”

  He cuts me off, but the truth is I don’t know what to say. Words are failing me.

  “Listen, Brandon, I want you to stay out of Zoey’s life. You’ve hurt her enough. I, for one, cannot bear to see my little girl hurt anymore.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” My voice is so small I can barely hear myself.

  “Brandon, I don’t need or have time for your bullshit. And please don’t call me here again.”

  “What about my hit and run case?”

  “There’s been little progre
ss. We still can’t trace Donatelli, and there are no new leads that link him to your manager Scott.”

  “I learned some interesting things about Katrina while I was in Cannes,” I say, hoping this will warm him up to me.

  “For obvious reasons, my colleague, Lieutenant Mancuso, will be handling your side of the case. I will pass this information on to him, and I’m sure he’ll be in touch. In the future, please address all your inquiries to him and anything you may discover that might be of importance. Goodbye, Brandon.”

  Click. The line goes quiet. He’s hung up on me. Tossing my phone onto my desk, I trudge back to the living room and pour myself a Scotch before slumping onto the couch. Facing the shattered poster, I drain the tumbler in a single gulp. The alcohol burns straight through me, pouring deep into the hole in my chest. I stare at the shattered poster; it’s as broken as I am. Jetlag mixes with the alcohol, creating a lethal cocktail of fatigue and despair. Katrina, who went on to Milan, will be back tomorrow and the nightmare will persevere. Just get worse. For a minute while I was on the phone with Pete, I thought about telling him that Katrina was blackmailing me. But reason got the better of me—if he knew what I did sexually to Zoey, he might think I’m some kind of sick pervert who gets off on hurting women. And, of course, once back in LA, the psycho bitch would defend herself and run to the press with her “evidence.”