Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3)

by Nelle L'Amour

  “No. She was out of her fucking mind.” My voice is combative.

  “She told me you assaulted her.”

  Rage surges inside me. “You believed her?”

  “I don’t know, but the press would have. You’re lucky she kept her big mouth shut.”

  “Whose fucking side are you on, Scott?”

  “Yours.” He pauses. “Listen, Brandon. Let me level with you.”

  My blood heats at his confrontational tone.

  “Brand-man, you’re a brand… It’s in your name. Get it?”

  Got it. Good. “Just get on with it.”

  “Katrina is perfect for you. The public adores Bratrina. They can’t get enough of the two of you. They want a happily ever after.”

  “What if I can’t deliver?”

  Scott’s beady eyes narrow. “It’s simple. Your career is over. Trust me, I know her. She’s a fucking loose cannon. She will go straight to the tabloids and smear your name everywhere—online, in print, and on TV. She showed me photos of what you did to her in Cannes. That gash was cringe-worthy.”

  “She did it to herself with a piece of glass.”

  “That’s not what she says. And now, there are red welts along with black and blue marks all over her back. I saw them for myself.”

  I jolt. “What are you fucking talking about? I’ve NEVER touched her. You’ve got to believe me!”

  “Brandon, it doesn’t fucking matter. What matters is she’s smart. She’s America’s It Girl. The public adores her. She’ll play it so she’s just a poor Cinderella—a victim of abuse, whether you assaulted her or not. When she shows the photos to TMZ and the handiwork of ‘your’ latest assault, everyone and their mother will despise Brandon Taylor. Kurt Kussler ratings will plummet; the show will get canceled, and your career will tank. Everything you’ve dreamed of—including one day winning an Oscar—will go down the fucking drain. And that’s the best possible scenario. I wouldn’t put it past her to go to the authorities and press charges. She’ll put you behind bars.” He pauses and our eyes clash, his dark and full of spite. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Are you getting the picture yet?”

  My stomach in knots, I nod silently. He’s just reiterated Blake Burns’s sentiments but made them a far more ugly and impending reality. Yes, everything’s on the line. The psychopath is holding a knife to my heart. Fucking, fucking Katrina.

  My manager flashes a smarmy smile. “Good. Now, look at the bright side. You can always divorce her. You know, for irreconcilable differences.”

  “She’d be open to that?”

  “Totally. She’s even told me herself.”

  My mind spins. “I need to get a pre-nup by tomorrow.”

  Scott chortles. “C’mon, Brandon. Get real. No lawyer can do that.”

  He’s right. I absorb his words and do the math. If we divorce, she’ll be entitled to half of my fortune. But truthfully, five hundred million dollars may be a small price to pay for happiness. And true love. Zoey’s adorable face flashes into my head. She’s worth every penny. If only she’ll take me back. There’s no guarantee. Scott once again cuts into my thoughts.

  “I personally know one of the top divorce lawyers in town. He handled Katy Perry and Russell Brand’s divorce among others. He can make yours happen as fast…even faster.”

  “How fast?”

  Scott snaps his nicotine-stained fingers. “Like that.”

  “Send me his name.”

  Scott grins. “Will do. Now, get ready for the rehearsal.”

  “Listen, Scott. I’m not feeling good. I’m not going to the rehearsal.”

  Scott’s eye tic starts up again. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  I shrug. “Then you can miss it too.”

  “What is wrong with you? Don’t you get it?”

  “I just don’t feel good. Tell Katrina I’m still sick. She’ll appreciate it.”

  Scott draws in a sharp breath through his nose and exhales. “Fine. But you sure as hell better be there tomorrow. Even if you’re on your deathbed. There’s a lot riding on this wedding. And not just your future.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” With a look of relief, he stands up. “I’ll text you that lawyer’s name when I get to The Four Seasons.”

  Don’t bother. After he disappears, I take a deep determined breath. A lot can change between a dress rehearsal and the actual shoot. Including the script.

  Zoey

  I’m a total zombie. I didn’t sleep a wink. With tears soaking my pillow, I replayed the season finale of Kurt Kussler in my head over and over again. With my eidetic memory, I virtually know every word by heart but still can’t make sense of it. Lying on the couch with a blanket and still in my PJs, I watch it again on my laptop, and another avalanche of tears falls from my eyes as it comes to its heart-ripping conclusion. Sobs wrack my body. Why am I such a glutton for pain? In a few hours, the man I love with all my heart, body, and soul will be married to another. America’s It Girl. And everyone in the world will be watching them say their forever vows. Everyone except one. Me. There’s a reason why I still don’t have a TV.

  Drained by my tears and aching heart, I close my stinging eyes. I don’t know how long I’ve napped when the familiar ping of my cell phone wakes me up. Groggily, I stand up, wrapping the blanket around me, and try to remember where I left it. It’s in the kitchen. Please God, don’t let it be him. I stagger into the adjacent room and indeed my phone is on the counter. Except it’s dead. Another ping sounds in my ear. Huh? And then I remember, I have Katrina’s iPhone. Identical to mine, it’s in my bedroom. Probably still stashed in the pocket of my masseuse uniform.

  I bet the bitch is leaving me a nasty message to return her phone. Or maybe it’s mad Madelyn threatening me. I’ll return it when I’m good and ready. Maybe never. In my sullen state, I derive a little pleasure thinking about how much time and effort it will take Katrina to purchase and set up a new phone. And how she must be seething and lost without it on her wedding day. Haha! No selfies for her.

  The phone pings yet again as I step into my bedroom. My ugly uniform is strewn on the floor. Mental note: burn it. Another ping. Another possibility of who it could be stabs me. Brandon! My imagination runs wild thinking that he’s sending her hugs and kisses. Or texting her about all the naughty things he’s going to do her on their wedding night. Bile rushes to my throat at the thought of them fucking their brains out. Screw the bitch. I’m going to turn off her phone. I bend down to retrieve it, and as I hold it in my hand ready to press the off button, yet another ping sounds. Curiosity gets the better of me. Running my forefinger across the screen to unlock the phone, I check her text messages. To my surprise, they’re not from the bitch, Madelyn, or Brandon but rather all from that sleazeball Scott. One after another.

  Why the fuck can’t I reach u?

  On way to hotel. Call me! Urgent!

  Postpone honeymoon. Need the money FAST!

  Call me ASAP. I’ve got a big problem.

  What’s Scott’s problem? Perplexed but intrigued, I scroll down further to a text he sent Katrina last night while I was crying my heart out over the Kurt Kussler finale.

  Great news. He already wants a divorce. The money will be ours in no time.

  My blood pounding, I process the last message. Brandon wants to divorce Katrina? He hasn’t even married her. And both she and Scott are after his money? Burning with curiosity and my heart racing, I scroll through Katrina’s older messages. After many exchanges with her mother about wedding details, another exchange with Scott captures my attention. It’s dated Sunday, April 12, the night she showed up in Cannes.

  Katrina: I got rid of the fat bitch. LOL. I found his phone and fired her.

  Scott: Nice work. :)

  What!? Katrina fired me? Hacked into Brandon’s e-mail account and pretended to be him?

  My fingertip sizzling with rage, I scroll back further. The lazy psycho bitch never erases her texts. Af
ter a few exchanges about the terms of her reality show deal—the greedy bitch wants $50,000 per episode!—my eyes grow as wide as saucers. My already rapidly beating heart accelerates.

  Katrina: Come over for a quickie.

  Scott: A little whipping?

  Katrina: I’m going to give it to you hard.

  Scott: I’m hard already.

  I gasp. Oh my God! Scott and Katrina are having a sordid affair?

  Frantically, I continue to scroll, my fingertip flicking the screen past a bunch of gobbledygook until another round of texts brings me to a sharp halt. They’re dated March 22, three days after my encounter with Scott and Donatelli at The Farmer’s Market.

  Scott: Some asshole detective may question you. Be careful.

  Katrina: Don’t worry. He questioned me ages ago.

  My mind races. Scott must have been smart enough to delete all his texts with Katrina from his phone so my father wouldn’t see them. For sure, Pops would have issued a warrant for both his cell phone and computer to check for evidence. It’s standard operational procedure. He confiscated and checked Katrina’s phone as well but early on in his investigation of Brandon’s hit and run. I recall him telling me he didn’t find anything suspicious. Yes, there were numerous phone calls between her and Scott, but they couldn’t be construed as incriminating evidence since Scott is her manager and they likely talk all the time. My eyes stay focused on Scott’s last two words: Be careful. The detective in me wonders what they mean. With baited breath, I scroll back further and then this:

  Katrina: The fat bitch is getting in the way.

  Scott: We need to get rid of her.

  Rage whips through my bloodstream, then my heart thuds with trepidation. Scott’s words whirl around in my head like a tornado. Could they have possibly intended to kill me? After scrolling through more disgruntled texts about Katrina’s reality show contract, I come to yet another set that makes my eyes flutter and my heart practically jump out of my chest.

  Katrina: Worried. His memory is coming back. What if he remembers I hit him?

  Scott: Relax. I have it covered. He won’t be able to prove a thing.

  I gasp out loud. The phone shakes in my hand. My skin bristles. I can’t believe what I’ve just read. Hit…as in hit and run? It has to be. Katrina ran over Brandon!! She wanted to kill him? And now, she’s marrying him to get his money? And then run off with Scott?

  Oh my God! It’s 5:30 pm. In just a half hour, they’ll be saying their vows live on TV. Panic pulses through me. Without wasting a second, I call Pops. Thank goodness, I know his cell phone number by heart. His phone rings and rings and rings. Shit. Since I’m using Katrina’s phone, he won’t know it’s me. Pick up! Pick up! My thudding heart’s in my throat. Come on, Pops! Please pick up! After the fifth ring, he does. Breathlessly, I tell him everything. The words fly out of my mouth. He listens intently and then says:

  “Get dressed, Babycakes. We have a wedding to crash.”

  Brandon

  It’s a fucking spectacle. A circus. Hordes of fans and paparazzi surround us as our Cinderella-inspired horse and carriage heads down Doheny en route to The Four Seasons. Katrina, dressed in her five hundred thousand dollar gown that takes up most of the carriage, smiles brightly and waves to the crowd as if she’s royalty. Gucci, dressed in some frou-frou pink concoction, is on her lap and cocks his head at me, confounded. Butterflies swarm my stomach. I’m nervous as shit. The biggest moment of my life awaits me. I don’t know if I can pull it off. But, at least, I’m wearing my lucky cufflinks. The gold monogrammed ones that belonged to my father. As I fiddle with them, the memory of Zoey trying to put them on the night of the Golden Globes flashes into my head. Her incompetence was so adorable! When I look back, I loved her even then. The fond memory sparks a small smile, but it falls off my face as soon as we pull up to the entrance of the imposing hotel. My anxiety returns full force and crashes through me like an avalanche.

  Shouts of “Bratrina” echo in my ears. The pumpkin-like carriage comes to a halt and, after we’re helped out of it, we’re whisked away by security. As we’re led to our holding quarters, I glimpse the sprawling garden where our ceremony is taking place. Hundreds and hundreds of guests are being escorted to their seats, and a production crew is running around attending to last minute details.

  The holding quarters are no less frenetic. Hair and makeup people are scuttling about the spacious, elegantly appointed suite, putting finishing touches on the bridesmaids and groomsmen, all hired from Central Casting. Katrina’s mother Enid, dressed in a peach gown, is shouting into a walkie-talkie.

  “Where the hell is the last groomsman?” Her brows furrow as much as Botox will allow them. “What!? I don’t care if he’s got pneumonia. Call Central Casting, you moron, and get someone over here NOW!”

  She catches sight of us and her face brightens.

  “Mommy!” exclaims Katrina, running over to hug her. “My special day is here at last!”

  “Darling, you look absolutely divine. Monique’s dress is perfection.”

  “I hope Daddy will see it on TV. It’s such a shame they wouldn’t let him out of prison for my special day.”

  Enid rolls her eyes. “There’s a reason your father is behind bars. For all I care, he can rot in his cell.”

  “Whatever. Talking about cells, I think I left my phone at the rehearsal last night. Did anyone turn it in?”

  “No, darling, I’m sorry.”

  Enid’s attention is thwarted. Another x-ray thin, chicly dressed woman with a tight black chignon and skin so taut it may crack joins them. After giving Katrina the once over, she fluffs out her poufy white gown. She must be the designer, Monique Hervé. She gives Enid a flirtatious wink before addressing her client.

  “Katrina, my love, I want you and Brandon to take a photo with the In Style photographer. A picture’s worth a million bucks.”

  Before I can blink, I’m posing with Bridezilla.

  “I’d like to get a shot of the two of you kissing,” says the young female photographer who has us huddled side by side on an elegant loveseat. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap. With the width of her gown, there’s barely any space for me.

  Katrina makes a face. “Absolutely not! I don’t want to mess up my lipstick, and besides, I’m the only one who belongs on the cover. A close-up.”

  To my great relief, Katrina gets up, leaving me with The Gooch, and poses for the photographer. Blowing kisses. Swirling around in her voluminous gown. Flinging back her platinum locks that are held back by a diamond tiara and a mile-long tulle veil that trails along the carpet. While she continues to prance around the suite, the production staff mikes me up.

  “We’re going to need some cutaways and sound bites,” says a jeans-clad AD from Katrina’s reality series as she hides a mike under the lapel of my tailcoat. A scraggly cameraman aims a handheld camera at me. I vaguely remember seeing him before in my hospital room when I woke up from my coma.

  “Fine,” I mumble, responding to the AD.

  “Just answer my questions, but make sure you repeat what I say. For example, if I ask you how do you feel…you respond by saying I feel blah, blah, blah, blah. And be sure to look into the camera.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “Great,” she says with a smile and then gets right into it. “Brandon, how do you feel about marrying America’s It Girl?”

  “I feel very excited and nervous. This wedding is going to be unforgettable.”

  “Are you marrying the girl of your dreams?”

  I twitch a half smile. “I’m marrying the girl of my dreams.”

  Before she can ask another question, Enid shouts into a megaphone. “Listen up, people. The procession is about to start. When I give you your marching orders, file out the door. Be sure to smile.” Her eyes dash around the expansive room and land on Scott.

  My manager, the best man, is in a far corner, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His face pinched, he seems to be spewing some angry words at wh
oever is on the other end. A lit cigarette dangles from his other hand.

  “Scott, put the phone away and get rid of that awful cigarette,” chides Enid. “You’re first. Let’s move it.”

  Slipping the phone into the breast pocket of his tux, my manager takes one more inhale of his cigarette before tossing the butt to the floor and stamping it out. His left eye is twitching and a deep frown line is etched across his forehead. He seems on edge. Passing by me without as much as saying a word, he heads out the French doors to the garden. Blowing an air kiss to Enid, Monique, the maid of honor, follows him outside.

  Enid does a headcount of the groomsmen, who all look like Ken dolls. Seething, she lifts her walkie-talkie to her pursed lips. “Where the hell is that replacement? What do you mean he’s stuck in traffic? You’re fired!” She hurls the handset across the room. “Screw it.”

  “Groomsmen, move it!” she shouts out with a loud snap of her bony fingers. “Let’s go. Chop chop!”

  My stomach tenses as I watch them file out the door.

  The dozen blond, busty Barbie-lookalike bridesmaids are next. Followed by two professional children who have been hired to be the flower girl and ring bearer. Then it’s my turn. I can’t get my feet to move. It’s like they’re stuck in cement.

  “Jesus, Brandon. Move it already!” Enid yells.

  Katrina fires me a scathing look. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  Taking a deep breath, I finally get up and amble toward the exit. Here goes nothing.

  I take slow, hesitant steps down the flower-lined aisle as a harpist with an angelic voice performs “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” from Disney’s Cinderella. Inside, my heart is beating a hundred miles an hour. I call upon all the acting skills I have to act the part of the excited groom. My eyes dart left and right to meet the celebrity-filled crowd—a glittering blend of men in black tie and women in dazzling gowns and jewels. The Hollywood elite. There’s only one special person I’m searching for. My wishful heart’s only dream. She’s nowhere in sight. I do, however, spot the cast and crew of Kurt Kussler among the gazillion guests as well as Blake Burns and his wife Jennifer. They meet my gaze, and by the concern written on their faces, I know they sense my anxiety. Two cameramen flank me as I head up to the canopied altar, capturing my movements and expressions for the live televised event. The walk to the altar seems like an eternity. I just want this day to be over.