I join a very anxious Scott, beaming Monique, the plastic bridesmaids and groomsmen, the bickering children, and the craggy preacher, who looks to be an out-of-work actor in need of rehab, under an extravagant gazebo draped in tulle and a multitude of exotic white flowers. Several photographers and cameramen surround us, including one who is operating an overhead camera. As the orchestra starts playing “The Wedding March,” I turn to watch my Cinderella-bride stroll down the aisle arm in arm with her mother. In her free hand, she holds an extravagant bouquet along with a leash that’s attached to Gucci. The poor little dog seems freaked out. My bride, however, is enjoying every glorious minute and mugging for the cameras that follow her march down the aisle. I wonder if the real Cinderella—my beloved Zoey—is watching. That night after our James Bond marathon, she promised she’d be here, but I have no hope she’ll show. Why should she? My already rapid heartbeat speeds up as Katrina reaches the altar. While her mother steps to the side, she sidles up next to me. We turn to face the preacher. The scent of alcohol on his breath is so thick I can taste it.
“We are gathered here today…” His slurred words go in one ear and out the other. My brain is focused on only one thing. I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to! Every nerve in my body is buzzing with anxiety. Every muscle clenched. Before I know it, it’s vow time.
“Do you, Brandon Taylor, take Katrina Moore to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer or poorer, in sickness and um…hiccup…in health until death do you part?” Gucci growls at the drunken preacher. Sic him!
I can feel Katrina’s eyes on me. In fact, the whole world’s eyes are on me. I draw in a sharp breath, and on the exhale, I ready myself to face Katrina and respond. My heart is hammering like a jackrabbit’s. I hesitate.
Katrina grows impatient and hisses, “Brandon, just answer his question. For God’s sake, how hard is it to say ‘yes’?”
One little word is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get my lips to move, a familiar gruff voice sounds in my ears.
“Katrina Moore…”
I spin around. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. And my heart practically stops.
Marching down the aisle are Pete and Zoey. My true princess! Pete is holding up his badge.
Zoey, looking totally ravishing in a body-hugging, ivory chiffon dress and matching stilettos, stays behind while her father steps up to the altar. Our eyes connect, sparks flying. My dormant cock is finally up for the wedding of the century.
“What the hell is going on?” yells Katrina.
Pete jumps in. “Don’t move. You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Brandon Taylor.”
What!? My heart skips a beat as Katrina’s jaw crashes to the floor. Gucci sees Zoey and breaks free. Wagging his tail, he scampers down the aisle and runs circles around her.
Enid rushes to her daughter’s side and shrieks at Pete. “What on earth are you talking about, you lowlife scumbag?”
With a poker face, Pete slips his hand into a pocket of his trench coat.
“Ms. Moore, does this look familiar to you?” In the palm of Pete’s hand is the green Venetian glass heart he showed me months ago.
Katrina’s eyes widen. “That’s my lucky heart I bought in Venice when I was at George Clooney’s wedding!”
“Well, it’s not your lucky heart today.”
Katrina’s flaring eyes latch on to Zoey. “I bet that little whore stole it from me!”
Pete remains cool, calm, and collected. “Actually, we found it at the scene of Brandon Taylor’s hit and run accident. Which puts you there.”
Katrina huffs. “Bullshit. I was with my mother.” She turns to Enid. “Right, Mommy? Tell him.”
A shaken Enid opens her mouth, but before she can get a word out, Pete shuts her up.
“Perhaps, Ms. Moore, this will refresh your memory.” He reaches inside his other coat pocket and holds up a phone. I recognize the pink rhinestone-studded case instantly. It’s Katrina’s! The one with all the incriminating photos taken in Cannes that she never lets out of her sight.
Katrina gapes. “My phone! That fat bitch stole that too!”
I shoot a glance at Zoey. With a smug little smile, she shrugs her shoulders. God, I so love her!
Pete persists. “Perhaps, these texts will jog your memory.” Zoey’s father reads aloud an exchange between her and Scott. Holy fuck! I can’t believe my ears. Fucking Katrina ran me over! Then left me for dead at the scene of the accident! And Scott covered for her!
Katrina gasps. In shock, my eyes flit from Katrina to Scott and then to Zoey. While the color on Katrina and Scott’s faces completely drains, the smile on Zoey’s adorable face widens. Low grumbles sound among our attendees, who aren’t privy to what’s going on. The inebriated preacher, also oblivious, sways on his feet.
It’s Scott’s turn to say something. The color on his face goes from chalk-white to fire engine red. His twitchy eyes narrow with fury at Katrina. “You stupid idiot! You didn’t erase the texts?”
Katrina’s lips quiver, but before she can get out a sound or word, Pete fastens a pair of shiny handcuffs on her wrists as he reads her rights. Hushed gasps fill the air. The preacher hiccups again and then passes out. I swear, I don’t know if I’m in the middle of a soap opera, horror show, crime drama, sitcom, or a really sick reality show.
Katrina’s reaction doesn’t help me figure things out. A mixture of terror and rage flickers in her venomous eyes. “Take these off me, you pig!” She tries desperately to pull the handcuffs apart.
“Let’s go,” orders Pete, grabbing her elbow.
“Let go of me!” cries Katrina, frantically trying to break loose of his forceful grip. “Mommy, call our attorney!” Desperation fills her voice. And then she turns to Scott. I follow her gaze.
“Do something, you asshole!” she screams at my manager.
A deafening boom sounds in my ear. All at once, Katrina, her mother, and the crowd of spectators shriek. Scott’s mouth opens wide and a loud, pained groan escapes. Clutching his stomach, he crumples to the floor. Unconscious, he’s sprawled in an expanding puddle of blood. Holy fucking shit! He’s been shot!
A thunderous voice rises above the frantic crowd.
“No one move. Or I shoot her!”
I flip around and my eyes grow wide again. Oh my God! Scott’s assailant is gripping Zoey by her neck and wielding his gun. I recognize his ugly pockmarked face immediately. It matches the police artist’s sketch of Zoey’s mother’s murderer! The motherfucker who also killed my parents. Frank Donatelli!
Releasing Katrina, Pete faces him squarely and pulls out his gun from his holster. “Put your weapon down.”
Donatelli snarls. “Fuck you, bastard.”
To my absolute horror, he puts his gun to Zoey’s head. Terror flashes in her eyes. Paling, she bites down on her trembling lip while Gucci, at her feet, barks non-stop at her captor.
“If you don’t put your gun down, I’m going to blow her brains out.”
For the first time, fear washes over Pete’s face. “Please don’t hurt her.”
“Did you hear me? Drop your fucking gun.”
Slowly, Pete lowers his gun to the ground.
Walking backward with Zoey in his grip and his gun glued to her head, Donatelli stumbles down the aisle. His eyes stay on Pete. My eyes stay on Zoey. The wedding spectators stay glued to their seats, afraid of being shot by the madman. Even the photographers and cameramen are paralyzed with fear. Rage blasts through me like a Molotov cocktail. The Kurt Kussler in me is exploding with the burning urge to go after them, but I hold myself back. Gucci, however, doesn’t waste a moment and chases after his beloved Zoey. Go, boy!
“Fuck,” mumbles Pete under his breath. But the second they disappear from view, he squats down, retrieves his gun, and springs into action.
“I’m going after them.” He dashes down the aisle at breakneck speed, and I’m right behind him, my coattails flying. Maybe Kurt Kussler couldn’t save his wife, but I’m goi
ng to save my future one. There’s no fucking way I’m going to lose her.
Two breathless minutes later we’re in hot pursuit of Frank Donatelli. Pete’s siren blares in my ears. My eyes stay on Donatelli’s red Ferrari as Pete expertly maneuvers his beat up Impala through the traffic on Doheny. He talks into his communication device.
“I need backup,” he says after telling the dispatcher about fallen Scott. “The suspect is traveling south on Doheny. He’s armed and dangerous and has a hostage.” He pauses. “My daughter.”
My thudding heart is in my throat. While I’ve done a lot of action-packed chase scenes as Kurt Kussler, nothing compares to this real-life version. The camera crew actually wanted to follow us, but Pete demanded they stay behind.
Donatelli hangs a sharp left on Venice. I hang onto my seat as Pete races down the busy boulevard.
“Fuck!” Pete grumbles. “He’s heading toward the freeway.”
Traffic comes to a standstill as we zigzag down the thoroughfare and run every red light. I’m blown away by the speed and precision of this old Chevy.
“Have you ever fired a gun?” Pete asks me, without taking his eyes off his target.
While I’ve actually never fired one with real bullets, my character Kurt Kussler is a natural with a gun. I tell him I have.
“Open the glove box. There’s one inside.”
I snap it open and reach for the weapon. It’s a Chrome Magnum 45…exactly the gun Kurt Kussler carries. It feels good in my hand. There’s a difference between a big flaccid dick and a big hard one. The loaded gun feels like the latter. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I’m ready for action.
“I’m going to take a shot,” I tell Pete.
“You know what you’re doing? The bastard’s got my daughter.”
“And my future wife.”
“Go for it!”
Zoey
Terror fills every crevice of my being, but I try hard not to show it. It’s almost impossible for me to believe I’ve been dealt this unbelievable fate. The very man who killed my mother is going to kill me.
“Shut that fucking dog up!” Donatelli screams at me.
Gucci is on my lap. He followed us out of the hotel and then jumped into the car before we peeled away. He hasn’t stopped barking.
I caress his furry head. “Shh, Gucci. Be a good little boy.” To my relief, he calms down, but my fear intensifies.
“If that mutt opens his fucking mouth one more time, I’m going to silence him.” He points the big gun he’s still holding in his right hand at us as he deftly maneuvers the speeding car with his left.
I shiver. A siren sounds in the near distance.
Donatelli glances into the rearview mirror and scowls. “Goddamn fucking cop!”
Pops!! Knowing he’s in hot pursuit instills me with the tiniest bit of courage. I clutch Gucci as Donatelli makes a sharp, screeching turn off Venice and heads down La Cienega. He weaves in and out of the insane traffic, ramming cars and knocking others into one another. Any way I look at it, my life’s about to be over.
“Are you going to kill me the way you killed my mother?”
For a brief second, Frank takes his eyes off the road and glares at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I stare at him squarely. Terror gives way to rage. “You killed my mother! I saw you on the pier.”
“What the hell?”
My voice grows tearful and louder by an octave. “How could you forget? Twenty years ago! The Santa Monica Pier. You shot my mother! And the man next to her. And then you tried to shoot me!” The painful memory fills my head. Mama slumped over the railing, bleeding to death. And then swirling, helplessly, hopelessly in the angry sea as the Nat King Cole song plays. It’s all so unforgettable.
“You took my mother from me!” I cry out.
Donatelli blinks hard and then scrunches his ugly face. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re that fucking little girl? The little bitch who’s given me nightmares my whole life?”
I bite down on my quivering lip to stifle my sobs, but can’t stop the onslaught of tears. “I’ve never forgotten you either, you bastard!”
“Shut up! Or you’re next!”
That does it. I can no longer hold back. Sobbing, I begin to pound him.
“You fucker!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” The car swerves and horns blast from every direction.
I pound harder and more furiously. Gucci barks madly.
“Say goodbye, you fucking cunt.”
He turns to face me again and aims his gun at my head. The trigger clicks.
The sound of a gunshot roars through my ears.
Brandon
Bingo! Thank my father’s lucky cufflinks. And thank you, Kurt Kussler.
On my first shot, I nail the motherfucker’s tire—just the way Kurt did to The Locust’s car in one of this season’s episodes. I fire my Magnum at the other back tire as his smoking car skids off the street and crashes into a deserted storefront.
Zoey leaps out of the car. Run, Zoey, run! But before she gets far, the bastard tackles her. He yanks her to her feet again, holding her hostage with his gun to her head.
My heart is beating a gazillion miles a minute as Pete steps on the gas and then comes to a screeching halt. In unison, we jump out of the car.
“Give it up, Donatelli!” yells Pete, aiming his gun.
“Fuck you!” In the blink of an eye, the fucking bastard does the unthinkable. He fires his gun. The explosive bang echoes in my ears.
“Pops!” screams out Zoey.
Fuck. Pete is down. It’s just me now. In the near distance, sirens roar.
“Put the gun down,” the fucker yells at me.
“Let her go first.”
“Maybe you don’t understand English. Drop the fucking gun.”
He presses the barrel of his gun against Zoey’s temple. Her desperate eyes meet mine. I have no choice. I let the gun fall from my hand.
“Let go of her now!” I say authoritatively.
He snickers. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m going to take your car and her with me. One move and she’s dog meat.”
Fuck. He played me. I think hard about scooping up the Magnum, but think twice. He’ll either shoot Zoey or shoot me. Or take us both out.
The tension in the air is as thick as fog. My eyes don’t blink as the bastard takes his first step toward Pete’s vehicle, gripping a terrified Zoey by her neck. A loud growl sounds in my ear. My attention is diverted. It’s Gucci! Flying out the window of Donatelli’s smoking car, he makes a beeline for the bastard. Go, Superdog!
“Ow!” yelps Donatelli as Gucci attacks him, biting his ankle like a rabid pit-bull. The dog’s relentless. Growling, his razor-sharp teeth stay locked on him even as the gun-wielding bastard attempts to kick him off. Go, Gucci! I fucking love this ten thousand dollar mutt.
“Get this fucking dog off me!”
As a cursing Donatelli tries to fend off Gucci, Zoey breaks loose.
“Run, Zoey, run!” I shout out as I hastily scoop up my gun.
Zoey takes off like the wind, but Donatelli pivots toward her and aims his weapon. He fires. He misses. Zoey trips in her heels. Shit! He’s about to take another shot.
Holding my Magnum steady in both hands, I aim it at him and pull the trigger back.
“You motherfucker!”
He turns and I fire. Boom! The deafening gunshot reverberates in my head as I watch the motherfucker go down. Holy shit! I got him! I’m a fucking real life action hero. Sliding the gun under the waistband of my tux pants, I lunge over to Zoey, who’s sprawled on the ground.
“You okay, baby?” I ask as I scoop her up into my arms. Sobbing, she clutches me the way a child does a parent, folding her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips. Her head presses against my pounding heart. Nodding, she whispers my name through her tears.
“Oh, Brandon.” Her words are like prayer. I tenderly brush my hand through her silky hair.
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“It’s over now, Zo. The bastard’s dead. I nailed him right between the eyes.”
“No, it’s not, you cocksucker.” A familiar rasp captures my attention. Shit! It’s Donatelli, staggering to his feet, dripping with blood, his gun in his hand. Zoey screams.
“Don’t look, baby!” With Zoey burying her face against my chest, I yank out my Magnum and aim it at the bastard. One of us is going to die, but it’s not going to be me or my baby.
“You fucker,” croaks Donatelli, fumbling for the trigger.
“No, you fucker.” I fire once and hit him in the chest. “That’s for killing her mother.” I fire again, getting him in the gut. “That’s for killing my parents.” I fire a third time, hitting him smack in the balls. “That’s for taking my girl…and this is for calling me a cocksucker.” I shoot him one final time in the nut sack for good measure. My lips snarl. “Get it. Got it? Good.”
The gun falls out his hand as he collapses back onto the ground. Lying in a pool of blood, he’s dead for sure. My focus stays on the bullet hole between his wide open eyes. Bastard! Fucking bastard! I hope he can still see me from the fiery depths of hell.
Tossing my weapon, I tenderly kiss the top of Zoey’s scalp. “Baby, it’s really over now.”
She slowly lifts her head and her misty eyes meet mine. “What about Pops?”
“Yeah. What about me, Babycakes?”
Zoey gasps. Her tears of grief give way to tears of joy. “Pops! You’re okay!”
A little disheveled, Pete staggers our way. He kisses Zoey on the cheek and then meets my gaze. “Tell Kurt Kussler that he should always wear a bullet-proof vest.”
He rips open his trench coat to reveal his. It’s a little shredded. I laugh. “I will. He’ll appreciate the tip.”
Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) Page 12