Katrina returns with a tray of gourmet sandwiches along with two flutes of champagne. Today, she’s clad in tight-ass jeans, a turtleneck halter, and sky-high mules that make her look like a total Amazon. Her bountiful boobs stay as still as mountains as she saunters my way.
“Your doctor says you need to eat and rest to get your strength back,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table.
I can’t argue with her. At the reminder of my ordeal, I inwardly shudder. According to Katrina and my doctors, I was almost People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Dead!” I’m still weak and have lost some weight. Maybe a little R&R will help restore my memory. And potency. The cock is like a muscle, right? I remember reading somewhere that muscles have memory. Well, score one for me. I’ve remembered something. But why won’t my cock do the same?
Katrina reaches for the two flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “To us,” she toasts, holding up her glass. I clink mine against it. The ping resounds in my ears.
“I only drink Cristal,” my companion says as she lifts the crystal glass to her lips. They look much fuller than they did a couple of days ago. I follow her actions and take a sip of the chilled bubbly. The cool sparkling liquid sails down my throat and triggers another memory. I’d rather be drinking a beer.
“Katrina, do we have any beer? A Heineken by chance?”
She rolls her feline green eyes. “Darling, beer is a four-letter word reserved for peasants. We’re royalty. How can you not love the world’s finest champagne?”
Stuck with the champagne, I take a seat on the oversized u-shaped couch. Setting her flute back down on the tray, my fiancée follows me, except she straddles my long legs and sits on my lap. Her toned arms fold around my neck. Her tits skim my chest, and through my cotton T-shirt, I can feel her plastic-hard nipples. I have no desire to touch them or see what lies beneath her top. The scent of her cloying floral perfume wafts in the air and nauseates me.
“Does it feel good to be home?” she purrs before nuzzling my neck. Goosebumps pop along my skin, but that’s all that’s rising. Her mouth moves to my lips and she kisses me fiercely. Biting my lower lip, she forces me to part my mouth and her tongue darts inside. She takes the lead, swishing it around. Nothing’s familiar. My eyes stay wide open while awaiting some feeling of arousal. Nada. Not even a little buzz.
She breaks away. Her manicured forefinger traces my wet lips.
“Do you like the way I taste?” she breathes into my mouth.
“Yeah,” I lie. She doesn’t taste good. A hint of tobacco mixes with mint and champagne. Is she a smoker? She shoves the finger into my mouth, adding a salty layer of flavor.
While I force myself to suck her finger, she works the button and fly of my jeans. Successfully, she frees my soft cock. My unblinking eyes stay trained on her as she grips the thick length in her hand and goes down on the wide crown. Her lips wrap around it and then she trails her mouth down the shaft. Her tongue licks the underside as she comes back up. Moving her hand to the base, she squeezes my cock, pumping it hard as her mouth, in tandem, glides up and down. I finally feel the beginnings of a hard-on, but just as fast as it swells, it completely deflates. Frustrated, Katrina lets go of my cock and sits back up. Her eyes flare with fury.
“Brandon, what is wrong with you? I spoke to your doctor and he said there should be no problem. Especially with the Viagra.”
“I don’t know.” Screw the Viagra. I do know. I don’t like the way she tastes or the way she smells. And her sharp teeth scraped so hard against my shaft I must have teeth marks.
“Fuck you!” She jumps off my lap and, to my shock, flings her glass of champagne across the room. The glass hits the massive stone fireplace and shatters into shards.
Temper much?
“You’re mental,” she rants. “You need help.”
And she needs anger management. Before I can respond, the doorbell chimes. Literally saved by the bell, I leap up from the couch to open the front door.
It’s Scott. I’ve asked him to come over so I can review my finances and recent expenses. Dressed in a three-piece gray suit, he’s carrying a briefcase. He follows me into the living room where Katrina is cleaning up the mess she made. Her eyes connect with his and a smile crosses her face.
“Oh, hi, Scott. You’re just in time for lunch. Want some champagne?”
Scott declines, but helps himself to one of the fancy sandwiches. Chomping into it, he lowers himself into one of my overstuffed side chairs. After setting down his half-eaten sandwich on the tray, he raises his briefcase to his lap and pulls out a thick file. “Your expenses over the last month,” he says, handing it to me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katrina sashay out of the living room, carrying the shards of glass on a plate. “I’ll be right back,” she calls out as she heads in the direction of the kitchen. She sure knows how to move her tight, perfect-shaped ass.
Once she’s out of sight, I open the file. Skipping over the pages and pages of hospital charges, which my insurance will cover, I start with the month before the accident. Man. I’m quite the big spender. Restaurant after expensive restaurant. Thousands and thousands dropped at Barneys. Numerous exorbitant charges at a florist I never heard of. A couple of trips to Vegas at the pricey Venetian.
“I like to gamble?” I ask Scott, stopping to look up at him.
His left eye twitches. He’s got some kind of weird eye tic. “Yeah. You’re a big gambler.”
News to me.
“And what about all these florist and Barneys charges?”
Scott smiles. “After meeting Katrina, you couldn’t stop buying her extravagant flowers and clothes. I’ve never seen anyone as smitten as you.” He takes another bite of the sandwich. “Katrina showed me the love letters you sent with your gifts. I swear, man, you’re a regular Shakespeare.”
I find it disconcerting that my fiancée would share something so personal with him. But then again, they must be close. Maybe she saved them. Reading them might help jar my memory and my amorous feelings toward her. With this thought in mind, I go back to scanning the multitude of expenses. Another entry jolts me—a hefty one hundred thousand dollar check made out to the Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. My eyes flutter. Bella Stadler…the name rings a bell. I ask Scott about it.
“Don’t you remember, Brandon? She was your acting coach. You give to her school annually. You’re a big supporter.”
Tugging at my bottom lip with my thumb, I dwell on her name, a memory trying to break through. It’s futile. I move on. A few minutes later I find what I’ve been looking for. A whopping one point two million dollar charge at Tiffany’s. Made on the day of my accident. Katrina’s engagement ring.
“Did I buy Katrina’s ring just before the accident?” I’m a little surprised I didn’t give her one over our engagement dinner the night before.
“After you proposed and she said yes, you wanted her to pick it out. I was there when you phoned in the charge. You were practically creaming your pants.”
“Wish I were doing that now,” I mumble under my breath before regretting I said anything at all about my condition.
Scott lets out a little laugh before clearing his throat. “Equipment trouble?”
None of your damn business, even though you’re my business manager is what I want to say, but I bite down on my tongue. Instead, I ask to see more of my statements. Without probing further, Scott reaches into the briefcase and hands me another thick file.
“This is your portfolio. You’re worth a billion dollars. You can thank me.”
Holy crap. I am. Or at least close to that I estimate as I leaf through page after page of my investments. I own a shitload of stocks and bonds along with a boatload of real estate around the world. This house alone is worth seven million dollars.
My wealth eats at me. A wave of anxiety courses through me. A new worry. “Scott, I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot,” he says, taking the last big bite of his sandwich.
He laughs back his mouthful of food. “Are you kidding me?”
My stomach twists. “What do you mean?”
“What I simply mean is you don’t have one. I tried to talk you into one, but you outright refused. Said you didn’t need one. That you had no plans to get a divorce. And even if you did, you’d want to do the fair thing.”
“Shit.” The word escapes my mouth.
“Man, don’t worry about it. Hey, in the worst-case scenario, if you have to give her half, you’ll still be worth close to five hundred mill. That’s not too shabby.”
A good point. I suppose I’m doing the right thing.
Katrina steps back into the living room. She looks spruced up, a fresh coat of crimson lipstick lining her lush lips. “What are you boys talking about?” she asks coyly.
I quickly close the folder. “Just some business stuff. Nothing terribly important.”
She plucks out a piece of lettuce from one of the sandwiches and nibbles on it like a rabbit. “Well, I’m going to leave you two alone to talk business. I’ve got to meet with my stylist to get my wardrobe together for this week’s show and then head over to Monique’s for my first wedding dress fitting. And then I have my spin class followed by yoga. And after that, I’m heading over to Posh for my regular mani-pedi, facial, and massage.”
Man. She knows how to fill her days. This girl’s high maintenance.
Scott blows her an air kiss. “Bye, babe. Try not to spend too much of my client’s money.”
Before disappearing, Katrina winks at him. “Very funny.”
Not really. My money is not yet hers to spend. I polish off my sandwich once she’s gone. A sports car peeling out of my driveway sounds in my ear.
Scott kicks back, plunking his feet on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I have a smoke?”
I don’t object. I watch as he pulls out a pack of Camel Lights from his breast pocket and lights up a cigarette with a gold monogrammed lighter. He inhales and then exhales, the smoke wafting in the air.
I cough and then my heart jumps. I suddenly remember something about myself. I hate cigarettes. The smell. The taste. Even the look and feel of them. The taste of Katrina drifts back into my head. I hope she’s not a smoker. There’s no way I can live with one.
Scott’s nasal voice cuts into my thoughts. “I brought something else over—the latest Kurt Kussler script.” He pulls it out of his briefcase.
“They’ve had you missing in action to cover for you,” he says as he hands it to me. “Everyone’s looking forward to having you back.”
I glance down at the episode title and shudder. “The Return of the Living Dead.” And then a bolt of trepidation zaps me. With my memory so out of whack, I wonder: can I still act?
Brandon
I should spend the rest of the afternoon resting, but I’m restless. I wander around my house, searching for anything that’ll give me a clue about myself. My past. At least what’s happened over the last ten years of my life. My memories of my childhood and teenage years are intact, including my parents’ demise—that fiery car crash that consumed them both. I shiver, thinking my life almost ended in a similar way.
Frustrated, I go to my office and boot up my computer. The first thing I do is check my emails. There’s a ton of them in my inbox from names I don’t recognize, except those of a few big stars. I go through them quickly. All basically the same. People from all over the world sending their prayers and love, wishing me a speedy recovery. My heart swells with unexpected emotion. I can’t believe how many people care about me. I’m overwhelmed. I’ll respond to each of them later. Right now, I have something more important to do.
I google my name. Wow! A whopping 244,000,000 results! To my astonishment, my hospital departure is already headline news. A PerezHilton.com entry posted a few hours ago—“Bratrina Going Home at Last! When Will They Set the Date?”—glares in my eyes. Seriously, Bratrina? I can’t stand that name. And it includes a totally embarrassing photo of Katrina wheeling me out of Cedars. I cringe and jump down to the Wikipedia biography.
My eyes don’t blink as I scroll down the page and absorb what’s written about me.
Born: December 12, 1984 in Oceanside, California.
Parents: Edward and Phyllis, deceased.
Siblings: None.
Other family members: None.
I read on. I learn that I always wanted to be an actor and when my parents perished in that tragic car crash when I was seventeen, I took my small inheritance and split for Los Angeles where I studied at the renowned Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. While working as a lifeguard in Venice Beach and doing small theater bits, I was spotted by top Hollywood talent manager, Scott Turner, who’s been with me ever since.
Credits: A list of minor roles beginning at age twenty is followed by my breakout hit, Kurt Kussler.
Romantic Involvements: This section takes up half a page. In addition to Katrina, I’ve been linked to a slew of actresses and supermodels, most of whose names aren’t familiar to me. The list goes on and on. I’m a fucking player. And now I can’t fucking get it up.
Awards: Twice nominated for an Emmy Award for my portrayal of ex-CIA agent, Kurt Kussler. Recently nominated for a Golden Globe. My stomach tightens. I may be a good actor. Have I lost it? Will I disappoint?
Now that I know the basics about myself, I click on several more gossipy sites, including E! Online, TMZ, and more of Perez Hilton. The long and the short of it…this is who I am: Professionally: Dedicated. Talented. A-list Actor. Personally: Arrogant. Self-centered. Pompous. Player.
I’ve read enough. I’ve got it. Whether I like it or not. Now, onto my fiancée. I google her name. She has almost as many results. There’s a Wiki bio and a short IMDb piece, but most of the entries are from online social registries and tabloids that are filled with news of our engagement and her vigil while I was in the hospital. The number of google images is countless, running the gamut from glamorous award shows and galas to endless selfies and paparazzi pics, including several with me. To my amazement, she’s never caught wearing the same thing twice.
Katrina Moore comes from money. An only child, she was born and raised in Beverly Hills. She attended Buckley, an elite private school, and then went to live abroad for several years after graduating. Her mother, Enid, is a celebrated event planner and her father, Clayton, is a real-estate tycoon. However, a year ago, he got busted for tax evasion and a Ponzi scheme and was sentenced to serve five years at a white-collar penitentiary. The Moores were forced to sell their house and subsequently divorced.
Katrina is famous for being famous. She’s invited to every A-list Hollywood party, and she’s a muse to several major fashion designers. Using her clout, she developed a reality TV show called America’s It Girl, which she subsequently sold to a fledging cable network—Celebrity-TV (CTV). While the show initially enjoyed moderate success, ratings have lately floundered. There’s lots of talk about the show being canceled after only a year on the air, the producers and network equally fed up with Katrina’s spoiled brat behavior both on the screen and off it. She is notorious for her partying ways and her difficulty to work with on the set.
I wonder what attracted me to her and led me to choose her over all the other women I’ve dated. Yes, she’s stunning, but all my liaisons have been. What made her “the one?” Do we have a lot in common? Was the sex that great? As I’m about to read about her romantic involvements, my doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door.
With one eye, I peer through the peephole. A stocky, dark-haired man flashing a badge meets my gaze.
“Detective Pete Billings. LAPD. Open up.”
My heart beats double time. What does he want? And how did he get onto my gated property? I swing open the unlocked door.
“What can I do for you?” My voice is shaky but cordial.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, ushering him into my house. He follows me into the living
room with a loud shuffle of his feet. Wearing a rumpled trench coat, the ruddy-complexioned investigator looks to be in his fifties though his full head of unruly slate hair defies his age. His keen dark gray eyes take in everything.
“Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Water? Or a beer?” I ask, hoping I have some of each. He doesn’t seem the champagne type.
“No thanks,” he says, loosening the belt of his worn tan coat. “I just want to ask you some questions about your accident.” His sharp eyes wander around the room. “Nice place you have here. And I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of your show. Never miss an episode. Record them all. My wife loves it too.”
“Thanks.” Inside, I’m cringing. I seriously have no clue what my series Kurt Kussler is about. Later today, I’ll do more research, try to find a couple of episodes online, and read the latest script. I’m grateful the detective doesn’t dwell on the show and cuts right to the chase.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for a reply, he plops down on the chair Scott was sitting in. I return to my spot on the couch.
“Do you remember anything about your accident?”
I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”
The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.
“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.
The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE) Page 16