The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE)

by Nelle L'Amour

  I smile. “Pops, has it ever crossed your twisted mind it was just someone driving through the neighborhood who accidentally ran Brandon over and then freaked out and took off? There are a lot of crazy drivers in the Hollywood Hills, and that’s not counting the ones who drink and do drugs all day long.”

  Pops rakes his stubby fingers—the ones that have fired a gun—through his thick shiny hair. “You’re probably right. It’s just gonna be hard to find that person. Right after the accident, a city street sweeper came by and erased all tire tracks and footprints. We couldn’t even find a single hair to connect us to the suspect. We only have one clue.”

  “Something captured on a surveillance camera?” Or someone.

  Pops shakes his head. “I wish, but there are no surveillance cams on Brandon’s private road until you get to his house.”

  “What about in the neighborhood?”

  A look of frustration washes over his face. His shoulders slouch. “There was a power outage that morning. Some motherfucker moving van took down a power line, and everyone within three miles lost power.”

  That happens frequently in The Hills. The outages can sometimes last for hours…until the DWP fixes the problem. Brandon’s house was probably affected that day as well though I wasn’t aware of it. I rode with him in the ambulance to the hospital and didn’t get back home till late in the night. The sound of the blaring siren resounds in my head, arousing more vivid memories. Unconscious, with his head bandaged, his face drained of all color, and his breathing labored beneath an oxygen mask, Brandon didn’t look like he’d make it. A lapsed Catholic, I prayed for him and hoped God heard my words and witnessed my tears. Losing him was unfathomable.

  “Babycakes, I want to show you something.”

  Pops’s voice once again jolts me out of the excruciating memory. Just like the day Mama was murdered, it’s unforgettable. I think I’ll relive it forever and ever. Forcing it to the back of my mind, I focus my eyes on my father as he yanks open a creaky desk drawer. He reaches into it and retrieves a small zip lock bag. He slides it open and shakes out what’s inside. I study the heart-shaped green object that’s now sitting in the palm of his wide hand.

  “We found this close to the crime scene.”

  At the words crime scene, a chill sweeps over me. Pops explains to me that even if Brandon’s accident wasn’t a premeditated murder, his hit and run could be tried as a felony because of the severe nature of his injury—punishable with a big fine and up to five years in prison. Personally, I think that’s too lenient; whoever ran over Brandon should get a much longer term.

  “Do you have any clue what this is?” he asks, glancing down at the evidence. “All we know is that it’s a piece of Venetian glass from Italy.”

  “It looks like it could be part of an earring or some kind of pendant. Why is it so chipped and scratched?”

  “Probably, it was brushed along the street by the sweeper or it got stepped on before anyone noticed. Does it look at all familiar to you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t recognize it.”

  “Is it something Katrina would wear?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Pops, I thought we were done with her. But if you really want to know, I don’t think she’d wear anything that didn’t come from Tiffany’s or one of those other fancy shmancy Beverly Hills jewelry stores.”

  Chewing on his bottom lip, he rubs his dimpled chin with the thumb of his other hand. He always does this when he’s thinking or onto something. “I have a hunch that whoever ran over Brandon Taylor was wearing this.”

  I play devil’s advocate. “A lot of super rich women jog up and down Brandon’s street. The housewives of Beverly Hills. It could have simply fallen off one of them. And with all their money, they may not have noticed or cared.”

  “Yup. That’s a definite possibility.” I sense a tinge of frustration in my father’s voice, but know he’s not going to give up. Even though it’s now considered a cold case, he’s never stopped looking for Mama’s murderer.

  I play detective. “Were you able to get any fingerprints off it?”

  “No luck. The surface is too scratched.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Pinching his lips, Pops puts the evidence back into the plastic bag and after sealing it, returns it to the drawer. He glances down at his watch. A wedding gift from Auntie Jo, he never takes it off. They’ve been married thirty years. The frayed brown leather band shows its age.

  He pushes himself away from his desk. “Gotta go. Your mother’s made her famous pot roast and I promised I’d be home by six.”

  He shrugs on his signature last century trench coat and rounds his desk as I stand up. He gives me a bear hug.

  “Put some meat on those bones, babycakes. Come by one night; your mother will fatten you up.”

  I laugh. The last thing former size-twelve me needs is fattening up.

  “Give my love to Jo.” I pause. “And tell her I’ll work on getting her onto the set so she can personally meet Brandon Taylor.”

  Pops’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh boy, you’re gonna make her night. She’d love that! That woman is totally in love with him.”

  Every woman in the world is in love with Brandon Taylor. Except he’s giving his heart to only one. A sharp pang of jealousy stabs me. I hate her.

  Brandon

  Goddamn LA traffic. What I thought would only take twenty minutes takes me almost an hour. The bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic on La Cienega is a nightmare, and there’s a fender bender that slows things down even more. I seriously want to shoot the two bickering idiots who collided. There’s a reason for road rage.

  When I get to the Conquest lot, I pull my Lambo into my VIP reserved parking spot and jog over to the building where the focus groups are being held. I forgot how big the lot is—practically the size of a college campus—and it takes me more time than I thought to get there. I’m late for the focus groups. Glancing down at my watch, I come to the conclusion I’ve already missed the first one with men. Dammit!

  I fly into the observation room and apologize for my tardiness. Despite my lateness, all the attendees are thrilled to see me and are totally understanding. Thanks to a file Zoey left me, I recognize all their faces and know their names.

  Seated on an oversized leather couch with his long legs outstretched on the coffee table and a sandwich on his lap, Blake smiles.

  “No problem, man. Grab a sandwich and take a seat. Libby’s about to start the women’s group.” He chomps into his sandwich.

  Before I can join him, the others in the room all jump up and successively give me man hugs.

  “So good to see you, Brand-O,” says Doug DeMille, the show’s slick Executive Producer.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many emails and letters we’ve gotten wanting to know when you’d be coming back,” chimes in Trevor Reeves, the suited-up Blake wannabe VP of Drama.

  “It sucked dick having to write you out of the script,” quips Mitch Steiner, the show’s scruffy head writer.

  I laugh at his light-hearted gripe and head over to the platter of sandwiches on the credenza. I help myself to a tuna on rye and grab a Coke. Setting the paper plate and soda can down on the coffee table, I take a seat next to Blake.

  “How’s it been going?” I ask him after taking a bite of the tasty sandwich.

  “Great. The men’s group was really receptive to your story idea.”

  I still don’t know what the hell that is, but I don’t ask him. I look through the wall-to-wall one-way mirror and focus my attention on the women’s group in progress. There’s a total of nine respondents, various ages and ethnicities. I’d say the youngest is in her twenties, the oldest in her fifties. From what I’ve learned, Kurt Kussler has widespread appeal, the core viewers being 18-49. At the head of the table sits a bright-eyed woman with a mop of copper curls, likely in her twenties. Addressing the group of women, she must be Libby, the group moderator.

  “Remember, there
are no right or wrong answers. What matters are your true and honest opinions.”

  Her voice is warm but authoritative. While she continues to explain focus group rules and regulations, Blake tells me the group is composed of “heavy” Kurt Kussler viewers.

  “What does that mean?” I ask after swallowing a glug of Coke.

  “They watch the show three or more times a week.”

  My eyes widen with shock. “But it airs only once a week.”

  Blake fills me in. “These women record and watch it over and over. They also download old episodes. They can’t get enough of Kurt Kussler.”

  Holy shit! I guess they can’t, I muse as Libby segues into the first discussion question.

  “Okay, ladies, what do you think of the show Kurt Kussler?”

  Despite being told to talk one at a time, the women break out into pandemonium. I hear a cacophonous chorus of “Oh my God! The best show ever! I love it!”

  Reminding the women not to shout out all at once, Libby launches into a series of questions about what they like and dislike about the show.

  The long and short of it:

  Likes: Everything. Especially the lead character Kurt. They love the action-packed stories and all the flashbacks of him and his late wife Alisha. They also adore the secondary characters, especially Kurt’s faithful assistant Mel.

  Dislikes: Kurt’s nemesis, The Locust, whom they love to hate. And the fact they have to wait a week for the next episode. A couple of women complain about my recent absence on account of my accident. They’re all relieved to hear that I’m okay and will be in all the new upcoming episodes.

  After a quick sip of her bottled water, Libby tells the group they’re doing a great job and focuses her questions on the character I play.

  “Okay, ladies. Let’s talk a little bit about the character, Kurt Kussler.”

  Again, another outburst.

  “Oh my God, sex on a stick!”

  “I love him!”

  An older woman fans herself. “Holy hotness Batman. He’s so amazing!”

  “Totally!” gush several respondents in unison.

  “What about Brandon Taylor, the actor who plays the part?” asks Libby.

  Yet another uncontrollable outburst. A few of the women look like they’re going to swoon.

  “Oh my God. I’d kill to meet him!” pants one.

  A shiver skittles up my spine. I’m sure she doesn’t mean that literally, but the words of Detective Billings circle in my head. Would some crazy fan actually do that?

  Another woman suspiciously stares at the one-way mirror. “Is he sitting behind that mirror watching us?”

  Before Libby can respond, the women start shrieking. I swear they sound orgasmic. They wave and blow kisses. One even jumps out of her seat and presses her lips against the glass. She’s practically in my face. I feel myself flushing. On my next breath, they’re all out of their seats and peeking through the window in search of me.

  Blake laughs. “Guess they’re infatuated with you.”

  Obsessed is more like it. They’re like a pack of wild dogs in heat.

  Convincingly denying my presence, Libby tells the ladies to sit back down and brings order to the unruly group. She continues to probe about my character’s appeal and then moves into a discussion about the other characters. After talking about Kurt’s late wife Alisha, she focuses on my assistant, Melanie, who I call Mel.

  “I love her,” says one respondent.

  “She’s so cute and funny,” says another.

  “And she cares so much about Kurt,” adds yet another.

  “I feel sorry for her,” comes the voice of the youngest respondent.

  “Why is that?” asks Libby, totally poker faced.

  “Because she’s madly in love with Kurt.”

  “Do the rest of you agree?” Libby throws out the question to the group.

  “Totally!” the respondents shout out in unison.

  “Does Kurt know Mel is in love with him?”

  The women chime in one after another.

  “Maybe.”

  “Not sure.”

  “Yes. But he’s too in love with Alisha and feels guilty.”

  “That’s what I think. He’s suppressing his feelings.”

  It takes no prodding for the other respondents to agree. I listen carefully to what the insightful women are saying. The image of my own assistant Zoey unexpectedly flashes in my head, and it puts a smile on my face. The smile quickly fades. I’m sure she hates me. I treat her like crap.

  Blake’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Here comes the big question.”

  Libby: “Okay, listen up. How would you feel if Kurt and Mel got together?”

  “You mean, like fell in love with each other?” asks one of the respondents.

  Libby nods. “Yes.”

  The women once again break out into orgasmic shrieks. They talk over each other, but I understand every word.

  “Oh my God! That would be amazing!”

  “I would love that!”

  “How ’bout like yesterday!”

  “I’m dying for them to kiss!”

  “That would be so hot! Mel deserves happiness. So does Kurt.”

  “Why can’t it be me?”

  After a few more similar responses, Libby wraps up the group. She thanks the helpful participants and then hands out envelopes with their compensation. While the envelopes get passed around the table, she reaches beneath it and retrieves a large box. She stands up and sets it in the middle.

  “I have one more thing for you…Kurt Kussler sweatshirts.”

  The women shriek yet again and go at the box of sweatshirts like vultures. Thanking Libby, virtually every one of them slips their sweatshirt on before departing.

  Two minutes later, a beaming Libby steps into the observation room.

  “Great job, Libby,” Blake commends.

  The show execs second the motion.

  Her smile widens. “Thanks. I think you got the answer you were looking for.” Her eyes zero in on me. “Brandon, viewers love your idea.”

  My ears perk up as she continues.

  “Of having Kurt finally realize he’s in love with his assistant Mel.”

  So, that was my story idea. I wonder what inspired it. Before I can utter a word, Executive Producer Doug opens his mouth.

  “So, Brandon, are you still up for writing the season finale? You said you wanted to.”

  I did? I gulp. “Yeah, sure. It’s my idea.”

  Blake smiles broadly. “That’s great. We’re going to run it as a two-hour special and promote the shit out of it.”

  Christ. What have I gotten myself into? I don’t think I’ve ever written one word of a script. How am I going to do this?

  Doug picks up on my anxiety. “Brandon, don’t stress out. We’re all going to work with you.” He turns to Mitch. “Mitch and his team will be there every step of the way.”

  Mitch gives me a thumbs up. Maybe I should ask him to write the script, and I’ll dot a few i’s and cross a few t’s.

  Trevor, the network executive, looks up from his cell phone. “I already texted the Publicity Department.” He smiles triumphantly. “They’re on it. Your writing debut will be headline news in tomorrow’s trades.”

  “Great,” says Blake.

  Not great. I’m doomed. There’s no backing out. I call on my acting skills and bullshit a couple of ideas I have for the episode.

  “I’m going to end the episode with a passionate kiss between Kurt and Mel.” I pause searching my mind for more. Bingo! “And one of them will have their life in jeopardy.”

  “The Locust?” asks Trevor.

  “Fantastic! A killer cliffhanger!” exclaims Blake before I can respond. “Our viewers are going to love it! The ratings will go through the stratosphere, and they’ll be salivating for more.”

  Kiss-up Doug pats me on the back “Brandon, I’ve got to hand it to you. At first when I heard your idea, I had my doubts, but now
I’m totally convinced. I have to ask you—what inspired that twist?”

  I stare at him blankly and stammer, “I don’t remember.”

  I truly don’t. Damn my amnesia. Maybe I discussed my storyline idea with Zoey and she knows. Mental note: Talk to her.

  Blake packs up his briefcase. “Listen, everyone, one last thing…I don’t want any of you to share what’s going to happen on the season finale with anyone. And I mean anyone. Especially your co-workers. I want this to be top secret. It stays in this room. You’ll each be receiving a non-disclosure agreement from Legal tomorrow. Trevor, take care of that.”

  Blake’s soldier readily agrees.

  Well, I guess that means I can’t discuss my script with Zoey. That sucks. She could be helpful since she knows the show so well. Read over what I’ve written and make suggestions. Even fix lines and typos I miss. Take dictation. My stomach tenses at the daunting task that lies ahead. Will the action hero make it as an action writer?

  With this ponderous question weighing on my mind, I follow Blake to the exit door. As I’m about to split, Libby corners me.

  “So glad to finally meet you. Give my best to Zoey.”

  My brows shoot up, “You know her?”

  “Yes. My brother Chaz is dating her brother.”

  “I didn’t know that.” The truth is I don’t know much about Zoey at all.

  “I’m surprised she never told you.”

  I heckle. “Maybe she mentioned it once, but I must have forgotten.” That’s likely the truth too.

  Blake, checking his briefcase before he leaves, chimes in. “Libby and Chaz happen to be my wife’s best friends.”

  Confused, I say, “Five degrees of separation.” Part statement, part question.

  Libby corrects me. “In this town, it’s more like two.”

  I laugh lightly. She’s right. Given her connections, I bet she knows my fiancée. I give it a shot.

  “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?” I ask after Blake and the others take off.

  She snickers. “Sure. Everyone knows your fiancée. She’s America’s It Girl.”

  “I mean, do you know her personally?”