Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (14 page)

Rolling out of bed stark naked, I stagger to the bathroom. Usually by the time I get to the toilet, my morning wood has started to go down. Not today. I stare at my monstrous boner and swear it’s laughing at me: “Ha, ha, ha, I’m not going anywhere.” No way can I pee in the toilet with it. My huge erection shoots out of me like a torpedo, perpendicular to the floor. Desperate for relief, I hop into the shower, turn on the water, and take a whizz, shooting my stream straight at a glass wall. Then, I jerk off, fantasizing her beautiful fingers curled around my dick. For sure, they’re long enough to circle all the way around it. With a loud grunt, I come.

Towel-drying myself, I think more about last night. Part of it felt so wrong, yet everything felt so right. Why can’t I stop thinking about her? Hopefully, a swim will help me chill out. Clear my mind. And make it easier to face her.

Zoey is setting my Starbucks on a table when I finish my last lap. All the tension I eliminated with my swim dives right back into me at the sight of her. Dressed in a tight T-shirt and jeans, she looks fresh and sexy. My cock stirs. She’s still affecting me, and I can’t make the feelings and sensations she arouses go away. It’s hopeless. Damn her. Hoisting myself out of the pool, I grab my towel and throw it over my shoulders. Heading her way, I have no clue what to say. And my arousal isn’t helping. It’s only making things worse.

“Here’s your coffee.” Her voice is devoid of emotion, and she’s deliberately avoiding eye contact with me.

“About last night—”

She meets my gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about. What I did and what you did was wrong, but two wrongs don’t make a right. You were right, however, about one thing. I need a boyfriend.”

I feel totally deflated. It’s as if she has no feelings toward me. Her tone is very business like, bordering on icy.

“Zoey, I have feel—”

She cuts me off again. “Please, Brandon, let’s not talk about it. Like you said, let’s forget about it and move on. Your schedule is on the table. You’re shooting the entire day. It may go into overtime.”

I notice there’s no coffee for her. Usually, she sits with me and reviews my schedule, but obviously, she’s not going to do that today. Guess what? She
is
affected. She’s just not letting on. She’s a damn good actress. I feel a glimmer of hope.

“Yo, Brand-man. How’s it going?”

A familiar nasal voice interrupts my thoughts. An unexpected visit from my manager, Scott. Wearing a navy blazer over cream pants and an open shirt, he ambles our way. His leathery skin looks tanner than ever. For sure, he’s gone to one of those tanning salons.

Zoey’s expression hardens at the sight of him. Her father’s been working day and night to uncover the connection between him and Donatelli, the motherfucker who murdered her mother and also did in my parents. But so far, no leads. Scott still denies ever having lunch with him. Plus he has an alibi: After having lunch with Katrina at The Ivy, he accompanied her to a bridal gown fitting at nearby Monique Hervé’s eponymous boutique. The designer backed him up as did Enid, Katrina’s wedding planner mother, who was also there.

Zoey and Scott exchange scathing looks. Their mutual disdain is palpable.

Zoey: “Excuse me. I have a lot of things to take care of.”

“Nice seeing you too, sweetheart,” Scott snickers as my assistant pivots on her heel. My eyes stay on her as she traipses back to the guesthouse. My X-ray vision penetrates her jeans. I can see that gorgeous ass. And that delicious cheek is still red. My cock flexes. It’s as if it’s telling me there’s no such thing as mind over matter. Damn it. She’s fucking with my brain.

Scott takes a seat. “Mind if I have a smoke?”

I do mind, but I let him. He reaches into the breast pocket of his blazer and pulls out a pack of Camels and his gold lighter. Scott really seems to like gold. He’s wearing a thick gold chain that hangs low on his hairy chest and a pinky ring with a substantial diamond. He lights up a cigarette and inhales. I’m relieved he blows the smoke away from me.

“Scott, why are you here?” Though he’s been my long-time manager, my relationship with him since I awoke from my coma has been on shaky ground. I don’t like the fact he’s shown up here uninvited.

He takes another drag of his cigarette. “I have something to ask you.”

“I want to ask you something first.”

His face tenses. “I thought we were done with that Farmer’s Market incident. And I’m going to level with you. I don’t like the smell of that cop on my trail. What’s his fucking problem?”

You.
But I keep my mouth shut. Pete’s instructed both Zoey and me to not talk about it with him or make any mention of the fact that we know he lied when he told me he called in my accident. I tell him I don’t know why he’s being investigated and assure him my query has nothing to do with the incident. I brave my question.

“Did I ever share anything about my sex life with Katrina before my accident?”

“You told me it was off the charts hot. And Katrina told me the same thing. You two were going at it like bunnies.”

I don’t know whether to believe him. Since discovering he lied to me about my accident, I can’t trust him. All is not what it seems.

“Have I always been honest with you?”

“You’ve never held back.” He takes another puff and then flicks the ashes on the patio. Fucking slob. I should get him an ashtray, but by the time I get back, there’ll be a mountain of ashes. No point.

“Was there anything else she or I told you? Anything unusual?”

He puffs again on his cigarette. “Other than she likes to be on top?”

I’m getting nowhere with him. It’s strange he knows what she likes but has no clue about my kinkiness. I’m definitely not going to tell him about it. Or that I’ve been having wild sex dreams about my assistant. Even when I’m not dreaming about her, I fantasize about spreading her legs and bending her over. Making her come a thousand different ways and hearing her scream out my name. Oh, that pretty mouth. So beautiful when it opens wide. Wide enough for me. In my mind’s eye, I picture it wrapped around my massive shaft, sucking, licking, and sending me over the edge. I feel my cock swell beneath the table.

“How did it go in New York?” asks Scott, bringing my focus back to him. “It’s too bad you couldn’t go with Katrina to Paris.”

I squirm in my chair, painfully aware of the ache between my legs. I’m going to tell him the truth and gauge his reaction.

“Katrina and I still aren’t getting it on. And I still don’t have any feelings toward her.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. “Well, you sure could have fooled me on
Letterman
. The two of you rocked it. It was one of his highest rated shows ever. The public can’t get enough of Bratrina. Fan mail has been pouring in everywhere—CBS, Conquest, and at Celebrity-TV. The world can’t wait for you and Katrina to tie the knot.”

My stomach twists. The words spew out.

“I’m having second thoughts.”

Scott’s cigarette practically falls out of his mouth. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Maybe we should postpone the wedding until my memory comes back.”

Scott’s left eye twitches while his face darkens. “You’re out of your fucking mind. You’re talking career suicide. Listen, Brandon, just get the hell married and everything will come back to you.”

Maybe he’s right. He nervously takes another puff of the cigarette and then blows out an offensive cloud of smoke in my face. He goddamn better not give me cancer.

“Scott, do me a favor. Put out the cigarette.”

A troubled expression washes over his face. He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and stamps it out.

“Listen, Brandon, let’s change the subject. I came over here because I have a personal favor to ask of you.”

“What?”

“I need to borrow a couple grand. I’ll pay you back.”

I digest his words. I just paid him his weekly salary. Twenty grand. He needs more money?

His anxious eyes stay fixed on me. His left eye is twitching considerably. More than before.

“Sure,” I say, no questions asked. “I’ll write you a check when we go inside.”

He smiles with relief. “Thanks, Brand-man. I appreciate it.”

Five minutes later, we’re in my office. I unlock my safe and pull out my large checking ledger. Transporting it to my desk, I sit down and make out a check to him in the amount he requested. Two thousand dollars. With my felt-tipped pen, I write “loan” in the memo before signing it. Somehow, I think I’m never going to see the money again.

While I tear it out of the ledger, my manager eyes my computer screen. “How’s the script going?”

Shit. I didn’t close the file on my desktop. I’ve got to be more careful. The story is top-secret. Not even my manager can know about it. Especially one I don’t trust. I hastily stop what I’m doing and shut down the computer.

“Good,” I stammer as the screen goes blank.

While I finish with the check, Scott sets his leather briefcase on the corner of the desk and unzips it. Overstuffed, it tips over and the contents splatter onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Scott mumbles, under his breath. He squats down to gather the assorted papers. Jumping up from my chair, I join him. The repulsive scent of his cloying cologne and smoke-filled clothes wafts up my nose.

“Thanks, man,” he says, stuffing his briefcase.

Helping him, I eye what looks to be an itinerary that includes a round-trip three hundred dollar ticket to Vegas and a three-day stay at The Venetian. He’s departing tonight. Not making mention of it, I slip it into his briefcase. He throws in the last remaining papers and a fallen box of Camels and then zips up the case. We stand up in unison.

“Don’t forget this,” I say, handing him the check.

“Yeah, thanks again, man.” With jittery fingers, he shoves it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m gonna be out of town for a couple of days, but call me if you need anything.”

“Good luck in Vegas,”
is what I want to say, but I bite my tongue. There’s a reason why he didn’t volunteer his destination.

As soon as he’s gone, I call Pete and tell him about Scott’s mysterious trip to Sin City. “He’s on Southwest Flight 389 departing tonight at 7:50 from LAX.”

“Me and the missus haven’t been to Vegas in a while.” I can picture Pete smiling on the other end. “Thanks for the tip.”

My next call: Zoey. I share the news with her. To my surprise, her voice is flat and emotionless. Almost cold.

“Thank you for letting me know. I’m sure Pops will keep me informed.”

She hangs up.

That’s not the only time Zoey hangs up on me. Since the spanking incident, the dynamic in our relationship has changed. She avoids me as much as I avoid her, and when we do see each other, we avoid eye contact. I wish I never spanked her. I crossed the line. It was totally unprofessional. Yet, I think she enjoyed getting it as much as I enjoyed giving it to her. She refuses to talk about it.

It’s been three days. Zoey’s become totally closed off. I can’t even share her father’s latest findings about Scott. He’s a big gambler. Likes to play blackjack, the slots, and craps. Donatelli, however, was not spotted anywhere in Vegas. Pete’s not any closer to nailing Zoey’s mother’s murderer or solving my hit and run.

Whenever I begin a conversation, she merely says, “I know” or gives me the cold shoulder and walks away. Her emails and texts are equally terse. Every rejection of one of my advances shreds me. On Tuesday, Zoey delivers my Starbucks in the morning while I’m in the pool doing laps. I’ve decided I’m going to have a come to Jesus meeting with her. Enough with this shit. I want my assistant back. The way she was before. But when I emerge from the water, she’s gone. The sound of a car peeling out of my driveway screeches in my ear. What the fuck? Sopping wet, I hurry to the table where I’ve left my cell phone and where she’s deposited the Starbucks bag. I speed dial her. No answer. I text her. No answer. I call again. No answer. She’s playing games with me again, and it’s pissing me off. Mad as hell, I reach into the bag for my caffeine fix. To make me madder, there’s no coffee. Only a note scrolled in her elegant handwriting on a paper napkin.

Brandon~