Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2)

by Nelle L'Amour

  By Friday night, I’m thirty pages into it. I’m about to finish the first act. The average Kurt Kussler script is sixty pages long, but mine needs to be double that length as the final episode is going to be a two-hour special. The network has high hopes for it. I just hope I can deliver. My heart races as my fingers feverishly type away.

  In a big turn of events, Kurt Kussler’s loyal assistant, Melanie, has decided to part ways with him. Madly in love with her boss, she can’t handle working for him anymore and has another job offer—to go back to the CIA. She’s at his front door with her roller bag. Kurt is devastated.

  KURT

  Mel, you can’t leave me. We’re so close to nailing The

  Locust

  Mel looks away, teary-eyed.

  MEL

  I can’t work for you anymore. You’ll find someone else.

  KURT

  There’s no one like you. Please—

  Kurt grabs Mel by the elbow. She jerks away from him, her face pained.

  MEL

  Goodbye, Kurt. (PAUSE) You’ll always be unforgettable.

  Mel grabs her roller bag and exits. The front door closes behind her. Kurt bangs it hard with his fist.

  FADE TO BLACK

  END OF ACT 1

  I don’t think I’ve ever written anything so fast. My fingers are on fire and my heart’s still beating a mile a minute. I’m feeling every emotion Kurt’s feeling. The pain. The regret. The confusion. He already knows that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It does. I fucking miss Zoey. I haven’t seen her all week. Though I can’t tell her a thing about the episode (I’m sworn to secrecy), I so want to share the euphoric experience I’ve had writing it. Grabbing my cell phone, I text her.

  Have dinner with me.

  I wait impatiently for her response. Nothing. I know she’s home. Her lights are on. She’s still playing games with me. I text her again.

  Answer me.

  Finally a reply:

  Can’t. I have plans.

  I frantically type a shouty four-letter word.

  WHAT?

  Just as fast, a response. Another four-letter word.

  A date.

  Fuck her boyfriend. If I were really Kurt Kussler, I’d kill the bastard. I want him dead almost as much as I do Donatelli.

  Zoey

  I’ve showered and dressed. I take a look at myself in my full-length mirror. That and taking selfies are two things I don’t do too often. This time, however, my reflection smiles at me. I’ve got to say I look hot. Breaking the norm, I grab my cell phone from my purse—Mama’s vintage beaded clutch—and take a picture of myself. Maybe I’ll send it to Brandon. He’s been playing games with me. Loading me up with assignments but avoiding me. I haven’t seen him for close to a week. Maybe this selfie will remind him of what I look like. Or should I say, can look like.

  I’m wearing the little black dress Jeffrey gave me for my birthday last year. It’s one of fashion designer Chaz’s creations. I never told him that it was one size too small—maybe a couple?—and I couldn’t get my fat ass into it. Now, for the first time it fits me perfectly. The tight strapless sheath hugs me in all the right places, bringing out my curves and cleavage. The six-inch black patent stilettos on my feet make my shapely legs look a lot longer. I almost feel like a supermodel—well, maybe one of those plus-size ones. I quickly gather my hair into a messy bun, sticking in a few bobby pins to hold it in place, and add a pair of cubic zirconia studs to my ears. The earrings sparkle like three-carat diamonds. No one will know they’re fakes I picked up at T.J. Maxx for under ten bucks.

  I glance down at my watch, my other piece of jewelry. It’s a dressy thin-band one that also belonged to Mama. A gift from Papa. It’s seven forty-five. Jeffrey should be here any minute to pick me up. He’s arranged for a group of us to go out to a very expensive, chic restaurant—Fig & Olive. Because of my concussion, he didn’t want me to drive. I told him I would do Lip Service, the latest Uber-like car service, but he was insistent on coming over.

  My cell phone rings. Sure enough, it’s Jeffrey.

  “I’m here.”

  “Great. I’ll open the gate.” I quickly grab my treasured black clutch and head to the front door. Goddamn fucking shoes. I can barely walk in them—or the body hugging dress. Beauty is not just pain; it’s a fucking pain in the ass. Before I leave, I hit a button on a pad by the door to open the electronic gate so Jeffrey can pull in.

  The trek through Brandon’s backyard is no picnic either. These insane heels are so hard to walk in; I’m not used to wearing them. My ankles keep buckling. It’s a shame my klutzy walk doesn’t match my sexy attire. I almost trip three times. Once so close to the pool, I almost fall in. Thank God, I know how to swim now.

  My walk of death to the driveway feels like an eternity. When I finally get there, Jeffrey’s silver Mercedes convertible is parked outside. The top is down. My breath catches. He’s standing next to it…and so is Brandon. Oh, Jeez. I wasn’t expecting this.

  Managing to stroll up to them as gracefully as I can, I immediately throw my arms around Jeffrey and give him a kiss. Wearing a stylish slim suit and his hair slicked back, he looks movie star handsome. He and Eddy Redmayne could have been separated at birth.

  “Hi, babykins,” I say, breaking away. It’s time to put those acting skills back into play. I mentally pray: Please, Jeffrey, play along. Just to be sure, I clasp his hand and dig a heel into his foot.

  “Ow.”

  I quickly turn to a puzzled Brandon and plaster a big smile on my face. “Brandon, you remember my boyfriend, Jeffrey.” I put special emphasis on the word “boyfriend.”

  Brandon’s face is pinched. Narrowing his eyes, he gives Jeffrey the once over. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Good to see you, again.” Jeffrey extends his hand.

  With reluctance, Brandon shakes it, and I silently sigh with relief. Jeffrey’s gotten the hint. I turn to Brandon and melt at the sight of him. He looks hot as shit—barefoot in a relaxed V-neck T-shirt that shows off his biceps and low-slung gray sweats that subtly enunciate his breathtaking endowment.

  “What are you doing out here?” I don’t know why I’m making conversation with him. The sooner I get out of here the better. I’m heating up.

  “I heard the gate open and then saw a car drive in on my surveillance monitor. I wasn’t expecting company so I stepped outside. Why didn’t you tell me your boyfriend was coming by?”

  An angry tone accompanies his question.

  “I told you I had a date.” Asshole.

  His eyes rake over my body. I swear he’s mentally undressing me.

  “You’re very dressed up.”

  You could say I look nice!

  “Are you going somewhere special?”

  Jeffrey chimes in before I can respond. “Yes, Fig & Olive.”

  Shit. I wish Jeffrey hadn’t told him where we’re going. Too late now.

  Brandon knits his brows. “Hmm. That’s a very expensive restaurant.”

  He can afford it, jerk! Remember, I told you he was rich.

  Smiling his own dazzling smile, Jeffrey replies. “It’s a special occasion.”

  A mixture of curiosity and suspicion sweeps over Brandon. “What are you celebrating?” The tone of his voice is confrontational, as if he has the right to know everything about my personal life.

  Jeffrey’s smile turns mischievous. “It’s a surprise.”

  “Oh.” Brandon’s voice is small, almost deflated.

  I turn to Jeffrey and brush his clean-shaven jaw. “Sweetie, we should get going. We don’t want to lose our reservation.”

  “Agree.” After saying goodnight to vexed Brandon, he opens the passenger door and I slide into the convertible. I catch Brandon’s eyes on my very exposed thighs before Jeffrey closes the door and hops behind the wheel.

  On my next breath, Jeffrey turns the car around and motors toward the gate. Via the side mirror, I can see Brandon heading back into his house. An unexpected forlornness
washes over me. I should be excited about going out for a fun evening with Jeffrey. But the truth is I’d rather be home, curled up on a couch, watching Kurt Kussler episodes with the man of my dreams.

  Fig & Olive on nearby La Cienega is a chic, super-popular restaurant, especially with the Hollywood elite. I’ve made numerous dinner reservations at it for Brandon. This, however, is my first time here. I’m awed by the number of expensive cars pulling up to the valet. A parade of Bentleys, Ferraris, Porches and more. Jeffrey’s Mercedes fits right in.

  Inside, the restaurant is pure Hollywood glamour. Sleekly modernist, it’s packed with the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen. They exude power, money, and sex. I even see several stars among them. It makes sense this is a restaurant Brandon and Katrina frequent. The power couple known as Bratrina belongs here.

  The stylish blond hostess, who could be a starlet or supermodel herself, leads us through the bustling restaurant. Following her, I feel self-conscious. I’m definitely the biggest woman here. Jeffrey, on the other hand, is totally comfortable, and along the way, several patrons warmly say hello to him. He’s definitely now on the A-list, being the number one event planner in LA.

  We end up at a round table in the back corner of the restaurant. Enjoying drinks and engaged in lively conversation is Jeffrey’s boyfriend Chaz and a small group of their close friends. I immediately recognize Blake Burns from the Internet and Chaz’s twin sister, Libby, whom I’ve met a few times before. She’s curvy like me except she seems so much more comfortable in her skin.

  “Hi, everyone,” beams Jeffrey. He then introduces to me to Blake and his charming wife Jennifer, who he affectionately calls tiger. Jeffrey and I take the two vacant seats. Chaz is to Jeffrey’s right; I’m to his left. I notice they’re each wearing identical diamond earrings. They look a lot like my cubic zirconias, but I bet they’re real. Both Chaz and Jeffrey make a boatload of money. Their businesses have been very successful.

  A dashing waiter brings by a bottle of expensive Dom Pérignon. Popping the cork, he fills everyone’s flutes until there’s no more champagne to pour.

  The waiter disappears and Jeffrey raises his glass. “We’ve brought all you lovelies together to share some very exciting news…Chaz and I are getting married.”

  Raucous whoo-hoos erupt before we toast them. My heart fills with joy. I’m so happy for both of them, especially my brother. I never thought he’d find the right one. But according to both of them, it was love at first sight when they met at Jeffrey’s former employer—Enid Moore, of all people. Katrina’s mother.

  I take a sip of my bubbly and before it goes down, my stomach lurches. I practically choke it all up. All eyes are on him as he marches my way, taking one long angry step after another. He’s still dressed in his sexy sweats and barefoot. He could wear a garbage bag and he’d still be ungodly gorgeous. Every muscle in my body quivers, and my heart hammers like a jackrabbit’s. Still coughing, I set the glass down before it tumbles out of my hand. Our eyes make contact and I can feel him shooting poison darts at me. Bull’s-eye. One after another, they hit me hard in my chest.

  “Zoester, are you okay?” asks a concerned Jeffrey.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble after a fit of coughing. An explosive mixture of shock, rage, and apprehension courses through me like a Molotov cocktail. The asshole fucking followed me here!

  “Well, hello, Zoey,” he says frostily as he steps up to our table.

  Before I say a word (as if I can even get one past the giant lump in my throat), Blake Burns jumps up and gives Brandon a man hug. “Hey, man, great to see you here.”

  After another guzzle of her almost all-consumed champagne, chirpy Libby chimes in. “Hi, Brandon. Why don’t you join us? We’re having a celebration.”

  “What are you celebrating?” His voice is as cold as dry ice. His menacing eyes don’t stray from me.

  “My brother Chaz’s engagement.”

  Chaz gives a little wave.

  Oh, no! I’m about to be busted. Quick, Zoey! Change the subject.

  “Don’t you think the weather is—”

  Loose-lips Libby cuts me off and rattles on. “He and his boyfriend Jeffrey are getting married!”

  “That Jeffrey?” Brandon’s bugged-out eyes flick to my brother and then shift back to me. They hold me fierce.

  Oh shit! Kill me now. I want to crawl under the table.

  Tipsy Libby grins. “Yes.”

  Oh dear God, what must he be thinking??!! I leap to my feet. I need to escape. “Brandon, why don’t I find a waiter to bring over a chair?”

  “No need. I won’t be staying and neither will you.” In a quick heartbeat, he grabs me forcibly by the elbow and wrenches me away.

  “Wait! I have to go to the ladies’ room!” And stay there for the rest of my life.

  “Excuse us,” he says calmly to my dinner mates, ignoring my excuse. “I have a crisis and need to borrow my assistant.”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I yell, no longer in earshot of my friends.

  “Your fucking boyfriend?” he barks back at me. Squeezing my upper arm, he herds me through the restaurant at breakneck speed. Every eye is on us. Every step is a stumble.

  “Slow down! You’re going to break my ankle!”

  “Then I’ll carry you out of here.”

  He squeezes my arm tighter and picks up his pace. If he weren’t holding on to me so hard, I’d be on my ass.

  “You’re hurting me!” I protest at the top of my lungs.

  “Oh, you’re such an expert on hurting people,” he growls.

  We’re outside before I can respond. His fancy Lamborghini is parked, with the top up, is parked in front of the restaurant. He probably tipped the valet extra to leave it there.

  With two clicks of a remote control that he’s holding in his other hand, the Lambo doors fly open like beetle wings.

  “Get. In. The. Car.” He shoves me inside it and then hops into the driver’s seat. He slams a button on the dashboard. The vertical doors fold down and automatically lock. I’m trapped.

  “Jesus, Brandon!” I fumble for my seatbelt. Before I can fasten it, he grips my hands so tightly I yelp.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Turn around and face me, Zoey.”

  “No!”

  “Do it, Zoey, or I’ll do it for you.”

  Slowly, I turn to face him. His violet eyes are still blazing with fury.

  “Who the hell is that guy?”

  “M-my brother.”

  “Pete’s kid?”

  I nod. While I mentioned Pops and Auntie Jo had a son when I told him about my family, I deliberately never revealed his name.

  “Why did you lie to me?” He fires the words at me.

  “I-I don’t know.” My voice wavers.

  “To make me jealous?”

  My silence is his answer. Shaking, I’m so close to bursting out in tears I can taste them.

  His gaze burns a hole in me like acid. And then his face softens just a little. “You know what, Zoey? You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute. You should have a boyfriend.”

  Me? Smart? Funny? Cute? My body clutters with flutters.

  “Um, uh,” I stutter until he shuts me up without warning.

  His luscious mouth crashes onto mine like a meteor. My body is sparking; my heart’s on fire. Swirling colors explode behind my eyes. The kiss is open-mouth, savage, and all-consuming. He cradles my face in his palms, heating my cheeks and deepening the raw, hot kiss with his deft tongue. Anchored in place, I melt into it, losing myself to him with each potent stroke. Moans fill my ears as I tear at his T-shirt, and he gnaws at my lips. Arrows of arousal shoot to my sex. I can barely breathe. There’s no other word for it. Possession. He’s taken complete and utter possession of not only my mouth but also of every cell in my submissive body. And then as fast and unexpectedly as he initiated the fierce kiss, he breaks it, leaving me bereft and confounded.

  “Why did you do that?” I pant o
ut, my heart pounding, my pussy pulsing with need.

  “To show you what you’re missing out on.”

  “Oh.” As I squeak out the little word, my eyes lower and then grow as round as marbles. Holy shit! He’s got a beast of a boner. It may even burst through the fabric of his sweats.

  He tilts my chin up with his thumb, pressing hard against my tender skin. His eyes burn into mine, glinting with mad lust. “I’m not done with you.”

  My just-kissed lips quiver. My body shakes. My throbbing clit aches. Oh my God! Is he going to fuck my brains out? Right here in the car?

  “Zoey, you need to be punished.” His voice deepens and a Satanic look sweeps over his face. “And I’m going to be the one to do it.”

  He jams a key into the ignition, and on my next heated breath, we peel away from the curb with a roar.

  A short ten minutes later, we’re almost back at his house. A tense silence prevails as he zooms up the narrow winding streets, expertly navigating them. Entering the gate, we pass the patrol car on duty. Brandon zips into the garage and parks next to the Jag. Apprehension and anticipation are still whipping through my veins as he clicks open the Lambo’s switchblade doors and undoes our seatbelts. Rounding the vehicle, he grips my upper arm and drags me into his house. It’s pitch black, lit only by the glitter of the city below. The dark silence is mesmerizing, almost haunting.

  Letting go of me, he sinks into his sofa. His gorgeous face is shrouded in shadows. His violet eyes glow. I stand there motionless like a statue, too scared to move a muscle or say a word.

  “Zoey, have you ever been spanked?” His voice is pitched low, almost melodic.

  “No,” I mumble. Mama and Papa didn’t believe in that kind of corporal punishment. Nor did Pops or Auntie Jo.

  “For taunting me, you need to suffer the consequences. A good spanking is what you need.”

  My heart is in my throat. I gulp it down. A curious blend of tingly erotic sensations swarms me. Fear gives way to desire. I want him to spank me. Badly.