Zoey.
What the hell is wrong with me? I stare at my deflated cock. I’m engaged to a woman who loves me and I’m fantasizing about another who loathes me. Maybe I am the biggest dick in the world.
Chapter 10
Zoey
Fighting back tears, I head straight to the bathroom. I rinse my oily hands and then shower. Letting the needles of water pound on me, I stay in longer than I should, given LA’s current drought conditions. I need to wash him away. Get him out of my skin. After the lengthy shower, I towel dry myself and throw on my pajamas. Running a comb through my wet chestnut locks, I take a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My reflection makes me more depressed. I’m nothing like Katrina. I’m not supermodel beautiful nor will I ever be. At best, I’m cute with my button nose, big chocolate brown eyes, and my dimples—that is, if I ever smile again.
I look glum. The shower has done little to quell my emotional or physical pain. Giving Brandon massages has always been a struggle. When I touch him, I want to touch myself. I feel things in forbidden places. “Feeling,” said one of my massage instructors, “is the other side of the coin for touch.” But tonight was different. I aroused him. And he aroused me in another forbidden place. My heart. It was my own fault. I let myself get carried away by a fantasy. But now reality has set back in. I’m just his Plain-Jane assistant and always will be. Men like Brandon Taylor don’t go for girls like me. I’m a far cry from his type. And besides, he’s engaged…in love with someone else. America’s It Girl, no less.
Forget about him! Get him out of your head! No matter how many times I’ve said these words both aloud and to myself, I can’t. On the wall, facing my bed is a life-sized framed Kurt Kussler poster. Brandon—or should I say, Kurt in his signature pose—all six-feet-two of his superstar gorgeousness. His fingers, aimed like a gun, point at me. Get it. Got it? Good.
Brandon gave me the poster the first Christmas on the job. Please don’t think it came with any meaning. It’s what he gave to all his employees as well as fellow cast and crew members, and I was the one who had to get them gift-wrapped and delivered. All two hundred fifty of them. That was a bitch. And it wasn’t easy to get Brandon to sign each and every one of them. In one of his bad moods, he stopped after the first fifty and made me forge his signature and sign the rest. I never bothered with mine.
So the poster’s nothing special, yet it’s special to me. I wake up to it and go to sleep with it. Brandon’s in my dreams every single night. Even before I close my eyes, he’s in my mind, watching me finger myself to a state of delirious bliss.
Sitting up in my bed, I shift my vision to my hands. I study them. Brandon called them magical and beautiful. The truth is they are. They don’t even look like they belong on my body. Unlike the rest of me, my fingers are long and slender. Elegant. I inherited them from Mama. They’re definitely my best feature and the most useful. They’ve been many places.
My eyes return to the poster. My pulse quickens. My skin heats. How could one man affect me so much? The ache in my clit is greater than the ache in my heart. I can’t take it or shake my basest desire.
Desperate, I thrust my hand beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms to that place that’s crying out to be touched. I stroke my sensitive tissues. They’re so hot and wet. I close my eyes, but Brandon’s beautiful face occupies the space in my head. What would it feel like if he touched me? Spreading my legs, I imagine his hand between them as my fingers move to my throbbing clit. I rub it vigorously, making ragged circles like a finger-painting child. My breathing grows heavy, my temperature rises, and my heartbeat accelerates. I circle harder, faster, and as I get closer to a climax, I break out into a sweat. Vibrations flood me. Behind my eyelids, violet lights strobe as I work myself more urgently. I fantasize his mouth all over my pussy, sucking, licking, flicking. Talking dirty to me. Telling me I’m sexy. Telling me: “You’re mine.” He plunges two fingers into me, his warm tongue still loving me, fucking me with relentless licks and flicks. And then in my head, I hear him whisper, “Come for me, baby,” and I fall apart at his command. Shatter into a million little pieces. My whole body trembling with spasms, I collapse back against my pillow and keep my eyes closed and my hand beneath my pajamas until I catch my breath and my heartbeat calms down. Slowly, I remove my fingers from my still pulsating pussy and peel open my eyes. My magic hands can fix my aching clit, but they can’t soothe my aching heart. Rage fills me.
Goddamn fucking poster. Jumping out of my bed, I march over to it and yank it off the wall. Mustering all my strength, I fling it across the room. It crashes on the hardwood floor with a clamorous thud. Tears blur my eyes. Shit. What the fuck did I just do? I should have just taken it off the wall and turned it around. I stumble over to it and crouch. I’ve all but destroyed it. The metal frame is dented, and the glass is shattered. Shards surround me. A fat tear falls through a crack and lands on the poster. And then I notice that except for the blistery mark my tear makes on Kurt’s lips, the poster itself is intact. I run my quivering fingers over the splintered glass, almost caressing it, and then, one by one, I gather up the shards.
“Ow!” I yelp. One of the sharp pieces digs into my middle finger—the finger that just brought me to orgasm. I watch the blood trickle down my digit to my palm. The pain is nothing compared to the pain I feel in my heart.
I used to think a girl can dream. But now that Brandon’s engaged to Katrina, it’s futile. But why am I still fantasizing about him if he’s not available? They say you want more of what you can’t have. The truth cuts me like a piece of glass: Brandon Taylor will never be mine. My heart’s bleeding too.
Chapter 11
Zoey
My routine with Brandon returns to normal the next day. While he swims early morning laps, I fetch him his Starbucks—an iced Grande Caffè Americano—and a hot Venti version for me. When I get back to the house, he’s already at a poolside table, wearing a thick terrycloth robe and his favorite pair of Ray-Bans. His jet-black wet hair is slicked back and his face glistens in the sun.
Setting the coffees on the table, I take the empty seat opposite him and hand him a manila folder with his schedule. He likes it printed out. I act very business-like—as if my emotional and physical breakdown didn’t happen last night. My minimal acting skills have come in handy. I refrain from asking him anything more about his dinner with Katrina and her mother or the rest of his night. To my relief, he offers no information. I’m glad the bitch is nowhere in sight, and I don’t press him for her whereabouts. If she’s not rotting in hell, I don’t want to know.
I latch onto my coffee and take a sip through the plastic flap on the lid. The rich, steamy brew seeps into my veins. Brandon eyes me. My skin prickles. It’s like ultra-violet rays are shooting out of the dark lenses of his shades and penetrating me.
“What happened to your finger?”
I’m in shock he’s noticed the Band-Aid on my middle finger.
“Nothing,” I reply, trying hard to eradicate last night’s breakdown though my finger’s still throbbing. “Just a paper cut.”
“You should be more careful.”
His voice is cold, almost reprimanding. I didn’t expect him to say, “Can I kiss the boo-boo?” but yes, be a bit more compassionate. He’s for sure in one of his bad moods.
His gaze stays fixed on my finger. “It’s still bleeding.”
I glance down. He’s right. Blood is oozing through the Band-Aid. It’s a bloody mess.
“Don’t move,” he tells me. “I’ll be right back.”
I sip my coffee and in five minute’s he’s back, holding a box of bandages and a tube of Neosporin. Setting the first aid treatments onto the table, he unwraps my nasty Band-Aid. I grimace. My jagged cut looks worst than I thought. Fiery red and inflamed.
“A paper cut?” he asks.
I splutter. “It was a thick piece of paper.”
Unsure if he believes me, I hold out my quivering finger while he squirts some of the anti-bacterial
ointment onto the wound and re-bandages it. One Band-Aid over my fingertip, another around it.
I wiggle my stiff finger. Not too much motion. But he’s made it feel better. “You’re good at first aid.”
He quirks a cocky smile. “I was a lifeguard. I know how to do these things.”
“Thanks.”
Not acknowledging my small grateful word, he lifts his sunglasses on top of his head, and after a sip of his iced coffee, studies his schedule. His brows knit tightly.
“Why aren’t we reviewing more episodes of Kurt Kussler together? I thought that was the plan.”
“I think you’ve gotten the gist of it. I have many more important things to handle.”
“Like what?” he challenges me, his voice as brisk as it is confrontational.
“You’ve got to do a gazillion press conferences. Everyone in the world wants to see you’re alive and well.”
“Write up some pithy lines for me. Let them know Brandon Taylor aka Kurt Kussler is ready to kick some butt.”
“What should I say about your pending wedding to K-Katrina?” It’s so hard for me to say her name. In fact, I almost say Kuntrina.
Brandon’s face tenses. “Just tell them we’ve set a date in May. To be announced shortly.”
So, that’s what their dinner was probably about. My heart sinks to my stomach. Suspicion confirmed. They’re madly in love. I glumly mumble, “Sure.”
Sipping his coffee through the straw and oblivious to my gloom, Brandon continues to review his schedule. “Who’s this one o’clock lunch with?”
Sheesh. He is really fucked up. “Blake Burns. He’s the Head of Production for Conquest Broadcasting. All shows report to him—so technically, he’s your boss.”
“Oh,” he mutters. “Do I need to dress up?”
“No. You can go very casual. I’ll lay out a pair of freshly laundered jeans and a tee.”
“Do you want to come along?”
My stomach does a little flip. This is the first time he’s ever invited me to lunch with a network executive. Probably just more of his fuckedupness.
“I can’t. I have a lunch date.”
“You’re taking a lunch break?” he asks incredulously, cocking his brows.
I almost want to toss my coffee at him. “Seriously, Brandon. A girl’s gotta eat.” Even a dieting one.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Is it with a guy?”
I hesitate for a moment and then respond, “Yeah. A really cute one.” And then a smug smile flashes across my face. “My boyfriend.”
“Oh,” he murmurs with a downward twist of his luscious lips.
Got him!
“Have I ever met him?”
“No. You’ve never wanted to, but you should.” My smile stays on my face. Amnesia comes with its benefits.
With his brows furrowed, he takes another long sip of his iced coffee and then sets the tall cup down. “I want you to google Blake and put together a file before I leave.”
“No prob.”
“And be sure to be back here by two.”
Frowning, he stalks off. Score one for me. He fell for my white lie. On second thought, it wasn’t a lie at all.
I’m so excited about seeing Jeffrey Billings, my brother and best friend in the whole world. With our crazy schedules, it’s been next to impossible to get together. I’ve agreed to meet him at Toast, a lively, trendy restaurant on nearby Third Street.
Wearing a hot pink crew neck sweater, he’s easy to spot. I run up to him. Seated at an outdoor table, he jumps up and gives me a delicious bear hug.
“Honey, you look faa-bu-lous!” he drawls, eyeing me from head to toe. I’m wearing a tight T-shirt, a short belted skirt, and sandals. The skirt used to sit tightly on my thick waist but now it hangs loosely on my hips.
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down. “I’m on my skinny side of fat.”
“I’d say you’re on your fat side of skinny,” he counters, returning to his chair.
I laugh. Either way you look at it, I’m still not thin by Hollywood standards; in this town, an eight is a plus size. I guess I’m now what you’d call curvy. But one thing for sure, Jeffrey can always put a big smile on my face. He’s done it for years, even in the darkest times. Though by birth he’s my first cousin (Mama was his father’s twin sister), he’s always been more like a sibling. We lived nearby in Culver City and went to the same school, and when Mama died, Pete and Jo, his wonderful, big-hearted parents, took me in and made me feel like the daughter they never had. I was only five at the time so Jeffrey and I grew up together. Having a gay playmate was almost like having a big sister. We played Barbies together, and when his mom, who I’ve always called Auntie Jo, took us shopping, he picked out all my clothes and knew how to make an outfit from Sears look like a million bucks. And he threw me the best birthday parties ever—always with the most over the top themes—that somehow succeeded in making me not miss having my real parents (especially Mama) there to celebrate with me. It’s no surprise he became an event planner—and it’s even less surprising he’s LA’s top one.
“Did you go on a diet?” he asks, still in awe of my appearance.
“It was more like a cleanse. I was forced to go to some holistic spa for a few weeks while Brandon was in the hospital. The food sucked. If I ever see a chia seed again, it’ll be too soon. And alcohol was strictly forbidden.”
“Oooh!” Jeffrey sympathizes. “That’s horrible.”
“And on top of that, they forced me to work out. I’ve never sweated so much in my entire life.”
“Well, at least it paid off. You look amazeballs. Wait till Chaz sees you. He’s going to friggin’ freak.”
Chaz Clearfield is Jeffrey’s significant other. A successful fashion designer. “Is he stopping by?”
Jeffrey glances down at his vintage Mickey Mouse watch. “He should be here any minute. He’s been at Nordstrom’s firming up an order.”
“Yay!” I adore Chaz almost as much as I adore Jeffrey. They’re perfect together.
“And look! There he is.”
My eyes dart to Third Street where Chaz is dropping off his Jeep with the valet. He spots us immediately and joins us.
“Hi, beautiful,” he gushes, giving me a double-cheek kiss. And then he does a double take. “Oh my God. What did you do to yourself?”
He takes the chair next to mine. Jeffrey fills him in on my spa vacation after ordering iced teas for all of us from our waiter. The chilled beverages come quickly, and I take a sip of mine while Jeffrey blabbers on. Chaz is all ears.
“Zoeykins, you need a whole new wardrobe. You absolutely must come down to the showroom and pick some things out.”
He’s right. My clothes are all baggy on me. While I’m definitely still not the perfect Size 6 (nor will I ever be), I’ve definitely dropped a size from my normal Size 12.
“Wow! I’d love to—that is, if I can get away long enough from the tyrant.” Who, thanks to his amnesia, hasn’t noticed my new trimmer body, I add silently.
“How’s Mr. Beautiful and Bossy doing?” asks Jeffrey, who’s heard all my horror stories.
I roll my eyes. “You don’t want to know. It’s worse than before. I think he’s bi-polar. Plus, now I have to contend with barbs from his stuck up fiancée.”
“You should slap that rude bitch,” quips Chaz.
My eyes widen. “You know Katrina?”
“Spare me, yes. That bitch tried to stop my friend Jennifer from marrying Blake Burns.”
“The network Blake Burns?” Who Brandon is having lunch with this very minute.
Chaz nods. “Yup. That one.”
“Holy guacamole!” I exclaim after he tells me how she stalked and drugged him and then had the audacity to show up at their wedding and object to their nuptials. Yikes! She’s not just any bitch. She’s a veritable psycho bitch. Devious and toxic. Does Brandon know this? Should I tell him?
Jeffrey takes a sip of his iced tea. “If you ask me, honey, your psycho boss and t
he bitch are a perfect match. Don’t you just love that name—Bratrina?”
We all burst out in laughter. Maybe Jeffrey’s right.
The waiter returns and takes our orders. Wanting to keep my weight down, I ask for a half-order Chinese Chicken salad with the dressing on the side.
“Zoester, go for the full-size,” insists Jeffrey. “I promise you won’t gain a pound.”
He doesn’t have to twist my arm. I’m starving. I go for it.
Over a sinful piece of double fudge chocolate cake, which we share (I can’t resist), I mention that Brandon has amnesia. I got so caught up with all the Katrina dirt I forgot to share that.
“I know,” says Jeffrey.
I gulp down my mouthful of chocolate sin. “You do?”
“Pops told me.” Jeffrey’s dad, Pete, who we both call Pops, is a homicide detective for the LAPD. In addition to being my loving surrogate dad, he was the one assigned to investigate my mother’s brutal murder. The senseless death of his beloved twin sister enraged him. He swore he would hunt the gunman down and personally give him his due. No matter how hard Pops worked the case or close he came, Mama’s killer was never found. To this day, it haunts me that he’s probably still out there. My stomach churns. I can still see his face. For a split second, I’m five again and he’s pointing a gun at me. I shudder. Jeffrey’s voice hurls me out of the terrifying memory.
“He’s investigating Brandon’s hit and run accident. Given that he’s a huge star, there’s a possibility some crazy stalker tried to deliberately run him over.”
A shiver slithers down my spine. “You mean like a m-murder?” The word is hard for me to say.
Biting into another serving of the chocolate cake, he nods and then swallows. “He may want to talk to you.”
“Ooh!” coos Chaz, a total gossip hound.
There’s one last chunk of the cake remaining; Jeffrey insists it’s mine. I politely decline. I’ve lost my appetite. The thought of someone trying to kill Brandon, my Kurt Kussler, sickens me.
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