Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story)

by Nelle L'Amour

  “Katrina, my love, I want you and Brandon to take a photo with the In Style photographer. A picture’s worth a million bucks.”

  Before I can blink, I’m posing with Bridezilla.

  “I’d like to get a shot of the two of you kissing,” says the young female photographer who has us huddled side by side on an elegant loveseat. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap. With the width of her gown, there’s barely any space for me.

  Katrina makes a face. “Absolutely not! I don’t want to mess up my lipstick, and besides, I’m the only one who belongs on the cover. A close-up.”

  To my great relief, Katrina gets up, leaving me with The Gooch, and poses for the photographer. Blowing kisses. Swirling around in her voluminous gown. Flinging back her platinum locks that are held back by a diamond tiara and a mile-long tulle veil that trails along the carpet. While she continues to prance around the suite, the production staff mikes me up.

  “We’re going to need some cutaways and sound bites,” says a jeans-clad AD from Katrina’s reality series as she hides a mike under the lapel of my tailcoat. A scraggly cameraman aims a handheld camera at me. I vaguely remember seeing him before in my hospital room when I woke up from my coma.

  “Fine,” I mumble, responding to the AD.

  “Just answer my questions, but make sure you repeat what I say. For example, if I ask you how do you feel…you respond by saying I feel blah, blah, blah, blah. And be sure to look into the camera.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “Great,” she says with a smile and then gets right into it. “Brandon, how do you feel about marrying America’s It Girl?”

  “I feel very excited and nervous. This wedding is going to be unforgettable.”

  “Are you marrying the girl of your dreams?”

  I twitch a half smile. “I’m marrying the girl of my dreams.”

  Before she can ask another question, Enid shouts into a megaphone. “Listen up, people. The procession is about to start. When I give you your marching orders, file out the door. Be sure to smile.” Her eyes dash around the expansive room and land on Scott.

  My manager, the best man, is in a far corner, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His face pinched, he seems to be spewing some angry words at whoever is on the other end. A lit cigarette dangles from his other hand.

  “Scott, put the phone away and get rid of that awful cigarette,” chides Enid. “You’re first. Let’s move it.”

  Slipping the phone into the breast pocket of his tux, my manager takes one more inhale of his cigarette before tossing the butt to the floor and stamping it out. His left eye is twitching and a deep frown line is etched across his forehead. He seems on edge. Passing by me without as much as saying a word, he heads out the French doors to the garden. Blowing an air kiss to Enid, Monique, the maid of honor, follows him outside.

  Enid does a headcount of the groomsmen, who all look like Ken dolls. Seething, she lifts her walkie-talkie to her pursed lips. “Where the hell is that replacement? What do you mean he’s stuck in traffic? You’re fired!” She hurls the handset across the room. “Screw it.”

  “Groomsmen, move it!” she shouts out with a loud snap of her bony fingers. “Let’s go. Chop chop!”

  My stomach tenses as I watch them file out the door.

  The dozen blond, busty Barbie-lookalike bridesmaids are next. Followed by two professional children who have been hired to be the flower girl and ring bearer. Then it’s my turn. I can’t get my feet to move. It’s like they’re stuck in cement.

  “Jesus, Brandon. Move it already!” Enid yells.

  Katrina fires me a scathing look. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  Taking a deep breath, I finally get up and amble toward the exit. Here goes nothing.

  I take slow, hesitant steps down the flower-lined aisle as a harpist with an angelic voice performs “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” from Disney’s Cinderella. Inside, my heart is beating a hundred miles an hour. I call upon all the acting skills I have to act the part of the excited groom. My eyes dart left and right to meet the celebrity-filled crowd—a glittering blend of men in black tie and women in dazzling gowns and jewels. The Hollywood elite. There’s only one special person I’m searching for. My wishful heart’s only dream. She’s nowhere in sight. I do, however, spot the cast and crew of Kurt Kussler among the gazillion guests as well as Blake Burns and his wife Jennifer. They meet my gaze, and by the concern written on their faces, I know they sense my anxiety. Two cameramen flank me as I head up to the canopied altar, capturing my movements and expressions for the live televised event. The walk to the altar seems like an eternity. I just want this day to be over.

  I join a very anxious Scott, beaming Monique, the plastic bridesmaids and groomsmen, the bickering children, and the craggy preacher, who looks to be an out-of-work actor in need of rehab, under an extravagant gazebo draped in tulle and a multitude of exotic white flowers. Several photographers and cameramen surround us, including one who is operating an overhead camera. As the orchestra starts playing “The Wedding March,” I turn to watch my Cinderella-bride stroll down the aisle arm in arm with her mother. In her free hand, she holds an extravagant bouquet along with a leash that’s attached to Gucci. The poor little dog seems freaked out. My bride, however, is enjoying every glorious minute and mugging for the cameras that follow her march down the aisle. I wonder if the real Cinderella—my beloved Zoey—is watching. That night after our James Bond marathon, she promised she’d be here, but I have no hope she’ll show. Why should she? My already rapid heartbeat speeds up as Katrina reaches the altar. While her mother steps to the side, she sidles up next to me. We turn to face the preacher. The scent of alcohol on his breath is so thick I can taste it.

  “We are gathered here today…” His slurred words go in one ear and out the other. My brain is focused on only one thing. I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to! Every nerve in my body is buzzing with anxiety. Every muscle clenched. Before I know it, it’s vow time.

  “Do you, Brandon Taylor, take Katrina Moore to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer or poorer, in sickness and um…hiccup…in health until death do you part?” Gucci growls at the drunken preacher. Sic him!

  I can feel Katrina’s eyes on me. In fact, the whole world’s eyes are on me. I draw in a sharp breath, and on the exhale, I ready myself to face Katrina and respond. My heart is hammering like a jackrabbit’s. I hesitate.

  Katrina grows impatient and hisses, “Brandon, just answer his question. For God’s sake, how hard is it to say ‘yes’?”

  One little word is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get my lips to move, a familiar gruff voice sounds in my ears.

  “Katrina Moore…”

  I spin around. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. And my heart practically stops.

  Marching down the aisle are Pete and Zoey. My true princess! Pete is holding up his badge.

  Zoey, looking totally ravishing in a body-hugging, ivory chiffon dress and matching stilettos, stays behind while her father steps up to the altar. Our eyes connect, sparks flying. My dormant cock is finally up for the wedding of the century.

  “What the hell is going on?” yells Katrina.

  Pete jumps in. “Don’t move. You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Brandon Taylor.”

  What!? My heart skips a beat as Katrina’s jaw crashes to the floor. Gucci sees Zoey and breaks free. Wagging his tail, he scampers down the aisle and runs circles around her.

  Enid rushes to her daughter’s side and shrieks at Pete. “What on earth are you talking about, you lowlife scumbag?”

  With a poker face, Pete slips his hand into a pocket of his trench coat.

  “Ms. Moore, does this look familiar to you?” In the palm of Pete’s hand is the green Venetian glass heart he showed me months ago.

  Katrina’s eyes widen. “That’s my lucky heart I bought in Venice when I was at George Clooney’s wedding!”

  “Well, it’s not your lucky heart today.”<
br />
  Katrina’s flaring eyes latch on to Zoey. “I bet that little whore stole it from me!”

  Pete remains cool, calm, and collected. “Actually, we found it at the scene of Brandon Taylor’s hit and run accident. Which puts you there.”

  Katrina huffs. “Bullshit. I was with my mother.” She turns to Enid. “Right, Mommy? Tell him.”

  A shaken Enid opens her mouth, but before she can get a word out, Pete shuts her up.

  “Perhaps, Ms. Moore, this will refresh your memory.” He reaches inside his other coat pocket and holds up a phone. I recognize the pink rhinestone-studded case instantly. It’s Katrina’s! The one with all the incriminating photos taken in Cannes that she never lets out of her sight.

  Katrina gapes. “My phone! That fat bitch stole that too!”

  I shoot a glance at Zoey. With a smug little smile, she shrugs her shoulders. God, I so love her!

  Pete persists. “Perhaps, these texts will jog your memory.” Zoey’s father reads aloud an exchange between her and Scott. Holy fuck! I can’t believe my ears. Fucking Katrina ran me over! Then left me for dead at the scene of the accident! And Scott covered for her!

  Katrina gasps. In shock, my eyes flit from Katrina to Scott and then to Zoey. While the color on Katrina and Scott’s faces completely drains, the smile on Zoey’s adorable face widens. Low grumbles sound among our attendees, who aren’t privy to what’s going on. The inebriated preacher, also oblivious, sways on his feet.

  It’s Scott’s turn to say something. The color on his face goes from chalk-white to fire engine red. His twitchy eyes narrow with fury at Katrina. “You stupid idiot! You didn’t erase the texts?”

  Katrina’s lips quiver, but before she can get out a sound or word, Pete fastens a pair of shiny handcuffs on her wrists as he reads her rights. Hushed gasps fill the air. The preacher hiccups again and then passes out. I swear, I don’t know if I’m in the middle of a soap opera, horror show, crime drama, sitcom, or a really sick reality show.

  Katrina’s reaction doesn’t help me figure things out. A mixture of terror and rage flickers in her venomous eyes. “Take these off me, you pig!” She tries desperately to pull the handcuffs apart.

  “Let’s go,” orders Pete, grabbing her elbow.

  “Let go of me!” cries Katrina, frantically trying to break loose of his forceful grip. “Mommy, call our attorney!” Desperation fills her voice. And then she turns to Scott. I follow her gaze.

  “Do something, you asshole!” she screams at my manager.

  A deafening boom sounds in my ear. All at once, Katrina, her mother, and the crowd of spectators shriek. Scott’s mouth opens wide and a loud, pained groan escapes. Clutching his stomach, he crumples to the floor. Unconscious, he’s sprawled in an expanding puddle of blood. Holy fucking shit! He’s been shot!

  A thunderous voice rises above the frantic crowd.

  “No one move. Or I shoot her!”

  I flip around and my eyes grow wide again. Oh my God! Scott’s assailant is gripping Zoey by her neck and wielding his gun. I recognize his ugly pockmarked face immediately. It matches the police artist’s sketch of Zoey’s mother’s murderer! The motherfucker who also killed my parents. Frank Donatelli!

  Releasing Katrina, Pete faces him squarely and pulls out his gun from his holster. “Put your weapon down.”

  Donatelli snarls. “Fuck you, bastard.”

  To my absolute horror, he puts his gun to Zoey’s head. Terror flashes in her eyes. Paling, she bites down on her trembling lip while Gucci, at her feet, barks non-stop at her captor.

  “If you don’t put your gun down, I’m going to blow her brains out.”

  For the first time, fear washes over Pete’s face. “Please don’t hurt her.”

  “Did you hear me? Drop your fucking gun.”

  Slowly, Pete lowers his gun to the ground.

  Walking backward with Zoey in his grip and his gun glued to her head, Donatelli stumbles down the aisle. His eyes stay on Pete. My eyes stay on Zoey. The wedding spectators stay glued to their seats, afraid of being shot by the madman. Even the photographers and cameramen are paralyzed with fear. Rage blasts through me like a Molotov cocktail. The Kurt Kussler in me is exploding with the burning urge to go after them, but I hold myself back. Gucci, however, doesn’t waste a moment and chases after his beloved Zoey. Go, boy!

  “Fuck,” mumbles Pete under his breath. But the second they disappear from view, he squats down, retrieves his gun, and springs into action.

  “I’m going after them.” He dashes down the aisle at breakneck speed, and I’m right behind him, my coattails flying. Maybe Kurt Kussler couldn’t save his wife, but I’m going to save my future one. There’s no fucking way I’m going to lose her.

  Two breathless minutes later we’re in hot pursuit of Frank Donatelli. Pete’s siren blares in my ears. My eyes stay on Donatelli’s red Ferrari as Pete expertly maneuvers his beat up Impala through the traffic on Doheny. He talks into his communication device.

  “I need backup,” he says after telling the dispatcher about fallen Scott. “The suspect is traveling south on Doheny. He’s armed and dangerous and has a hostage.” He pauses. “My daughter.”

  My thudding heart is in my throat. While I’ve done a lot of action-packed chase scenes as Kurt Kussler, nothing compares to this real-life version. The camera crew actually wanted to follow us, but Pete demanded they stay behind.

  Donatelli hangs a sharp left on Venice. I hang onto my seat as Pete races down the busy boulevard.

  “Fuck!” Pete grumbles. “He’s heading toward the freeway.”

  Traffic comes to a standstill as we zigzag down the thoroughfare and run every red light. I’m blown away by the speed and precision of this old Chevy.

  “Have you ever fired a gun?” Pete asks me, without taking his eyes off his target.

  While I’ve actually never fired one with real bullets, my character Kurt Kussler is a natural with a gun. I tell him I have.

  “Open the glove box. There’s one inside.”

  I snap it open and reach for the weapon. It’s a Chrome Magnum 45…exactly the gun Kurt Kussler carries. It feels good in my hand. There’s a difference between a big flaccid dick and a big hard one. The loaded gun feels like the latter. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I’m ready for action.

  “I’m going to take a shot,” I tell Pete.

  “You know what you’re doing? The bastard’s got my daughter.”

  “And my future wife.”

  “Go for it!”

  Chapter 18

  Zoey

  Terror fills every crevice of my being, but I try hard not to show it. It’s almost impossible for me to believe I’ve been dealt this unbelievable fate. The very man who killed my mother is going to kill me.

  “Shut that fucking dog up!” Donatelli screams at me.

  Gucci is on my lap. He followed us out of the hotel and then jumped into the car before we peeled away. He hasn’t stopped barking.

  I caress his furry head. “Shh, Gucci. Be a good little boy.” To my relief, he calms down, but my fear intensifies.

  “If that mutt opens his fucking mouth one more time, I’m going to silence him.” He points the big gun he’s still holding in his right hand at us as he deftly maneuvers the speeding car with his left.

  I shiver. A siren sounds in the near distance.

  Donatelli glances into the rearview mirror and scowls. “Goddamn fucking cop!”

  Pops!! Knowing he’s in hot pursuit instills me with the tiniest bit of courage. I clutch Gucci as Donatelli makes a sharp, screeching turn off Venice and heads down La Cienega. He weaves in and out of the insane traffic, ramming cars and knocking others into one another. Anyway I look at it, my life’s about to be over.

  “Are you going to kill me the way you killed my mother?”

  For a brief second, Frank takes his eyes off the road and glares at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  I stare at him squarely. Terror gives way to ra
ge. “You killed my mother! I saw you on the pier.”

  “What the hell?”

  My voice grows tearful and louder by an octave. “How could you forget? Twenty years ago! The Santa Monica Pier. You shot my mother! And the man next to her. And then you tried to shoot me!” The painful memory fills my head. Mama slumped over the railing, bleeding to death. And then swirling, helplessly, hopelessly in the angry sea as the Nat King Cole song plays. It’s all so unforgettable.

  “You took my mother from me!” I cry out.

  Donatelli blinks hard and then scrunches his ugly face. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re that fucking little girl? The little bitch who’s given me nightmares my whole life?”

  I bite down on my quivering lip to stifle my sobs, but can’t stop the onslaught of tears. “I’ve never forgotten you either, you bastard!”

  “Shut up! Or you’re next!”

  That does it. I can no longer hold back. Sobbing, I begin to pound him.

  “You fucker!”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” The car swerves and horns blast from every direction.

  I pound harder and more furiously. Gucci barks madly.

  “Say goodbye, you fucking cunt.”

  He turns to face me again and aims his gun at my head. The trigger clicks.

  The sound of a gunshot roars through my ears.

  Chapter 19

  Brandon

  Bingo! Thank my father’s lucky cufflinks. And thank you, Kurt Kussler.

  On my first shot, I nail the motherfucker’s tire—just the way Kurt did to The Locust’s car in one of this season’s episodes. I fire my Magnum at the other back tire as his smoking car skids off the street and crashes into a deserted storefront.

  Zoey leaps out of the car. Run, Zoey, run! But before she gets far, the bastard tackles her. He yanks her to her feet again, holding her hostage with his gun to her head.

  My heart is beating a gazillion miles a minute as Pete steps on the gas and then comes to a screeching halt. In unison, we jump out of the car.