Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3)

by Nelle L'Amour

  “Cool beans,” I hear him shout out. His voice is coming from my bedroom.

  Upon entering it, my jaw drops to the floor. Fat Albert has taken off his pants and polo and is now clad only in his Superman briefs. A big red and yellow insignia “S” lines up with his cock while a major pair of love handles hangs over the waistband.

  “Here’s your milk,” I say, keeping my eyes on his face as I hand it to him.

  “Thanks.” He gulps it down and then sets the glass on my dresser. A white mustache lines his upper lip, and I can’t help but think of that famous ad campaign, “Got milk?” I wish I hadn’t.

  He burps.

  Still wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, he stares at my Kurt Kussler poster, which is leaning against the wall facing my bed. Like a kid in a candy store, drooling and in awe. A comforting thought. Maybe he’s gay, but then I remember men love Kurt. They long to be the devastating action hero.

  “Wowee cowzowzee! You have a signed poster of Kurt Kussler!” Albert gushes. “How’d you get it?”

  “I found it at a garage sale,” I lie.

  “Lucky you! He’s amazing!”

  “Yeah.” So fucking amazing.

  “Do you watch the show?”

  “Sometimes,” I stammer.

  “I can’t wait to see the season finale. It’s going to be a killer.”

  “Maybe I’ll try to catch it.” My lackluster voice masks the torrent of emotions coursing through me.

  “Man, no one can act like Brandon Taylor.”

  “No one can act like a bigger asshole than Brandon Taylor” is what I want to say, but instead I say he’s just okay.

  “Just okay? C’mon. He’s fucking unbelievable. That dude could recite the phone book and win an award. I wish I could be as good as him.”

  No one can be as good as him. Not only can he act better than anyone, he can also sing like a rock star. That unforgettable night in Cannes seeps into my brain. Dancing in his arms as he sang Mama’s favorite song. Pressing my fingertips to my temples, I try to make the memory disappear from my mind. It’s impossible. He’s unforgettable in every way.

  “Are you okay?” asks Albert.

  I nod. “Yeah. Just a bit of a headache. I had a hard day at work.” A really hard day. Avoiding eye contact with anything below his shoulders, I focus on my companion.

  “Albert, you shouldn’t be so tough on yourself. You’re very talented.”

  His eyes light up. “Really? You think so?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen you in class. You’ve got great comedic timing.”

  He grins. “I bet Brandon could do comedy. He can do everything.”

  Yes, he could make me laugh as much as cry. And sometimes he made me laugh so hard I was crying. Like the time he couldn’t get his fly down with his sprained fingers and the night he made me sleep with him in my pajamas with little Gucci. All the fun, sexy moments we shared dance in my head—from our first sensual shower, both fully clothed, to that delicious bath in Cannes that ended it all. Albert’s nasal voice cuts into my beautiful but excruciating memories.

  “Are you going to watch him get married to that reality star, Katrina Moore, this weekend?”

  My heart clenches and my stomach churns. Their televised wedding is just two days away. I falter for an excuse. “Um, uh, no. I don’t own a TV.”

  “You can watch it with me,” Albert says brightly.

  “I-I don’t think so. I don’t like reality shows.” The truth: I can’t face the reality of Brandon marrying her. Or the pain. I inhale and exhale as if it’s my last breath.

  “Albert, can we please change the subject?”

  Albert leers at me. “Can we talk about your poonani?”

  My poonani? “Excuse me. What’s that?”

  “You know. Your vagina.”

  I gulp while he rubs his dick with his hand.

  “Superman would really like to get to know it.”

  Gah! He calls his cock Superman. My eyes shoot down. Maybe it’s super big though the bulge in his cotton briefs doesn’t suggest that.

  Before I can say a word, he starts fondling me. His touch is nothing like Brandon’s. He’s touching me in all the wrong places, and he’s doing nothing to arouse me. I feign a moan. Acting 101.

  “Zoey, you’re very appealing.” He lifts his glasses to the top of his head, and then his lips collide with mine like a bad car accident. Mentally, I wish I’d swerved off course or put my brakes on, but it’s too late.

  Ugh! His slobbering kiss tastes of milk and hot chili, and it’s accompanied by snorts. He’s giving my face a full-on tongue bath with his drool. I want desperately to break away. Then rinse my mouth with mouthwash and spit it all out.

  Deepening the kiss, his sharp teeth scrape along my teeth. Almost as bad as nails to a chalkboard, the grating sound gives me shivers and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s hurting me—not in a good way. Okay. Three words: Worst. Kiss. Ever.

  And if that’s not bad enough, Superman comes flying out. I feel his dick poke against me. All measly five inches of a semi-hard curl. Undoing my jeans, he pulls them down along with my panties just below my hips and then attempts to shove Superman into my poo-poo-poo-poo…I can’t wrap my head around that word nor get my legs to spread. They’re super-glued together.

  “C’mon, Zoey. Open up for Superman. Let me be your man of steel.”

  He keeps nudging. But I’m not wet. And I can’t pry my legs apart. My wide-open eyes dart to Brandon’s poster. His intense violet eyes are on me, and I can practically hear him saying his words: “Get it. Got it? Good.” Nothing’s good. I can’t take this. Finally, I push Albert away. He stumbles, almost falling to the floor.

  “Zoey, why’d you do that?”

  “I’m s-sorry.” I really am.

  He looks wounded. “You’re not attracted to me. You think I’m fat, right?”

  I pull up my panties and jeans. “No, Albert. It’s not that. I mean, look at me. I’m hardly Miss America.”

  His voice grows more despondent. “Is it because my pee-pee is small?”

  “No, Albert. Your dick is just fine.”

  “Then, what is it, Zoey?” he asks, sliding up his caped crusader briefs. “I thought you liked me.”

  Setting his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, I run a hand through his bristly ginger hair. “Albert, I need to be honest with you. I just broke up with someone. It was very painful. It’s been a month. I thought I was ready for another relationship, but I’m not.”

  He looks at me earnestly. “Then, maybe I can be a friend with benefits.”

  I shake my head. “No, Albert. You can’t.”

  His expression grows deflated; his voice wavers. “Just a friend?”

  “Yeah. Just a friend. I’d like that.”

  Albert’s face brightens. “Okay. Maybe it’ll blossom into something bigger. I’m a patient kind of guy.”

  I shoot him a half-smile. “Maybe. But right now, I think you should put your pants back on and go home.”

  Silently, he does as I ask him. My head stays bowed as he gets dressed.

  “Night, Zoey.” He turns on his heel.

  “Albert, wait.”

  With a glimmer of hope, he steps up to me. I give him a small peck on his cheek.

  “Thank you, Albert, for a very nice evening. I’ll see you in class next week.”

  “Yeah…See ya.” Shrugging with defeat, he lumbers toward the bedroom door.

  Once I hear my front door slam shut, I slide my jeans back off and collapse onto the bed. Under the watchful eyes of Brandon Taylor, I lean back against my headboard and bend up my knees. There’s a fire that’s been raging all night between my thighs. I slip my hand beneath my panties, and with the scarred finger I cut when I trashed the poster, I rub my clit vigorously. My eyes stay on the poster. Wetness seeps through the cotton crotch. My heartbeat accelerates and the T-shirt beneath my sweatshirt clings to my heated chest. I rub harder and faster. Oh God! Why can’t
I come? Aren’t my magical hands good enough anymore? I feel pressure but no pleasure. Frustrated, I jump out of bed and scurry to my dresser. I yank open the top drawer and rummage through my underwear until I find it. The vibrator I bought at the Pleasure Chest. Sparky. It’s time to break it open. Frantically, I tear the plastic package apart. Whoof! I’m not prepared for the stench—it smells like a fifty-foot high pile of unwrapped condoms—and hurry back to my bed before it puts me into anaphylactic shock. Resuming my bent-knee position, I switch the stinky pink vibrator on and place it between my legs so the little rabbit’s ears stimulate my clit while I thrust the penis-shaped latex into my chasm. A loud buzz sounds in my ears. I feel like I’m at the dentist getting a cavity filled.

  BUZZZZZZZ! I hate the buzz! I hate the way the vibrator feels. The pathetic, ticklish rabbit feels nothing like the kneading of Brandon’s long magical fingers, and the vibrating latex penis thing inside me is no substitute for the exquisite sensation of his enormous, thrusting cock of velvet. I long to hear his savage grunts and groans while feeling the heat of his weight on top of me, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart, organ to organ. Yes, savor his magnificence deep inside of me. And then hear him roar my name as I break into an epic orgasm around his explosive rock-hard length.

  Screw Sparky. He’s not creating any sparks. Instead of getting turned on, I’m getting turned off. In fact, I’m numb. Impetuously, I withdraw vibrator and hurl it at the Kurt Kussler poster. It narrowly misses and lands with a clunk on the floor. Oh, God!! Why won’t that awful buzzing stop? That rabbit’s like the fucking Energizer bunny. It keeps going and going and going. I clap my hands to my ears hoping to drown it out as a horrible reality hits me. Brandon Taylor has ruined me for all other men. For toys with benefits. And made me my own worst enemy. The unbearable ache between my legs returns with a vengeance as does the ache in my shredded heart.

  “Fuck you, Brandon!” I shout at the Kurt Kussler poster, and then I cry myself to sleep.

  Brandon

  A cab takes me back home. My head is still killing me. I should probably take another Advil, but instead I stagger to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a Scotch. I down the shot in one gulp and then pour myself another. Outside my house, I hear a car whip into the driveway. And then shortly, I hear the front door open and slam shut with a bang so loud it hurts my head. She storms into the living room, her spiky heels clickety-clacking and likely making dents on my wood floor. Fucking Katrina.

  “Where the hell were you?” she barks.

  Polishing off the Scotch, I turn to face her.

  Her face scrunches in disgust. I’m not sure if it’s at the sight of me or because she’s simmering mad. I have my answer on her next blazing question.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you pick up your phone? I called you a dozen times. Mommy was totally pissed off.”

  Any other person in their right mind would say something like: “Oh my God! What happened to you? Are you okay?” upon seeing my mess of a face. While I haven’t yet taken a look at myself, the rawness of my skin and the excruciating pain behind my eyes are enough to clue me in that I look disastrous. A pang of sadness stabs me. For sure Zoey would care.

  “Answer my question,” she hisses.

  “I got into an accident. I didn’t know you called. I left my phone in my car.” Balls. It’s probably gotten towed. Something I’ll have to deal with tomorrow—all by myself since I once again don’t have an assistant. I’ll probably also have to file some kind of police report. My Zoey would have taken care of everything, including my pounding headache. Draining the Scotch, I pour myself yet another shot and chug it while Katrina rants on.

  “Moron. And just look at you. We’re getting married in two days and you look like fricking Frankenstein.”

  The truth: Compared to the way I must look, Frankenstein could be People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” I rub my throbbing head. My headache’s getting worse, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my injury, the Scotch, or a combination of both—or maybe just breathing in toxic Katrina—but nausea is rising in my chest like a tidal wave. I feel sweat beads cluster on my face and my breathing grows uneven. Katrina is totally oblivious.

  “Well, you should know, Mommy thinks we need more security. And she also came up with a last minute brilliant idea. Everyone’s going to have a jar of butterflies on their seats. After we say our vows, they’re going to release them. All those butterflies flying in the air will be so Cinderella-ish.”

  Her words drift in one ear and out the other. I could give a flying fuck about butterflies. Right now, all I can think about is the horrific nauseous feeling that’s consuming me. I break into a cold sweat and my head starts spinning like a Disneyland teacup. I’m on the verge of throwing up. I need to get to a toilet fast! Except I’m so queasy I can’t take a step. I sway on my feet and clutch my stomach. And then BLECH! I wretch. Hot vomit pours out of my mouth like molten lava from a volcano and spreads like a puddle on the glistening floor. I hear Katrina shriek in disgust as I continue to puke my guts out. I puke until I can’t anymore and my throat is so sore it hurts to swallow. Holding on to the edge of the liquor cabinet, I straighten. Katrina glowers at me. The expression on her face is one of utter contempt.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, my voice a mere croak.

  “Dammit, Brandon. If you’re coming down with something, I’m out of here. The last thing I need on my wedding day is to be sick.”

  She pivots on her heel and stomps to the front door. I hear it open and slam shut, and then her car peels away. Shivering and dizzy, I sag down against the liquor cabinet until I’m crouched on the floor, my pool of vomit surrounding me. I bury my head between my knees to block out the odiferous smell and to soothe my monster headache along with my unyielding heartache.

  All I want is Zoey. For her to be here to take care of me and to let me hold her.

  My beloved mentor’s words swirl through my head. Act with your heart. Lead your dreams and land them.

  The next to last thing I need on my wedding day is to be sick. Sick with regret.

  The very last thing I need is Katrina.

  Zoey

  It’s been a non-stop busy day with one demanding client after another. To top it off, I’ve had to act cheerful when inside my heart is splintering. Tomorrow, Brandon and Katrina are getting married. And the wedding of the century is going to be televised live on TV. It’s been the talk of the tabloids and the Internet as well as every news and gossip show on TV. There’s been a ton of speculation about the cost—with some saying as much as ten million dollars—as well as about Katrina’s dress, the celebrities attending, and Bratrina’s secret honeymoon destination. The massages and soft music do little to soothe my mind or my heart.

  Just as I’m about to call it a day, Madelyn, the spa’s high-strung, bag of bones manager, comes bursting through the door. While Posh is known for its tranquility, she’s an exposed nerve. Behind her bony back, everyone calls her Madwoman.

  “Zoey, you can’t leave. We have a VIP client who needs a massage. Her regular masseuse fell ill, so you have to step in. Of course, we’ll pay you overtime, and the client is a very generous tipper.”

  With a shrug and a sigh, I say, “Fine.” I was so looking forward to going home and having a hot bath—my new form of relaxing. But what’s another hour. Or another dollar?

  Madelyn flashes a smile. “Wonderful. I’m going to personally bring her back. Remember, she’s one of our very important clients.”

  I set up the table, light a scented candle, and dim the lights. The soft relaxation music is still piping through the sound system.

  Draping a clean sheet over the massage table, I hear Madelyn’s voice. “Zoey, this is our very special client…”

  I spin around. Our eyes clash. Not Madwoman’s.

  Rather, another mad woman far more evil…

  “…Katrina Moore.” Madwoman’s voice drifts into my ears. “Be sure to give her extra special attention. She’s getting married
tomorrow to Brandon Taylor, so she wants to look and feel her very best.”

  Katrina smiles at me wickedly as she slips out her cell phone from the pocket of her spa robe.

  “Enjoy your massage, Ms. Moore,” singsongs Madelyn before sauntering off. Smirking, Katrina makes a call.

  “Hi, darling.”

  My heart stutters. She’s called Brandon.

  “What are you up to?” she purrs, drumming the pink rhinestone-studded case with one of her long manicured fingers.

  “That’s wonderful. I’m just having a massage. And then I’m going home to get ready for our wedding rehearsal.” Thumbing her blinding ten-carat diamond engagement ring, she puts a special emphasis on the word “wedding,” flinging it at me like a dagger. “Love you too.”

  Another dagger. How much pain can I take?

  She ends the call and smugly gives me the once over. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Miss Fatty Pants. I’m glad to see you’ve found yourself a new job. That hideous uniform suits you well.”

  Rage replaces the pain. My blood is curdling. Nice to see you too, bitch.

  “I’ll be right back,” I hiss, gritting my teeth. “In the meantime, please take off your robe and lie on the table face down.”

  Before stepping out of the room, I heat up the oil in the warmer. I then make a quick bathroom run and return. Katrina is stretched out as instructed on the massage table. Her long, toned, bronzed body glows under the dim lights along with her lustrous platinum hair that’s piled high on her head. The thought of her lying in bed with Brandon sickens me. And tomorrow they will be husband and wife.

  “What’s taking so long?” she snaps. “I’m ready.”

  I’m ready too. Oh am I. In my massages classes, they taught us beauty equals pain. I’m about to put that equation into action. The massage oil is warm. Make that very warm. As in scorching hot. Taking a washcloth, I lift the bottle into my hand and careful not to burn myself, pour a generous amount on Katrina’s taut sculpted back.