Jolting, she yelps. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Whatever you put on me is burning my skin!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have overheated the oil.” Hehehe! “It’ll cool off in no time. How do you like your massages?”
“I like them hard. The way I like my men. By the way, I asked for a hot stone massage not a deep tissue one.”
“No problem.” I grab a couple of stones—the largest ones—from my supply counter and pour the cooled off oil on them until they turn a lustrous black.
One in each hand, I press them against her sublime flesh, making circling motions on her upper back.
“Harder,” she grunts.
She asked for it. She wants it hard. I’m going to give it to her just the way she likes it. An evil smile snakes across my lips.
I press the rocks deeper into her skin, and then as she moans with pleasure, I begin to pummel her. Harder and harder and harder. Her moans morph into shrieks.
“Oh my God!” She bolts up. “What are you doing, you bitch? You’re trying to kill me!”
“You told me you like it hard.”
“Fuck you, you jealous cunt! She jumps off the table and throws on her robe. “You’re going to pay for this! I’m going to get your fat ass fired.” Tying the belt, she storms out of the room.
I don’t give a shit. I hope I’ve left her with a lot of ugly bruises. Maybe her wedding gown or rehearsal dress is backless. She can show them off.
I’m done for the day. If I have to pay the consequences, I will. I don’t even want to be a masseuse. I have bigger dreams. I tidy up the room, and then make a discovery.
Katrina’s cell phone. She’s left it behind. Screw the bitch. I’m not running after her to give it to her. Let her suffer without her lifeline. I toss it into a pocket of my uniform.
One heartbeat later, my cell phone pings. I slip it out of my other pocket. It’s a text from Madelyn. Please stop by my office before you leave.
My stomach knots. The end may be in sight.
Madelyn’s office is spacious and elegantly appointed like the rest of the spa. The lighting is muted, and her uncluttered desk reflects her anal personality. She taps her spindly manicured fingers together. Her tight Botoxed face is, as usual, pinched.
“Have a seat, Zoey.” Her voice is frosty.
Wordlessly, I lower myself into one of the two upholstered armchairs facing her.
“Katrina Moore told me you tried to kill her.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” I say defensively with laughter in my voice.
Madelyn purses her scarlet lips. “Whatever. Perhaps she over exaggerated, but you nonetheless gave her an unacceptable massage.”
I remain silent.
“This is not the first time I’ve had a complaint about you. A gentleman told me you didn’t give him what he wanted.”
Fucking Brandon complained?
“Who might that be?” I ask, knowing damn well. Asshole!
“Sheldon Greenberg. He’s a major player in this town.”
The fucking pig!
As I seethe, Madwoman continues. “You know, usually I go by the three strikes and you’re out rule, but, Ms. Hart, you seem to be a loose cannon. Your lack of professionalism with two of our biggest and most respected clients leaves me no choice. I can’t afford to ruin our reputation. Ms. Moore has threatened to go to the tabloids and besmirch us if I don’t take action. God forbid!” Icicles form in her eyes while she pauses. “You’re fired.”
You’re fired. The two words vibrate in my ears as if served on a pitchfork. When Brandon fired me, my heart sunk into a dark abyss. I cried for days. But to my surprise, I feel an unexpected lightness of being. Almost euphoria. Fuck Madelyn. Fuck this place. Fuck all my demanding clients. Tomorrow I can sleep late.
I rise to my feet, and with a bright smile, I spit out two words: “Thank you.”
On the way to my small but cozy apartment, I stop and collect my mail. The usual. Bills, bills, and more bills. I’m not sure how I’m going to pay them, now that I don’t have a job, but decide to worry about that tomorrow. I’m more focused on the small padded yellow envelope with no return address. There is, however, a UPS overnight tracking number. My name and address are written in large, unrecognizable block print letters. It’s marked fragile. Dropping the rest of the mail on my kitchen counter once inside my apartment, I tear open the mysterious envelope, and my breath hitches in my throat at the sight of the contents. A DVD. The season finale of Kurt Kussler. The episode that screened at MIP but won’t be airing until Monday. There’s no note.
My emotions are in a jumble. The euphoric high I experienced after getting fired quickly gave way to gloom on my drive home. I thought about Katrina and Brandon getting married tomorrow. And now this. With a jittery hand, I set the DVD on the counter and stumble to the refrigerator. Thank goodness, I have a half bottle of Trader Joe’s Two-Buck Chuck left. Since leaving Brandon, I’ve been drinking more than usual; the wine’s helped numb my pain and sorrow.
After shakily pouring a glass, I collect the DVD and head into the living room. Sinking into the couch, I take a long sip of the cheap Chardonnay and then place the glass on the coffee table. I’m still gripping the DVD, anxiously debating whether to watch it or not. It has to be Brandon who sent it to me. But why? And how did he get my address? Maybe that bitch Madelyn gave it to him. Is he still playing a sick sadistic game with me? He wants to be in my face the night before he marries that other bitch. Pour salt into an open wound?
Fuck him! Fuck this DVD! As I’m about to break it in half with my bare hands, my cell phone rings. I fish for it in my pocket and then glance at the caller ID screen. Unknown number. Who the fuck can it be? Some stupid solicitor? I hit “answer” because I’m in the mood to rant.
“Fuck you. Never call—”
A soft, sultry voice cuts me off. “Just watch the DVD. I hope you understand.”
Brandon! How the hell did he get my new number? The phone shakes in my trembling hand. My heart is thumping and tears are welling up in my eyes. Why does he still affect me? Why can’t I get over him? Why can’t he leave me alone and stop taunting me?
Before I can hang up on him, he whispers one more word. The magic one: “Please.” The line goes dead.
Every nerve ending in my body is a sparking fuse. I take another big gulp of the white wine and stare hard at the DVD. The burning urge to destroy it slowly dissipates and is replaced by an irrational desire to watch it. Setting both the wine glass and DVD down, I retrieve my laptop from my desk. I haven’t gotten around to buying a TV or DVD player yet so this is the only way I can view it. I plop back down on the couch with the computer in my lap and, with an unsteady hand, insert the DVD.
The opening credit montage immediately plays. While I’ve seen it countless times, my heart hammers. Brandon in all his sexy action poses takes my breath away, eliciting a Pavlovian response that makes my ovaries fall apart. After he stares into the camera pointing his big gun and says, “Get it. Got it? Good!” he fires it—Bang!—and the final credits appear. Written by Brandon Taylor. I almost forgot he wrote the finale. My breath hitches once more. It’s entitled “Unforgettable.”
My eyes are already watering and the episode hasn’t even begun. As much as he’s a sadistic bastard, I must be an even bigger masochist. A glutton for pain and punishment. I have no idea what to expect. Brandon never told me a thing about it except it was going to have a mind-blowing twist and a cliffhanger ending. Said he was sworn to secrecy.
My eyes never leave my computer screen. The episode is intense, action-packed, and suspenseful. His faithful assistant, Melanie, has been by his side for most of the show. They’ve found some more clues to the whereabouts of The Locust, Kurt’s late wife’s assassin. Weary, emotionally drained Kurt needs a break. He tells Mel he’s going to go out for a coffee; she insists on fetching it for him, but he declines her offer. He just needs to
get out. Clear his head. As he departs his office, Mel looks at him with a combination of lust and love in her eyes. She loves him so much! It’s been so obvious over the course of the series. If only he would wake up!
I grow emotional and then my heart jolts. An ear-deafening explosion! Mel’s eyes grow wide and she screams, “No!!!!!” She sprints out the door.
My heart almost stops. Kurt’s on the street, lying in a dark pool of blood. He’s been shot!
“Oh my God!” I hear myself gasp with Mel. A mixture of shock and sadness whips through me. This can’t be happening!
Sobbing, Mel falls to her knees beside Kurt. She hastily removes her sweater and presses it against his gushing chest wound while cradling his head in her other arm. He’s still conscious, but barely. His hooded eyes burn into hers.
“Mel, did anyone ever tell you you’re smart…you’re funny…and you’re cute?”
My heart’s racing; tears spilling. Oh my God. These are the very same words he told me that night in his car when he called me on my charade with Jeffrey.
Tears cascading, Melanie shakes her head and rasps, “No.”
The faintest of smiles splays on Kurt’s lips. “Well, I’m telling you.”
“Save your strength,” Mel begs.
Kurt’s blood seeps through her sweater, his breathing labors, and his eyelids grow heavier. Mel panics.
“Kurt…Kurt…can you hear me? Please! Stay with me!”
Kurt’s breathing grows harsh. He’s fading fast. Mel leans into him.
“Don’t you dare die on me, you self-centered, egotistical asshole,” I hear myself sob out together with Kurt’s hysterical assistant. These are my words. The exact ones I said to Brandon when I found him lying unconscious after his hit and run. Oh my God! Were they in his subconscious? Did he have a memory breakthrough?
“Don’t give up. Please! I love you so much!” The words tumble off my quivering lips in unison with Mel’s as her tears fall onto Kurt’s face. I know what’s coming next. She traces her hand along his strong jaw and then, her lips lower onto his. Still cradling his head in her other arm, she kisses him. Sobs clog her throat. Just like they did mine on that fateful day. I replay that moment. And relive the all-consuming, passionate kiss that I hoped would magically wake Brandon up. Like in a fairy tale.
Mel pulls away and holds Kurt in her loving, teary-eyed gaze, brushing her hand through his hair and losing all hope. Sobbing so loudly, I almost don’t hear Kurt’s last line:
“I love you too, baby.” His eyes close and the screen fades to black. To Be Continued. And then the closing credits come on, rolling to a too familiar song—“Unforgettable” sung by Brandon, his voice unmistakable. My throat constricts so tightly I can barely breathe.
A tsunami of big, ugly, snotty tears pours down my face. My keyboard is covered with them. When I swipe at them, they only multiply. Sobs wrack my body. My emotions are in turmoil. An excruciating combo of passion, sorrow, and confusion floods my veins. What cruel mind game is Brandon playing with me now? What is he trying to say? My phone starts to ring.
I slam my laptop shut, and still sobbing, I hug a pillow tightly, my tears soaking the fabric. My phone keeps ringing and ringing and ringing until it dies a silent death.
Brandon
Why won’t she pick up her phone? I call again and again. And each time, it goes straight to her voice mail. Dammit, Zoey. Pick up your phone. I had to bribe her boss to give me the number as well as her address. The skinny bitch cost me ten thousand dollars. All that for nothing. I bet Zoey’s turned her cell off.
Frustration mounting, I pace my house. I know, just know, she watched the episode. And without commercials, it ran about ninety minutes so she must be done with it. I speed-dial her one more time. Again, the call goes straight to voicemail. I can’t bear to hear her voice again, so I text her, begging her to call me. Tossing my phone on the couch, I take long angry steps toward the bar and pour myself a Scotch. As I’m about to put the tumbler to my lips, the sound of my front door opening and slamming shut distracts me. Heavy footsteps get closer. Setting the tumbler on the bar, I spin around and face him. It’s Scott, my manager. Crap. He’s come by to drive me to the wedding rehearsal that’s taking place in a half hour at The Four Seasons. He’s going to be my best man. He makes a beeline for the bar and pours himself a whiskey.
My eyes drink him in. His bottle-brown hair is greased back and he’s dressed in a slick, navy three-piece suit that’s a little too shiny. Dangling an unlit cigarette from his mouth, he looks on edge. He downs the whiskey and gives me the once over.
“You look like shit. What happened to your face?”
While I’m no longer wearing a Band-Aid, the scab on my face is pretty nasty, and the truth is I feel sick to my stomach about the whole wedding, let alone Zoey. I tell Scott that I got into a car accident, without getting into details, and that I haven’t been feeling well since it happened. I may even have the flu.
“Shit, man. Accident or not, why the hell aren’t you ready? The rehearsal starts in thirty minutes, and with the Friday night traffic on Sunset, we’ll be lucky if we get there in an hour.”
Barefoot, I’m wearing sweats and a hoodie. I haven’t even showered or shaved. “I don’t have an assistant to help me.” A lame excuse but true.
“What happened to the one I talked to yesterday?”
“I fired her.”
“Come on, Brandon. This is the fifth assistant you’ve fired this month. What was wrong with her?”
“I couldn’t stand her squeaky voice and she was totally incompetent. Couldn’t even bring me the right size Starbucks in the morning.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Brandon. You’re fucking impossible.”
He refills his tumbler while I take a sip of my Scotch. “Do you have a minute?
“What for?”
“I need to talk to you.” I haven’t had a heart to heart conversation with him since I got back from Cannes. In fact, I’ve hardly seen him as he’s been mysteriously out of town. I have no clue if he knows what went down between Katrina and me. And I’ve avoided talking to him about it because I don’t know if I can trust him. He’s a liar who could be connected to my hit and run and, to a degree, a thief as he never paid back the two grand I lent him. But what bugs me most is that he went along with Katrina and forced Zoey and Bella, the two most important and cherished people in my life, to stay away from me when I was in my coma. I’ve thought long and hard about firing him, but Lieutenant Mancuso, who’s now working my case, has advised against that as it might arouse suspicion. Everything’s so fucking complicated and I barely have the energy to deal. If only I could talk to Zoey, things might be simpler.
My manager glances down at his flashy gold watch. His eye ticks. “Okay, but make it fast. We need to get to The Four Seasons.”
I head to the couch and sit while he follows me and takes his normal seat in the chair closest to me. He sets the tumbler on the coffee table and then twirls his cigarette. “Can I light up? I could really use a smoke. I’ve had a rough day.”
So have I. I was on pins and needles, waiting for Zoey’s package to arrive. When I checked the tracking number online, I knew it had and had a moment of reprieve. But she won’t talk to me and I’m facing the biggest day of my life. A life-changer. Scott’s nasal voice cuts into my anxious thoughts.
“So, I guess that’s a yes,” he says, already lighting up.
As much as I hate him smoking in my house, I don’t have the wherewithal to fight him. I have bigger things on my mind.
Returning his gold lighter to his breast pocket, he puts the cigarette to his mouth. He takes a drag and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Shoot.”
“I’m having second thoughts about marrying Katrina.”
He practically chokes on the next puff of his cigarette. “Are you fucking out of your mind?”
In answer to his question, I may be, but I don’t tell him that. “I’m still not feeling it with her.”
<
br /> Scott’s voice rises with anger. “What the fuck do you mean?”
I’m not sure what he knows, so I play it safe. “We still have no connection, physically or emotionally.”
Another puff and he flicks his ashes in the ashtray. “You had a major head injury. You suffered amnesia. Your doctors said it would take a while for your memory to return.”
“Scott, it’s been five months. I remember a lot of things.”
“Like what?” he asks nervously, his brows shooting up.
“Just about everything.”
His twitchy eye flutters and his face tenses while I continue.
“Everything except my accident and the weeks leading up to it.”
He quirks a small smile and then takes another long draw of the cigarette. Tilting back his head, he blows a ribbon of smoke into the air. “That’s good, Brandon. It’s only a matter of time until you remember your history with Katrina.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to remember.”
My bold, unexpected words swirl around in my head. While I process them, Scott’s ruddy face turns ashen and his hand shakes as he lifts the cigarette again to his mouth. He takes another quick puff and then recovering, says with confidence, “C’mon, man. You two fucking knocked it out of the ballpark.”
Okay, here goes. I take a deep breath and my gaze meets his twitchy eyes. “Scott, maybe you’ve never always leveled with me, but I’ve always leveled with you. I’m in love with someone else.”
“One of your former bimbos?” Contempt creeps into his voice. He’s hiding any sign of surprise well.
“No. Someone special. Someone you know.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me it’s that smart-ass ex-assistant.”
I feel my blood pressure spike as I clench both my jaw and my hands. I swear if he says one more thing about Zoey’s ass, I’m going to knock out his fake teeth. It takes all I have to contain my temper.
“You know what happened in Cannes?” I venture.
Scott stabs the butt of the cigarette in the ashtray and hastily puts it out. “Of course, I know. Katrina told me everything. You were out of your fucking mind.”
Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) Page 10
