Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(10)
Katrina’s pompous voice hurtles me back to the moment. “Does anyone else have a question for me?”
Is she f*cking serious? To my relief, an incensed Blake ends the Q&A session and shuts her up. I still don’t know exactly what went down between the two of them. He’s been tight-lipped about it. Even over drinks on the plane over here, he wouldn’t spill the beans. Maybe I can get further with his wife Jennifer. But what’s the point? That’s not going to make the nightmare go away either.
Heading out the side door, I retreat with Blake and the others, who participated in the Q&A session, to the lobby where the cocktail reception is underway. I need a drink desperately. Before I can get to the bar, broadcasters from all over the globe swarm me. It’s like a shark feeding frenzy—the whole world wants a taste of me. Either to have their picture taken with TV’s number one action star or have me autograph the official Kurt Kussler photo they received in their swag bags. I’m every man’s macho aspiration and every woman’s f*cking fantasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Katrina flitting about, posing with one broadcaster after another for the paparazzi and Conquest publicity photographers.
It doesn’t take long before I’m feeling claustrophobic. Tightness of breath and dizziness are accompanied by beads of sweat that break out across my skin. Blake Burns comes to my rescue and pulls me aside.
“You okay, Brandon?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just jet lagged.”
“You did great with the Q&A.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m curious. Who was your inspiration?”
“Zoey.” I blurt out her name.
“That’s what I thought. Why did she end up going back to LA?”
“It’s complicated.” My fallback word.
He harkens back to our conversation on the plane. “Are you still having second thoughts about marrying Katrina?”
My jaw tightens. “No.” I change the subject when I see her making a beeline our way, champagne in hand. “Listen, Blake, would you mind if I cut out early? I could really use a good night’s sleep.”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll have security get you out the back way.” He wraps an arm around me. “Pal-y, sometime later this week after the convention, let’s meet for a drink at The Carlton bar, okay?”
I agree to his request. Five minutes later, I’m in a dark alley outside the theater. Balls. It’s raining. Pouring. Coming down like a spray of bullets. In a matter of seconds, the violent pellets soak me. Chill me to the bone. Shivering, I dip my hand into my pants pocket and pull out my cell phone. With the nine-hour time difference, it’s early afternoon in always-sunny Los Angeles.
I speed dial Zoey. Once again, her phone goes straight to voice mail.
“Hi, it’s Zoey. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
Her sultry rasp guts me. Leaving no message, I try again. Nothing. I text her: Call me as soon as u get this message.
Gripping my phone, I continue to walk. The needles of rain sting me as I await a response. Nada. Growing frantic, I call her one more time. Again no answer. After several more attempts, I finally leave a message. “Zoey, I need to talk to you. Please. Call me!” I only hope my desperate plea isn’t drowned out by the pounding rain. With only a glimmer of hope, I wait for a call back and then my phone dies. My heart hits rock bottom. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s seen photos of Katrina and me hand-in-hand on the red carpet. Last night, I was f*cking her. Loving every minute. Loving all of her. Tonight, I’m totally f*cked. And I hate who I am. Showing no mercy, the relentless rain hammers me as I turn onto the Croisette. A cruising taxi, hoping for a passenger, pulls along the curb, but I wave it away and let the pitiless rain bombard me. Totally soaked and painfully numb, I trudge back to The Carlton, knowing I may never see or hear from her again.
Brandon
I don’t know how I make it through five long, tortuous days at MIP. My only saving grace is I rarely see Katrina during the day. She spends most of her time shopping with Gucci along the Rue D’Antibes while I hang out with Blake and meet with broadcasters and licensors from around the world at the swamped Conquest Broadcasting booth inside The Grand Palais. My nights, however, are an entirely different story. She’s wrapped around me like a noose and insists on going to every dinner and event I’m invited to. We’re the darlings of both the press and paparazzi. They can’t get enough of Bratrina. Photos of us together are splattered all over newspapers in Cannes and I’m sure all over the world. Not wanting to make myself sicker than I am, I’ve totally avoided the Internet. I’m sure it’s a Bratrina fest.
Finally, on the last day of the conference, I have a chance to sit down with Blake for a drink at The Carlton Bar. He’s managed to score us a corner booth that gives us a modicum of privacy in the bustling Belle époque space. It’s a popular spot among broadcasters to hang loose after a busy day at the convention. I’m dressed casually in ripped jeans and a T-shirt while he’s in a dark, sleek suit that’s tailor made for his body. Blake may look like an actor, but first and foremost he’s a businessman. And let me tell you, after seeing him in action on the floor, he’s great at his game.
Over expensive Scotches, we start off with small talk about MIP.