Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(13)
“Brandon, I don’t need or have time for your bullshit. And please don’t call me here again.”
“What about my hit and run case?”
“There’s been little progress. We still can’t trace Donatelli, and there are no new leads that link him to your manager Scott.”
“I learned some interesting things about Katrina while I was in Cannes,” I say, hoping this will warm him up to me.
“For obvious reasons, my colleague, Lieutenant Mancuso, will be handling your side of the case. I will pass this information on to him, and I’m sure he’ll be in touch. In the future, please address all your inquiries to him and anything you may discover that might be of importance. Goodbye, Brandon.”
Click. The line goes quiet. He’s hung up on me. Tossing my phone onto my desk, I trudge back to the living room and pour myself a Scotch before slumping onto the couch. Facing the shattered poster, I drain the tumbler in a single gulp. The alcohol burns straight through me, pouring deep into the hole in my chest. I stare at the shattered poster; it’s as broken as I am. Jetlag mixes with the alcohol, creating a lethal cocktail of fatigue and despair. Katrina, who went on to Milan, will be back tomorrow and the nightmare will persevere. Just get worse. For a minute while I was on the phone with Pete, I thought about telling him that Katrina was blackmailing me. But reason got the better of me—if he knew what I did sexually to Zoey, he might think I’m some kind of sick pervert who gets off on hurting women. And, of course, once back in LA, the psycho bitch would defend herself and run to the press with her “evidence.”
I’m f*cked. Zoey’s gone. Unattainable. I reach into the breast pocket of my leather jacket and pull out my one souvenir of what we had in Cannes. I managed to salvage them before Katrina flushed them down the toilet. Zoey’s scanty black lace panties. They’re still alive with her scent, my scent, the sea, and the sky. I put them to my nose and inhale them. Their intoxicating smell makes me drunk with desire and regret.
Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. I wish you were mine.
Zoey
“Love is a disease for which there is no cure.” Mel once said that to a distraught Kurt in an episode of Brandon’s series, and now I know it’s true. Since coming back to LA, I haven’t left my bed. It’s been five long, sickening days. Every bone, every muscle, every cell is infected with him.
Trapped in a fluish haze, I drift in and out of sleep, and if it weren’t for Auntie Jo looking in on me and bringing me some homemade soup, the only thing I can manage to get down my throat and just barely, I wouldn’t know if it were morning, noon, or night. When I’m conscious, all I do is cry and think about him. I used to have fantasies, but now my mind is filled with painful memories. All the good times we had together play in my head. I can’t shut them down. Even when I drift off into a fitful sleep, he’s in my dreams. Kissing and f*cking me. Holding me in his strong arms. Dancing and loving me. The melody of Mama’s favorite song, “Unforgettable,” links all the beautiful memories together like a never-ending music video. Oh, why can’t I forget? Amnesia would be God’s gift.
“Do you want to talk about it, honey?” Auntie Jo asks, the next time she treads lightly into my room with a tray in hand.
“Please, Auntie. I can’t. Not yet.” My voice is a hoarse whisper I don’t recognize. Forcing myself to sit up, I take the bowl of soup from her and take a few sips to satisfy her that I’m eating and won’t die. She has no clue my heart’s been broken by Brandon Taylor. All she knows is I’ve lost my job and I’ve contracted some flu from the rain. Pops knows the truth, and he’s promised me he won’t tell her until I do first. I may never.
Pops is as concerned about me as much as Jo is. For the fifth time this week, he stops by my room after coming home from work. The lights are off and I’m under the covers. I have no clue what time it is.
He sits down beside me on the edge of the bed. “Babycakes, it’s been almost a week. You’ve got to face reality again.”
“Pops, I can’t. He hurt me so much.”
“He called me today at the precinct.”
My heart jumps. I bolt to a sitting position. He’s back!
“He wants to talk to you. He says he’s been trying to reach you.”
I’ve had my cell phone turned off with his number blocked and have vowed to get a brand new number so he can never reach me. A frantic thought claws at me.
“Pops, did you tell him where I am?” My throat’s so raw it hurts to talk.
“No.”
I should sigh with relief, but I’m aching to see him. I just can’t. What would be the point? To torture myself? My heart’s endured enough pain to last a lifetime.
“Thanks, Pops,” I croak, verging on more tears. “Please don’t ever tell him my whereabouts. I never want to see him again. Never!”
The last words come out with a choked sob. Pops takes me in his brawny arms and lets me cry for as long as I need to. At least fifteen minutes pass, maybe more. It’s so hard to tell time in this dysfunctional, heartbroken state.
He smooths my damp, ratty hair that hasn’t been combed in days. Auntie Jo barges in. She must have heard my sobbing. Worry is etched on her face.
“Pete—”
Pops gently cuts her off. “She’s okay.”