Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(18)
Jeffrey and Chaz shout “Boo” in unison. Jo unknowingly comes to the rescue.
“C’mon boys, behave. Leave Zoey alone. You’ll see it when she hangs it up in her new apartment. And by the way, you must see it. It’s really quite charming.”
I quirk a fake smile. Inside, I’m falling apart into a million little pieces.
As I stumble back to my seat, Jo excuses herself to serve dinner.
Nausea washes over me. My appetite gone, I pick at my food. And when Auntie Jo brings the extravagant homemade buttercream cake to the table after the main course, I barely have the strength to blow out the twenty-five sparkling candles plus the one for good luck. The loudly sung words of “Happy Birthday” drift into my ears.
The day Mama died was the unhappiest birthday of my life. Despite thoughtful presents from my family, including a month’s worth of acting lessons from Pops and Auntie Jo to supplement my scholarship and a gorgeous ivory spaghetti-strap dress from fashion designer Chaz, this is a close second.
My heart splintering, I make a wish. Despite the good luck candle, I know it won’t come true.
Brandon
Why won’t she call me? Or text or email me? It’s been over a week. I know she must have gotten the poster. I called the precinct and Alma at the front desk told me that Pete was in the office when a messenger delivered it. A noble, thoughtful gesture. I even added a heart above my signature. In retrospect, maybe I f*cked up. I should have written, I love you, but I was hoping she’d call and I could say those words to her on the phone. Scrunching her little panties in my hand and nursing a Scotch in the other, I sink further into despair. Slumped on the couch, I stare at my cell phone on my lap. I’m losing hope. Stupid f*cking me.
I’ve been an utter basket case since Cannes. With Kurt Kussler on hiatus until July, I haven’t even had work to distract myself. While I should use the time to start on the outline of next season’s premier episode, I can’t get motivated. For all intents and purposes, Kurt Kussler is dead and I’m barely alive.
The last few weeks have been pure hell. If I could, I’d drink myself to oblivion, spend my days in bed, the covers over my head, and tune out the world. But I don’t have that luxury. Despite the show being on hiatus, I’ve been swamped with publicity engagements, including one talk show after another to promote the season finale as well as my upcoming televised wedding. Many of my bookings have been with sickening Katrina. I’ve had to put on a happy face, play the part of Prince Charming to her Cinderella, and tell the world how excited I am to marry her while dread swims in my stomach. I wonder if Zoey’s seen all the hype. It’s everywhere. Katrina is the sweetheart of the media. Long live Bratrina! If only they knew.
I miss Zoey terribly. Words cannot describe what I’m going through. I miss seeing her adorable face and hearing her raspy voice. I miss every curve of her body and the touch of her soft skin in my arms. Sadly, I don’t even have a photo of her. I looked online and couldn’t find one. She’s not on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, nor does she have a LinkedIn account. And when I call her cell phone, I get a message that her number is no longer in service. There’s been no way to reach her. I even went around Pete and tried both Chaz and her brother. They both refused to tell me her whereabouts or give me her new number. I told Jeffrey to tell his sister that I love her. He called me a douche (which I am) and then threatened to sic the gay mafia on me if I ever got within an inch of her. Chances for that are unlikely. It’s like she’s fallen off the planet.
I’m bereft. It’s like I’m in mourning. My big, sad, limp cock should be sheathed in a black sock. It’s still attached to my shredded heart by a fragile, tethered string. With Zoey forever gone, I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it up again. Or feel like a whole man.
And it’s not just her heart and body I long for. I desperately need her back at my beck and call. I haven’t been able to find anyone to replace her. I’ve been through new assistants like toilet paper. One right after another. They’re either trying to get into my pants or are totally incompetent. A bunch of useless bimbos. I’ve missed important meetings and have been late to others because not one has been able to maintain my hectic schedule like Zoey did. Even worse, all of my social media stuff is seriously backed up. I’ve got ten thousand unanswered emails from fans, an equal number of Facebook messages, and I can’t even begin to count the number of tweets I need to respond to. Or rather my assistant needs to reply to. It’s going to be next to impossible to catch up. I fired the latest bimbo this morning after she brought me the wrong size Starbucks. I think her name was Dawn. Or was it Fawn as in fawning all over me. I can’t even remember. Zoey is not only unforgettable. She’s irreplaceable.
“Brandon, why aren’t you ready?” Katrina’s grating voice breaks into my depressing mental ramblings. Draining my Scotch, I quickly tuck Zoey’s lace panties under the waistband of my sweats. No need to set the maniac off. We’re having cocktails at The Four Seasons with her mother and our mutual manager Scott along with the producer and director of her reality show to go over the final wedding details. The last thing I want to do. According to Enid, the headcount is now at fifteen hundred and RSVPs are still pouring in. The big event is just two short, miserable days away. I so badly want to call the whole thing off, but the psycho bitch’s threat looms. Though she acts as if nothing happened in Cannes, she slithers around me like a cobra ready to strike at any moment. The timing absolutely sucks. I owe Conquest Broadcasting my life almost as much as I owe it to my beloved Zoey. With the highly anticipated finale of Kurt Kussler airing on the Monday after the wedding, Blake Burns is one tightly wound up bundle of nerves. He fears Katrina is a loose stick of dynamite that can explode anytime, anywhere. And he’s right.