Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(26)

Still tasting him and wearing the intoxicating scent of him, I eschew a shower, unable to wash him away. I hastily throw on an outfit. Albert is taking me bowling at a nearby bowling alley in Hollywood. So jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt—my Kurt Kussler one—will suffice.

While I haven’t done it in ages, I love to bowl. Pops is in a league and he started me out at an early age. Bowling helped me funnel my anger toward Mama’s murderer. When I hurled that big ball down the long, narrow lane, I fantasized striking him down. It really helped me with my game.

At seven p.m. sharp, a horn honks outside my window. Taking a final glimpse of my pathetic self in the mirror, I trudge downstairs from my second-floor apartment. Albert’s gray Toyota Corolla is waiting for me outside. I hop in.

Bowling should be fun, but tonight it’s not and I’m off my game. Distracted, I can’t get my mind off Brandon. He totally unraveled me and reactivated every physical and emotional feeling I have for him. It was bad enough just seeing him, but when he kissed me, that’s all it took for me to succumb. The touch of his lips on mine melted me, turned every bone in my body into molten liquid. If he hadn’t pinned me against a wall, I would have crumbled. And then I let him ravish me on the massage table until somehow I found the strength inside me to make him stop before he made me fall apart again. It was bad enough putting the pieces of myself back together the first time and I knew I could never do it again. Yet, here I am once again, a total train wreck.


With a forceful swing, I hurl my last bowling ball down the glistening lane. My eyes stay fixed on it as it rolls smack down the middle at a dizzying speed. KABOOM! The ball rams into the pins, knocking all but one down.

While I wait for the ball to return, I narrow my eyes at the sole pin that’s standing at the very far right. The erect pin challenges me. And suddenly it has a face. Brandon’s! Fuck you, *! My purple bowling ball comes back to me. Curling my fingers into the three holes, I toss it down the alley with as much force as I can muster. My gaze never wavers from it as it speeds down the lane and knocks down the lone pin with a POW. A spare.

“Wow! You’re amazing!” says Albert. “You won! How’d you learn to bowl like that?”

One of Pops’s mottos comes to mind. “Practice makes perfect,” I say glumly as I realize my victory. Final score: One hundred fifty to Albert’s gutter-driven ninety.

I should be elated, but I’m not. My heart’s way heavier than my lucky ball.

After a quick bite—chilidogs which I barely touched—we’re back at my Beachwood Canyon apartment complex. Albert parks his car in front of it. We share a short awkward silence and then he breaks it.

“Can I come up?’ His bespectacled eyes stayed glued on me.

Another tense moment. After much deliberation, I say, “Sure.” Regret immediately sets in.

“Cool digs,” he says, taking in my small apartment five minutes later.

“It’s okay.” I shrug. “Want a glass of wine? Or a beer?”

“You got milk?”

Milk? “Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.”

When I return to the living room with a glass of milk in hand, Albert’s nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s split. No such luck.

“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 f*cking 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 * than Brandon Taylor” is what I want to say, but instead I say he’s just okay.

“Just okay? C’mon. He’s f*cking 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.