Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(30)

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 f*cking 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 f*ck can it be? Some stupid solicitor? I hit “answer” because I’m in the mood to rant.