Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(35)
Scott: We need to get rid of her.
Rage whips through my bloodstream, then my heart thuds with trepidation. Scott’s words whirl around in my head like a tornado. Could they have possibly intended to kill me? After scrolling through more disgruntled texts about Katrina’s reality show contract, I come to yet another set that makes my eyes flutter and my heart practically jump out of my chest.
Katrina: Worried. His memory is coming back. What if he remembers I hit him?
Scott: Relax. I have it covered. He won’t be able to prove a thing.
I gasp out loud. The phone shakes in my hand. My skin bristles. I can’t believe what I’ve just read. Hit…as in hit and run? It has to be. Katrina ran over Brandon!! She wanted to kill him? And now, she’s marrying him to get his money? And then run off with Scott?
Oh my God! It’s 5:30 pm. In just a half hour, they’ll be saying their vows live on TV. Panic pulses through me. Without wasting a second, I call Pops. Thank goodness, I know his cell phone number by heart. His phone rings and rings and rings. Shit. Since I’m using Katrina’s phone, he won’t know it’s me. Pick up! Pick up! My thudding heart’s in my throat. Come on, Pops! Please pick up! After the fifth ring, he does. Breathlessly, I tell him everything. The words fly out of my mouth. He listens intently and then says: “Get dressed, Babycakes. We have a wedding to crash.”
Brandon
It’s a f*cking spectacle. A circus. Hordes of fans and paparazzi surround us as our Cinderella-inspired horse and carriage heads down Doheny en route to The Four Seasons. Katrina, dressed in her five hundred thousand dollar gown that takes up most of the carriage, smiles brightly and waves to the crowd as if she’s royalty. Gucci, dressed in some frou-frou pink concoction, is on her lap and cocks his head at me, confounded. Butterflies swarm my stomach. I’m nervous as shit. The biggest moment of my life awaits me. I don’t know if I can pull it off. But, at least, I’m wearing my lucky cufflinks. The gold monogrammed ones that belonged to my father. As I fiddle with them, the memory of Zoey trying to put them on the night of the Golden Globes flashes into my head. Her incompetence was so adorable! When I look back, I loved her even then. The fond memory sparks a small smile, but it falls off my face as soon as we pull up to the entrance of the imposing hotel. My anxiety returns full force and crashes through me like an avalanche.
Shouts of “Bratrina” echo in my ears. The pumpkin-like carriage comes to a halt and, after we’re helped out of it, we’re whisked away by security. As we’re led to our holding quarters, I glimpse the sprawling garden where our ceremony is taking place. Hundreds and hundreds of guests are being escorted to their seats, and a production crew is running around attending to last minute details.
The holding quarters are no less frenetic. Hair and makeup people are scuttling about the spacious, elegantly appointed suite, putting finishing touches on the bridesmaids and groomsmen, all hired from Central Casting. Katrina’s mother Enid, dressed in a peach gown, is shouting into a walkie-talkie.
“Where the hell is the last groomsman?” Her brows furrow as much as Botox will allow them. “What!? I don’t care if he’s got pneumonia. Call Central Casting, you moron, and get someone over here NOW!”
She catches sight of us and her face brightens.
“Mommy!” exclaims Katrina, running over to hug her. “My special day is here at last!”
“Darling, you look absolutely divine. Monique’s dress is perfection.”
“I hope Daddy will see it on TV. It’s such a shame they wouldn’t let him out of prison for my special day.”
Enid rolls her eyes. “There’s a reason your father is behind bars. For all I care, he can rot in his cell.”
“Whatever. Talking about cells, I think I left my phone at the rehearsal last night. Did anyone turn it in?”
“No, darling, I’m sorry.”
Enid’s attention is thwarted. Another x-ray thin, chicly dressed woman with a tight black chignon and skin so taut it may crack joins them. After giving Katrina the once over, she fluffs out her poufy white gown. She must be the designer, Monique Hervé. She gives Enid a flirtatious wink before addressing her client.
“Katrina, my love, I want you and Brandon to take a photo with the In Style photographer. A picture’s worth a million bucks.”
Before I can blink, I’m posing with Bridezilla.
“I’d like to get a shot of the two of you kissing,” says the young female photographer who has us huddled side by side on an elegant loveseat. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap. With the width of her gown, there’s barely any space for me.
Katrina makes a face. “Absolutely not! I don’t want to mess up my lipstick, and besides, I’m the only one who belongs on the cover. A close-up.”
To my great relief, Katrina gets up, leaving me with The Gooch, and poses for the photographer. Blowing kisses. Swirling around in her voluminous gown. Flinging back her platinum locks that are held back by a diamond tiara and a mile-long tulle veil that trails along the carpet. While she continues to prance around the suite, the production staff mikes me up.
“We’re going to need some cutaways and sound bites,” says a jeans-clad AD from Katrina’s reality series as she hides a mike under the lapel of my tailcoat. A scraggly cameraman aims a handheld camera at me. I vaguely remember seeing him before in my hospital room when I woke up from my coma.