Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(7)
The flight to Los Angeles is estimated at ten long, painful hours. My sobs lessen, but the tears continue to pour. The flight attendants pay special attention to me. There’s always a set of suspicious eyes on me as if I may be some kind of threat. I don’t eat a thing, but when I ask an attendant for some wine, she refuses to serve me any, saying it may not be good for me in my state of being. Soon afterward, another attendant sweeps down the aisle and gives me the evil eye. When I go the bathroom, one of them follows me and waits outside the door. I swear everyone’s acting like I’m bipolar or some kind of terrorist. I’m not. Can’t they tell I’m simply heartbroken? I’ve lost both my job and the man I love. I let myself be used. I fell for an act. Seeking an escape, I put on my headset and choose Celine Dion’s “Love Theme” from Titanic. No, my heart won’t go on. The tears multiply until I can cry no more. I close my eyes and let her beautiful voice lull me back to sleep.
Upon landing in Los Angeles, two flight attendants insist on accompanying me to baggage, and after I collect my one bag, an airport official helps me hail a cab. It’s pouring rain—something rare for LA. The gloomy weather is fitting. Sheltering me with an umbrella, the young Latino lands one quickly.
“Where to?” asks the craggy driver.
I give him Brandon’s address so I can pick up my car and my possessions. Though emotionally and physically drained, I’d better do it now with neither Brandon nor Katrina there. Due to the heavy rain and a few accidents along the way, it takes almost two hours to get to the Hollywood Hills. Numbness sets in during the long ride. And my cell phone dies. We finally reach Brandon’s private street. My chest tightens; my pulse quickens. The cab winds up the long, twisting road; flooded, it’s practically a river. I soak it in, knowing I’ll never drive up it again. As we pass the spot where Brandon had his accident, a pang of sadness stabs me and a dark cloud shrouds my heart.
When we arrive at Brandon’s gated property, I lower my window and reach out my hand to punch in the security code to let us in. The massive iron gate slides open. The driver pulls into the long driveway and stops in front of Brandon’s front door.
“Nice place you have here,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mumble, handing him my credit card. I take care of the exorbitant hundred-dollar fare, tipping him generously. Grateful, he kindly helps me carry my bag to the front door and then due to the rain, he runs back to his car and takes off. The cruel droplets pelt me as I run through the private entrance to the guesthouse. As the sky continues to cry, my eyes cry too.
Once inside, I don’t bother packing. All of Brandon’s furnishings are staying so all I need to take are my personal belongings. Soaking wet and teary-eyed, I hastily gather them up and throw everything into my Mini, making several trips. There’s only one thing remaining—my shattered Kurt Kussler poster. Chilled to the bone, I stare at it, and as my teeth chatter, the tears fall faster.
“I hate you, Brandon Taylor. Do you hear me? I hate you!” Marching up to the poster, I give it a hard, angry kick. To my astonishment, it resists further damage. It’s as if Kurt Kussler is invincible. Mocking me. I can hurt you, but you can’t hurt me. Get it. Got it? Good.
Fuck it! Fuck him! The large poster, which won’t even fit in my tiny overstuffed car, is staying behind. It’ll be a house warming present for the bastard’s next unfortunate assistant.
Burning with rage, I peel out of the driveway. Ironically, I arrived at Brandon’s house in the pouring rain and now I’m leaving it in the pouring rain. As a rare lightning bolt flashes in the dark gray sky, that first fateful day flashes in my mind. The live wire of electricity that connected us when our fingertips touched is as vivid now as it was then. I fell for him hard and fast. I didn’t even think I could work for him without falling apart. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have. A painful knot of regret balls in my stomach. My aching heart clenches. Rage gives way to sorrow. The rain falls harder. My tears fall harder. Drenching me. I turn on my windshield wipers. If only I had a pair to swipe at my fast and furious tears. The electronic gate slides open and I tear through it, not looking back in my rear view mirror. As I whip down the hill, an afterthought about the poster hits me. Not about collecting it. But rather leaving it outside his gate for garbage collection. Too late. There’s no going back. My life with Brandon Taylor is over.
Between the rain and my tears, it takes all I have to concentrate on driving. The roads are slippery and flooded. For LA, a heavy rainfall is like a blizzard. Praying I won’t get into an accident, I drive straight to Pops and Auntie Jo’s, taking La Cienega rather than the freeway because I’m in no shape for speeding, lane-changing idiots. Bleary-eyed and shivering, I drive slowly. The thunderstorm mirrors the torrent of emotions raging inside me.
I make it there safely. Thank God, Auntie Jo’s home. One look at my tear-soaked face, she knows something’s wrong. She also knows I wasn’t supposed to be back from Cannes until the end of the week. At the front door, she gives me a hug. In her warm, comforting arms, my sopping wet body heaves sobs, the tears falling as fast and hard as the pellets of rain.
Brandon
Thank God for my acting skills. It takes all I have to walk down the red carpet and flash a big smile at the hordes of paparazzi and spectators trying to get a shot of me. My heart is in my stomach. All I can think about is Zoey. She’s been on my mind all day. I counted down the minutes till she touched down in LA. I know from checking with American she landed safely at 10 a.m. West Coast time, but she hasn’t responded to my numerous phone calls, emails, and texts. I even tried her every which way before I left the hotel. And still no answer. I so badly need to talk to her, though I’m not quite sure what to say. Maybe I can, at least, woo her back to her job. Offer her double the salary and all kinds of perks. Who am I kidding? She won’t come back. Truthfully, I don’t think she’ll ever speak to me again. I f*cked up. If only I hadn’t dozed off. I should have told her what went down with Katrina right away, but she fled before I had the chance. Now, I’m not sure if I’ll ever have the chance. As if it really matters. I can’t have Zoey. I’ve been trapped by the psychopath into a loveless marriage that I don’t know how to get out of. Believe me, Katrina made it loud and clear before we got here that she would expose her gash and tell the media I assaulted her if I made one wrong move—right on the red carpet before thousands of spectators if she had to. She’s got me by the balls. Every nerve’s on edge.