Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(61)

“You swear what?”

“I swear I’ll marry you.”

She shoots me a wicked, triumphant smile. “Good. But I want you to do one other thing.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to fire the fat-ass bitch.”

Christ. What have I gotten myself into? I say I will without meaning it. “Now, Katrina, give me the phone.”

“Here.” She hurls it at me. I catch it just before it hits me in the eye.

She bends down and retrieves a linen napkin from the floor. She wraps it around her still bleeding wound. “I will be attending tomorrow night’s premiere with you. Understood?”

I nod.

“And if I see that fat whore anywhere in sight, you can be sure the press and paparazzi will see the damage you caused.” She rubs her bandaged arm. “For all intents and purposes, we should look like the happiest, most in love couple in the world…Bratrina.”

Fucking Bratrina. I’m an actor. I’m going to have to act the part. The psycho bitch has got me between a rock and a hard place. What a f*cking nightmare! I blow out a whoosh of air to release tension.

“Katrina, we should sleep in separate hotel rooms tonight. To cool off.”

“Be my guest,” she says smugly.

I dial the front desk and ask for another room, not saying for whom. Nothing’s available; the hotel’s sold out. With MIP, probably every hotel in Cannes is. I should throw her out onto the street on her bony ass, but that comes with its own share of serious repercussions. Fuck. I’m stuck here with her.

“Katrina, why don’t you take the master suite?” While there are four sweeping bedrooms in my deluxe accommodations, offering her less than the best can so easily turn against me. “I’m going to clean up this mess and hang out here for a while.”

She grabs her monstrous designer bag, which she left by the door, and pulls out her cell phone. Click. Click. Click. Dammit. She’s taking photos of both her bloody, bandaged arm and the wreckage. And then she makes some pained faces complete with crocodile tears and takes a few selfies. Nausea washes over me. Evidence.

“Just in case.” She slips her phone back into her purse and fakes a yawn. “I do need my beauty sleep, especially in light of the big event tomorrow. And I think with a little space between us, you’ll come to your senses.”

She saunters toward my bedroom. “The porter will be up shortly with all my luggage. And a bottle of Cristal. Just have him bring everything directly to my room.”

“Fine.” I stab the word at her.

“And, darling, don’t forget to do what I asked you to do. I never want to see that fat cunt again!”

She disappears and I begin to clean up the remains of her rampage. It takes me over an hour. Emotionally and physically drained, I sink into the couch where The Gooch, who’s come out of hiding, shortly joins me. A small comfort.

I weakly pet him and look to him for answers. He cocks his head and stares at me with his big brown puppy eyes.

It’s hopeless. With the little dog curled up beside me, I bury my face in my hands.

Zoey, Zoey, Zoey.

What the f*ck am I going to do?





Zoey


I’m curled up in an easy chair in complete darkness, the blackout curtains drawn. The only light in the room comes from my cell phone, which is on my lap. I glance down at it. It’s one a.m. It’s been over two hours. My stomach is twisted in a torturous knot, every cell in my body crackling with anticipation. Why doesn’t he call me? Or email me? Or text me? He said he would. Or better yet, knock down my door? Sweep me off my feet and carry me off to some deserted island where only the two of us exist. Far away from the f*cking bitch.


I’m in love. Hopelessly, helplessly in love with Brandon Taylor. I think I’ve always loved him. From the first moment I set eyes on him. He’s always been the master of my universe. But now, tonight in Cannes, he became the master of my soul. The part of me that’s reserved for only sinners and lovers.

I am a new woman. I have sinned. And I have loved. With all my heart, all my body, and all my soul. Addicted to his dominant force, his dominant pleasure, I have broken a cardinal rule. Never sleep with your boss. Even worse, I’ve fallen hard in love with him. Ceded all control over my emotions, trespassed all physical boundaries, and defied my moral integrity out of lust and greed. Completely submitted to him with not a soup?on of regret. “It’s complicated” is the understatement of the century. I want him so badly there’s a knife in my chest.

Another hour passes. Still no word. My jet-lagged eyelids are as heavy as lead. The only thing that’s keeping me awake is the ache between my legs. That persistent throbbing that won’t go away. I’m losing hope, getting more anxious with each labored breath. Maybe he’s gone back to stunning “It Girl” Katrina and is f*cking her brains out right now. I shudder at the thought. Maybe I was a fly by night fling. Just his little f*ck toy. Maybe all that stuff he told me about her was pure bullshit and all those lines he used on me were just lies. Pure acting. That explains why he never mentioned breaking up with her before this trip. My heart clenches at the possibility of deceit and even harder at the uncertainty of our future. He didn’t after all say he loved me. So, he has feelings toward me. What does that mean? Maybe there’s no difference between saying bring me my Starbucks and bring me to orgasm. Am I just a convenient doormat he can get off on?