Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (26 page)

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He shoots me a cocky smile. “We’ll pick up right where we left off.”

“I’ll be waiting, Prince Charming.”
Hurry!

“Aren’t you missing a word?”

I quirk a knowing smile. “Monsieur Prince Charming.”

Satisfied, he blows me an air kiss with those kissable lips and dashes out of the bathroom. Humming “Unforgettable,” I relax in the tub, stretching out my legs and leaning my head against the backboard. I close my eyes and let glorious memories of the last twenty-four hours dance in my head to make up for my emptiness.

Five minutes pass, and my sweet memories are interrupted by angry voices coming from another room. My eyes flutter open. Is Brandon having some kind of argument with the hotel help? Maybe they forgot something? Knowing Brandon as well as I do, that would piss him off.

“Why the hell didn’t you let me know?” I hear Brandon yell.

The hotel kitchen ran out of whipped cream? Concerned and curious, I get out of the steep tub and grab one of the plush terry cloth robes hanging from a hook within arm’s reach. Without towel drying myself, I shrug it on and loosely belt it. It feels yummy.

“Brandon, is everything okay?” I ask upon entering the spacious living room.

And then I shudder to a halt and my jaw crashes to the floor. All air leaves my lungs.

Standing at the doorway is Katrina, dressed to the nines and clutching Gucci. Her cat-green eyes clash with mine as she reddens with fury.

“Brandon, what the hell is she doing here?” she shrieks as Gucci jumps out of her arms and runs over to me. He laps my bare toes with sweet kisses, but I’m too paralyzed with shock to acknowledge the affectionate little dog.

“We need to talk.” Brandon’s tone is sharp.

“We sure as hell do.” Her venomous eyes clash with mine yet again. They fire poisonous darts in my direction, each one piercing a piece of me.

“Get the fuck out of here, you fat cunt!”

My chest tightens painfully. If Brandon used that filthy word, it would make me feel sexy and beautiful. She’s made me feel vilified. Ashamed of myself. Like nothing more than a lowlife whore.

Tears sting the back of my eyes. I fight them back. I’m not going to let her see me cry. No fucking way.

My eyes lock with Brandon’s. His expression goes from rage to compassion with a dash of lust and remorse. I face him squarely.

“Brandon, it’s best I leave,” I say in my calmest, most dignified voice. Inside I’m falling apart.

“Zoey—” He jogs over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Please.” My voice is a desperate plea. He releases me.

I march toward the door with my head held high. Truthfully, I’m a shuddering, spineless mound of goo. My bones are so liquid that only pure pride and willpower hold me up.

“Zoey, don’t go,” Brandon pleads.

Harnessing all the strength I have, I continue toward the door and say nothing because anything I say will be all wrong. And even worse, if I open my mouth, the tears may start falling. Stepping aside, Katrina keeps her evil eye on me. I look away and don’t look back.

I hear Brandon curse under his breath. “Baby, I’ll text you later.”

I barely hear the last word. The door to his suite slams behind me, and the dam holding back my tears bursts open. Waterworks flood my eyes. My walk a stagger, I make my way to the elevator, my heart more shattered than my battered body.

Brandon

“W
hat the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Fuck you, Brandon!”

An unexpected, devastating hurricane with winds gusting at a hundred miles an hour storms through my hotel suite.

Hurricane Katrina. Actually, Katrina is more of a tornado, a whirling dervish of hate, rage, and madness. There’s no calming her down. Rationality has no meaning with this insane force of nature. All I can do is stay out of the path of her wrath, and that’s virtually impossible. I should have fled the room with smart little Gucci, but I’m on major damage control.

“Goddamn it, Katrina. Stop it!”

There is no stopping her. She destroys everything in her wake, including the room service delivery, which showed up shortly after her arrival. I watch as she knocks over the tray table, sending everything crashing to the floor. The shot glasses shatter while the hot chocolate spreads like sludge on the cream-colored rug. After stomping on the truffles, she attacks the bar, hurling one bottle of alcohol at me after another. Within minutes, my suite is strewn with broken plates, lamps, bottles, and vases. Even framed artwork has been recklessly tossed to the floor. Thousands of dollars worth of damage. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do to the hotel management, but right now that’s the least of my problems.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I sputter, ducking a tumbler. She misses and it shatters against a wall. Thank God, Blake Burns and his wife, who are occupying the Grace Kelly suite next door, are downstairs and can’t hear what’s going on. Blake warned me my fiancée was capable of a lot of shit. But this? Katrina’s gone completely mental.

“I tried to call you, you prick, but you didn’t pick up.”

“I had my phone turned off,” I lie, clearly remembering her invasive call during my dinner with Zoey. “I thought you were visiting your father for a couple of days…shooting a segment of your series.” I don’t tell her that I tried to call her before I left for MIP because at this point it’s futile. Even if I’d broken up with her before the trip, there’s no doubt in my mind the psycho bitch would have caught the first plane here—even chartered one with my card if she had to.

“My plans changed.” With a grunt, she hurls a portrait of Sean Connery at me. It narrowly misses and crashes to the floor. “The penitentiary wouldn’t let my crew inside, so we turned around after I said hello to Daddy.”

She hurls another photo.

“For fuck’s sake, stop it, Katrina!” I yell at her.

“You fucking son of a bitch. How the hell could you sleep with that slut?”

Her toxic insult makes my blood curdle. I feel my face reddening with rage. “Zoey is not a slut.”

“She’s a fucking fat pig. I’m surprised you could even find your way into her.”

“Put a lid on it, Katrina!” I bark, incensing her further. I draw sharp breaths in and out of my nose and clench my fists by my sides as my mad fiancée rages through the room in search of more things she can hurl at me. Yes, I need to restrain her, but I’m afraid I’ll do something far worse. Like assault her. Shit! That’s the last thing I need before the premiere of the
Kurt Kussler
season finale tomorrow night. Make that the next to last thing. I need Katrina here like another hole in my head.

Uncontrollable, she flings an ashtray at me, and this time it smacks me in the ribs. My chest smarts. Keeled over with pain, I think about calling security, but that could open a Pandora’s box too. Reduced to throwing harmless pillows at me, she continues on her ruthless rampage.

“Oh, and did the little whore suck your dick? I bet with her appetite she had no problem swallowing.”

“SHUT UP, Katrina!”

She comes to a sudden halt and spins around to face me. Her manic eyes laser into me, but they fail to unnerve me.

“Katrina, what I did is wrong. But I have no regrets because it felt right. I think we need to separate and find out if whatever we had before my accident can be restored.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“We should see other people.”

Her face screws up so tightly it must hurt. “Are you out of your fucking mind? We’re getting married in three weeks. The whole world will be watching.”

“I think we should call off the wedding.”

“You
are
out of your fucking mind.”

Maybe I am. But one thing I’m clear about is my connection with Zoey. My adorable, fuckable, big-hearted assistant. She’s everything I want in a woman. Feisty but compliant. She’s always been there for me. At my beck and call. The perfect submissive for my dominant ways. She takes the pain I inflict on her with grace and fortitude and savors the pleasure I give her with pure unadulterated inhibition. I’m in awe of her. Come on. Who am I kidding? I’m in love. Totally, unabashedly in love. I mentally kick myself. Dammit. I should have just broken up with Katrina for good. A clean break with no hope for a future. Maybe it’s not too late.

“Katrina—”

“
You
shut the fuck up.” Her eyes narrow. “And listen to me.”

“I’ll give you any—”

“Brandon, what part of listen don’t you get? There’s no way out of this wedding. You call it off, and I will make your life a living hell. Beginning tonight.”

My eyes stay on her as she bends down and picks up a fragment from a vase. I gasp in shock as she drags the sharp, jagged edge along the inside of her arm. Blood pours from the nine-inch gash.

“Jesus, Katrina, what the fuck are you doing?”

She smirks at me. “It’s not what I’m doing. It’s what
you’re
doing. Should I call security and tell them we had a fight and you tried to kill me?”

“Katrina, you’re fucking sick.”

She snickers. “Wrong, darling. I’m fucking smart. Watch and learn.”

To my horror, she picks up the phone that’s on an end table by the couch and then taunts me by circling her index finger around the keypad. “I’m calling security.”

“Katrina. Put. The. Phone. Down.”

“No. Not until you swear you’re going to marry me.” She taps the keypad with a long crimson fingernail. “Well?”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap
. The tapping gets faster, louder. Drowning out my rapid heartbeat.

The psycho bitch purses her glossed lips. “Hmm. I think I’ll just dial ‘0’ for the front desk.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Oh, I’m sure you know…makeup works wonders. While I’m waiting—those French frogs are so slow!—I’ll apply a little eye shadow. A few black and blues. A black eye will especially look good.”

Jesus. She’s sick. So, so sick.

It gets worse. She rubs her bleeding arm across her face.

“Nothing like being punched and getting a bloody nose.”

And then, she rakes a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair and starts yanking out handfuls.

“Gotta make it look like a struggle,
n’est-ce pas?”
she purrs, tossing the platinum clumps to the floor. “Don’t worry, darling. It’ll grow back by the wedding. Or I’ll just get a few weaves.”

She smirks. “After I take a few selfies and photos, I’m going to speed dial TMZ and give them an exclusive scoop—‘Brandon Taylor beat me, mutilated me, and sexually abused me.’ In a heartbeat, it’ll be all over the Internet and the cover story of every major tabloid.”

Bile rises to my throat and I swallow it back. “I’ll contest everything.”

She scoffs at me. “Oh, Brandy-Poo, who do you think they’re going to believe? America’s beautiful, supermodel-thin ‘It Girl’? Or America’s gun-wielding, strapping action hero?”

Oh, God! She’s right! Panic grips me by the balls. There’s no stopping her insanity. A media maelstrom is in the making at the worst possible time.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Time’s up, Brandon.”

Shit
. “I swear, I swear.” I vomit the words in a frenzy.

“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 fucking 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.