Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (10 page)

They take seats next to Letterman, Katrina taking the one closest to his desk. She crosses her long legs seductively and places Gucci on her lap.

Letterman: “Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Is this the ten thousand dollar dog we’ve all read about?”

Katrina beams. “Yes. This is Gucci. Say hello to Dave, baby boy.”

The dog growls.

Letterman amusingly makes a frightened face and jolts. “Hmm, maybe you should have named him Rambo.”

Katrina breaks into laughter along with the audience. Brandon twitches a nervous smile.

Katrina: “Dave, would you like to hold him?”

Letterman: “Heh-heh. Thanks but no thanks. Maybe later you’ll show us one of his stupid pet tricks.”

Katrina flings back her mane of platinum hair with a shake of her head. “I’d love to. He’s so smart.”

Letterman: “So, Brandon, how did it feel to win the Golden Globe? Were you expecting to?”

Brandon laughs. “Hardly. But it felt great.”

Letterman: “Everyone’s still wondering why you forgot to thank your fiancée.”

Brandon squirms. Katrina butts in. “Oh! It was such a silly mistake. He’s made it up to me a million times.”

Letterman: “Tell us how.”

Katrina: “For one thing, he bought me this beautiful necklace for my birthday.”

A camera zooms in on the Elsa Peretti diamond heart necklace that’s draped around her long, slender neck. She wears it perfectly. The audience oohs. A bolt of jealousy tears through me.

Brandon: “Yeah, I picked it out myself at Tiffany’s.”

Rage replaces my jealousy. You bullshitter!

Brandon continues. “The same place I bought her ring.”

Katrina flashes a dazzling smile and her dazzling ring. Another close up.

Letterman: “Whoa! That’s some rock! Six carats?”

Katrina: “Oh, Dave. You’re off by four. It’s ten. And it’s flawless.”

Letterman chuckles. “I was never good in math. So, Katrina, how does it feel to be marrying
People Magazine’s
‘Sexiest Man Alive’?”

He holds up the magazine and a camera zooms in on it.

Katrina flings her mane again. “Oh, Dave. I’m so excited! It’s going to be the wedding of the century!”

Letterman: “I heard it’s being televised live on TV. A special edition of your reality series.”

Katrina: “Yes! On Saturday, May twenty-third. We’d love for you to come.” She turns to Brandon. “Right, darling?”

Brandon: “Sure. Everyone and their mother is going to be there.”

I detect sarcasm in his voice. He shifts a little in his seat.

Letterman: “So Brandon, let me ask you—how do you feel about the media referring to you and your fiancée as Bratrina?”

Katrina chimes in before Brandon can say a word. “We think it’s so clever. Move over Brangelina.”

I want to smack her.

Letterman: “Katrina, could I share an excerpt of one of the love letters Brandon sent you before his accident?”

What! He wrote her love letters?? A painful lump forms in my throat.

Katrina: “Of course, Dave. I’ve kept them all.”

Brandon’s eyes widen while the talk show host holds up a sheet of paper that’s on his desk. Letterman clears his throat.

Letterman: “Katrina, you are the moon and the stars. My whole universe. I will love you for all eternity.”

The audience gushes a collective oooh while Brandon blushes. Nausea washes over me. I swallow it back as Letterman holds up the letter. It’s typed, but for sure that’s Brandon’s signature. How many more did he write her? A sickening feeling uncoils in my stomach.

Letterman: (chuckling) “I have to hand it to you, Brandon; you’re quite the poet. Do you remember writing this?”

Brandon: “Um, uh, actually no.”

Katrina: “Oh, Brandy-Poo. You wrote so many you’ve forgotten.”

The audience laughs with Katrina. Letterman joins them while Brandon breaks into a sheepish grin. The laughter dies down.

Letterman: “So Brandon, how does it feel to be working again? You gave everyone a scare with that accident.”

Brandon: “I’m fully recovered. And it feels great.”

Letterman: “Hey, do you mind if we show a clip from an upcoming episode of
Kurt Kussler
? My wife and I love your show. So does my son.”

Brandon: “Sure. Go ahead.”

The show cuts away to the clip. My breath hitches. It’s the shower scene between Kurt and Alisha. Why did he pick this scene of all scenes?

My eyes stay glued on the TV screen. I relive every moment of the rehearsal shower I took with Brandon. Bile rises in my throat as a red-hot ball of fire ignites between my thighs. I have the urge to touch myself and I do. I’m a hot wet mess.

The clip fades to black and the audience applauds madly.

Letterman: “Whoa! That was intense. Do we have any more surprises to look forward to?”

Brandon grins fiendishly. “Yes. The season finale is going to end with a mind-blowing twist.”

Letterman: “Since I read you’re writing it, can you give us a hint?”

Brandon: “My lips are sealed.”

Even I don’t know what it is. He’s been very secretive about it.

Letterman: “One last thing before time runs out. What are you two lovebirds doing for Valentine’s Day?”

I don’t recall seeing that question on the list his publicist prepared. My stomach knots up with anticipation. I totally forgot it was Valentine’s weekend.

Katrina lights up. “Oh, Dave, I’m so glad you asked. Brandon is taking me to Paris for the three-day weekend! And Gucci too. Right, baby boy?”

What! He never mentioned that to me. He’s taking her to Paris? The City of Love? My fingers fly off my clit while my heart tumbles as if it’s been shoved off the Arc de Triomphe. A sharp pain hits me in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve had enough. I hit the remote. I make one call and thank God there’s another man who loves me. I turn out the lights. And will myself to sleep before a volcano of tears erupts.

Brandon

I
’ve been texting, calling, and emailing Zoey every five minutes since the
Letterman
taping ended. She’s back to pissing me off and MIA. Maybe Scott’s right. I should just fire her sorry ass.

“Darling, can you please put the damn phone away,” snips Katrina, nursing a glass of Cristal while I down a vodka martini. We’re seated facing each other at a candlelit table at Cipriani, the popular downtown eatery. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap, his paws on the table. While the bustling restaurant is studded with supermodels and some stars including De Niro and Pacino, all eyes are on us. Bratrina.

“I can’t,” I growl back at her. “I have an emergency.” She knows nothing about the latest developments in my life. Pete insisted that neither Zoey nor I talk to anyone about his investigation into my hit and run and her mother’s murder.

“Forget your emergency. Let’s talk about Paris.”

My blood runs cold. “How the hell could you spring that on me on
Letterman?”

She smiles defiantly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.”

She takes another sip of her champagne. “You could show some appreciation. It’s going to be divine. I’ve booked us the Presidential suite at the Crillon. Mommy says it’s so much better than the overrated Ritz.”

On my credit card, I assume. “And how are we getting there?”

“Darling, why of course, by our own private jet. We can’t fly commercial with peons. We’re royalty.”

I assume she flew to New York on a private plane too, but truthfully, I really don’t want to know. I must be at least a hundred grand in the hole, and that’s just for starters because I have no idea how much she’s spent shopping here.

A young, suave waiter comes by and hands us menus.

“Katrina, take a look and order me another martini. Shaken, not stirred. I’ll be right back.”

She shoots me a dirty look as I dart off with my phone to the men’s room.

As soon as I enter, I try to get in touch with Zoey every which way I can. Goddamnit.
Nada
. I hear a toilet flush, and a dark thought besieges me.

Shit. Maybe something happened to her. With her concussion, she could have gotten dizzy and fainted…and hit her head. Or maybe she went for a swim all by herself and had some kind of spell…and drowned. And the worst thing imaginable…Donatelli showed up! My inner panic button goes off. Frantically, I search my wallet for her father’s business card. Fuck. I can’t find it. I’ve got to get home. I dash out of the men’s room.

“Brandon, what’s the matter?” asks Katrina as I breathlessly round our table.

“Katrina, I’m sick. I think I caught that stomach bug that’s been going around.”

“Puh-lease. You were fine two minutes ago.”

“Well, now I’m not. I’ve got major diarrhea.”

“Ugh!” She scrunches her face in disgust at my last word.

“I don’t think I should go to Paris. Or be on a private plane with you. I’ve read it’s highly contagious.” I grip my stomach and feign pain.

“Jesus, Brandon. Absolutely. I mean, if I came down with it, I’d miss out on three days of major shopping. I have personal shoppers lined up at every store on Rue Saint Honoré from Chanel to Hermès. They’re expecting me.”

I intensify my pained expression and let out a moan. I’m such a good actor. But truthfully, she doesn’t seem to give a damn about me. And you know what, the feeling is mutual. If I had real balls like Kurt Kussler, the character I play, I should have broken up with her on
Letterman
in front of a gazillion viewers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that to my publicist or the network. Or my fans.

“Listen, Katrina, don’t cancel the trip on account of me. You should go. Use my credit card and have fun.”

Pursing her billowy lips, which look bigger than ever, she shoots me a surprised look. “Darling, what possessed you to think I would cancel our trip? Gucci and I will have a perfectly good time without you, right baby boy?”

Puzzled, the little dog cocks his head. Feeling sorry for him, I mumble, “Great. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to the hotel.”

With a little whimper, the dog looks up at me with his big brown puppy eyes that shout out: “Take me with you.”

Sorry, Gooch.
I wish I could. He belongs with Zoey and me. Scanning the celebrity-filled room, Katrina has moved on and couldn’t give a shit about me. Her face lights up.

“Oh look, there’s Cindy Crawford! I’m going to go over and say hello.”

“I’m out of here.”

It’s as if she’s gone deaf. Without saying another word, she leaps up and saunters off with Gucci tucked under her arm. I split. One hour later, I’m on a chartered plane headed back to Los Angeles.

Zoey

G
oing to Palm Springs with Jeffrey and Chaz was the best thing I could have done. In addition to getting a lot of rest and relaxation, we had a blast. We sipped margaritas around the hotel pool and people watched. My hilarious companions played
How Big is His Dick?
with all the beautiful gay boys who sashayed around it. And I swam, making swimming my new passion.

Despite me telling them to go out alone for a romantic Valentine’s dinner, they insisted I come along. We dined at The Tropicale, a vintage sixties restaurant that Frank Sinatra frequented, and drank pink Cosmopolitans until we were sloshed. And then we went dancing downtown at their favorite gay bar. The wild weekend away was just what I needed to get my mind off fucking Brandon.

On Sunday night, we return to LA. The drive takes about two hours. After dropping Chaz off at their downtown loft, Jeffrey takes me home.

“Want me to walk you to your guest cottage?” he asks after I step out of the car.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” I say, collecting my overnight bag from him. I am, however, a little surprised that the lights in Brandon’s house are on. I’m sure they were all turned off when I left. Maybe his housekeeper stopped by. And then a dark thought assaults me and sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe Donatelli’s awaiting him. Or me. I give myself a mental kick and calm down. There’s no way he could have gotten past the patrol car parked at the gate.

Setting my bag on the driveway, I give my brother a big bear hug. “Thanks for a great weekend. And thank Chaz again for me.”

Jeffrey smacks a kiss on my cheek. “We had a great time too. Don’t forget to keep us posted on Pops’s investigation. I’m glad he set up police protection.”