Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) (5 page)

The theater filled, Blake runs up to the stage amidst thundering applause. He welcomes everyone and then, without further ado, tells the eager audience, “Relax and enjoy the exciting season finale of
Kurt Kussler.”
As he returns to his seat, the lights dim and the red velvet curtain rises. Butterflies swarm my stomach. This is the first time I’ll be viewing the completed episode with sound effects and music.

The crowd enthusiastically applauds again when the opening credits roll on the big screen. “Get it! Got it? Good!” they shout out in unison with my gun-wielding character at the end. Goosebumps. Wow! I seriously didn’t know they were
that
into
Kurt Kussler
. I wonder if that’s what home viewers do each week when they tune into the show.

Following my signature line,
Kurt Kussler: Season 5 Finale Screener
pops up on the screen followed by:
Written by Brandon Taylor.
At the sight of my name, the audience yet again breaks into raucous applause, complete with cheers and whistles. I’m at once humbled and blown away. Excited and nervous. My skin prickles. For the first time in my career, I’ve been credited as a writer. This episode was my idea. My dream. My reality. One small thing’s missing—a title. I still haven’t thought of one, and the ones that were bounced around in the writers’ room didn’t do it for me.

Another onslaught of butterflies assaults my stomach as the special two-hour episode begins. Will they like it? Playing without commercials, it’ll run approximately ninety minutes. The theater is so quiet you can hear a pin drop. I swivel my head to check out the audience; even in the pitch-black theater, I can tell they’re spellbound. I return my attention to the screen, and I’m spellbound myself. The episode looks amazing. Our editing team has done such a great job, and the state-of-the-art sound system and big screen make it even more compelling to watch.

Close to the conclusion, Katrina, who I’ve all but forgotten about, whispers in my ear. “Darling, I have to use the restroom.”

“Fine,” I whisper back. “And don’t bother coming back,” I add silently.

Letting go of my hand, she rises and exits. I’m glad to be rid of her. My eyes stay riveted on the big screen, and my stomach muscles clench. The romantic tension between Kurt and his assistant Mel is heating up. Something that’s always been there, and now at last, it’s coming to a climax. I wrote this scene so quickly it was as if the words were flying out of my brain. Or perhaps my heart. Emotionally, it’s hitting me so hard I’m not sure I can watch it. My chest tightens painfully. And then,
BANG!
It’s over! Loud gasps fill the theater along with audible sniffles and sobs from female audience members. The screen fades to black. The lights go back on while uproarious applause and chants of bravo bellow in my ears. I turn my head. Holy shit! A standing ovation! I’m overwhelmed. It’s almost as big a moment as winning the Golden Globe.

Blake gives me a man hug. “Brandon, they fucking loved it! Congratulations, man!”

My fellow cast members and the production team also congratulate me with exuberant embraces. I give a special hug to my co-star, Kellie Fox, whose extraordinary portrayal of Kurt’s impassioned assistant Mel contributed so much to the impact of this episode.

“It’s Kellie’s night as much as mine,” I humbly tell everyone.

“Oh, Brandon, the finale was wonderful! Totally heart-wrenching!” Blake’s teary-eyed wife Jen gushes before smacking my face with a kiss. “It’s really a shame Zoey couldn’t be here.”

Her words hit me like a punch to my gut.
My Zoey
. Yes, she should have been here. That was my intention—to have my adorable assistant experience the episode with me. To show her what she means to me. My eyes flit to the vacant seat next to mine. Katrina’s still MIA, but I don’t give a damn. I’m glad she missed the gripping, emotionally charged climax. That scene belongs only to Zoey. She may be six thousand miles away, but deep in my soul, I’m sharing this triumphant moment with her. Maybe Katrina could steal her seat, but she can’t rob me of the place Zoey has in my heart. She’s the love of my life, even if I can’t have her anymore. My high gives way to the depths of despair. My heart aching, I call on my acting skills again to plaster a big smile on my face as I head up to the stage with Blake and the rest of the cast and crew for a short Q&A session. Chairs have been brought out for our comfort.

Questions from the audience are tossed our way at a rapid fire pace. While some are directed at my co-stars and Executive Producer Doug DeMille, the majority of them are targeted to me. Several ushers with mikes in their hands dash around the audience to handle the queries. So many have their hands raised, eager to ask one. For sure, given our twenty-minute time frame, we won’t be able to get to all of them. A cocktail reception in the lobby awaits us and perhaps those who are not chosen can interact with us there. Personally, I just want to get the fuck out of here. I’m in no mood to schmooze. Wearing my tux, I play with my father’s lucky gold cufflinks and think of Zoey as the questions come hurling at me.

Q: “Brandon, what was it like writing your first episode?”

Me: “It was very challenging. But I was very inspired.”

Q: “What inspired you?”

Me: “The question should be: Who inspired me?”

Q: “Okay, who inspired you?”

Me: “Someone I love.”

Q: Your fiancée, Katrina Moore?”

My heart stammers and then I answer:

Me: “No.”

On my next agonizing breath, Katrina re-enters the theater and saunters back to her seat. All eyes are on the platinum-haired beauty. I avoid eye contact with her and am thankful the usher moves on to someone else before I have to answer the question—“Who?”

Q: “Can we expect to see the relationship between Kurt and Mel to flourish next season?”

I hesitate.

Me: “I’m not sure…”

My voice trails off. My dark reality consumes me. Our relationship, if you can call it that, is already over. Zoey and I will never be. Words are trapped in my throat. Blake, to my relief, chimes in.

Blake: “We’ll be focus-group testing the episode right after it airs to make sure we’re going in the right direction. But previous groups, with both men and women, loved the idea of Kurt hooking up with his assistant Mel.”

Mumbles of approval sound in the theater.

Blake: “We have time for just one more question.”

An attractive, petite Asian woman is selected among the many who are zealously waving their hands and crying out: “Me, me, me, me!” Animated, she gives her best shot at English.

Q: “
Bwandon
, I want to ask you a
pawsonal
question. You excited about upcoming
mowage
to
Katwina,
Amewica
It
Gawl?”

Her question catches me off guard. Before I can say a word, Katrina leaps up from her seat and turns to face her. “Of course, he is. It’s going to be the wedding of the century. And please, if any of you would like to attend, just let me know. Mommy will send you an invitation. We’d love to have you. It’s going to be televised live—a special edition of my reality series. I’m sure you’ll all want to air the episode on your networks as well. It’s going to be a ratings blockbuster!”

Mortification races through my bloodstream. Jesus. She’s already invited half the world to our wedding. And now the whole world may get a chance to watch it. My body wants to jump out of my skin, leap off the stage, and shout out, “Fuck you, Katrina!” End it right here, right now. Put the kibosh on Bratrina and follow my heart. But I know if I did that, all hell would break loose. The fucking psycho bitch would tell the world I assaulted her. Fling off her glove and the bandage beneath it to expose the damage
I
did. Then, show everyone the photos on her phone to prove it. God knows what else she would say or do. It would create a media frenzy. Without a doubt, kill the ratings of
Kurt Kussler
and destroy my career. “
Brandon Taylor: It Girl
Slayer.”
Would Blake Burns, who knows she’s evil and demented, come to my rescue? The question really is: Could he? It doesn’t take a lot of soul-searching to figure out the answer. It’s simply no. The raving lunatic is out of control. Totally uncontrollable. Chances are anything Blake would say or do would come spitting back in his face. Possibly even destroy
his
career and marriage. That I’m caught between a rock and a hard place is the understatement of the century. Even if I once really loved Katrina and I doubt it, that can never be possible again after what she’s done. I will never forgive her nor will I feel for her what I feel for Zoey. I’ve always loved Zoey. But sadly, she will soon just be a memory in the vortex of my mind. Blake once shared his father’s words of wisdom with me. Some things are meant to be forgotten. Not Zoey. A sickening feeling sweeps over me. Amnesia comes with its benefits.

Katrina’s pompous voice hurtles me back to the moment. “Does anyone else have a question for
me
?”

Is she fucking serious? To my relief, an incensed Blake ends the Q&A session and shuts her up. I still don’t know exactly what went down between the two of them. He’s been tight-lipped about it. Even over drinks on the plane over here, he wouldn’t spill the beans. Maybe I can get further with his wife Jennifer. But what’s the point? That’s not going to make the nightmare go away either.

Heading out the side door, I retreat with Blake and the others, who participated in the Q&A session, to the lobby where the cocktail reception is underway. I need a drink desperately. Before I can get to the bar, broadcasters from all over the globe swarm me. It’s like a shark feeding frenzy—the whole world wants a taste of me. Either to have their picture taken with TV’s number one action star or have me autograph the official
Kurt Kussler
photo they received in their swag bags. I’m every man’s macho aspiration and every woman’s fucking fantasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Katrina flitting about, posing with one broadcaster after another for the paparazzi and Conquest publicity photographers.

It doesn’t take long before I’m feeling claustrophobic. Tightness of breath and dizziness are accompanied by beads of sweat that break out across my skin. Blake Burns comes to my rescue and pulls me aside.

“You okay, Brandon?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just jet lagged.”

“You did great with the Q&A.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m curious. Who was your inspiration?”

“Zoey.” I blurt out her name.

“That’s what I thought. Why did she end up going back to LA?”

“It’s complicated.” My fallback word.

He harkens back to our conversation on the plane. “Are you still having second thoughts about marrying Katrina?”

My jaw tightens. “No.” I change the subject when I see her making a beeline our way, champagne in hand. “Listen, Blake, would you mind if I cut out early? I could really use a good night’s sleep.”

“Sure. No problem. I’ll have security get you out the back way.” He wraps an arm around me. “Pal-y, sometime later this week after the convention, let’s meet for a drink at The Carlton bar, okay?”

I agree to his request. Five minutes later, I’m in a dark alley outside the theater. Balls. It’s raining. Pouring. Coming down like a spray of bullets. In a matter of seconds, the violent pellets soak me. Chill me to the bone. Shivering, I dip my hand into my pants pocket and pull out my cell phone. With the nine-hour time difference, it’s early afternoon in always-sunny Los Angeles.

I speed dial Zoey. Once again, her phone goes straight to voice mail.

“Hi, it’s Zoey. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Her sultry rasp guts me. Leaving no message, I try again. Nothing. I text her:
Call me as soon as u get this message
.

Gripping my phone, I continue to walk. The needles of rain sting me as I await a response. Nada. Growing frantic, I call her one more time. Again no answer. After several more attempts, I finally leave a message. “Zoey, I need to talk to you. Please. Call me!” I only hope my desperate plea isn’t drowned out by the pounding rain. With only a glimmer of hope, I wait for a call back and then my phone dies. My heart hits rock bottom. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s seen photos of Katrina and me hand-in-hand on the red carpet. Last night, I was fucking her. Loving every minute. Loving all of her. Tonight, I’m totally fucked. And I hate who I am. Showing no mercy, the relentless rain hammers me as I turn onto the Croisette. A cruising taxi, hoping for a passenger, pulls along the curb, but I wave it away and let the pitiless rain bombard me. Totally soaked and painfully numb, I trudge back to The Carlton, knowing I may never see or hear from her again.

Brandon

I
don’t know how I make it through five long, tortuous days at MIP. My only saving grace is I rarely see Katrina during the day. She spends most of her time shopping with Gucci along the Rue D’Antibes while I hang out with Blake and meet with broadcasters and licensors from around the world at the swamped Conquest Broadcasting booth inside The Grand Palais. My nights, however, are an entirely different story. She’s wrapped around me like a noose and insists on going to every dinner and event I’m invited to. We’re the darlings of both the press and paparazzi. They can’t get enough of Bratrina. Photos of us together are splattered all over newspapers in Cannes and I’m sure all over the world. Not wanting to make myself sicker than I am, I’ve totally avoided the Internet. I’m sure it’s a Bratrina fest.