The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE) (23 page)

Katrina shows up every day, in one designer outfit after another, and sits with me for an hour or so. Now that I’m out of my coma and on the road to recovery, she’s got better things to do. Like shop and work out. And, of course, plan for our wedding.

Each time she visits, she brings along a slew of tabloids to jog my memory. I
am
headline news. The front page of last week’s
Enquirer
is plastered with a photo of me in my coma all hooked up to gizmos and monitors and my teary-eyed fiancée by my bedside. Or should I say deathbed. The all-caps headline: “DOOMSDAY FOR BRATRINA!”
Bratrina?
What bonehead came up with that? I cringe.

Older issues from last month feature photos of Katrina and me in happier times…out to dinner…at a movie premier…at the beach. I read the articles and study the pictures. We look and sound like the hottest couple in Hollywood. But no matter how hard I search my brain, I can’t remember a damn thing.
Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

“How did we meet?” I ask my fiancée on my third day of being conscious. Despite her goddess-like beauty and come-ons, America’s It Girl still doesn’t do a thing for me. Not even a little rise.

Sitting nearby on an armchair and thumbing through one of the tabloids, she looks up and rolls her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s frustrated with my memory loss or pissed off for the interruption.

“Through Scott. He’s my manager too. He hooked us up at the Chateau Marmont. Remember?”

A hint of sarcasm underscores her last word. I shake my head no. “And how long have we been together?” Despite all the articles I’ve read, the details of our relationship are sparse.

Crossing her long, toned bare legs, she quirks a small but seductive smile. “Almost two months. It was love at first sight. The minute we fucked our brains out, we couldn’t be apart.”

So, I fucked my way into her heart. But why can’t I feel anything for her there or elsewhere? Amnesia sucks dick.

“And when did I propose to you?” My eyes soak in her engagement ring with its sparkling mega-sized marquise diamond. Must have cost a bloody fortune, but I have no recollection of buying it. Scott, who handles all my finances, must have a record of it somewhere.

“Just before the accident.” She holds up the
Star
magazine she’s reading. A close-up photo of her, looking tearful, her ring in full view, dominates the front page. Headline: “Tragedy Strikes after Brandon Pops the Big Question!” I glimpse the publication date. If my calculations are right, it came out the Monday after my accident.

I snatch the newspaper from her and flip through it until I get to the cover story. Photos of Bratrina grace the pages. I quickly peruse the article. So, I proposed to her over a romantic meal at my Hollywood Hills house the night before the accident and purchased the gazillion carat ring at Tiffany’s. I have no memory of the event or, for that matter, of my house. I’m eager to see it. And to get out of this antiseptic hellhole where a doctor or nurse is either fawning over me or poking me every fifteen minutes for my vitals. I’m feeling pretty good. And now that I’ve shaved, look almost back to normal.

“And what happened after I proposed to you?”

“Take a guess, Brandy-Poo.”

Brandy-Poo?
The sound of it gives me mental diarrhea. I don’t recall anyone ever calling me that in my entire life. Or at least what I can remember of it.

“We toasted with champagne?”

She throws back her platinum mane and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We fucked our brains out. Right on your terrace.”

She scoots in closer and cups her hand over my crotch. And then squeezes it.

“I can’t wait to get some of you. It’s been a while.”

I go wide-eyed as she yanks down my cover. I’m clad in a hospital gown with nothing underneath. She hikes it up and there it is parked like a car. My enormous Rolls Royce of a cock.

Katrina licks her full upper lip. “Remember me?” she purrs as if she’s talking to my stationary organ. Without moving a muscle, I watch as she wraps her long fingers around the shaft. My goddamn cock just lies there as if it’s still in a comatose state. Brain to cock: Wake up. Nothing. There’s no connection. She begins to pump it with long, hard, vigorous strokes, but my cock doesn’t respond. It’s like the battery is dead. Frustrated, she strokes harder, faster. Not a peep from Mr. Willy no matter how much I will it to attention.

“Jesus, Brandon!” Katrina grumbles, pumping so hard it hurts. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I must say I’m a little worried myself. Scratch that. I’m friggin’ freaking. My pulse leaps into overdrive, and one of the monitors I’m still hooked up to starts beeping madly. Where’s a damn doctor when you really need one?

“I-I don’t know,” I stutter, gazing down at my pathetic limp dick. “Maybe it’s all the pain meds I’m on.”

Katrina abruptly releases her hand. “Probably. I’m going to have a little chat with your doctors. The only pill you need is Viagra.”

My cock sags. Amnesia is bad enough. But erectile dysfunction?

Kill me now. I might as well be dead.

Brandon

A
t the end of the long, frustrating week, I’m finally released from the hospital. The doctors have told me I have a classic case of retrograde amnesia—a common side effect of the traumatic brain injury I sustained from the accident I can’t remember. While it likely won’t be permanent, they cannot determine how long it’ll last. It could be weeks. Months. Even years. What’s important is that I stimulate myself with people and things from the past. My biggest concern: will they stimulate my cock? I haven’t even been able to wank myself off. My libido, thanks to the amnesia, is in limbo.

My house is a sprawling glass and concrete contemporary that sits high atop a private road in the Hollywood Hills. The views from the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows are spectacular; I’m able to see all the way from the Pacific Ocean to downtown LA. They also overlook a spacious backyard, which boasts an Olympic-sized pool and a guesthouse. A three-car garage is attached to the main house and lined up inside it are a sleek black Lamborghini, a vintage green Jag, and a monster red Hummer. To say I’m awed by my wealth would be an understatement.

I roam the expansive one-story house, taking in my surroundings and hoping something will stimulate my memory while Katrina goes to the kitchen to make lunch. It’s decorated with slick, oversized Italian furniture, mixing rich woods with leather. Photos of me are everywhere. Many of them sexy poses, with my chiseled chest exposed. A large framed picture hanging on a wall captures my attention. It’s a blow-up of a recent cover of
People Magazine
. The headline: “Brandon Taylor: Sexiest Man Alive!” With my perfectly mussed up ebony hair, those piercing violet eyes, that cocky smile, and my strong stubble-lined jaw, I look pretty damn hot, if I must say so myself. A troubling thought flashes into my head. Yikes. Maybe I’m gay. That’s why I can’t get it up for Katrina. Nah. None of those good-looking docs at the hospital did a thing for me. And I can’t remember doing it with another guy. The unsettling thought goes away.

Katrina returns with a tray of gourmet sandwiches along with two flutes of champagne. Today, she’s clad in tight-ass jeans, a turtleneck halter, and sky-high mules that make her look like a total Amazon. Her bountiful boobs stay as still as mountains as she saunters my way.

“Your doctor says you need to eat and rest to get your strength back,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table.

I can’t argue with her. At the reminder of my ordeal, I inwardly shudder. According to Katrina and my doctors, I was almost
People Magazine’s
“Sexiest Man Dead!” I’m still weak and have lost some weight. Maybe a little R&R will help restore my memory. And potency. The cock is like a muscle, right? I remember reading somewhere that muscles have memory. Well, score one for me. I’ve remembered something. But why won’t my cock do the same?

Katrina reaches for the two flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “To us,” she toasts, holding up her glass. I clink mine against it. The ping resounds in my ears.

“I only drink Cristal,” my companion says as she lifts the crystal glass to her lips. They look much fuller than they did a couple of days ago. I follow her actions and take a sip of the chilled bubbly. The cool sparkling liquid sails down my throat and triggers another memory. I’d rather be drinking a beer.

“Katrina, do we have any beer? A Heineken by chance?”

She rolls her feline green eyes. “Darling, beer is a four-letter word reserved for peasants. We’re royalty. How can you not love the world’s finest champagne?”

Stuck with the champagne, I take a seat on the oversized u-shaped couch. Setting her flute back down on the tray, my fiancée follows me, except she straddles my long legs and sits on my lap. Her toned arms fold around my neck. Her tits skim my chest, and through my cotton T-shirt, I can feel her plastic-hard nipples. I have no desire to touch them or see what lies beneath her top. The scent of her cloying floral perfume wafts in the air and nauseates me.

“Does it feel good to be home?” she purrs before nuzzling my neck. Goosebumps pop along my skin, but that’s all that’s rising. Her mouth moves to my lips and she kisses me fiercely. Biting my lower lip, she forces me to part my mouth and her tongue darts inside. She takes the lead, swishing it around. Nothing’s familiar. My eyes stay wide open while awaiting some feeling of arousal.
Nada.
Not even a little buzz.

She breaks away. Her manicured forefinger traces my wet lips.

“Do you like the way I taste?” she breathes into my mouth.

“Yeah,” I lie. She doesn’t taste good. A hint of tobacco mixes with mint and champagne. Is she a smoker? She shoves the finger into my mouth, adding a salty layer of flavor.

While I force myself to suck her finger, she works the button and fly of my jeans. Successfully, she frees my soft cock. My unblinking eyes stay trained on her as she grips the thick length in her hand and goes down on the wide crown. Her lips wrap around it and then she trails her mouth down the shaft. Her tongue licks the underside as she comes back up. Moving her hand to the base, she squeezes my cock, pumping it hard as her mouth, in tandem, glides up and down. I finally feel the beginnings of a hard-on, but just as fast as it swells, it completely deflates. Frustrated, Katrina lets go of my cock and sits back up. Her eyes flare with fury.

“Brandon, what is wrong with you? I spoke to your doctor and he said there should be no problem. Especially with the Viagra.”

“I don’t know.” Screw the Viagra. I do know. I don’t like the way she tastes or the way she smells. And her sharp teeth scraped so hard against my shaft I must have teeth marks.

“Fuck you!” She jumps off my lap and, to my shock, flings her glass of champagne across the room. The glass hits the massive stone fireplace and shatters into shards.

Temper much?

“You’re mental,” she rants. “You need help.”

And she needs anger management. Before I can respond, the doorbell chimes. Literally saved by the bell, I leap up from the couch to open the front door.

It’s Scott. I’ve asked him to come over so I can review my finances and recent expenses. Dressed in a three-piece gray suit, he’s carrying a briefcase. He follows me into the living room where Katrina is cleaning up the mess she made. Her eyes connect with his and a smile crosses her face.

“Oh, hi, Scott. You’re just in time for lunch. Want some champagne?”

Scott declines, but helps himself to one of the fancy sandwiches. Chomping into it, he lowers himself into one of my overstuffed side chairs. After setting down his half-eaten sandwich on the tray, he raises his briefcase to his lap and pulls out a thick file. “Your expenses over the last month,” he says, handing it to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katrina sashay out of the living room, carrying the shards of glass on a plate. “I’ll be right back,” she calls out as she heads in the direction of the kitchen. She sure knows how to move her tight, perfect-shaped ass.

Once she’s out of sight, I open the file. Skipping over the pages and pages of hospital charges, which my insurance will cover, I start with the month before the accident. Man. I’m quite the big spender. Restaurant after expensive restaurant. Thousands and thousands dropped at Barneys. Numerous exorbitant charges at a florist I never heard of. A couple of trips to Vegas at the pricey Venetian.

“I like to gamble?” I ask Scott, stopping to look up at him.

His left eye twitches. He’s got some kind of weird eye tic. “Yeah. You’re a big gambler.”

News to me.

“And what about all these florist and Barneys charges?”

Scott smiles. “After meeting Katrina, you couldn’t stop buying her extravagant flowers and clothes. I’ve never seen anyone as smitten as you.” He takes another bite of the sandwich. “Katrina showed me the love letters you sent with your gifts. I swear, man, you’re a regular Shakespeare.”

I find it disconcerting that my fiancée would share something so personal with him. But then again, they must be close. Maybe she saved them. Reading them might help jar my memory and my amorous feelings toward her. With this thought in mind, I go back to scanning the multitude of expenses. Another entry jolts me—a hefty one hundred thousand dollar check made out to the Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. My eyes flutter. Bella Stadler…the name rings a bell. I ask Scott about it.