The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE) (25 page)

I study the object. It means nothing to me. I shake my head no.

“That’s too bad.” Returning the mysterious glass heart to the bag, the detective stands and shoves the evidence back in his coat pocket. “If you remember anything, give me a call.” He hands me a business card.

“Oh, one last thing.” His hand slides beneath his trench coat, and for the first time, I glimpse his holster and gun. Like the coat, the brown leather holster shows signs of age. A bulky envelope is tucked under the frayed strap. He slips it out and unfastens the clasp.

My eyes widen as he slides out the contents. A DVD boxed set of
Kurt Kussler
, Seasons 1-4. I’m on the cover, looking smug and pointing my right thumb and index finger like a gun.

“Would you mind signing this? It’s for the missus. She’s madly in love with you.” He pauses. “She’s been too embarrassed to ask my daughter to ask you.”

His daughter must be someone who works on the show. I laugh lightly. “Sure. No problem.” My eyes dart around the room for a pen. The burly detective comes to the rescue and hands me one.

“Thanks. What’s her name?”

“Jo. J-O. She’d really appreciate it if you wrote your signature line.”

Shit. I have no clue what it is. I nervously twirl the pen between my fingers.

“I have so many,” I say nonchalantly. Guess what? I
am
a good actor.

“You know…‘Get it. Got it? Good.’”

“
To Jo
…
Get it. Got it? Good,”
I say aloud with macho attitude, enunciating each word I inscribe on the cover.

“Wow. That’s just how you say it on TV,” says the awed detective while I sign my name with an
xo
. My bold signature comes easily to me as if I’ve been writing it my whole life. A bolt of optimism shoots through me. Maybe my memory is coming back.

“Thanks,” says the grateful detective as I hand him back the DVD set. “My wife is going to pee in her panties.”

I laugh again. This time loudly. I escort Detective Billings to the front door. Just before he leaves, he asks me one last question.

“I forgot to ask you. Do you have any enemies who would want to harm you?”

The question makes me uneasy. I search my muddled mind. “None that I can think of.”

“A disgruntled fan? An ex-girlfriend? A former assistant?”

I shake my head though from what I know about myself, I probably did piss off some ex-assistants. Enough to drive one of them to try and kill me?

The detective shoots me a crooked smile “Don’t forget—no pun intended—to call me if you remember anything.”

Fingering his card, I assure him I will.

I want to remember everything.

But right now, I want to find out everything there is about my alter ego,
Kurt Kussler.

After taking a long, hot shower, I spend the rest of the afternoon googling
Kurt Kussler
and screening episodes of my TV series, starting with the first season. I found DVDs of them on my bookshelf. I’m totally engrossed. It’s an awesome show.

The rundown: Kurt Kussler is a top CIA agent who’s been hunting a notorious terrorist. The bad guy’s code name: The Locust. Kurt tracks him down and, in a showdown in Beirut, kills The Locust’s beloved brother, Ahmed. The Locust lusts for revenge. And at the end of Season 1, he kills Kurt’s beautiful pregnant wife Alisha by blowing up her car as she turns on the ignition. Kurt, who witnesses the murder, has a breakdown and leaves the CIA. But with the help of his assistant, Melanie, a fellow ex-CIA’er, he recovers and becomes a vigilante, hell-bent on eliminating his wife’s elusive assassin…who’s equally determined on eradicating him. The deadly cat and mouse game begins. And so do the stellar ratings.

The character I play is intense. Almost insane. On a mission to right the Mob-style execution of his wife, he takes out the baddest of badass bad guys with brutal force, no holds barred. Not to sound boastful, I’m a dammed good actor. Every word I deliver is memorable and I can really kick butt. The supporting cast is terrific too, especially Kellie Fox, the quirky redheaded actress with the retro cat-eye glasses, who plays the mercenary’s best friend and assistant, Melanie. Knowing enough about the show and my character, I dive right into the script Scott brought over. It’s a page-turner, and I find myself mouthing the words of my lines. I
am
Kurt Kussler.

Halfway into it, I hear a car pull into my driveway. I spring up from the couch and peek out the window. Who the hell is that? My front door unlocks.

Zoey

“F
reeze!” Brandon barks. “What are you doing here?”

Jeez. He’s in a good mood. Just kidding. I’ve been away for almost three weeks, and this is how he treats me? Okay. I didn’t expect him to run over to me in movie-time slow-mo and hug me, but I expected a little warmth. Something along the lines of “Hi. I’m so glad to see you.” Wishful thinking. Once an asshole. Always an asshole. Though a damn gorgeous one.

I stop dead in my tracks and soak him in. He looks fresh out of a shower. Just the way he did the first time I met him. His damp inky hair is perfectly uncombed, and a thick towel is wrapped around his toned torso, hanging sexily low on his hips. How could anyone look so ridiculously gorgeous after spending so much time in a hospital? Alright, he’s pale and a little thinner, but the weight loss only accentuates the definition of his lean, finely honed muscles. My breath hitches in my throat as my eyes travel from his devastating face to his broad chiseled chest, past his rippled abs and that perfect pelvic V, and then down his long, muscular legs to his perfectly formed bare toes. Every sculpted feature and limb sends a rush of tingles to my core. He’s still the epitome of pure masculine perfection. My legs turn to jelly. I’m not prepared for the panty-melting impact he has on me. I maintain a poker face, not letting him know how much he affects me. I’ve become a master of my emotions and reactions.

His long-lashed violet eyes laser into me. “Answer my question or I’ll call the police.”

His harsh, unexpected words sober me. Did he lose his mind in the hospital? Sustain some kind of head injury? I mean, he’s always been mental, but this is insane. My eyes meet his fiery gaze.

“Hel-lo-O. It’s me. Zoey Hart. Your assistant. Remember?”

Cocking his head, he looks at me confoundedly. “Huh?”

“You know. Your go-to girl. Go-To-Zo.” Maybe he doesn’t recognize me because I’ve lost a little weight. On second thought, fat chance.

“How did you get past the gate?”

“Do I look like the type who would jump it?” My sarcasm is lost on him. “Duh! I have the security code.”

His dense brows furrow. “How long have you been working for me?”

He’s got to be kidding. Maybe he’s just putting me on. “To be exact, two years, two months, and two days.”
Over two
insufferable
years.

His eyes blink pensively. “Really?” The word is infused with doubt and surprise.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Kinda. I guess you know I had an accident.”

“Yeah.” The horrific memory flashes into my head. To be honest, I haven’t stopped reliving it. The bloodshed…his touch…the sirens…my words. For the second time in my life, death stared me in the face. A chill passes through me.

“Why didn’t you come visit me at the hospital?” His tone sharpens.

“Believe me, I wanted to.”
Oh, God did I. More than you’ll ever know
. “But your lovely manager Scott forced me to take a paid vacation for as long as you were there. He told me that if I didn’t obey his orders, he had the authority to fire me. I didn’t want to lose my job.”
Or you.
“So I did as he asked.”

Digesting my words, Brandon tugs at his lower lip with his thumb. He always does that when he’s thinking. It’s so damn sexy. My cheeks heat. I want to jump out of my skin. Jump him.

“Where were you?”

“He sent me to a retreat with no connections to the outside world.”

Brandon purses his lips. “I see. How did you know I was back home?”

“From one of the women who checked in this morning. That’s all she could talk about. Your release was all over the news and Internet. As soon as I found out, I packed my bag and checked out.” I pause. “Oh, and by the way, I called Scott from my car and told him I was coming back.”

Brandon’s jaw tightens. “Did he tell you I have amnesia?”

What?
My eyes widen and my blood pounds in my ear. I blurt out an angry “no.” I’m so pissed Scott didn’t tell me I could kill him, but then again, I shouldn’t be so startled. The man despises me, and let me tell you, it’s mutual.
Slimeball!
Well, at least, that explains my boss’s strange behavior. I wonder if he’s forgotten what an asshole he is. That would be refreshing.

His voice cuts into my deviant thoughts. He apologizes for threatening to have me arrested and then asks me to join him for a drink in the kitchen to catch up. It’s not an invitation but rather an order. The amnesia has clearly not changed his bossy personality. Being his employee, I give in to his request but tell him I can’t stay long. I have a lot of catching up of my own to do. Including responding to the zillion tweets he got from fans while he was in the hospital. At the kitchen island, I sit cattycorner to him, drinking a bottled water, while he nurses a Scotch. My eyes stay on him. God, he’s gorgeous! I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten that.

“So refresh my memory, Zoey, and tell me, what exactly do you do for me?”

Ha! What exactly
don’t
I do for him would be a more apropos question. Let’s see…where should I start? After a big gulp of the water, I begin.

“I maintain your daily schedule, your Facebook fan page, and respond to your tweets, which, by the way, exceeded five million from fans around the world while you were in the hospital.”

“Wow.” He actually seems quite surprised. “What else do you handle?”

I spit out the rest of the list. “I get your Starbucks coffee every morning, make your travel and restaurant reservations, prepare your lunch, send out your two hundred pairs of jeans for laundering and take care of your dry-cleaning, stock your refrigerator, order your supplies, coordinate things with your entourage, and even help you with your lines. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I give you massages. I’m a certified massage therapist. That’s one of the reasons you hired me.”

His eyes dart to my hands, lingering on them. His eyes flutter as if he’s trying to remember them. And then he twists his luscious lips.

“How did you end up working for me?”

“I got the job through an agency that specializes in placing personal assistants with celebrities and VIPs.”

“What’s it like to work for me?”

The words tumble out of my mouth. “You’re a conceited, egotistical, arrogant asshole.”

His brows jump to his forehead. “Hmm. If I’m a total jerk, why do you work for me?”

The truth. Well, almost. “I need a job, and you pay me decently, plus you give me room and board along with a car allowance. It sure as hell beats being holed up in a dark, claustrophobic massage room.” I add in one other reason. “And despite what you may be thinking, I actually really like my job.”
And could look at you all day long.

He studies me. I can feel his eyes raking over my body.

“How old are you?”

I think that question is banned by some equal opportunity employment act, but I tell him anyway. “Twenty-four.”

“Have I ever fucked you?”

What?
That out-of-the-blue question takes me aback. Every muscle in my plus-size body tenses while my ovaries do a somersault. I somehow manage not to fall off my stool and find my voice.

“Your cock is the one thing I don’t handle.” I rebound nicely. “Unless you count all the times I’ve booked a hotel room for you and your hook-ups.”
And dreamed about it.

My eyes flick to the bulge between his legs and then quickly return to his pensive face. I feel myself flush and my awareness only heightens the sensation.

“Do I share my social life with you?”

“Uh…no. I just know what I read online and in gossip magazines.”

A short silence and then he breaks it after a chug of his drink. “Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?”