The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE) (27 page)

Fraught with jealousy and loathing, I meet her predatory gaze.

She smirks and then snubs me. “Brandy-Poo, are you ready to go out with Mommy and me?”

Brandon’s eyes blink several times. “What are you talking about?”

“Seriously, don’t you know we have a reservation at The Ivy to go over wedding plans? We made it weeks ago.”

Brandon looks perplexed. “I’m sorry. It’s one of those things I don’t remember.” He turns to me. “Zoey, did you write it down somewhere or put it on my calendar?”

“This is the first time I’m hearing about it.”

“Maybe, I forgot to tell her,” mumbles Brandon in my defense.

Katrina huffs. “Honestly, darling, you really should look into getting a competent assistant. This one’s a bigger waste of space than the space she occupies.”

I’m seething.
Bitch!
I bite back my tongue. Katrina again ignores me and plants a kiss on Brandon’s forehead.

“Well, darling, don’t just sit there. Throw on a jacket. I don’t want to keep Mommy waiting.”

Slowly, Brandon stands up. His eyes penetrate mine. “Set some time in my schedule to review more episodes tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I murmur. I stay seated while Brandon dons an outrageously sexy leather bomber jacket. It’s just what Kurt Kussler would wear.

Emptiness fills me as I watch Katrina shuffle Brandon out of the house. And then a wicked thought brightens my spirits. Maybe the bitch and the asshole deserve each other. My moment of satisfaction is fleeting. Who am I kidding? I wish it were me.

Brandon

L
ocated on nearby trendy Robertson, The Ivy is a bustling but charming restaurant that feels more like an eclectic cottage with its vintage floral décor and jugs of colorful fresh roses on every table. According to my fiancée, this is one of our favorite places to “see and be seen.” It’s a popular LA hangout with A-list celebrities, agents, and other movers and shakers. I, of course, don’t remember ever being here.

Katrina’s mother is already seated at a corner table in the front room. Upon sighting us, she waves a bony hand, the other curled around the base of a fluted glass. Holding my hand, chicly dressed Katrina leads me with long strides in her direction. All eyes on us, whispers of Bratrina stir the air.

Katrina rounds the table and gives her equally chic mother a double-cheek kiss. “Hello, Mommy.”

“Darling, I’m so glad you could make it, and of course, this must be Brandon.” Enid formally introduces herself and extends her hand.

I assume we’ve never met and shake it, careful not to crush it. I help Katrina into a chair across from her mother and then I slip into the one next to hers. Enid is effervescent.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered a bottle of champagne. Cristal, only the finest. I thought we’d start off the evening with a toast.”

Like mother, like daughter. “Sure,” I say, studying her cosmetically enhanced face. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her skin so taut it may split into puzzle pieces.

“Wonderful.” She raises her glass and we follow suit. “To the most unforgettable wedding
ever!”

We clink our glasses and then sip the bubbly. I’m not in the mood to drink champagne, but I go with the flow. Enid guzzles hers, then refills her glass.

“Why don’t we order first and then we’ll talk about the wedding. I have so many fabulous ideas, especially since the wedding is going to be televised.”

I take another sip of the champagne and clear my throat. “Um, uh, excuse me, Enid. But can we talk about that? I was thinking something smaller, more inti—”

With a sharp turn of her head, Katrina cuts me off. “Brandon, there’s absolutely nothing to discuss. Everything’s set. It’s going to be a live televised event. Period. Millions of people around the world will see it on TV and on the Internet. It’s going to make me a global name and send my ratings into the stratosphere.”

This just doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I’d agree to. I may be a very public TV star, but I’m a private kind of guy. That I do know about myself. My gaze stays on Katrina. “Did we
ever
discuss this?”

Throwing her head back, she lets out a haughty laugh. “Of course, darling. It was practically your idea. You were all over it. You were even the one that said, ‘Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian.’”

I don’t even know who Kim Kardashian is. I’m growing frustrated with this amnesia thing. It’s getting old fast and causing me one problem after another. I’m really not comfortable with the idea of getting married on TV, but this is clearly not the forum to challenge it. I’m not going to get anywhere with headstrong Katrina or her outspoken mother.

We order dinner from an apron-clad young waiter. Recognizing me immediately, his eyes light up. “Wow! You’re Brandon Taylor.
Kurt Kussler
rocks!” He steps back from the table and imitates me. Aiming his fingers like a gun, he says, “Get it. Got it? Good.”

I’m getting sick of hearing this line. I’m sure this dude is an aspiring actor, and in a breath, he confirms my hunch. “Hey, listen Mr. Taylor, I hope you don’t mind. But can I give you my headshot before you leave and maybe you could show it to your producer and consider me for a guest-starring role? Even a cameo? I’m a method actor and studied at the Bella Stadler Academy. You won’t be disappointed.”

Bella Stadler. I studied with her too and have learned I’m a big supporter. But, in the back of my mind, I feel there’s something more. It’s like a memory is trying to knock down the door.
Think, Brandon, think.

“Yes?” The waiter’s eager voice interrupts my ability to concentrate.

“Sure,” I tell him, feeling sorry for yet another hopeful in this town, waiting tables while waiting for a break.

The thankful waiter’s face brightens and then he takes our orders. Having just eaten that giant burger, I’m not hungry and just order a small salad. Katrina and her mother each order a platter of poached asparagus (sauce on the side) and then decide to splurge on a shared shrimp cocktail. No wonder the two of them are whippet thin.

While we wait for the food to arrive, Enid starts in with her ideas for the wedding.

“You know, I really wanted to do it in Venice like George and Amal, but too many of my friends have travel plans to go to Italy over the summer.”

“George who?”

She tuts. “George Clooney.”

What?
Forever bachelor George Clooney got married? Where have I been? I’ve really missed a lot. Enid rambles on while I bemoan my fate.

“I, however, came up with a perfect local venue. The Four Seasons Hotel. You’ll get married in the divine garden and then we’ll have the reception in the ballroom.”

Katrina’s face lights up, more animated than I’ve ever seen it. “Mommy, tell him the theme we’ve chosen.”

“Theme?”

“Of course, darling. All my events have themes. And yours will be Cinderella—a celebration of my little girl finally marrying her Prince Charming. Happily ever after at last! I’ve already ordered dozens of pumpkins to carve and fill with exotic flowers along with gilded cages that we’ll fill with little white mice as table centerpieces. And Monique is designing The. Most. Divine. Dress. Ever. Along with a pair of magnificent glass slippers. Katrina will be the envy of every woman in the world.” She laughs lightly. “Even her own mother.”

“Oh, Mommy,” Katrina coos after taking another sip of champagne. “Tell him about the best part.”

“The cake? It’s going to be a six-foot high buttercream recreation of the Disney Magic Kingdom Castle.”

“No, Mommy, I mean how we’re going to get there.”

Enid dramatically throws up her hands and rolls back her eyes. “How could I forget? The two of you will be arriving at the hotel in a custom-made pumpkin carriage drawn by four white Arabian horses. Miniature replicas are accompanying the two thousand invitations I just sent out.”

What?
The invitations are out. There may be no turning back now. I gulp.

Enid gives me the once over. “We should talk about what you’ll be wearing, Brandon.”

I bet I’ll be dressed in some ninny prince suit that looks like it comes straight out of the Disney store. I don’t even want to know. “When is all this happening?” I ask, evading the subject.

Katrina chimes in. “Why in four months—at the end of May sweeps—Saturday, May twenty-third. It’s going to send the ratings of my show into orbit.
America’s It Girl
is going to become a universal sensation!”

One last question. “And who’s flitting the bill for all this?”

Smiling coyly, Katrina answers. “Well, since the budget for my show is only $20,000 per episode and poor Daddy is in jail and can’t even come to his own daughter’s wedding, you are.”

“I am?”

“Of course, darling. I discussed it all with our mutual business manager Scott while you were in a coma, and he agreed to everything. You’ll never miss the ten million dollars.”

Dinner arrives. Maybe, I would have been better off staying asleep in a coma. At least past our wedding date.

Zoey

T
he only good thing about Brandon going out to dinner with Katrina is that I have some time to catch up on the gazillion tweets I have to respond to on his behalf. It’s like every woman in the world wished him—
Get Well. I love you! <3—
while he was in the hospital. I send the same response back to each of his infatuated fans:
Thanks, baby! Feeling good. Luv you back! <3
I can only imagine their expressions when they get a tweet back. Total swoonsville!

I skip over the ones congratulating him about his engagement or asking when he’s getting married. Don’t know. Don’t care. And the truth is I don’t want to be reminded.

Two hours into tweeting, my iPhone pings. A text from Mr. Swoonworthy himself.

Did u say u give massages?

I reply.

Yes.

He responds.

I want one now
.

Sheesh. It’s almost ten o’clock. I was about to call it quits with the tweeting and get ready for bed. Maybe I should tell him to give himself a testicular massage and then jerk off. That’ll probably have the same relaxation benefits. He sends me another text.

Well…???

In my mind’s eye, I can see the anger on his face. The furrowed brows, the pinched lips. Let him pout. I don’t respond. He wastes no time texting me again.

Do I need to fire u?

GAH! He wouldn’t.
He would!
Fucking spoiled asshole.

FINE.
Shouty caps. I hope he gets the message. I’m not a happy camper.

Ten minutes later, I’m in his living room after schlepping over my massage table and my special aromatherapy oil. Brandon’s on the couch reading what must be a
Kurt Kussler
script.

“Why aren’t you ready?” I snap.

He looks up from his script. “Should I strip down?”

His words send goosebumps all over me. I’ve never seen him in the buff though I’ve used my imagination when it comes to his ass and equipment.
Pure manly perfection!

“No,” I reply, trying to sound as calm as possible. “It’s in my contract. I don’t do you naked. You’ve got to put on some underwear.”

“I don’t do underwear.”