The Big O (An OTT Insta-love STANDALONE) (35 page)

One hour later, I’m still on the first page of the book. Make that the first sentence. I just can’t focus. I need to clear my head. Maybe chill outside…inhale the cool evening air…and watch the lights of the city twinkle like stars.

Once outdoors, I pick a chaise by the deep end of the pool and stretch out. The mid-January night air is chilly, easily in the forties, and I’m glad I threw on my treasured
Kurt Kussler
sweatshirt. It was another Christmas gift from Brandon—again nothing special since he gave one to everyone in the world. But no one wears Kurt Kussler on their heart the way I do. My ventricles thrum.

I inhale an invigorating deep breath of the crisp, quiet air. On the exhale, all the tension of the day dissipates. A much needed peacefulness washes over me. Brandon’s property is a little bit of heaven so high above the hustle and bustle of the City of Angels below. Lit with soft pastel lights, the heated pool shimmers, throwing off a cloud of steam, and blends in beautifully with the canvas of the twinkling LA skyline. Numerous photographers and set designers have begged to shoot up here, but Brandon always makes me turn them down. He enjoys his privacy.

Talking about privacy, it looks like I have company. A tall, lean figure in a long white robe slinks around the pool, moving like a lioness. Katrina. Unaware of my presence, she shrugs off her robe at the edge of the deep end. My eyes stay riveted on her. I’m in awe of her beauty and her grace. The full moon illuminates her flawless porcelain skin, long sinewy muscles, and broad sculpted shoulders. She’s wearing a sleek white tank bathing suit that’s cut to make her impossibly long legs look longer and to bring out every sensuous curve of her perfectly proportioned body. The slender five-foot nine beauty looks like a goddess. The perfect mate for a sex god like Brandon. I watch as she gathers up her golden mane into a high ponytail, lowers her goggles over her eyes, and then lifts her long, toned arms above her head into a diving position. Without hesitation, she springs off the side of the pool, headfirst into the water. Her arched form is perfect, elegant just like her, and she meets the water with only the tiniest of splashes. She immediately segues into a graceful yet powerful breaststroke, lifting her head minimally for a breath of air. Swimming lap after lap, she looks like a siren. I can’t take my eyes off her.

About twenty swift laps in, she catches sight of me on a breath. She swims my way to the edge of the pool. Lifting her goggles atop her head, she rests her elbows on the ledge and meets my gaze. A wicked glint lights her cat-green eyes.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the gopher.”

I simmer. “My name
is
Zoey.”

“Just hanging out?”

“Yeah, just hanging out.”

“You should come in for a swim. The water is warm and delicious. And God knows, you sure could use the exercise.”

The insult stings, but I bite back my tongue. “I’m not dressed for a swim.”
And it’s not my thing.

“Just take off your clothes and go for a skinny dip. Or should I say fatty dip.” She laughs at her own cleverness.

Rage whips through my bloodstream like an angry cobra. I want to sink my fangs into her. But I can’t. She’s my boss’s fiancée.

“Katrina, I’m going to head in.”

Her face darkens. “Please don’t. We need to have a little chat.”

“There’s nothing to chat about.”

Her eyes narrow into poisonous arrows. “I don’t like you hanging around Brandon so much. I want you to stop it.”

“That’s my job and I don’t take orders from you.”

“Well, you better get used to it because soon I’m going to be the boss of this house.”

I’ve had enough. “I’m leaving.”

Katrina scowls at my defiance. “Show a little respect, Zo-eeeey.”

“Excuse me.” I push myself off the chaise to a standing position.

“Don’t leave me.”

I don’t respond and start to walk away.

“Excuse
me.
Do you have a hearing problem? I said not to leave.”

On my next step, I feel a cold clamp clutching my ankle. I look down. It’s Katrina. I try to free my foot from her grip, but her hand grasps it tight like a shackle.

“Let go!” I yell, struggling to free myself.

“Bitch! You’re not going anywhere.”

Tightening her grip, she yanks my ankle so forcefully I lose my balance, and on my next breath, I’m flying into the deep end of the pool. I hit the water hard and open my mouth to scream, but as I go under, the warm salt water rushes in, choking me, burning my throat. Tumbling in all directions, I somehow manage to rise to the surface.

“Enjoy your little swim,” snickers Katrina as she hoists herself out of the pool.

Flailing, I plead, “Don’t leave me.”

She looms above me and scoffs. “Funny, that’s just what I said to you.”

My head goes back under. Water rushes through my mouth and my nose, this time filling and searing my lungs. I frantically wave my hands and kick my legs in all directions. I rise to the surface again, only to see Katrina loping toward her robe. Terror fills me.

“Katrina,” I shout out. “Come back! I can’t swim.”

She ignores me. Panic sets in.

Oh, God! I’m drowning! I’m going to die the same way my mother did.

The weight of my soaked sweatshirt—and pure panic—pulls me under again. I try breathing through my nose, only to have more water break in and enter my lungs. The terrifying cycle repeats itself. I manage to surface, but it’s only a few seconds until I’m back under. More water gathers in my lungs, permeating and burning every crevice.

Gasping for air, I resurface, my head barely above the water. I struggle not to sink back under, but I’m literally and figuratively in over my head. I shout out another desperate plea for help. I glimpse Katrina, smirking. Tears of despair gather in my eyes.

In full-blown panic mode, my mind races.
Think, Zoey. Think!
If I could only grab on to the edge. It’s my only hope. But all my thrashing is pulling me farther and farther away, closer to the middle of the pool. I feel helpless and hopeless. And I’m growing exhausted.

This time when I go under, I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe it’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. This can’t be happening to me. No, it can’t be! It’s not my time. I try to wish it away. But as more water seeps through my lungs, my horrid reality sets back in. I don’t know how to swim. The pool is my nemesis. I’m a drowning fool.

When my head slices through the water, I blink open my eyes and see Katrina hovering over me. A smug smile plays on her lips.

“Katrina, please! Help me!” I choke. Tears pour from my stinging eyes.

She sneers. “You are so pathetic.”

I grow desperate. “Help! Help! Help!” Maybe God will hear me and rescue me.

He doesn’t because after my next fading cry for help I’m under again. My lungs are aching. It feels like my chest is going to burst because the air wants to come out so badly. But I don’t want to let it go. It’s the only air I have. For the first time, I notice swirls of colorful lights beneath the water. Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating, drowning in a sea of Kool-Aid. And then, a peacefulness washes over me. I’m floating. I belong to the water now. To my astonishment, I see my mother’s serene face, her long Celtic-red hair fanned out all around her. She’s floating toward me, her slender arms extended with those beautiful fingers beckoning me. I reach out for them.
Oh, Mama! You’ve come back for me.
We’re together again!

“Baby girl, I’m going to take you to Papa.” Her melodic voice ripples in my ears.

A vortex of white light shrouds me and then I sink into a black abyss.

Brandon

A
fter the focus group, I drive straight home. Before I dive into the season finale, I need to finish reading the script that’s shooting this week and go over my lines. In just two days, I’ll be on the set again, something that both excites and unnerves me.

I pull my car into my garage and head into my adjoining house. I step into the kitchen and go straight to the fridge. I swing open the door and pull out a beer. Then, I meander to the living room. The sides that Zoey printed out are still on the coffee table where I left them. Twisting open the bottle cap, I sink into the couch and take a swig.

I haven’t seen my assistant since the Katrina incident. After coming back from her meeting with her father, she avoided me like the plague and figured out a way to get all my requests done without having to see me. Maybe I should have asked her to undress me, but the smart-mouth would have probably told me: “Taking your clothes off is not part of my contract.”
Nah-nah-nah-nah!
The truth, disrobing me probably isn’t one of her job requirements. Whoever negotiated this contract should have their ass fired.

My eyes shift to my sides. An uplifting thought crosses my mind. It’s almost a light bulb moment. I can ask her to rehearse my lines with me. She told me she does that as part of her job. Setting the beer down next to the sides folder, I slip my phone out from my jeans pocket and text her.

I need u to help me with my lines. I’m home.

I hit send and wait for a response.
Nada.
The little tease is playing games with me again.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My patience is wearing thin. I text her again.

COME NOW!

My cock twitches as I type those two shouty words. And my pulse quickens. Why does this girl affect me? Considering Katrina and the gorgeous women I’ve been associated with in the past, she’s definitely not my type. Plus, she’s got the bristly personality of a porcupine. I’m always waiting for her to shower me with quills. Yet, inexplicably, I’m attracted to her—her lush curves and her sharp wit. Her fine ass and sass trump Katrina’s fine bones and class.

Once again, she doesn’t respond. From where I’m sitting, I can glimpse her little house and the lights are out. Maybe she’s sleeping and doesn’t hear her phone. Or has it turned off.
Or
maybe she’s out with her boyfriend again. The unsettling thought rattles me. Mental note: Talk to her tomorrow and make it crystal-clear she must tell me where she is and what she’s doing at
all
times. Maybe throw in some restrictions. Like you can’t see your boyfriend while working for me.

It’s late. Taking another chug of beer, I remove my sides from the folder and begin to study my lines. Repeating them over and over. Forget it. I take a deep, frustrated breath. I’ve gone over this scene a dozen times today, and I’m just not feeling it. And it’s shooting in just a couple days. It’s a flashback—a heavy-duty love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. It takes place in their shower. It’s not like there are many lines. More moans and groans than words. But I can’t seem to instill the few lines I have with any real emotion and make them convincing. I sound passive when I should sound passionate. Apathetic when I should sound orgasmic. Have I lost it?

Rehearsing the lines again, I have a small memory breakthrough. I hear the husky voice of my acting coach, Bella Stadler, telling me to draw from experience. Bring what you’ve lived to every part you play. If you need to feel sad and cry, think about your pet dog or a loved one that died. Thinking about putting down my lab Buddy or my parents’ fatal car crash is not going to help me. This is a love scene, a very sensuous one. From what I’ve read, me-the-player never did love…well, up until Katrina. I’ve loved her enough to ask her to marry me and exchange “until death do us part” vows, but still cannot remember a damn thing about our history or relationship. Thanks to my amnesia, it’s a void in my life. I feel nothing toward her. Dig deep, I tell myself. I try to remember. America’s It Girl doesn’t do it for me. Nothing comes to mind.

Halfway into my next line, screams for help steal my attention. I listen carefully. A woman’s voice; the cries grow louder. They’re coming from the pool area. It must be Katrina. She told me she loves to take late night swims. My panic button sounds. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Dropping the pages of the script, I fly out of my house.

Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I arrive at the pool in no time. Breathing hard, I need to reset my mental button. Katrina is there, but she’s not the one in trouble. It’s Zoey. Her body is floating across the surface of the water. I brush past my dumb-founded fiancée and, fully clothed, jump in. With a few adrenaline-powered strokes, I reach my assistant and immediately flip her onto her back and then manage to drag her through the water to safety. Cradling her in my arms, I hoist her lifeless body out of the pool onto the cement deck. In a rapid heartbeat, I’m by her side on my knees. All color is drained from her angelic face; she’s as limp as rag doll.

“Zoey!” I shout out. No response. “Zoey!” Then it hits me.

Panic grips me by the balls. “She’s not breathing!” I say aloud while a half-amused Katrina with her arms folded casually looks on.

“Puh-lease. It’s just an attention-seeking act,” she snips.

I think my fiancée is wrong. Not wasting a second, I begin to administer CPR. Having been a lifeguard before I was an actor, it’s something I know and remember how to do. Parting Zoey’s bowed, bluish lips, I immediately cover them with mine and breathe into her mouth. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The kiss of life.