CHAPTER 1
Brandon
Beeping sounds clog my ears.
A chorus of muddled whispers surrounds me.
My eyelids flutter.
A woman’s urgent voice: “Quick. Get this! He’s waking up.”
I peel my eyes open, one by one. Slowly. Painfully. As if they’ve been super glued shut. The bright light burns my retinas. Everything’s a blur. A haze of bodies scuttles about me. I blink several times. My vision becomes clearer, and then I’m blinded by the flash of a camera. Click. Click. Click. I blink again until I stop seeing spots. A new lens assaults me. What’s a hand-held camera doing in my face?
“Get in tighter,” orders the woman, her voice growing shrill. “I want a close-up.”
A pair of lips comes crashing down on mine before I can get my mouth to move. They hold me prisoner while camera flashes bombard me and the hand-held camera captures the unexpected kiss. The fierce lips pull away, but the camera in my face stays put.
“Get that away from me!” I croak, barely able to free my tongue from my desert-dry palate. My voice is a rasp and my throat sore as hell.
I swat at the cameraman with my hand that’s not hooked up to all kinds of freaky, beeping machines. Reality hits me hard. I’m in a hospital. And the pain hits harder. I’ve got a headache the size of Texas. Unable to deter my harasser, I throw the bedcovers over my head.
“We’ve got enough.” That woman’s authoritative voice again. “We’ll edit in post.”
Hesitantly, I lower the covers from my face. A stunning, willowy blonde with cat-green eyes hovers over me. Her billowy scarlet lips are parted in a pout and then they break into a wide toothy smile. The cameraman follows her.
She brushes her manicured hand along my forehead. “Darling, you’re awake. Finally. Smile for the cameras.” She mugs for the cameras while I rub the back of my scalp. A large scab brushes against the pads of my fingertips along with a bump as big as a walnut. I wince.
“That’s a wrap,” calls out a craggy man with a ponytail. “We’ll pick it up when he blows out of this joint.” My eyes fix on the small crew as they pack up their equipment and file out of the room. The attractive woman stays behind and lowers herself onto the edge of my bed. She cranks her body so she’s facing me.
“Who are you?” My voice is still strangled.
She flashes a ring with a diamond the size of a bullet in my eyes. The bling blinds me. I blink again.
She hesitates for a beat and then purses her full lips. “Your fiancée.”
A golf-ball sized lump lands in my parched throat. “Excuse me?”
She flings her full head of platinum hair. “Come on, now. You know who I am.”
“What’s your name?” I manage in my disoriented state.
Her feline eyes narrow. “Are you playing games with me, Brandon?”
She called me Brandon. Yeah, that’s my name. Brandon Taylor. I remember that. But I have no clue who this woman is, yet she claims we’re engaged.
With a groan, I sit up slowly. It’s an effort. My body feels like it’s been rammed by a bulldozer. Every muscle aches. And my head’s still pounding. I take in my surroundings. I’m in a sleek all-white suite with wall-to-wall flower arrangements. Their overbearing sweet smell assaults my senses. A wave of nausea sweeps over me.
“Can I have some water?” I ask, hoping the liquid will assuage the sickening feeling and knock some sense into me.
“Of course, darling.” The woman reaches for a sippy cup on the stand alongside my bed and hands it to me. I take a long sip through the straw. The cool beverage feels good. As it courses down my throat, it quenches my thirst. I take a few more sips and place the cup on my lap. To be more precise, on my cock. It’s soft as a pillow, but thank God, it’s still there. I remember my cock better than I remember my name. It’s a big, hard fucking machine. Or at least it once was. The drop dead gorgeous woman beside me, who says she’s my fiancée, does nothing to stir it. Not even one teeny-weeny testicular tingle. I shudder. I may be in big trouble.
“So tell me your name.”
“Katrina. Katrina Moore. Does it ring a bell?”
Her tone sounds like she’s testing me. I shake my aching head.
“Are you sure?”
It doesn’t ring anything, including my balls. My attention is diverted by a stocky man bursting through the open door.
“Hey, my boy. You’re awake!” He strides up to me and pats me on my back.
I gaze up at him. Tanned, teeth perfect and pearly white. Hair bottle-brown and greased back. Expensive Italian twill suit and flashy gold jewelry. Forty. Maybe fifty? Yet another unfamiliar face.
“And who are you?”
He shoots Katrina a questioning look. His left eye twitches. “Is he fucking kidding?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
They hold each other’s gazes as if they’re silently communicating, and then the strange man casts his eyes back on me.
“I’m your manager. Scott Turner.”
I have a fiancée. And now I have a manager?
“What do you manage?”
“Jeez, Brand-man. Your career.”
“My career?” Reality to Brandon. Come in for fuck’s sake.
The woman named Katrina interjects. “He seriously doesn’t seem to remember a thing.”
My so-called manager furrows his dark brows. “He’s bullshitting us.”
Rage surges inside me. “I’m not bullshitting anyone. I don’t even know how I got here.”
With a smile, Katrina defends me. “Trust me, Scotty-Wotty, he’s not acting. He’s really lost his mind.”
Unconvinced, Scott twists his thin lips. “Does Kurt Kussler mean anything to you?”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the character you play on TV. The number one rated show that’s made you Hollywood’s highest paid actor. And every woman’s wet dream.”
I’m an actor? A Hollywood heartthrob? All I know is right now I’m a nut job. “So, how did I get here?” My voice falters.
“You seriously don’t remember what happened?”
“Not a clue.”
Shifting, Katrina fiddles with her engagement ring. “Scott, I think it’d be better if he heard it from you.”
Scott’s expression darkens and then it relaxes. “You were struck by a car. It was a hit and run. You’re lucky I called it in. I saved your ass. You suffered a skull fracture, underwent surgery, and have been in a coma for two weeks. It’s been headline news. All over the Internet and TMZ. And don’t get me started on Twitter. You’ve got more followers than Justin Bieber.”
Justin Bieber? TMZ? Digesting his words, I stroke my jaw. A bristly beard scrapes my hand. I must look like a caveman.
Katrina cups my other hand, the one with all the IVs. “You had me so worried. I’ve been by your side praying you’d recover.” She plants a hot kiss on my cheek. It does nothing to arouse me. More worry washes over me as she runs her fingers through my hair.
“Darling, we’re going to have to get you cleaned up and into shape. You should be just fine by the time the wedding is televised.”
Impulsively, I yank my hand from hers. “What are you talking about?”
Her face lights up. “We’re getting married and the whole world is going to watch. On a special edition of my reality show, America’s It Girl. My ratings are going to go through the roof.”
A sinking feeling sets in. I don’t remember a goddamn thing. And you know what, maybe I don’t want to.