CHAPTER 4
Brandon
I should spend the rest of the afternoon resting, but I’m restless. I wander around my house, searching for anything that’ll give me a clue about myself. My past. At least what’s happened over the last ten years of my life. My memories of my childhood and teenage years are intact, including my parents’ demise—that fiery car crash that consumed them both. I shiver, thinking my life almost ended in a similar way.
Frustrated, I go to my office and boot up my computer. The first thing I do is check my emails. There’s a ton of them in my inbox from names I don’t recognize, except those of a few big stars. I go through them quickly. All basically the same. People from all over the world sending their prayers and love, wishing me a speedy recovery. My heart swells with unexpected emotion. I can’t believe how many people care about me. I’m overwhelmed. I’ll respond to each of them later. Right now, I have something more important to do.
I google my name. Wow! A whopping 244,000,000 results! To my astonishment, my hospital departure is already headline news. A PerezHilton.com entry posted a few hours ago—“Bratrina Going Home at Last! When Will They Set the Date?”—glares in my eyes. Seriously, Bratrina? I can’t stand that name. And it includes a totally embarrassing photo of Katrina wheeling me out of Cedars. I cringe and jump down to the Wikipedia biography.
My eyes don’t blink as I scroll down the page and absorb what’s written about me.
Born: December 12, 1984 in Oceanside, California.
Parents: Edward and Phyllis, deceased.
Siblings: None.
Other family members: None.
I read on. I learn that I always wanted to be an actor and when my parents perished in that tragic car crash when I was seventeen, I took my small inheritance and split for Los Angeles where I studied at the renowned Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. While working as a lifeguard in Venice Beach and doing small theater bits, I was spotted by top Hollywood talent manager, Scott Turner, who’s been with me ever since.
Credits: A list of minor roles beginning at age twenty is followed by my breakout hit, Kurt Kussler.
Romantic Involvements: This section takes up half a page. In addition to Katrina, I’ve been linked to a slew of actresses and supermodels, most of whose names aren’t familiar to me. The list goes on and on. I’m a fucking player. And now I can’t fucking get it up.
Awards: Twice nominated for an Emmy Award for my portrayal of ex-CIA agent, Kurt Kussler. Recently nominated for a Golden Globe. My stomach tightens. I may be a good actor. Have I lost it? Will I disappoint?
Now that I know the basics about myself, I click on several more gossipy sites, including E! Online, TMZ, and more of Perez Hilton. The long and the short of it…this is who I am: Professionally: Dedicated. Talented. A-list Actor. Personally: Arrogant. Self-centered. Pompous. Player.
I’ve read enough. I’ve got it. Whether I like it or not. Now, onto my fiancée. I google her name. She has almost as many results. There’s a Wiki bio and a short IMDb piece, but most of the entries are from online social registries and tabloids that are filled with news of our engagement and her vigil while I was in the hospital. The number of google images is countless, running the gamut from glamorous award shows and galas to endless selfies and paparazzi pics, including several with me. To my amazement, she’s never caught wearing the same thing twice.
Katrina Moore comes from money. An only child, she was born and raised in Beverly Hills. She attended Buckley, an elite private school, and then went to live abroad for several years after graduating. Her mother, Enid, is a celebrated event planner and her father, Clayton, is a real-estate tycoon. However, a year ago, he got busted for tax evasion and a Ponzi scheme and was sentenced to serve five years at a white-collar penitentiary. The Moores were forced to sell their house and subsequently divorced.
Katrina is famous for being famous. She’s invited to every A-list Hollywood party, and she’s a muse to several major fashion designers. Using her clout, she developed a reality TV show called America’s It Girl, which she subsequently sold to a fledging cable network—Celebrity-TV (CTV). While the show initially enjoyed moderate success, ratings have lately floundered. There’s lots of talk about the show being canceled after only a year on the air, the producers and network equally fed up with Katrina’s spoiled brat behavior both on the screen and off it. She is notorious for her partying ways and her difficulty to work with on the set.
I wonder what attracted me to her and led me to choose her over all the other women I’ve dated. Yes, she’s stunning, but all my liaisons have been. What made her “the one?” Do we have a lot in common? Was the sex that great? As I’m about to read about her romantic involvements, my doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door.
With one eye, I peer through the peephole. A stocky, dark-haired man flashing a badge meets my gaze.
“Detective Pete Billings. LAPD. Open up.”
My heart beats double time. What does he want? And how did he get onto my gated property? I swing open the unlocked door.
“What can I do for you?” My voice is shaky but cordial.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I say, ushering him into my house. He follows me into the living room with a loud shuffle of his feet. Wearing a rumpled trench coat, the ruddy-complexioned investigator looks to be in his fifties though his full head of unruly slate hair defies his age. His keen dark gray eyes take in everything.
“Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Water? Or a beer?” I ask, hoping I have some of each. He doesn’t seem the champagne type.
“No thanks,” he says, loosening the belt of his worn tan coat. “I just want to ask you some questions about your accident.” His sharp eyes wander around the room. “Nice place you have here. And I just want to tell you I’m a big fan of your show. Never miss an episode. Record them all. My wife loves it too.”
“Thanks.” Inside, I’m cringing. I seriously have no clue what my series Kurt Kussler is about. Later today, I’ll do more research, try to find a couple of episodes online, and read the latest script. I’m grateful the detective doesn’t dwell on the show and cuts right to the chase.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Without waiting for a reply, he plops down on the chair Scott was sitting in. I return to my spot on the couch.
“Do you remember anything about your accident?”
I debate whether to tell him about my amnesia. In the end, my gut tells me to tell the truth. At least partially. “Sorry, I don’t. I’ve blocked it out.”
The detective nods understandingly. “I’ve seen that happen a lot. Post-traumatic stress. But I want you to dig deep. A color. A shape. An odor. Anything come to mind?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. All I see is red-hot blackness while the lingering, putrid smell of smoke assails me.
“Nada,” I tell the detective as I reopen my eyes.
“You a smoker?” The detective casts his gaze down at the ashtray with the remains of Scott’s cigarette butt.
“No. My manager was here earlier. He smokes.”
“Scott Turner?”
“Yeah.” I wonder how he knows his name. On second thought, he’s a detective. A sleuth. He knows this kind of stuff.
He cocks a bushy brow. “Are you on good terms with him?”
“I suppose.” In retrospect, that sounds dumb.
“Did he exhibit any form of strange behavior before your accident?”
I search my mind, but it’s just one big blank. I can’t even remember my history with Scott. All I know is what he’s told me and what I’ve read. He’s had my back since the beginning of my career and made me a fortune. And I guess I owe him my life since he called in my accident.
I shake my head and reiterate that I don’t remember a damn thing.
“What about your fiancée?”
“You mean, Katrina Moore?”
“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about her?”
“She’s been with me almost 24/7 since my accident.” Being a detective, he must know as much about her as I do. Maybe more.
“That’s some ring you got her.”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly. He’s probably seen pictures of it in the tabloids or online.
The detective reaches into his coat pocket. “We found this at the scene of the crime.”
“Crime?” My muscles tense.
“Yes. We’re dealing with a hit and run.”
When he uncurls his stubby fingers, a small zip lock bag is in his palm. He removes the contents—a heart-shaped iridescent green pendant. About the size of a dime, the surface is badly scratched and the edges are chipped.
“What’s that?” I ask, glaring at it.
“I took it to a jeweler. It’s a piece of Murano glass from Venice. It could be part of a pair of earrings or cufflinks. Or it could have fallen off a bracelet or necklace. Does it look familiar to you?”
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.