CHAPTER 17
Brandon
After 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.
“C’mon Zoey, breathe,” I plead as I take a brief reprieve to catch my own breath. Renewed with oxygen, my mouth goes back down on her hers. I resume breathing into it. My sinking heart almost beats out of my chest.
“C’mon, Zoey,” I pray silently.
Nada.