Текст книги "Unforgettable"
Автор книги: Nelle L'Amour
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BOOK ONE
Nelle L’Amour
Copyright © 2015 by Nelle L’Amour
Digital Edition
All rights reserved
First Edition: November 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.
No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook at the authorized online outlets.
Nelle L’Amour thanks you for your understanding and support. To join my mailing list for new releases, please sign up here:
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Cover by Arijana Karcic, Cover It! Designs
Proofreading by Mary Jo Toth
Formatting by BB eBooks
Seduced by the Park Avenue Billionaire
Strangers on a Train
Derailed
Final Destination
Seduced by the Billionaire Boxed Set
An Erotic Love Story
Undying Love
Gloria
Gloria’s Secret
Gloria’s Revenge
Gloria’s Forever
Gloria’s Secret: The Trilogy
That Man Series
That Man 1
That Man 2
That Man 3
That Man 4
That Man 5
Writing under E.L. Sarnoff
Dewitched: The Untold Story of the Evil Queen
Unhitched: The Untold Story of the Evil Queen
In memory of my Daddy. You’ll always be unforgettable.
“A remembrance of things past is not necessarily one of things as they were.”
–Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books by Nelle L’Amour
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
UNFORGETTABLE 2
THAT MAN
Other Books by Nelle L’Amour
Note from Nelle
About the Author
Zoey
Twenty years earlier
Mama. She’s beautiful. As beautiful as a princess. She has long, wavy red hair that dances in the wind. And whenever she waltzes around our house, singing so pretty, her hair prances too. She reminds me of Ariel, The Little Mermaid. Except my mama never ever swims.
After I saw that movie with Mama, I asked her why she won’t swim. She told me she once almost drowned in the ocean when she was a little girl. Like my mama, I’m afraid of the water. Even Papa, when he was alive, couldn’t get me to go in. I miss Papa and so does Mama.
Especially on days like today. I’m five! I’m a big girl now, says Mama. For my special birthday, she’s taken me to the Santa Monica Pier. I may be afraid of the big bad ocean, but I love the pier. And so does Mama. So many fun rides! And games to play too! And guess what! Now that I’m a big girl, I can finally go on the ginormous rollercoaster. Yippee! Mama and I sit together, and holding on to her floppy straw hat, she screams as much as me. Whoosh! It’s so fast! So much fun!
“Pretty please. One more time,” I beg when it’s over. One smoochie and she lets me do it again. I wish my cousin Jeffrey was here too, but Mama told me he came down with the flu and had to stay home with Auntie Jo.
“Mama, I’m hungry,” I say after we hop off the ride.
“Me too, baby girl. Let’s get some corn dogs.”
“YAY!” I love corn dogs.
Mama buys two corn dogs from a food stand, one for me and one for her. “C’mon, let’s look for dolphins while we eat them.” She takes my hand and we walk over to the edge of the pier. The blue-gray ocean is below us. I know that color from my Crayola box. We watch the high as the sky waves roll in. Mama tells me the water’s very rough today.
I take a big bite of my corn dog and then ask Mama, “Do you think we’ll see a dolphin?”
She smiles. “Of course, my precious girl. They’ll dance for your birthday. But I want you to hold my hand and not lean in too close to the railing.”
I giggle. “Mama, I won’t fall in!”
She squeezes my hand. Mama’s beautiful hands are soft like velvet. And they’re magical too. They make me feel safe and fix all my boo-boos.
I keep my eyes out for some dolphins. The sun is so bright it hurts them. Squinting, all I see are lots of squawking sea gulls.
In the background, I hear music. There’s a concert going on. They always do concerts on the pier in the Spring. I know that song! It’s Mama’s favorite. “Unforgettable.” She sang it all the time after Papa died. It reminds her of him. Mama smiles and sings along. I love the way she sings. She sounds like an angel.
In the middle of the song, a creepy man walks up next to me. He’s got an eyepatch like a pirate and a cigarette in his mouth. I thought people weren’t allowed to smoke on the pier. He blows out a puff and I cough. I want to tell him to put it out, but he scares me. I move closer to Mama and hope the man will get in trouble. If Uncle Pete were here, he’d arrest him and put him in jail.
I frown. “Mama, the dolphins are hiding today. Let’s do one more ride.”
“Patience, sweet girl.” Mama always says patience has its virtues, but I don’t know what she means by that.
I beg again for another ride and even say the magic word, “please.” Then, just after I take the last bite of my corn dog, I see one, leaping out of the water. And then, another and another! “Look, Mama! Dolphins!” Jumping up and down, I point at them.
But Mama doesn’t hear me. She’s slumped over the railing. She’s got an ouchie! And she’s bleeding! A whole big bunch!
She whispers my name. The blood is spreading all over the back of her pretty sundress. Why won’t it stop? I must help her!
“Mama! Mama!” I tug on her. But I can’t get her to budge.
I turn to the yucky man for help.
“Mister—”
A loud grunt and then he falls to the ground. Face up. There’s blood all around him. Everywhere! His shirt is all red. His eyes are still open, but I think he’s dead. I scream so loud my throat hurts. And then I see him. A scary man with a gun! He fires it one more time—at me—and then he runs away. He disappears into the crowd, but I’ll never forget his ugly face.
I turn back around. Oh no! Mama she’s gone! Spinning, I search everywhere for her and then I look down. I scream again. Louder.
“Mama!” She’s fallen into the angry ocean. It tosses her. Around and around and around. She’s drowning!
“Mama!” I cry out again, tears falling.
An arm reaches out to me. Her lips mouth three words: “I love you.” Then, her eyes close and she goes under.
“Mama! Mama!” I sob. “Someone help my mama! PLEASE!”
The pier is so noisy nobody hears me. She’s floating now. On her back, her hat by her side. Her coral hair is spread out like a sea fan. And there’s a little smile on her face. Maybe she’s all better.
“Mama! Can you hear me?” I shout out, hope in my voice. “Wake up! Pl—”
Before I can say the magic word, a gigantic wave crashes over her peaceful body. With a roar, it carries her away.
“Mama, come back!” I no longer see her. Or will I ever.
My tears salt the sea.
The words of Mama’s favorite song drift into my ears.
I’m crying so loud I can hardly hear them.
But I know this moment will always be unforgettable.
Brandon
Two weeks earlier
FUCK.
CLUNK.
SMACK.
BLACK.
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.
Brandon
The next three days in the hospital are ones I’ll remember. I get my first taste of fame, and I’m not sure I like it. Once word gets out that I’m alive and well (except for my memory loss), every nurse, attendant, and doctor stops by my suite on Cedar’s VIP floor for my autograph. It’s like a circus. My hand is so sore I may need a sling.
Katrina shows up every day, in one designer outfit after another, and sits with me for an hour or so. Now that I’m out of my coma and on the road to recovery, she’s got better things to do. Like shop and work out. And, of course, plan for our wedding.
Each time she visits, she brings along a slew of tabloids to jog my memory. I am headline news. The front page of last week’s Enquirer is plastered with a photo of me in my coma all hooked up to gizmos and monitors and my teary-eyed fiancée by my bedside. Or should I say deathbed. The all-caps headline: “DOOMSDAY FOR BRATRINA!” Bratrina? What bonehead came up with that? I cringe.
Older issues from last month feature photos of Katrina and me in happier times…out to dinner…at a movie premier…at the beach. I read the articles and study the pictures. We look and sound like the hottest couple in Hollywood. But no matter how hard I search my brain, I can’t remember a damn thing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.
“How did we meet?” I ask my fiancée on my third day of being conscious. Despite her goddess-like beauty and come-ons, America’s It Girl still doesn’t do a thing for me. Not even a little rise.
Sitting nearby on an armchair and thumbing through one of the tabloids, she looks up and rolls her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s frustrated with my memory loss or pissed off for the interruption.
“Through Scott. He’s my manager too. He hooked us up at the Chateau Marmont. Remember?”
A hint of sarcasm underscores her last word. I shake my head no. “And how long have we been together?” Despite all the articles I’ve read, the details of our relationship are sparse.
Crossing her long, toned bare legs, she quirks a small but seductive smile. “Almost two months. It was love at first sight. The minute we fucked our brains out, we couldn’t be apart.”
So, I fucked my way into her heart. But why can’t I feel anything for her there or elsewhere? Amnesia sucks dick.
“And when did I propose to you?” My eyes soak in her engagement ring with its sparkling mega-sized marquise diamond. Must have cost a bloody fortune, but I have no recollection of buying it. Scott, who handles all my finances, must have a record of it somewhere.
“Just before the accident.” She holds up the Star magazine she’s reading. A close-up photo of her, looking tearful, her ring in full view, dominates the front page. Headline: “Tragedy Strikes after Brandon Pops the Big Question!” I glimpse the publication date. If my calculations are right, it came out the Monday after my accident.
I snatch the newspaper from her and flip through it until I get to the cover story. Photos of Bratrina grace the pages. I quickly peruse the article. So, I proposed to her over a romantic meal at my Hollywood Hills house the night before the accident and purchased the gazillion carat ring at Tiffany’s. I have no memory of the event or, for that matter, of my house. I’m eager to see it. And to get out of this antiseptic hellhole where a doctor or nurse is either fawning over me or poking me every fifteen minutes for my vitals. I’m feeling pretty good. And now that I’ve shaved, look almost back to normal.
“And what happened after I proposed to you?”
“Take a guess, Brandy-Poo.”
Brandy-Poo? The sound of it gives me mental diarrhea. I don’t recall anyone ever calling me that in my entire life. Or at least what I can remember of it.
“We toasted with champagne?”
She throws back her platinum mane and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We fucked our brains out. Right on your terrace.”
She scoots in closer and cups her hand over my crotch. And then squeezes it.
“I can’t wait to get some of you. It’s been a while.”
I go wide-eyed as she yanks down my cover. I’m clad in a hospital gown with nothing underneath. She hikes it up and there it is parked like a car. My enormous Rolls Royce of a cock.
Katrina licks her full upper lip. “Remember me?” she purrs as if she’s talking to my stationary organ. Without moving a muscle, I watch as she wraps her long fingers around the shaft. My goddamn cock just lies there as if it’s still in a comatose state. Brain to cock: Wake up. Nothing. There’s no connection. She begins to pump it with long, hard, vigorous strokes, but my cock doesn’t respond. It’s like the battery is dead. Frustrated, she strokes harder, faster. Not a peep from Mr. Willy no matter how much I will it to attention.
“Jesus, Brandon!” Katrina grumbles, pumping so hard it hurts. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I must say I’m a little worried myself. Scratch that. I’m friggin’ freaking. My pulse leaps into overdrive, and one of the monitors I’m still hooked up to starts beeping madly. Where’s a damn doctor when you really need one?
“I-I don’t know,” I stutter, gazing down at my pathetic limp dick. “Maybe it’s all the pain meds I’m on.”
Katrina abruptly releases her hand. “Probably. I’m going to have a little chat with your doctors. The only pill you need is Viagra.”
My cock sags. Amnesia is bad enough. But erectile dysfunction?
Kill me now. I might as well be dead.
Brandon
At the end of the long, frustrating week, I’m finally released from the hospital. The doctors have told me I have a classic case of retrograde amnesia—a common side effect of the traumatic brain injury I sustained from the accident I can’t remember. While it likely won’t be permanent, they cannot determine how long it’ll last. It could be weeks. Months. Even years. What’s important is that I stimulate myself with people and things from the past. My biggest concern: will they stimulate my cock? I haven’t even been able to wank myself off. My libido, thanks to the amnesia, is in limbo.
My house is a sprawling glass and concrete contemporary that sits high atop a private road in the Hollywood Hills. The views from the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows are spectacular; I’m able to see all the way from the Pacific Ocean to downtown LA. They also overlook a spacious backyard, which boasts an Olympic-sized pool and a guesthouse. A three-car garage is attached to the main house and lined up inside it are a sleek black Lamborghini, a vintage green Jag, and a monster red Hummer. To say I’m awed by my wealth would be an understatement.
I roam the expansive one-story house, taking in my surroundings and hoping something will stimulate my memory while Katrina goes to the kitchen to make lunch. It’s decorated with slick, oversized Italian furniture, mixing rich woods with leather. Photos of me are everywhere. Many of them sexy poses, with my chiseled chest exposed. A large framed picture hanging on a wall captures my attention. It’s a blow-up of a recent cover of People Magazine. The headline: “Brandon Taylor: Sexiest Man Alive!” With my perfectly mussed up ebony hair, those piercing violet eyes, that cocky smile, and my strong stubble-lined jaw, I look pretty damn hot, if I must say so myself. A troubling thought flashes into my head. Yikes. Maybe I’m gay. That’s why I can’t get it up for Katrina. Nah. None of those good-looking docs at the hospital did a thing for me. And I can’t remember doing it with another guy. The unsettling thought goes away.
Katrina returns with a tray of gourmet sandwiches along with two flutes of champagne. Today, she’s clad in tight-ass jeans, a turtleneck halter, and sky-high mules that make her look like a total Amazon. Her bountiful boobs stay as still as mountains as she saunters my way.
“Your doctor says you need to eat and rest to get your strength back,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table.
I can’t argue with her. At the reminder of my ordeal, I inwardly shudder. According to Katrina and my doctors, I was almost People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Dead!” I’m still weak and have lost some weight. Maybe a little R&R will help restore my memory. And potency. The cock is like a muscle, right? I remember reading somewhere that muscles have memory. Well, score one for me. I’ve remembered something. But why won’t my cock do the same?
Katrina reaches for the two flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “To us,” she toasts, holding up her glass. I clink mine against it. The ping resounds in my ears.
“I only drink Cristal,” my companion says as she lifts the crystal glass to her lips. They look much fuller than they did a couple of days ago. I follow her actions and take a sip of the chilled bubbly. The cool sparkling liquid sails down my throat and triggers another memory. I’d rather be drinking a beer.
“Katrina, do we have any beer? A Heineken by chance?”
She rolls her feline green eyes. “Darling, beer is a four-letter word reserved for peasants. We’re royalty. How can you not love the world’s finest champagne?”
Stuck with the champagne, I take a seat on the oversized u-shaped couch. Setting her flute back down on the tray, my fiancée follows me, except she straddles my long legs and sits on my lap. Her toned arms fold around my neck. Her tits skim my chest, and through my cotton T-shirt, I can feel her plastic-hard nipples. I have no desire to touch them or see what lies beneath her top. The scent of her cloying floral perfume wafts in the air and nauseates me.
“Does it feel good to be home?” she purrs before nuzzling my neck. Goosebumps pop along my skin, but that’s all that’s rising. Her mouth moves to my lips and she kisses me fiercely. Biting my lower lip, she forces me to part my mouth and her tongue darts inside. She takes the lead, swishing it around. Nothing’s familiar. My eyes stay wide open while awaiting some feeling of arousal. Nada. Not even a little buzz.
She breaks away. Her manicured forefinger traces my wet lips.
“Do you like the way I taste?” she breathes into my mouth.
“Yeah,” I lie. She doesn’t taste good. A hint of tobacco mixes with mint and champagne. Is she a smoker? She shoves the finger into my mouth, adding a salty layer of flavor.
While I force myself to suck her finger, she works the button and fly of my jeans. Successfully, she frees my soft cock. My unblinking eyes stay trained on her as she grips the thick length in her hand and goes down on the wide crown. Her lips wrap around it and then she trails her mouth down the shaft. Her tongue licks the underside as she comes back up. Moving her hand to the base, she squeezes my cock, pumping it hard as her mouth, in tandem, glides up and down. I finally feel the beginnings of a hard-on, but just as fast as it swells, it completely deflates. Frustrated, Katrina lets go of my cock and sits back up. Her eyes flare with fury.
“Brandon, what is wrong with you? I spoke to your doctor and he said there should be no problem. Especially with the Viagra.”
“I don’t know.” Screw the Viagra. I do know. I don’t like the way she tastes or the way she smells. And her sharp teeth scraped so hard against my shaft I must have teeth marks.
“Fuck you!” She jumps off my lap and, to my shock, flings her glass of champagne across the room. The glass hits the massive stone fireplace and shatters into shards.
Temper much?
“You’re mental,” she rants. “You need help.”
And she needs anger management. Before I can respond, the doorbell chimes. Literally saved by the bell, I leap up from the couch to open the front door.
It’s Scott. I’ve asked him to come over so I can review my finances and recent expenses. Dressed in a three-piece gray suit, he’s carrying a briefcase. He follows me into the living room where Katrina is cleaning up the mess she made. Her eyes connect with his and a smile crosses her face.
“Oh, hi, Scott. You’re just in time for lunch. Want some champagne?”
Scott declines, but helps himself to one of the fancy sandwiches. Chomping into it, he lowers himself into one of my overstuffed side chairs. After setting down his half-eaten sandwich on the tray, he raises his briefcase to his lap and pulls out a thick file. “Your expenses over the last month,” he says, handing it to me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katrina sashay out of the living room, carrying the shards of glass on a plate. “I’ll be right back,” she calls out as she heads in the direction of the kitchen. She sure knows how to move her tight, perfect-shaped ass.
Once she’s out of sight, I open the file. Skipping over the pages and pages of hospital charges, which my insurance will cover, I start with the month before the accident. Man. I’m quite the big spender. Restaurant after expensive restaurant. Thousands and thousands dropped at Barneys. Numerous exorbitant charges at a florist I never heard of. A couple of trips to Vegas at the pricey Venetian.
“I like to gamble?” I ask Scott, stopping to look up at him.
His left eye twitches. He’s got some kind of weird eye tic. “Yeah. You’re a big gambler.”
News to me.
“And what about all these florist and Barneys charges?”
Scott smiles. “After meeting Katrina, you couldn’t stop buying her extravagant flowers and clothes. I’ve never seen anyone as smitten as you.” He takes another bite of the sandwich. “Katrina showed me the love letters you sent with your gifts. I swear, man, you’re a regular Shakespeare.”
I find it disconcerting that my fiancée would share something so personal with him. But then again, they must be close. Maybe she saved them. Reading them might help jar my memory and my amorous feelings toward her. With this thought in mind, I go back to scanning the multitude of expenses. Another entry jolts me—a hefty one hundred thousand dollar check made out to the Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. My eyes flutter. Bella Stadler…the name rings a bell. I ask Scott about it.
“Don’t you remember, Brandon? She was your acting coach. You give to her school annually. You’re a big supporter.”
Tugging at my bottom lip with my thumb, I dwell on her name, a memory trying to break through. It’s futile. I move on. A few minutes later I find what I’ve been looking for. A whopping one point two million dollar charge at Tiffany’s. Made on the day of my accident. Katrina’s engagement ring.
“Did I buy Katrina’s ring just before the accident?” I’m a little surprised I didn’t give her one over our engagement dinner the night before.
“After you proposed and she said yes, you wanted her to pick it out. I was there when you phoned in the charge. You were practically creaming your pants.”
“Wish I were doing that now,” I mumble under my breath before regretting I said anything at all about my condition.
Scott lets out a little laugh before clearing his throat. “Equipment trouble?”
None of your damn business, even though you’re my business manager is what I want to say, but I bite down on my tongue. Instead, I ask to see more of my statements. Without probing further, Scott reaches into the briefcase and hands me another thick file.
“This is your portfolio. You’re worth a billion dollars. You can thank me.”
Holy crap. I am. Or at least close to that I estimate as I leaf through page after page of my investments. I own a shitload of stocks and bonds along with a boatload of real estate around the world. This house alone is worth seven million dollars.
My wealth eats at me. A wave of anxiety courses through me. A new worry. “Scott, I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot,” he says, taking the last big bite of his sandwich.
“Do I have a pre-nup?”
He laughs back his mouthful of food. “Are you kidding me?”
My stomach twists. “What do you mean?”
“What I simply mean is you don’t have one. I tried to talk you into one, but you outright refused. Said you didn’t need one. That you had no plans to get a divorce. And even if you did, you’d want to do the fair thing.”
