“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?