“Katrina told me she saw you puking in the parking lot.”
“I must have eaten something funky from craft services. Or maybe that donut did me in. I Ubered home. I’m much better now.”
At least, part of my white lie is true. I do feel better. My sudden bout of nausea, however, had nothing to do with what I ate. The panty-melting, passionate shower scene Brandon filmed with Jewel made me more than hot and bothered; it made me sick to my stomach. I had to leave. And then outside, at the sight of Katrina, nausea rocketed to my chest. After puking my guts out, I managed to call for an Uber car and went home. Totally wiped out, I crawled into bed and spent the rest of the day sleeping it off. I still don’t feel one hundred percent and his presence doesn’t help.
Brandon’s violet eyes darken. “Why the hell didn’t you answer my texts or calls?
His angry voice intimidates me. “I turned my phone off and fell asleep.”
“Don’t ever do that again.” His curt tone is reprimanding. “I need to know where you are every minute of the day.”
Control freak. “Maybe you should put me on a leash or insert a tracking device under my skin.”
“Maybe I should. A collar and leash would suit you.”
From the tone of his voice, I think he’s serious. The image of me in Gucci’s rhinestone accessories pops into my head with an amusing yet arousing mental montage. Master and Slave Girl. Sit. Beg. Come. Flushing, I quickly change the subject.
“How’d the rest of the shoot go?”
With a deep breath, he rakes his perfectly mussed up ebony hair with his right hand. My eyes grow wide. It looks like Frankenstein’s. Every finger except his thumb is bandaged in splints.
“Jeez. What happened to your fingers?”
“Fucking jammed them,” he mutters, heading toward me.
“How’d you do that?”
“I did my own stunt. I was supposed to punch my assailant. But just as I was about to make contact with him, Katrina’s damn dog got loose and bit the guy’s ankle. He flinched and I ended up bashing a wall.”
“Ouch! That must have hurt.”
“Hurt like hell,” he says, swinging open the fridge door with his left hand.
“Are you sure they’re not broken?”
“Pretty sure. The set doctor said they’d be more misshapen. It’s just a sprain.” He grabs a beer with the good hand and with his thumb, struggles to pop off the bottle cap. I’m mildly amused he can’t get it off and let him struggle. He’s obviously not ambidextrous—well, at least when it comes to little things.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, frustrated.
“Let me do it,” I finally say, taking the bottle from him. I twist the top off easily. “Piece of cake. Here.” With a smug smile, I hand him back the bottle. He takes it from me with his good hand.
“Thanks.” His voice is small, surprisingly humble. Leaning seductively against the counter, he takes a chug of the beer, arching his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. He looks sexy as sin. Almost orgasmic.
“Aah! Just what I needed,” he says after the long swig. “Do you want some?”
“I don’t think there are any more beers left.”
“No, I mean a sip of mine.”
My heart does a little jump. He’s never shared anything with me, unless you count the nasty flu he gave me last year. Oh, yeah… and those fries the other night.
“Sure, thanks,” I say hesitantly. I take the bottle from him and wrap my mouth around the throat. Tilting my head back and squeezing my eyes the way he did, I take a lengthy sip. The frothy beverage fills my mouth and then I swallow. The cold, refreshing liquid courses down past the back of my throat. I open my eyes and let out a satisfied sigh before licking my upper lip. His violet gaze is on me.
A saucy smile lights up his face. “I like a girl who can drink beer like a man.”
“Doesn’t K-Katrina drink beer?” Shit. I almost said Kuntrina again. A Freudian slip?
“Nah. She’s strictly a champagne girl.” To my utter shock, he dusts my lips with one of his fingertips. Goosebumps pop along my arms.
“Have some more.”
Eagerly, I take another gulp. But this time, the frothy liquid goes down the wrong pipe and I choke. In the throes of a fit of coughing, I feel my face reddening, my eyes watering.
“Jeez, are you okay?” Brandon pats my back vigorously with his good hand while I continue to wheeze.
I nod my head like one of those stupid bobble-head dolls. Not really. I can’t catch my breath. Harsh, suffocating coughs still clog my throat. After almost vomiting up the beer, I finally calm. My cheeks are heated with embarrassment, and my eyes are tearing.
Brandon’s eyes soak me in playfully. “Stop showing off.”
“I wasn’t showing off,” I croak back.
“You were.” He snatches the bottle from me and sets it down on the granite counter.
“I’ll be right back. Would you whip me up a sandwich?”
“Sure.”
“And promise you won’t drink any more beer, at least while I’m not here. I don’t want you to choke to death. A repeat of last night is the last thing I need. I can’t live without you.”
Of course, he can’t live without me, I think as he disappears. No other assistant could put up with all his shit. So far, I’m the only one who’s made it past three months. All the others quit or were fired by his majesty. The one before me had a nervous breakdown. Brandon doesn’t remember any of them. I guess that’s some kind of blessing in disguise. They were all gorgeous. Blond and willowy—I checked out a few on Facebook. Just his type. He probably fucked them into submission and broke their hearts. Or worked them to the bone.
I swing open the fridge door and survey the shelves for what I can use to make a sandwich. Slim pickings. I make a mental note to call Bristol Farms first thing in the morning to stock up; our high-end neighborhood supermarket delivers. In addition to Brandon’s must-haves, I suppose I should also order a few bottles of expensive champagne to appease Katrina. The last thing I need is a hissy fit from the bitch.
Despite his fame and fortune, Brandon’s taste in food leans toward all-American basics—the hearty, down-to-earth brands I grew up on with Auntie Jo and Uncle Pete. Like Oscar Meyer bacon…Skippy Peanut Butter…Kraft Mac and Cheese…and Campbell’s Soup. He’s somewhat of a junk food junkie and prefers a good steak and potatoes to a frou-frou gourmet entrée. Not having much to work with, I settle on an open can of Bumble Bee tuna. With the can in hand along with a jar of mayo, I pad over to the island and start fixing my demanding boss a sandwich. While I search for some bread, Brandon’s voice bellows in my ears.
“ZO-EEEY!!!!
“WHA-AAAT?”
“I NEED YOU!”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“IN THE BATHROOM. HURRY!”
I drop what I’m doing and head over to the pantry adjacent to the kitchen. It must be one of his toilet paper emergencies. I grab a roll and scurry to his bathroom.
I knock on the door. “I’m throwing in a roll of toilet paper.” As my fingers curl around the knob, he yells at me again.
“Get your ripe ass in here NOW.”
Huh? Hesitantly, I turn the knob and open the door. Brandon’s pacing his large, state-of-the-art bathroom. His left hand without the splints is fiddling with his fly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t take a dump.”
“You’re constipated?” Oh, fuck. I hope I don’t have to stick an enema up his ass. I read on Facebook somewhere that one of his former assistants had to do that. Surprisingly, she didn’t get slammed with a lawsuit for violating her non-disclosure agreement.
“Hardly. I’m practically shitting my pants. I can’t unbutton my fly!”
I can’t help it. I burst out in laughter. Loud snorty laughter that makes me double over in hysterics. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Falling out of my hand, the roll of toilet paper tumbles to the floor and unravels.
“Why the hell are you laughing?” he barks.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!” I can barely get the words out. So much for gazillion dollar designer jeans.