Forget about him!Get him out of your head! No matter how many times I’ve said these words both aloud and to myself, I can’t. On the wall, facing my bed is a life-sized framed Kurt Kussler poster. Brandon—or should I say, Kurt in his signature pose—all six-feet-two of his superstar gorgeousness. His fingers, aimed like a gun, point at me. Get it. Got it? Good.

Brandon gave me the poster the first Christmas on the job. Please don’t think it came with any meaning. It’s what he gave to all his employees as well as fellow cast and crew members, and I was the one who had to get them gift-wrapped and delivered. All two hundred fifty of them. That was a bitch. And it wasn’t easy to get Brandon to sign each and every one of them. In one of his bad moods, he stopped after the first fifty and made me forge his signature and sign the rest. I never bothered with mine.

So the poster’s nothing special, yet it’s special to me. I wake up to it and go to sleep with it. Brandon’s in my dreams every single night. Even before I close my eyes, he’s in my mind, watching me finger myself to a state of delirious bliss.

Sitting up in my bed, I shift my vision to my hands. I study them. Brandon called them magical and beautiful. The truth is they are. They don’t even look like they belong on my body. Unlike the rest of me, my fingers are long and slender. Elegant. I inherited them from Mama. They’re definitely my best feature and the most useful. They’ve been many places.

My eyes return to the poster. My pulse quickens. My skin heats. How could one man affect me so much? The ache in my clit is greater than the ache in my heart. I can’t take it or shake my basest desire.

Desperate, I thrust my hand beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms to that place that’s crying out to be touched. I stroke my sensitive tissues. They’re so hot and wet. I close my eyes, but Brandon’s beautiful face occupies the space in my head. What would it feel like if he touched me? Spreading my legs, I imagine his hand between them as my fingers move to my throbbing clit. I rub it vigorously, making ragged circles like a finger-painting child. My breathing grows heavy, my temperature rises, and my heartbeat accelerates. I circle harder, faster, and as I get closer to a climax, I break out into a sweat. Vibrations flood me. Behind my eyelids, violet lights strobe as I work myself more urgently. I fantasize his mouth all over my pussy, sucking, licking, flicking. Talking dirty to me. Telling me I’m sexy. Telling me: “You’re mine.” He plunges two fingers into me, his warm tongue still loving me, fucking me with relentless licks and flicks. And then in my head, I hear him whisper, “Come for me, baby,” and I fall apart at his command. Shatter into a million little pieces. My whole body trembling with spasms, I collapse back against my pillow and keep my eyes closed and my hand beneath my pajamas until I catch my breath and my heartbeat calms down. Slowly, I remove my fingers from my still pulsating pussy and peel open my eyes. My magic hands can fix my aching clit, but they can’t soothe my aching heart. Rage fills me.

Goddamn fucking poster. Jumping out of my bed, I march over to it and yank it off the wall. Mustering all my strength, I fling it across the room. It crashes on the hardwood floor with a clamorous thud. Tears blur my eyes. Shit. What the fuck did I just do? I should have just taken it off the wall and turned it around. I stumble over to it and crouch. I’ve all but destroyed it. The metal frame is dented, and the glass is shattered. Shards surround me. A fat tear falls through a crack and lands on the poster. And then I notice that except for the blistery mark my tear makes on Kurt’s lips, the poster itself is intact. I run my quivering fingers over the splintered glass, almost caressing it, and then, one by one, I gather up the shards.

“Ow!” I yelp. One of the sharp pieces digs into my middle finger—the finger that just brought me to orgasm. I watch the blood trickle down my digit to my palm. The pain is nothing compared to the pain I feel in my heart.

I used to think a girl can dream. But now that Brandon’s engaged to Katrina, it’s futile. But why am I still fantasizing about him if he’s not available? They say you want more of what you can’t have. The truth cuts me like a piece of glass: Brandon Taylor will never be mine. My heart’s bleeding too.

Zoey

My routine with Brandon returns to normal the next day. While he swims early morning laps, I fetch him his Starbucks—an iced Grande Caffè Americano—and a hot Venti version for me. When I get back to the house, he’s already at a poolside table, wearing a thick terrycloth robe and his favorite pair of Ray-Bans. His jet-black wet hair is slicked back and his face glistens in the sun.

Setting the coffees on the table, I take the empty seat opposite him and hand him a manila folder with his schedule. He likes it printed out. I act very business-like—as if my emotional and physical breakdown didn’t happen last night. My minimal acting skills have come in handy. I refrain from asking him anything more about his dinner with Katrina and her mother or the rest of his night. To my relief, he offers no information. I’m glad the bitch is nowhere in sight, and I don’t press him for her whereabouts. If she’s not rotting in hell, I don’t want to know.

I latch onto my coffee and take a sip through the plastic flap on the lid. The rich, steamy brew seeps into my veins. Brandon eyes me. My skin prickles. It’s like ultra-violet rays are shooting out of the dark lenses of his shades and penetrating me.

“What happened to your finger?”

I’m in shock he’s noticed the Band-Aid on my middle finger.

“Nothing,” I reply, trying hard to eradicate last night’s breakdown though my finger’s still throbbing. “Just a paper cut.”

“You should be more careful.”

His voice is cold, almost reprimanding. I didn’t expect him to say, “Can I kiss the boo-boo?” but yes, be a bit more compassionate. He’s for sure in one of his bad moods.

His gaze stays fixed on my finger. “It’s still bleeding.”

I glance down. He’s right. Blood is oozing through the Band-Aid. It’s a bloody mess.

“Don’t move,” he tells me. “I’ll be right back.”

I sip my coffee and in five minute’s he’s back, holding a box of bandages and a tube of Neosporin. Setting the first aid treatments onto the table, he unwraps my nasty Band-Aid. I grimace. My jagged cut looks worst than I thought. Fiery red and inflamed.

“A paper cut?” he asks.

I splutter. “It was a thick piece of paper.”

Unsure if he believes me, I hold out my quivering finger while he squirts some of the anti-bacterial ointment onto the wound and re-bandages it. One Band-Aid over my fingertip, another around it.

I wiggle my stiff finger. Not too much motion. But he’s made it feel better. “You’re good at first aid.”

He quirks a cocky smile. “I was a lifeguard. I know how to do these things.”

“Thanks.”

Not acknowledging my small grateful word, he lifts his sunglasses on top of his head, and after a sip of his iced coffee, studies his schedule. His brows knit tightly.

“Why aren’t we reviewing more episodes of Kurt Kussler together? I thought that was the plan.”

“I think you’ve gotten the gist of it. I have many more important things to handle.”

“Like what?” he challenges me, his voice as brisk as it is confrontational.

“You’ve got to do a gazillion press conferences. Everyone in the world wants to see you’re alive and well.”

“Write up some pithy lines for me. Let them know Brandon Taylor aka Kurt Kussler is ready to kick some butt.”

“What should I say about your pending wedding to K-Katrina?” It’s so hard for me to say her name. In fact, I almost say Kuntrina.