Well, I guess that means I can’t discuss my script with Zoey. That sucks. She could be helpful since she knows the show so well. Read over what I’ve written and make suggestions. Even fix lines and typos I miss. Take dictation. My stomach tenses at the daunting task that lies ahead. Will the action hero make it as an action writer?
With this ponderous question weighing on my mind, I follow Blake to the exit door. As I’m about to split, Libby corners me.
“So glad to finally meet you. Give my best to Zoey.”
My brows shoot up, “You know her?”
“Yes. My brother Chaz is dating her brother.”
“I didn’t know that.” The truth is I don’t know much about Zoey at all.
“I’m surprised she never told you.”
I heckle. “Maybe she mentioned it once, but I must have forgotten.” That’s likely the truth too.
Blake, checking his briefcase before he leaves, chimes in. “Libby and Chaz happen to be my wife’s best friends.”
Confused, I say, “Five degrees of separation.” Part statement, part question.
Libby corrects me. “In this town, it’s more like two.”
I laugh lightly. She’s right. Given her connections, I bet she knows my fiancée. I give it a shot.
“Do you know my fiancée, Katrina Moore?” I ask after Blake and the others take off.
She snickers. “Sure. Everyone knows your fiancée. She’s America’s It Girl.”
“I mean, do you know her personally?”
She gathers up her belongings. “I have to go. I want to start writing up the focus group report while the findings are fresh in my mind.” She extends her right hand, the one that’s not holding a giant tote bag. “Really, so great to finally meet you, Brandon. And way to go on the season finale story direction. I can’t wait to see the episode.”
I shake her hand. My mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all. Libby totally avoided my question. There’s no doubt in my mind she has nothing nice to say about Katrina. Does anyone?
Five minutes later, I’m back outside. The night air is crisp and I walk briskly back to my car. Ideas for the season finale are already spinning in my head. The idea of Kurt Kussler finally acknowledging his feelings for his assistant Mel feels right to me. With all the emotional and physical obstacles my alter-ego faces, I just don’t know how he’s going to get there. I only wish my assistant Zoey could help.
Zoey
I have a terrible case of the uglies. I’m not talking a bad hair day, major zit, or bloat. I’m talking hate, jealousy, and anger. I hate Katrina. I’m jealous of her. And I’m angry with myself for feeling the way I do.
It’s seven o’clock. Brandon must be back on the Conquest Broadcasting lot watching the Kurt Kussler focus groups. After my meeting with Pops, I came home and put together a file of the people who would be attending from the network and show. Rather than reviewing it with him face to face, I texted him and told him that I was leaving it on the coffee table. He texted back with one word: Fine. While I should have been relieved, disappointment rippled through me. I was expecting him to ask me to meet with him. Wishful thinking. I’d set myself up for a letdown. An emotional slap in the face. Reality stung. He was probably too busy fucking Katrina. Finishing what they’d started in the afternoon.
That tormenting image moves to the back of my mind as I picture the focus groups. I wish I could be there and hear what viewers think about Kurt. I did a focus group once when I was a masseuse—to test out a new line of aromatherapy oils and lotions. It was a lot of fun. I got to give my opinions and I even got paid one hundred dollars. Plus, the beauty supply company gave all the participants a bagful of their expensive products.
I imagine what it would be like to be in the Kurt Kussler focus group. While I change into some comfy sweats, I play a silly game in my head: Intimate Focus Group of One.
Moderator: “What do you think about the character, Kurt Kussler?”
Me: “Oh my God. He’s so sexy. Every word that comes out of his mouth makes me swoon.”
Moderator: “Be more specific. What exactly do you like about him?”
Me: “His sultry voice. His gorgeous body. Those piercing violet eyes. The way he moves. His fearlessness. His passion.”
Moderator: “Is there anything you don’t like about him?”
Me: “I can’t think of anything.”
Moderator: “What about the actor playing the part?”
Me: “You mean Brandon Taylor?” (I say his name to myself dreamily.)
Moderator: “Yes. What do you think about him?”
Me: “He’s perfect…I mean, for the part.”
Moderator: “Is there anything you don’t like about him?”
Me: “Just one thing. He can never be mine.”
While the moderator laughs at my response in my head, hopelessness sweeps over me. I curl up on my bed with my Kindle and some erotic romance I downloaded before my spa “vacation.” I can’t get past the first paragraph. My mind jumps back to that unfortunate encounter. All I can think about is what I saw. Fucking Katrina turning on the tears and then sucking Brandon off. Believe me, I know fake tears and Katrina’s were the premium crocodile type. But Brandon fell for them and then fell for her blowjob big time. The scene, culminating with his ecstatic groan of relief and his impassioned expression, plays again and again like it’s on a loop.
Stop it, Zoey. Stop it! You’re a chunky, lowlife assistant who gets lost in the crowd. Brandon has never looked at me as anything more than his go-to girl. His personal slave. Sure, the slave driver’s been a little nicer, but that’s likely because he’s lost his mind. Maybe he’ll remember…
One hour later, I’m still on the first page of the book. Make that the first sentence. I just can’t focus. I need to clear my head. Maybe chill outside…inhale the cool evening air…and watch the lights of the city twinkle like stars.
Once outdoors, I pick a chaise by the deep end of the pool and stretch out. The mid-January night air is chilly, easily in the forties, and I’m glad I threw on my treasured Kurt Kussler sweatshirt. It was another Christmas gift from Brandon—again nothing special since he gave one to everyone in the world. But no one wears Kurt Kussler on their heart the way I do. My ventricles thrum.
I inhale an invigorating deep breath of the crisp, quiet air. On the exhale, all the tension of the day dissipates. A much needed peacefulness washes over me. Brandon’s property is a little bit of heaven so high above the hustle and bustle of the City of Angels below. Lit with soft pastel lights, the heated pool shimmers, throwing off a cloud of steam, and blends in beautifully with the canvas of the twinkling LA skyline. Numerous photographers and set designers have begged to shoot up here, but Brandon always makes me turn them down. He enjoys his privacy.
Talking about privacy, it looks like I have company. A tall, lean figure in a long white robe slinks around the pool, moving like a lioness. Katrina. Unaware of my presence, she shrugs off her robe at the edge of the deep end. My eyes stay riveted on her. I’m in awe of her beauty and her grace. The full moon illuminates her flawless porcelain skin, long sinewy muscles, and broad sculpted shoulders. She’s wearing a sleek white tank bathing suit that’s cut to make her impossibly long legs look longer and to bring out every sensuous curve of her perfectly proportioned body. The slender five-foot nine beauty looks like a goddess. The perfect mate for a sex god like Brandon. I watch as she gathers up her golden mane into a high ponytail, lowers her goggles over her eyes, and then lifts her long, toned arms above her head into a diving position. Without hesitation, she springs off the side of the pool, headfirst into the water. Her arched form is perfect, elegant just like her, and she meets the water with only the tiniest of splashes. She immediately segues into a graceful yet powerful breaststroke, lifting her head minimally for a breath of air. Swimming lap after lap, she looks like a siren. I can’t take my eyes off her.