It’s late. Taking another chug of beer, I remove my sides from the folder and begin to study my lines. Repeating them over and over. Forget it. I take a deep, frustrated breath. I’ve gone over this scene a dozen times today, and I’m just not feeling it. And it’s shooting in just a couple days. It’s a flashback—a heavy-duty love scene between Kurt and his late wife Alisha. It takes place in their shower. It’s not like there are many lines. More moans and groans than words. But I can’t seem to instill the few lines I have with any real emotion and make them convincing. I sound passive when I should sound passionate. Apathetic when I should sound orgasmic. Have I lost it?

Rehearsing the lines again, I have a small memory breakthrough. I hear the husky voice of my acting coach, Bella Stadler, telling me to draw from experience. Bring what you’ve lived to every part you play. If you need to feel sad and cry, think about your pet dog or a loved one that died. Thinking about putting down my lab Buddy or my parents’ fatal car crash is not going to help me. This is a love scene, a very sensuous one. From what I’ve read, me-the-player never did love…well, up until Katrina. I’ve loved her enough to ask her to marry me and exchange “until death do us part” vows, but still cannot remember a damn thing about our history or relationship. Thanks to my amnesia, it’s a void in my life. I feel nothing toward her. Dig deep, I tell myself. I try to remember. America’s It Girl doesn’t do it for me. Nothing comes to mind.

Halfway into my next line, screams for help steal my attention. I listen carefully. A woman’s voice; the cries grow louder. They’re coming from the pool area. It must be Katrina. She told me she loves to take late night swims. My panic button sounds. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. Dropping the pages of the script, I fly out of my house.

Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I arrive at the pool in no time. Breathing hard, I need to reset my mental button. Katrina is there, but she’s not the one in trouble. It’s Zoey. Her body is floating across the surface of the water. I brush past my dumb-founded fiancée and, fully clothed, jump in. With a few adrenaline-powered strokes, I reach my assistant and immediately flip her onto her back and then manage to drag her through the water to safety. Cradling her in my arms, I hoist her lifeless body out of the pool onto the cement deck. In a rapid heartbeat, I’m by her side on my knees. All color is drained from her angelic face; she’s as limp as rag doll.

“Zoey!” I shout out. No response. “Zoey!” Then it hits me.

Panic grips me by the balls. “She’s not breathing!” I say aloud while a half-amused Katrina with her arms folded casually looks on.

“Puh-lease. It’s just an attention-seeking act,” she snips.

I think my fiancée is wrong. Not wasting a second, I begin to administer CPR. Having been a lifeguard before I was an actor, it’s something I know and remember how to do. Parting Zoey’s bowed, bluish lips, I immediately cover them with mine and breathe into her mouth. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The kiss of life.

“C’mon Zoey, breathe,” I plead as I take a brief reprieve to catch my own breath. Renewed with oxygen, my mouth goes back down on her hers. I resume breathing into it. “C’mon, Zoey,” I silently pray. My sinking heart almost beats out of my chest.

“Jesus Christ.” Nada.

Zoey

“Z oey.”

It’s God. His warm lips are breathing life back into me. His strong hands pump my heart rhythmically.

“Breathe, Zoey, breathe!” The heavenly voice is louder, more desperate. He pumps me harder, faster, his soft lips touching down on mine once again.

“C’mon, Zoey!

All life is ebbing out of me. I’ve gone to a higher place.

“Jesus Christ!”

He’s called out his name. I’m with Mama. I’m His.

“Damn it, Zoey. Breathe!”

The words drift into my ear. Consciousness seeps into my veins. Wait a minute. God doesn’t cuss. I’m not in heaven. Nowhere near. Heaven, so close to the sun, is supposed to feel light and airy. Wherever I am feels cold, hard, and wet. My eyes flutter open, and as they do, I cough up water. Reality sets in. Soaked to the bone, I’m lying flat on my back on a slab of cement. I blink again. The vision of my blurred, stinging eyes grows clearer. Kneeling next to me is another god. My boss. The sexiest man on the planet…Brandon Taylor. His glistening face looms over mine. His lips are dangerously close to my mouth, his breath so close I can feel it heat my cheeks. His violet eyes are wide with worry. When I cough again, his anxious expression eases up. Dripping wet in a T-shirt and jeans, he gently lifts my head into his arms.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and breathy.

Still choking, I can’t get a word out.

“You all right?” Genuine concern fills his eyes.

Catching my breath, I nod and give him a little smile.

He smiles back with a sigh of relief. “Jeez, Zo. You almost drowned.”

The memory of my near-death experience rears up like an angry sea serpent. Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina, yanked me into the pool. On purpose. I’m almost sure of it. And she just watched me flounder even though I was crying out desperate for help. My eyes dart around the circumference of the patio. Katrina is nowhere to be found. I shiver. In part, because I’m so wet and cold; in part, because of the harrowing experience, and in part, because Brandon is holding me.

Rage and revenge rising, I debate about telling him what happened, but in the end, I simply don’t have the strength. Or desire. Besides, I can’t prove the evil bitch’s actions were deliberate. It could easily end up being a nasty my word against hers shouting match with my ass getting fired.

“I guess I’d better be going.” My voice is hoarse, and my throat burns from all the salt water I’ve swallowed.

Slowly, I lift myself to sit up, but before I can get into an upright position, Brandon scoops me into his strong arms as if I’m a mere waif. An incredible lightness of being sweeps over me as he carries me to safety. Depleted of energy, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean my head against his wet, chiseled chest. His heart beats into my ear like a psalm. Now, I’m in heaven.

Brandon

Zoey clings to me like I’m a lifesaver. In reality, that’s what I am. If I hadn’t jump into the pool as fast as I did, she might have been a goner. The thought rattles me in my steps.

She feels so light in my arms. Wet and delicious. I could carry her for miles, but arrive at her guesthouse at the end of my property in no time. I kick open the front door and transport her straight to her bathroom. I set her gently down on the tiled counter. It’s impeccably neat and organized. A reflection of her personality.

The question—how did she end up in the pool?—is hot on my mind, but right now my assistant needs attention. Dripping wet, she’s shivering like crazy, her teeth chattering madly. I rake my fingers through her soaked straggly hair, brushing errant strands out of her eyes. I meet her waterlogged gaze. “You need to take a hot bath.”

“I prefer a shower.” She smiles at me, her bluish lips quivering from the chill. “You need one too.”

She reminds me that I’m as drenched as she is, and I admit I’m a little chilled too. With a shudder of my own, the thought of taking a shower with her enters my mind. While her soaked oversized sweatshirt and baggie sweats leave a lot to the imagination, in my mind’s eye, I picture her luscious curves, scrumptious ass, and her bountiful tits. What would it be like to shower with her…wash every ounce of her…part her long chestnut hair and plant a kiss on the nape of her neck…trail my mouth down her spine to her ass… and spread those sweet cheeks and…