Free Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) by Nelle L'Amour

her brother. They both refused to tell me her whereabouts or give me her new number. I told Jeffrey to tell his sister that I love her. He called me a douche (which I am) and then threatened to sic the gay mafia on me if I ever got within an inch of her. Chances for that are unlikely. It’s like she’s fallen off the planet.
    I’m bereft. It’s like I’m in mourning. My big, sad, limp cock should be sheathed in a black sock. It’s still attached to my shredded heart by a fragile, tethered string. With Zoey forever gone, I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it up again. Or feel like a whole man.
    And it’s not just her heart and body I long for. I desperately need her back at my beck and call. I haven’t been able to find anyone to replace her. I’ve been through new assistants like toilet paper. One right after another. They’re either trying to get into my pants or are totally incompetent. A bunch of useless bimbos. I’ve missed important meetings and have been late to others because not one has been able to maintain my hectic schedule like Zoey did. Even worse, all of my social media stuff is seriously backed up. I’ve got ten thousand unanswered emails from fans, an equal number of Facebook messages, and I can’t even begin to count the number of tweets I need to respond to. Or rather my assistant needs to reply to. It’s going to be next to impossible to catch up. I fired the latest bimbo this morning after she brought me the wrong size Starbucks. I think her name was Dawn. Or was it Fawn as in fawning all over me. I can’t even remember. Zoey is not only unforgettable. She’s irreplaceable.
    “Brandon, why aren’t you ready?” Katrina’s grating voice breaks into my depressing mental ramblings. Draining my Scotch, I quickly tuck Zoey’s lace panties under the waistband of my sweats. No need to set the maniac off. We’re having cocktails at The Four Seasons with her mother and our mutual manager Scott along with the producer and director of her reality show to go over the final wedding details. The last thing I want to do. According to Enid, the headcount is now at fifteen hundred and RSVPs are still pouring in. The big event is just two short, miserable days away. I so badly want to call the whole thing off, but the psycho bitch’s threat looms. Though she acts as if nothing happened in Cannes, she slithers around me like a cobra ready to strike at any moment. The timing absolutely sucks. I owe Conquest Broadcasting my life almost as much as I owe it to my beloved Zoey. With the highly anticipated finale of Kurt Kussler airing on the Monday after the wedding, Blake Burns is one tightly wound up bundle of nerves. He fears Katrina is a loose stick of dynamite that can explode anytime, anywhere. And he’s right.
    “Jesus, Brandon, can’t you answer a simple question?” Katrina’s voice grows snippier as she gets closer. “What the fuck is with you lately? You sure as hell better not be having second thoughts.”
    “Just leave me alone, Katrina.”
    “Aren’t we in a mood?” she snaps. Wearing her usual stilettos and a short halter-neck dress, she stops to admire herself in a mirror. Gucci, newly groomed for the wedding, catches sight of me and jumps out of her arms. He skedaddles onto the couch and cuddles next to me.
    Not even the adorable pup can get me out of my funk. Nothing can. Not a swim. Not a hike. Not even a bottle of Scotch. I’m as depressed as I am stressed. Goddamn accident. Goddamn Katrina. My mind is confused; my cock is confused; and my heart is confused. I’m totally fucked up.
    Katrina’s sharp voice breaks once more into my thoughts. “You should get yourself a massage.”
    Ping. A light bulb turns on in my dark, muddled mind. Just like I’d seen them pictured in the Sunday funnies when I was a kid. I have a bright idea. For a change, Katrina’s right.
    “Brandon,” she barks again, “let’s go for God’s sake.”
    “Katrina, why don’t you head out? I have to