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

make a few calls. I’ll catch up with you and your mother shortly.”
    Gathering Gucci into her monstrous designer bag, she narrows her eyes and huffs. “Fine. Don’t be too late. Mommy hates tardiness.”
    As soon as she leaves, I text my latest assistant with an assignment. After twenty frustrating minutes, she texts me back saying she’s had no luck.
    Keep trying.
    Can’t.
    WTF?
    I have a date with my girlfriend. See ya.
    Jesus. I thought a gay assistant would be my answer. Someone who would have no interest in me physically and be willing to work 24/7. With rage blazing on my fingertips, I text her back.
    YOU’RE FIRED!
    To add insult to injury, she sends me a happy face emoticon. :)
    Fuck. I’ve got to do things myself. Luck. After just one call, things are looking up.

Zoey
    “T hat was fucking amazing,” says my client, a paunchy fifty-something Hollywood type named Sheldon. His privates draped by a sheet, he sits up slowly and throws his hairy, veined legs over the edge of the table. Rolls of fat spread across his ungainly torso. The fragrant lavender body oil I’ve rubbed him down with has only minimized the stench of his perspiration. And his fart. Adjusting his tacky comb-over across his sweaty scalp, he leers at me hungrily with his lustful eyes.
    “Sweetheart, did anyone ever tell you, you’re sexy?”
    Only one man ever has ever had told me that. A beautiful man I’m trying hard to forget.
    “No,” I sputter, my heart clenching at the memory of my time in Cannes with him. “I just want to eat you up alive, you sexy little beast,” Brandon said to me, holding me in his loving arms in the warm Mediterranean. Sheldon’s salacious voice cuts the heart-wrenching flashback short.
    “Well, gorgeous, let me tell you, you are. Whatcha doin’ later?”
    The gold wedding band on his ring finger has not been lost on me. Womanizing bastard! I bet he cheats on his wife all the time. She’s probably one of those blond, aging big-boobed types who hang around because of the extravagant lifestyle he offers and looks the other way. He disgusts me. Makes my skin crawl.
    I scoff at him. “Sorry. I’ve got a date with my boyfriend.”
    The sleazeball is hardly affected. He gives me a lecherous smile that I want to rip off his slimy face. “Maybe next time, sweetheart. And by the way, do you do private massages? You know…”
    I do know. He wants me to give him a testicular massage and beat off his cock. I so badly want to tell him to get the hell out of here and never come back, but I bite down on my tongue and cut him off. “Sorry, I don’t do private appointments. If you don’t mind, would you kindly get dressed? I have to get ready for my next client.”
    “Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re missing out on.” Eyeing me lasciviously, he hoists himself off the table and hands me a five-dollar bill. The fucker. He’s also a cheap bastard! I slip it into a pocket of my clinical white uniform and mumble thank you. While he gets dressed, I step out of the small windowless room and amble to a nearby sink area to wash my hands. Thank goodness, the soap is antibacterial. I squirt a generous amount on my palms and scrub them vigorously under the hottest water I can tolerate. It’s like I’m washing off cooties. If I had the time, I’d take a shower. Wash off every filthy ounce of him.
    When I return to the massage room, he’s gone. Donning a pair of latex gloves, I remove the sheet on the table, throw it into the hamper, and then re-drape the table with a fresh, clean one for my next client. All I know is his name is Dick Long. He’s coming from another appointment—a scrub—so the aesthetician is walking him to me. I hope he’s not like my previous client. But with a name like Dick Long, I wonder. Being a masseuse comes with a few plusses and a whole lot more minuses. It can be both physically and mentally draining—so many clients blabber on about their issues as if I’m their shrink while