Katrina cups my other hand, the one with all the IVs. “You had me so worried. I’ve been by your side praying you’d recover.” She plants a hot kiss on my cheek. It does nothing to arouse me. More worry washes over me as she runs her fingers through my hair.
“Darling, we’re going to have to get you cleaned up and into shape. You should be just fine by the time the wedding is televised.”
Impulsively, I yank my hand from hers. “What are you talking about?”
Her face lights up. “We’re getting married and the whole world is going to watch. On a special edition of my reality show, America’s It Girl. My ratings are going to go through the roof.”
A sinking feeling sets in. I don’t remember a goddamn thing. And you know what, maybe I don’t want to.
Brandon
The next three days in the hospital are ones I’ll remember. I get my first taste of fame, and I’m not sure I like it. Once word gets out that I’m alive and well (except for my memory loss), every nurse, attendant, and doctor stops by my suite on Cedar’s VIP floor for my autograph. It’s like a circus. My hand is so sore I may need a sling.
Katrina shows up every day, in one designer outfit after another, and sits with me for an hour or so. Now that I’m out of my coma and on the road to recovery, she’s got better things to do. Like shop and work out. And, of course, plan for our wedding.
Each time she visits, she brings along a slew of tabloids to jog my memory. I am headline news. The front page of last week’s Enquirer is plastered with a photo of me in my coma all hooked up to gizmos and monitors and my teary-eyed fiancée by my bedside. Or should I say deathbed. The all-caps headline: “DOOMSDAY FOR BRATRINA!” Bratrina? What bonehead came up with that? I cringe.
Older issues from last month feature photos of Katrina and me in happier times…out to dinner…at a movie premier…at the beach. I read the articles and study the pictures. We look and sound like the hottest couple in Hollywood. But no matter how hard I search my brain, I can’t remember a damn thing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.
“How did we meet?” I ask my fiancée on my third day of being conscious. Despite her goddess-like beauty and come-ons, America’s It Girl still doesn’t do a thing for me. Not even a little rise.
Sitting nearby on an armchair and thumbing through one of the tabloids, she looks up and rolls her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s frustrated with my memory loss or pissed off for the interruption.
“Through Scott. He’s my manager too. He hooked us up at the Chateau Marmont. Remember?”
A hint of sarcasm underscores her last word. I shake my head no. “And how long have we been together?” Despite all the articles I’ve read, the details of our relationship are sparse.
Crossing her long, toned bare legs, she quirks a small but seductive smile. “Almost two months. It was love at first sight. The minute we fucked our brains out, we couldn’t be apart.”
So, I fucked my way into her heart. But why can’t I feel anything for her there or elsewhere? Amnesia sucks dick.
“And when did I propose to you?” My eyes soak in her engagement ring with its sparkling mega-sized marquise diamond. Must have cost a bloody fortune, but I have no recollection of buying it. Scott, who handles all my finances, must have a record of it somewhere.
“Just before the accident.” She holds up the Star magazine she’s reading. A close-up photo of her, looking tearful, her ring in full view, dominates the front page. Headline: “Tragedy Strikes after Brandon Pops the Big Question!” I glimpse the publication date. If my calculations are right, it came out the Monday after my accident.
I snatch the newspaper from her and flip through it until I get to the cover story. Photos of Bratrina grace the pages. I quickly peruse the article. So, I proposed to her over a romantic meal at my Hollywood Hills house the night before the accident and purchased the gazillion carat ring at Tiffany’s. I have no memory of the event or, for that matter, of my house. I’m eager to see it. And to get out of this antiseptic hellhole where a doctor or nurse is either fawning over me or poking me every fifteen minutes for my vitals. I’m feeling pretty good. And now that I’ve shaved, look almost back to normal.
“And what happened after I proposed to you?”
“Take a guess, Brandy-Poo.”
Brandy-Poo? The sound of it gives me mental diarrhea. I don’t recall anyone ever calling me that in my entire life. Or at least what I can remember of it.
“We toasted with champagne?”
She throws back her platinum mane and laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We fucked our brains out. Right on your terrace.”
She scoots in closer and cups her hand over my crotch. And then squeezes it.
“I can’t wait to get some of you. It’s been a while.”
I go wide-eyed as she yanks down my cover. I’m clad in a hospital gown with nothing underneath. She hikes it up and there it is parked like a car. My enormous Rolls Royce of a cock.
Katrina licks her full upper lip. “Remember me?” she purrs as if she’s talking to my stationary organ. Without moving a muscle, I watch as she wraps her long fingers around the shaft. My goddamn cock just lies there as if it’s still in a comatose state. Brain to cock: Wake up. Nothing. There’s no connection. She begins to pump it with long, hard, vigorous strokes, but my cock doesn’t respond. It’s like the battery is dead. Frustrated, she strokes harder, faster. Not a peep from Mr. Willy no matter how much I will it to attention.
“Jesus, Brandon!” Katrina grumbles, pumping so hard it hurts. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I must say I’m a little worried myself. Scratch that. I’m friggin’ freaking. My pulse leaps into overdrive, and one of the monitors I’m still hooked up to starts beeping madly. Where’s a damn doctor when you really need one?
“I-I don’t know,” I stutter, gazing down at my pathetic limp dick. “Maybe it’s all the pain meds I’m on.”
Katrina abruptly releases her hand. “Probably. I’m going to have a little chat with your doctors. The only pill you need is Viagra.”
My cock sags. Amnesia is bad enough. But erectile dysfunction?
Kill me now. I might as well be dead.
Brandon
At the end of the long, frustrating week, I’m finally released from the hospital. The doctors have told me I have a classic case of retrograde amnesia—a common side effect of the traumatic brain injury I sustained from the accident I can’t remember. While it likely won’t be permanent, they cannot determine how long it’ll last. It could be weeks. Months. Even years. What’s important is that I stimulate myself with people and things from the past. My biggest concern: will they stimulate my cock? I haven’t even been able to wank myself off. My libido, thanks to the amnesia, is in limbo.
My house is a sprawling glass and concrete contemporary that sits high atop a private road in the Hollywood Hills. The views from the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows are spectacular; I’m able to see all the way from the Pacific Ocean to downtown LA. They also overlook a spacious backyard, which boasts an Olympic-sized pool and a guesthouse. A three-car garage is attached to the main house and lined up inside it are a sleek black Lamborghini, a vintage green Jag, and a monster red Hummer. To say I’m awed by my wealth would be an understatement.
I roam the expansive one-story house, taking in my surroundings and hoping something will stimulate my memory while Katrina goes to the kitchen to make lunch. It’s decorated with slick, oversized Italian furniture, mixing rich woods with leather. Photos of me are everywhere. Many of them sexy poses, with my chiseled chest exposed. A large framed picture hanging on a wall captures my attention. It’s a blow-up of a recent cover of People Magazine. The headline: “Brandon Taylor: Sexiest Man Alive!” With my perfectly mussed up ebony hair, those piercing violet eyes, that cocky smile, and my strong stubble-lined jaw, I look pretty damn hot, if I must say so myself. A troubling thought flashes into my head. Yikes. Maybe I’m gay. That’s why I can’t get it up for Katrina. Nah. None of those good-looking docs at the hospital did a thing for me. And I can’t remember doing it with another guy. The unsettling thought goes away.