He puffs again on his cigarette. “Other than she likes to be on top?”
I’m getting nowhere with him. It’s strange he knows what she likes but has no clue about my kinkiness. I’m definitely not going to tell him about it. Or that I’ve been having wild sex dreams about my assistant. Even when I’m not dreaming about her, I fantasize about spreading her legs and bending her over. Making her come a thousand different ways and hearing her scream out my name. Oh, that pretty mouth. So beautiful when it opens wide. Wide enough for me. In my mind’s eye, I picture it wrapped around my massive shaft, sucking, licking, and sending me over the edge. I feel my cock swell beneath the table.
“How did it go in New York?” asks Scott, bringing my focus back to him. “It’s too bad you couldn’t go with Katrina to Paris.”
I squirm in my chair, painfully aware of the ache between my legs. I’m going to tell him the truth and gauge his reaction.
“Katrina and I still aren’t getting it on. And I still don’t have any feelings toward her.”
Scott’s jaw tightens. “Well, you sure could have fooled me on Letterman. The two of you rocked it. It was one of his highest rated shows ever. The public can’t get enough of Bratrina. Fan mail has been pouring in everywhere—CBS, Conquest, and at Celebrity-TV. The world can’t wait for you and Katrina to tie the knot.”
My stomach twists. The words spew out.
“I’m having second thoughts.”
Scott’s cigarette practically falls out of his mouth. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Maybe we should postpone the wedding until my memory comes back.”
Scott’s left eye twitches while his face darkens. “You’re out of your f*ck
ing mind. You’re talking career suicide. Listen, Brandon, just get the hell married and everything will come back to you.”
Maybe he’s right. He nervously takes another puff of the cigarette and then blows out an offensive cloud of smoke in my face. He goddamn better not give me cancer.
“Scott, do me a favor. Put out the cigarette.”
A troubled expression washes over his face. He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and stamps it out.
“Listen, Brandon, let’s change the subject. I came over here because I have a personal favor to ask of you.”
“What?”
“I need to borrow a couple grand. I’ll pay you back.”
I digest his words. I just paid him his weekly salary. Twenty grand. He needs more money?
His anxious eyes stay fixed on me. His left eye is twitching considerably. More than before.
“Sure,” I say, no questions asked. “I’ll write you a check when we go inside.”
He smiles with relief. “Thanks, Brand-man. I appreciate it.”
Five minutes later, we’re in my office. I unlock my safe and pull out my large checking ledger. Transporting it to my desk, I sit down and make out a check to him in the amount he requested. Two thousand dollars. With my felt-tipped pen, I write “loan” in the memo before signing it. Somehow, I think I’m never going to see the money again.
While I tear it out of the ledger, my manager eyes my computer screen. “How’s the script going?”
Shit. I didn’t close the file on my desktop. I’ve got to be more careful. The story is top-secret. Not even my manager can know about it. Especially one I don’t trust. I hastily stop what I’m doing and shut down the computer.
“Good,” I stammer as the screen goes blank.
While I finish with the check, Scott sets his leather briefcase on the corner of the desk and unzips it. Overstuffed, it tips over and the contents splatter onto the floor.
“f*ck
,” Scott mumbles, under his breath. He squats down to gather the assorted papers. Jumping up from my chair, I join him. The repulsive scent of his cloying cologne and smoke-filled clothes wafts up my nose.
“Thanks, man,” he says, stuffing his briefcase.
Helping him, I eye what looks to be an itinerary that includes a round-trip three hundred dollar ticket to Vegas and a three-day stay at The Venetian. He’s departing tonight. Not making mention of it, I slip it into his briefcase. He throws in the last remaining papers and a fallen box of Camels and then zips up the case. We stand up in unison.
“Don’t forget this,” I say, handing him the check.
“Yeah, thanks again, man.” With jittery fingers, he shoves it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m gonna be out of town for a couple of days, but call me if you need anything.”
“Good luck in Vegas,” is what I want to say, but I bite my tongue. There’s a reason why he didn’t volunteer his destination.
As soon as he’s gone, I call Pete and tell him about Scott’s mysterious trip to Sin City. “He’s on Southwest Flight 389 departing tonight at 7:50 from LAX.”
“Me and the missus haven’t been to Vegas in a while.” I can picture Pete smiling on the other end. “Thanks for the tip.”