ing fat pig. I’m surprised you could even find your way into her.”
“Put a lid on it, Katrina!” I bark, incensing her further. I draw sharp breaths in and out of my nose and clench my fists by my sides as my mad fiancée rages through the room in search of more things she can hurl at me. Yes, I need to restrain her, but I’m afraid I’ll do something far worse. Like assault her. Shit! That’s the last thing I need before the premiere of the Kurt Kussler season finale tomorrow night. Make that the next to last thing. I need Katrina here like another hole in my head.
Uncontrollable, she flings an ashtray at me, and this time it smacks me in the ribs. My chest smarts. Keeled over with pain, I think about calling security, but that could open a Pandora’s box too. Reduced to throwing harmless pillows at me, she continues on her ruthless rampage.
“Oh, and did the little whore suck your dick? I bet with her appetite she had no problem swallowing.”
“SHUT UP, Katrina!”
She comes to a sudden halt and spins around to face me. Her manic eyes laser into me, but they fail to unnerve me.
“Katrina, what I did is wrong. But I have no regrets because it felt right. I think we need to separate and find out if whatever we had before my accident can be restored.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“We should see other people.”
Her face screws up so tightly it must hurt. “Are you out of your f*ck
ing mind? We’re getting married in three weeks. The whole world will be watching.”
“I think we should call off the wedding.”
“You are out of your f*ck
ing mind.”
Maybe I am. But one thing I’m clear about is my connection with Zoey. My adorable, f*ck
able, big-hearted assistant. She’s everything I want in a woman. Feisty but compliant. She’s always been there for me. At my beck and call. The perfect submissive for my dominant ways. She takes the pain I inflict on her with grace and fortitude and savors the pleasure I give her with pure unadulterated inhibition. I’m in awe of her. Come on. Who am I kidding? I’m in love. Totally, unabashedly in love. I mentally kick myself. Dammit. I should have just broken up with Katrina for good. A clean break with no hope for a future. Maybe it’s not too late.
“Katrina—”
“You shut the f*ck
up.” Her eyes narrow. “And listen to me.”
“I’ll give you any—”
“Brandon, what part of listen don’t you get? There’s no way out of this wedding. You call it off, and I will make your life a living hell. Beginning tonight.”
My eyes stay on her as she bends down and picks up a fragment from a vase. I gasp in shock as she drags the sharp, jagged edge along the inside of her arm. Blood pours from the nine-inch gash.
“Jesus, Katrina, what the f*ck
are you doing?”
She smirks at me. “It’s not what I’m doing. It’s what you’re doing. Should I call security and tell them we had a fight and you tried to kill me?”
“Katrina, you’re f*ck
ing sick.”
She snickers. “Wrong, darling. I’m f*ck
ing smart. Watch and learn.”
To my horror, she picks up the phone that’s on an end table by the couch and then taunts me by circling her index finger around the keypad. “I’m calling security.”
“Katrina. Put. The. Phone. Down.”
“No. Not until you swear you’re going to marry me.” She taps the keypad with a long crimson fingernail. “Well?”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. The tapping gets faster, louder. Drowning out my rapid heartbeat.
The psycho bitch purses her glossed lips. “Hmm. I think I’ll just dial ‘0’ for the front desk.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Oh, I’m sure you know…makeup works wonders. While I’m waiting—those French frogs are so slow!—I’ll apply a little eye shadow. A few black and blues. A black eye will especially look good.”
Jesus. She’s sick. So, so sick.
It gets worse. She rubs her bleeding arm across her face.
“Nothing like being punched and getting a bloody nose.”
And then, she rakes a hand through her perfectly coiffed hair and starts yanking out handfuls.
“Gotta make it look like a struggle, n’est-ce pas?” she purrs, tossing the platinum clumps to the floor. “Don’t worry, darling. It’ll grow back by the wedding. Or I’ll just get a few weaves.”
She smirks. “After I take a few selfies and photos, I’m going to speed dial TMZ and give them an exclusive scoop—‘Brandon Taylor beat me, mutilated me, and sexually abused me.’ In a heartbeat, it’ll be all over the Internet and the cover story of every major tabloid.”
Bile rises to my throat and I swallow it back. “I’ll contest everything.”
She scoffs at me. “Oh, Brandy-Poo, who do you think they’re going to believe? America’s beautiful, supermodel-thin ‘It Girl’? Or America’s gun-wielding, strapping action hero?”
Oh, God! She’s right! Panic grips me by the balls. There’s no stopping her insanity. A media maelstrom is in the making at the worst possible time.