Brandon Bryce has forgotten himself. The memories of his past are lost.
But in this obscurity, he remembers someone. A woman he doesn’t know much about but know enough that he wants to be with her.
Will he get what he wants?
A worn-out sex swing in the sex dungeon of my penthouse.
A room with thousands of hours of porn, the walls of which lights up like a Christmas tree under black light.
A Jacuzzi that smells like sex and has a pair of bra and panties floating in it.
These are the remnants of my past.
As for the present, all I have left is my name—Brandon Bryce.
Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
I thought so too until a woman from my neighborhood threw her shoe at me just after another one tried to scratch my face. It has been brought to my attention that behind this pretty face of mine lies a certifiable a**hole.
I have so far worked on the strategy of hit it and quit it, resulting in me hurting many women. But now that I have escaped death by the skin of my teeth, things are going to be a lot different. I have decided to make amends to those who I have hurt all the while trying to find her.
I saw her once, not sure where, and now I see her everywhere. Blonde hair that fell to her shoulder in waves, smoldering blue eyes putting the ocean to shame, cherry red lips that one must have, and those tempting curves crafted by God himself. How can one forget someone like her?
She is a dream that keeps me awake at night.
A distraction that fazes me through the day.
She is my Dreamy Distraction.
Have a Slice of Cake or Two. Grab a Pitcher of Coffee. And Buckle Up.
Because this one is not an Insta Love Story.
Our utterly obsessed hero will wear his heart on his sleeve and trigger a spectrum of emotions within you as he takes you along on a wild ride full of humor, romance, and with a little bit of suspense on the top.
You see that Jacuzzi in my balcony? Isn’t it a beauty?
No, it’s not going to the charity. I need it. I’ll bring the woman from my dream here after a little wine and dine.
Both of us naked. She on top of me, kissing, water dripping from her hair, running down to her boobs as she bounces up and down on my cock.
My cock is already twitching to that thought.
“Fuck you, Brandon!” I hear a distant voice of a woman screaming.
And a women shoe hit me hard on the shoulder. It must have come from one of the two buildings on either side of me. I immediately get down on my knees in case another one is on its way.
I get that I am not popular around here. No, I am popular but for all the wrong reasons. But it doesn’t give women the right to throw their shoes at me.
If instead of a flat sandal, it was a heel, and if it was thrown by a woman with a good aim and hit me on the head instead of shoulder, I could be concussed—or worse, dead.
Imagine what my tombstone would have said.
Brandon Bryce.A firm supporter of the alcohol and tobacco industry.
Loved every woman in his life at least once.
A job creator—ask Javier.
Died in an unfortunate turn of events when a woman’s shoe hit him on the head.
In the history of popular assassination, my name would be after Lincoln and Kennedy—or probably first. People die of bullet all the time but by women’s shoe—that’s something you don’t hear every day.
I was right to kneel down. Another shoe lands in the Jacuzzi, splashing water on my face.
Good news is, the pair is complete, and they look expensive and not worn much. I can give it to Javier who in turn could gift his wife.
I crawl fast like a contender of a dog race left far behind and take a deep sigh of relief after I am back in my apartment.
I start pulling down the curtains on the window. It’s just a safety precaution. If a woman can throw her sandal at me twice, she could very well take a shot at me if she is into pig hunting.
After covering up the windows, I chug down a glass of water before I roam around in my apartment, admiring the interiors. Everything is at the place where it’s supposed to be. No room for any improvement. Now that I am going to live here, I need to get acquainted with this place. And thats what I am doing now.
I am staring at my reflection in the 200-inch LED TV in my home theater.
Apart from TV that covers an entire wall, this room has 16 speakers with Dolby 5.1 surround sound, a blue ray player, seating arrangement for twenty people, and racks full of DVDs.
The vast collection of DVDs makes me believe that my father must have taken a franchise of blockbuster videos in his time and this is my family heirloom.
Since this is my first day back, and I have nothing else to do, I decide to watch a movie. But, which one? The choice is to the point of overwhelming. I am still adjusting to the world, but I know that under this circumstance only one thing would prove to be useful— ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Moe.’
Imagine, you are anxiously waiting for your package to be delivered. The item you ordered last night is on its way, and you couldn’t believe you got it at such a good price. Finally, it gets delivered. You tear apart the package like a savage and look inside. Shit! It doesn’t look anything like you have ordered. Has it ever happened to you?
I have the same look on my face right now. I have a DVD of ‘Father Daughter Seductions’ in my hand in the case of ‘Father of the Bride.’ I am scarred for life. I am not fit to be a father of a daughter now.
I randomly pick another DVD. This one says ‘Legally Blonde’ on the cover, but inside is a DVD of ‘Blondicious.’ At least, both have a blonde on it.
‘Star Wars’ has ‘Star Wars XXX: A Porn Parody.’ This time, both names and genres have some similarities.
‘Titanic’ has ‘Titanic Tits.’
Wait! I am starting to see a pattern here.
‘Operation Dumbo Drop’ has ‘Operation Desert Stormy.’
‘Eye of the Dragon’ has ‘Eye of the Beholder.’
‘Two Girls and a Guy’ has ‘Two Girls for Every Girl.’
Yep—I definitely have OCD.
My hands are shaking. I have the DVD of ‘The Notebook’ in my hand. The cover has Ryan Gosling and Rachel Adams in each other’s arms, drenching in the rain. Their lips, so close to kissing. I know about this movie. My physical therapist Bernice told me all about it during one of our sessions. She has watched it 47 times—extended version with deleted scenes. As a man in love like Noah, I want to watch it—preferably without crying.
I narrow my eyes and slowly begin opening the case.
“Please don’t be a porno. Please don’t be a porno—”
The romance is forever ruined for me. I am staring at the DVD of ‘Diary of Love: A XXX Romance Adaption of The Notebook.’
I slam the case shut in frustration and throw it away. It crashes into another DVD which caused a domino effect in one of the racks. The arrangement and order of them are messed up, but none of them fall on the ground except one—‘A Christmas Story’.
I hear a somber music in the room.
Is that a sign?
Ignore that, it’s just the static coming from the speaker. The acoustics in this room is really great.
Of all the movies, it has to be ‘A Christmas Story,’ and it’s right at my feet. Is this a miracle?
Should I open it? No, I can’t. I am already scarred enough for a lifetime. The father-daughter relationship is ruined, romance is ruined, and now I don’t want to ruin Christmas for me. But the case is already half opened. Would it hurt to take a peek? I guess not. I won’t read the title if it’s a porno.
I pick it up, open the case, and quickly close it after just a glance. It’s neither a movie DVD nor a porno. Just a plain, unlabeled DVD. My curiosity is already piqued by now. I have to at least check it out to know what’s in it. It could be anything—a family secret, important business documents, formula of Coca-Cola. The possibilities are endless here.
I take a deep sigh and put the DVD in the player without giving it any more thought.
It’s me—the skinny, long hair, cocky, young me—on the 200-inch screen.
“Good . . . You are doing very good.” He looks down while the camera is still pointing at his face.
“I believe my business plan has worked and you are rolling in dollars by now. So, congratulations!”
That kid on the screen is barely 20, but he is so full of himself. Look at the smug look on his face.
“I know why you are watching this video, Brandon. You are all grown up now. You must have fallen in love.”
Holy fuck! Is this some sort of time traveling shit? “Now, you listen to me, asshole!” He brings his face closer. “You cannot fall in love. If you do, all the things will end for you. You will get married and fuck the same pussy again and again until your dick falls off. And if you fuck someone else during the marriage, then you are screwed. Be ready to say goodbye to the major chunk of your money in the divorce. And the fat kid that you will have would be nothing but a pain in the ass for life.”
I am seeing myself for the first time—totally candid. I cannot believe what I dick I was. I am sorry, Mom and Dad, but that’s on you. You raised an asshole.
EMILY J. WRIGHT was exposed to the romance novels in her formative years, thanks to Harlequin and her mother’s penchant to buy its publication like grocery, turning her into a sucker for romance.
It’s true what they say. You are what you eat, and so is, you write what you read. Having read, breathed, and lived the characters through words of some of the best authors, she took a leap of faith and decided to live them through her own words.
Now, she writes about kick-ass, headstrong women, paired with alpha males, and make them work to get the girl.
She lives in the peaceful suburbs of Dublin, Ohio, where she lived with Zeus, her Labrador, and her cat, Mimi.
When she is not busy writing, editing, or thinking of plot twists, you can find her in a yoga studio in a back-breaking position and later in Starbucks sipping coffee from a Venti cup.
She loves to interact with her readers, so would appreciate it if you stop by her social media pages.