I, Porn Star (I #1) (17 page)

17

LIFT OFF

The windows at
the back of the limo are tinted. Which is a good thing, because the less people
to witness my meltdown reaching critical mass, the better.

For the last
hour, I’ve been repeating three mantras under my breath:

One
million dollars.

Save
my life.

Keep
the secret
.

Each time a
silent fourth reverberates at the back of my head.

Deliver
yourself to Quinn Blackwood
.

His threat wasn’t
idle. Not when he could buy a new set of catering staff once an hour every day
for a year and barely feel a pinch in his wallet. But he was determined to make
me see how serious he was. The chopsticks barely delivered the piece of tempura
to my hungry lips when he added, “And I’ll start with Sully Manning.”

I give into a
hysteria-tinged chortle as the limo crawls through traffic. We left Hell’s
Kitchen at the stroke of seven. Besides a courteous greeting, the driver
curtailed any attempt at conversation by putting up the partition in the limo,
thereby sealing me in my moving luxury padded cell. I lasted fifteen minutes
before I texted Fionnella to find out where the driver was taking me. She’s not
answering.

The first inkling
of where I’m headed comes when I spot the signs for an airport. But it’s not
JFK or Newark. We’re headed toward Teterboro Airport.

I’ve heard a few
clients from The Villa refer to it so I know it is a private airport.

The hairs on my
nape prickle to attention.

Airport means
security.

Security means a
name popping up and getting flagged on a database. Fear, hot and acrid, floods
my insides. I claw for the abandoned phone and stiffen my shaking fingers long
enough to call Fionnella.

This time, she
answers. “Everything okay?”

“No! We’re headed
for the airport. I can’t fly. I…I forgot my ID back at the loft.”

“Don’t worry,
it’s been taken care of.”

My gut ices over.
“What does that mean? You took my ID from the loft?” I’ve only used it once
since I arrived in New York and that was to prove to Sully that I was over 18.
We both knew it was a fake, but he let it go. No way will it withstand a TSA
check. I’ll be in handcuffs before the scanner is done beeping.

“No, Lucky.
Breaking and entering isn’t my forte. What I mean is you’re not leaving the
country, so you’re good.”

“But…won’t my
name appear on some manifest of some sort?”

“What name?” she
counters.

I fall silent.

“Exactly,” she
murmurs.

“Are…are you
sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The knot in my
stomach dissipates a little. I remind myself that a lot of time and work has
gone into getting me here. That my choices are abysmally limited. I can’t trust
anyone. But backing out is not an option right now.

“Okay. Can you at
least tell me where I’m going?”

“That is not part
of my brief. If the boss wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”

“Fionnella—”

“Piece of advice,
Lucky. Don’t sweat the small stuff or the things that are out of your control.
You chose to do this. Your reasons are your own, of course, but if the end game
is important to you, learn to surrender to the journey. It’s the only way
you’ll come out the other side intact. Have a safe trip. And try the grilled
shrimp when you board the plane. They’re to die for.”

She hangs up,
leaving me with even more questions than I started the conversation with. I
don’t have time to dwell for long. The limo slowly weaves through an area
peppered with private planes and pulls into a brightly lit hangar. It stops a
dozen feet from a white and gold G650.

My jaw is too
paralyzed to drop, and I stare at the aircraft as another boatload of
WTF-are-you-doing
punches me in the face.

“Miss? We’re
here.”

I manage a nod,
force my feet to move and step out. I look at the driver. His face is politely
neutral and I know I won’t get any answers from him. Nor from the attendant and
pilot waiting at the foot of the airplane steps.

I clutch my
backpack and put one foot in front of the other.

“Welcome aboard,
Miss.” The pilot doffs his hat.

“Thanks.”

“If it’s all
right with you, we’ll be taking off in the next fifteen minutes.”

I swallow a
snort. We’re taking off whether I freak out or not. We all know this. But it’s
cute how they make me feel as if it’s up to me.

Silently, I climb
up the steps and arrive in a different world. The Midtown apartment, the Hell’s
Kitchen loft, the makeover have all been indicators that Q is extremely
wealthy. But the undeniable luxury of the private jet finally drives home to me
the potential scale of what I’m dealing with.

If a man like Q
has the power to buy me without once meeting me in person, he has the power to
do other things. Like make me disappear.

And really,
aren’t those who fall through the cracks, or make an attempt to hide, easy prey
to a ruthless predator?

My senses clang
and I turn round. Before I can make a dash for the door, the steps lift and
slide home, sealing me in the world’s most expensive tube.

Panic cloys
through me.

“Wait!”

The pilot bolts
the door and turns. “I’m sorry, Miss, but we have to take off now or we’ll miss
our slot.”

I eye the shut
door. “Open the door. Please, I have to get off.”

His eyes remain
steady on mine. “I’m sorry. It’s too late.”

Although I hear
the whine of an engine powering up, courtesy of the co-pilot, I know the pilot
isn’t just talking about the door. My thudding heart echoes the message in his
gaze.

Somewhere in the
last twenty-four hours, I’ve crossed an invisible line into the point of no
return. Q may have chosen me a week ago, but everything that has followed has
been a further test.

A test which I’ve
passed if the sudden ramp up of activity indicates. And now he’s decided,
there’s no going back.

“Take a seat,
Miss. The attendant will be along shortly with your pre-flight drink.”

He heads off to
the cockpit, and I hear the definite click of the door.

I turn around.
The attendant is pouring a glass of champagne, but I sense her attention on me.
I have no doubt if I attempt anything foolish, like open the door to the
airplane, she’ll be on me in a second. I can probably take her, but then what
would that mean for me?

At least one
thing is certain. If I don’t make it out of whatever this fucked up situation
is that I’ve got myself into, Clayton won’t get his hands on the secret. My
fingers tighten around the handle of my backpack.

As I release the
lock on my legs and head for the cream leather sofa in the middle of the plane,
I let my fingers drift over the secret compartment I sewed into the bottom of
the backpack. Perhaps it’s foolish to carry the letter and document Ma gave to
me with me. But it’s only one half of the puzzle. I memorized the other half
before I burnt it in the hope that it’d buy me further time should Clayton
catch up with me.

Thinking about
him weirdly settles my panic. The fire I jumped into after escaping him hasn’t
consumed me yet. So while I still have breath, I still have hope.

…surrender
to the journey
.

I set the
backpack aside, buckle myself in and hold my breath for my first ever ride on a
plane.

Soon after a
slightly dizzying take off, I accept a glass of champagne and the offer of
grilled shrimp.

True to
Fionnella’s promise, the shrimp is divine. As is the pat
é
served on crackers and the mini burgers and accompanying sweet
potato fries. When I return from using the lavatory, I curl up on the sofa and
stare outside the window.

Geography fails
me again, and with the outside shrouded in night, I have no clue where we’re
headed.

I try to blank my
mind to what lays ahead so I accept another glass of champagne. A few sips in,
I notice a subtle difference in taste, but really, what the fuck do I know
about vintage champagne?

The bubbles are
pleasantly tingly and the alcohol is easing the stranglehold fear has on me. I
take a few more sips, and stare at the light blinking on the jet’s wing.

It grows
strangely hypnotic. I’m not sure if we dip, or if the swaying is just in my
head. I try to take another sip, but my limbs feel heavy, lethargic.

My eyelids droop
of their own accord. Just before they shut, I see the attendant lunge toward
me.

Oops. I just
dropped the glass.

***

 
A dull headache throbs at my temple. It’s
not bad, but it’s uncomfortable enough for me not to want to open my eyes in
case there’s more pain lurking at my periphery.

Also, I sense
sunshine. And wherever this headache stems from, I know it won’t be a fan of
bright lights. So I keep my eyes shut, breathe through it and attempt to orient
myself.

The limo. The
airport. The plane. Champagne.

I’m hung over?
From one glass of champagne? Or had it been two?

My mind gives up
on unraveling the hazy memory and moves on.

I’m in bed. The
scent of crisp sheets and sea air register through my slightly foggy
senses.
 

But how did I get
here? And where the hell is
here
?

I suck in a
breath and crack my eyes open. Yep, wall to wall sunshine. A bed wide enough to
sleep a football team and a room large enough to accommodate their fans.

I drag myself
onto my elbows, kick away the comforter and glance down at myself.

The clothes I
wore to the airport are gone. I’m wearing a crisp white T-shirt and my panties.
No bra.

My heart lurches
and I feel sick. I close my eyes and concentrate on the part of my body that
would surely know if it has been violated. I feel nothing untoward. I don’t
allow myself to be relieved just yet.

I shift to the
side of the bed. Besides the need to ease my bladder, I’m hoping a
self-examination will enlighten me as to whether I’ve slept molest-free.

I emerge from the
jaw-droppingly stunning marble and slate bathroom five minutes later none the
wiser. A quick search for my things leads me to a dressing room. All my clothes
and shoes from the loft are hung and arranged in neat rows. My backpack is in a
small closet and a dressing table is set out with make-up and new accessories.

I grab a pair of
lounge pants, slip them on and return to the bedroom. Heavy, half-closed
curtains conceal floor to ceiling windows on both sides of the room. I push one
side and peer outside.

Dark sand and
pebble beach gives way to an unfettered view of water. Although the sun’s
shining, the dark-colored water makes me think we’re still in the East. But the
truth is I don’t know.

Dropping the
curtain, I turn and examine the room. The cream and gold decor is studded with
expensive art and chandelier lamps that reek of elegance and class. It’s
everything an exclusive whore purchased for a million dollars would want.

Except this whore
can’t shake the notion that she was drugged and brought here so she wouldn’t
know where she is.

Insides beginning
to quiver, I hurry across the room and throw the bedroom door open.

The soft
exhalation that emits from a nearby speaker freezes me to a stop the moment I
reach an arched hallway.

“Lucky. You’re
awake. Welcome to my home.”

18

KANSAS, NOT KANSAS

My head jerks
around, although I know it’s highly unlikely Q would reveal himself if he’s
still choosing to talk to me through his speakers.

“Your home?”

“One of many, but
yes.”

I continue down
the hallway, noting that he has a serious love of art. Each of the three
properties I’ve seen so far have had a masterpiece or ten dotted around the
place. I reach the landing and stop. “Where exactly am I, Q?”

“You’re here,
with me. At last.” His voice is low and throbs with enough anticipation for me
to reach for the steadying support of the bannister. He may have possibly
drugged me to stop me from finding out where he’s brought me, but his voice
still does disgustingly filthy things to my insides.

“You know what I
mean.”

“How would
knowing where you are change anything? You’re not thinking of running, are
you?”

I can’t deny that
the thought didn’t cross my mind when I was in the bathroom. “I just want to
know, that’s all.”

“All you need to
know is that you’re safe and will be well cared for while you’re under my
protection.”

“And does your
protection include
drugging
me? Because that’s what you did to me on the
plane, wasn’t it?”

“Lucky—”

“Please. Tell me
the truth.”

Silence throbs
for a minute. “You were given a light sedative to help you relax.”

My heart lurches.
“Why?”

“To calm you. My
pilot reported you were slightly…agitated.”

Anger ramps up my
spine. “So your answer was to knock me out?”

“It wasn’t
supposed to. But combined with the alcohol—”

“It still wasn’t
okay.”

“You were never
in danger.”

“That doesn’t
matter.” My free hand slices into my hair in a futile effort to calm the soup
of emotions bubbling through me “This situation isn’t a normal one for me. But
as fucked up as it is, I want…I
need
to be able to trust you on some
basic level.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Really?
Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Why is that?”

“I can’t help
thinking you’re the type of guy who just takes what he wants.”

“I am. But I
never take by force. I haven’t harmed you in any way, have I?

I laugh. “So what
was last night? A little harmless drugging between employer and employee? What
happens the next time I have a complaint?”

“You will be
reminded of what you agreed. Your body, your acquiescence in return for a
million dollars.” There’s an edge to his voice, blades sliding into place.

But I can’t let
this go. “That didn’t include being drugged. I’m most definitely not on board
with that. And I want you to admit that it wasn’t okay.”

He remains silent
for a long time. My gaze darts around the space, searching for where the
speakers are hidden. I don’t find any. It’s like he lives within the walls.

His soft
inhalation drifts out before he speaks. “That was not okay. You were only meant
to sleep for the duration of the journey, not pass out for eight hours. Accept
my apology.”

My breath expels
the relief locked in my chest, although there’s a lingering sense of
incompleteness in the apology. “Thank you. I accept.”

He exhales. “I
will resume full ownership now, Lucky.”

My heart begins
to race for another reason. “Okay.”

“Good. Go
downstairs. The kitchen is to your left. Your breakfast is ready.”

 
Releasing the bannister, I walk down a
sweeping grand staircase carved out of solid light oak.

When I reach the
bottom, I look around me.

The place is
grand, the type of houses you see in dynastic sagas on TV. Only with a
contemporary decor and high tech touches. For instance, there’s a camera built
into the chandelier that hangs in the magnificent foyer. And the same
tablet-like panel set into the wall upstairs is fixed next to the double doors
leading outside.

I take the left
hallway and arrive in a chef’s dream of a kitchen, complete with a double
pantry.

On the breakfast
island, fresh coffee, five types of juices and smoothies, bagels and condiments
in all flavors are laid out. Domed dishes reveal fluffy scrambled eggs, Eggs
Benedict and sliced sausages.

My stomach
somersaults with pleasure but I pause in the act of reaching for a warm plate.

“Are you here, in
the house with me?”

“Not yet, but I’m
on my way.”

My heart joins in
the circus trapeze act. While it tussles with my stomach, I grip the plate and
contemplate another quandary.

“Eat, Lucky.”

My gaze roams the
kitchen until I spot a blinking light above the fridge. “You can see me.”

“Yes. Something
else is worrying you?”

I nod. “If you’re
not here, then who put me to bed last night?”

“Someone I
trust.”

That holds no
reassurance value for me whatsoever, but I nod again and pick up a warm bagel.
Spreading it with thick cream cheese I bite self-consciously into it, stop
myself from wolfing it down like a rabid animal. Orange juice washes it down
and I clear my throat.

“Will you be
staying here, in this house, with me?”

“In another wing,
yes. But we’ll only see each other when we fuck.”

My breath stalls.
I’m reminded that I’m not wearing a bra when my sensitive nipples form pellets
against my T-shirt. I casually cross one arm across my breasts and lean my
elbow on the island.

“Can I ask you
something?”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re going to
a lot of trouble to remain anonymous. So does that mean this…production isn’t
for your exclusive use?”

“Will it matter
to you one way or the other?”

My head drops a
little. I’ve sold my body for the better part of five years, not just to put a
roof over my head or food in my stomach, but because I had no choice. From the
moment I was born, Clayton Getty laid claim on me and there was no way I
could’ve escaped Getty Falls if fate and felony hadn’t greased my way out. But
performing sexual acts was done in private, my humiliation saved for the
depraved eyes of the paying client. The thought of performing in front of a
camera, the act immortalized in a digital time capsule threatens to send my
breakfast back up.

“It…it shouldn’t
matter, but it’s hard not to think about it.”

“I can’t help you
with that. The very nature of what you’re doing should prepare you for what you
think is the worst case scenario.”

My breath
shudders out and I nod.

I carry my plate
to the sink and reach for the tap.

“I have people to
take care of that, Lucky.”

“Yeah, but
they’re not here, are they?” I yank at the tap and a torrent of water hits the
center of the plate, sending it out in a drenching fountain. My front is soaked
and heat rushes into my face. “Dammit,” I mutter.

“I need you to
stop being agitated.”

“And I need to do
one little thing
for myself.” I grab a rinse cloth and mop the counter
top.

“You’re not in
control here.”

Plate abandoned,
I turn and glare at the camera. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You need to
accept it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t
want to spend valuable time breaking you in.”

My mouth drops
open for a fistful of heartbeats before I clench my teeth. “I’m not a fucking
dog.”

“No. You’re not.
What you are, is wet.”

A soft, deadly
purr of sexual anticipation, his voice acts as an electrical conduit, charging
straight through the camera to my body.

I knew my T-shirt
was wet, but while I was arguing with him, it was a distant awareness. Now, I
look down and nearly groan at the clear outline of my breasts, nipples and
stomach in the transparent cloth. My arms rush to cover myself.

“Stay.” The
command is low-voiced. Irrefutable. Exactly like a man to his pet dog.

I should call him
out on it.

Instead my arms
drop like leaden weights to my side. My nipples furl harder, the knowledge that
they are under zoomed-in scrutiny charging them to painful, engorged points.

“Put your hands
behind your back, Lucky.”

My fingers find
and interlink behind my back without more than a fleeting thought from me. His
commands minutes ago were offensive, even though a part of me thrilled a little
in anticipation of seeing him try to break me.

But right now,
caught in the tense, explosive silence, I’m his to do with as he pleases.
Because the sheer headiness of what is happening here is indescribable.

My breaths emerge
in shallow pants. I can barely hear him over the racing of my heart.

“Are you turned
on?”

“Yes.”

“You see how
satisfying it can be for you to let me have my way?”

My fingers
twitch, but not with the need to cover myself. On the contrary I want to cup my
breasts, relish the pleasure surging through me.

When I don’t
respond, he continues. “You have beautiful tits, Lucky.”

“Thank you,” I
murmur.

“I look forward
to fucking them.”

 
More heat pours up my neck. A sound
emerges from hidden speakers. I’m not sure if it’s a groan or a grunt but it’s
deep and affected.

“I have to go.”

Disappointment
spears through me and my hands drop back to my sides. “Okay.”

“The staff will
be here at ten. They have my instructions. Work with them, please.”

The faint buzz
cuts off and I know he’s gone. I sag against the sink, a little deflated, then
alternately shocked and annoyed at myself. I tell myself it’s because besides
Fionnella, Q is the person I’ve spoken to the most in the last three weeks. But
even more than that is the truth that I’m looking forward to what will happen
tonight.

I’m looking forward
to meeting the man who’s paying me a million dollars to be his whore on camera.

***

Inevitably, the
staff includes a fitness trainer and chef. The latter I don’t mind at all. The
former has me sweating and whining within minutes of the hundred crunches I’m
required to do beside the pool. Turns out he’s a yoga instructor too, so I’m
stretched through numerous positions before he finally sets me free. I limp
back inside and stop in awe once again. This place is beyond words.

 
I discovered the library next to the
great room after breakfast. The room, complete with vaulted ceilings and a
roaring fireplace reeks with history. The great room is equally breathtaking,
with silk wallpaper and two grand chandeliers that illuminate three groups of
seating areas, each with a relaxation theme that invites guests to linger. The
full tour on this side of the property yielded a fully self-contained guest
house, a spa and cabana attached to the pool, a theatre room and wine cellar.

But a set of
double doors behind the grand staircase was locked. And if the NO ENTRY sign
above it wasn’t clear enough, a seriously intimidating electronic panel next to
the door convinced me to stay away from what was evidently Q’s domain.

At four, the
third member of staff, Stephanie, knocks on my bedroom door. I assume she’s a
cross between a housekeeper and my personal stylist, because she enters
wheeling a clothes rail, a portable massage table and more grooming products.

I’m freshly
showered and once she sets up, I lie on the table. The full body scrub is
heavenly and the massage that follows equally divine. But the descent of the
sun over the water and the unrelenting thumping of my heart signal the approach
of something that has my insides in knots.

Finally, unable
to stand the tension, I ask the question bursting on my tongue. “Is he here?”

“Yes. The boss
arrived an hour ago. He’s with his team.”

I swallow. “Is
he…is there any instruction for me?”

Stephanie
indicates I turn over, and when I do, she rubs divine smelling gel up my calf
and over my thigh. Her fingers dig in with expert massage and I suppress a
groan.

“He wants you in
the wing at six.”

Two short hours
from now. Hours that pass quickly as I’m primped and prepped. Once Stephanie is
done covering the birthmark on my thigh with a little concealer, she informs me
that the boss has chosen the russet colored lingerie, together with nude hose
and garter set for tonight. I put it on without fear of messing my hair because
it’s been styled in simple wavy curls that hang down my back.