I, Porn Star (I #1) (36 page)

“It’s a natural
reaction.”

“To throw money
at everything?”

“To seek what he
thinks is the most effective solution to a problem.”

“I’m not a
problem! At least not his problem. He can’t pull my strings and manipulate me
any more. And how the hell did you two find me anyway?”

“I’m very
resourceful. And let’s face it, with Getty behind bars, you haven’t tried very
hard to hide your tracks. Or he wouldn’t be sending you those texts within days
of buying a new phone.”

“Maybe I should
try harder then. Maybe I should take this money and use it to place a few
continents between us, hide in a place where he can’t find me.”

“He will always
find you, Elyse. There’s nowhere on earth you can disappear to that I won’t
find you, if the boss wishes me to.”

“I know who he is
now, Fionnella. You don’t need to keep calling him
the
boss
.”

“He may no longer
be your boss, but he’s mine.”

“What’s your
deal, Fionnella? Why are you here, fighting for him?”

She looks off
into the rolling fields and paddock for a minute, before she meets my gaze. “He
tried to help me with my son. Michael came home from Afghanistan with PTSD. He
was Adriana Nathanson’s patient. You’ve seen the footage. You know how she
treats her young male patients. He was under her care for a year before he
committed suicide.”

My hand lifts to
my mouth as horror drenches me. “I’m sorry.”

Grief blankets
her face for a moment, but then her brisk manner returns. “Take the money,
Elyse. If not for yourself, then for the sister you gave every dime of those
eight hundred thousand dollars to. Think what this could do for Petra.”

“Please don’t say
her name,” I mutter, still caught in Fionnella’s confession.

A dart of hurt
crosses her face. “What did I do that was so bad, Lucky? Hmm? You signed up to
do a job. I ensured you were taken care of so you could do it. Are you
condemning me for that?”

“You knew what he
was doing with me. With Elyse. Lucky knew what she signed up for. Elyse didn’t
deserve the mind-fucking that came with the deal. She didn’t deserve to have
her feelings fucked with.”

“No, you’re right.”

I exhale in
disbelief. “That’s all you have to say?”

“It’s not for me
to apologize for him.”

“So what, you
want me to go have a cup of coffee and a conversation with him?”

“He can’t have a goddamn
coffee or conversation with you when you’ve got a restraining order out on him.
And he certainly can’t do that when he’s hell-bent on killing himself!”

Icy chains
shackle my heart. “What are you talking about?”

She sighs and
it’s a weary, hollow sound. “This was his plan all along, Lucky. Expose his
father, stepmother and shrink. Then find a way to end it all. Except you came
along. You gave him hope! Probably even love. Am I right?”

I shudder in the
face of the raw accusation.

“And now you’re
withholding it.”

My eyes widen. “Please
tell me you’re not finding some way to blame me for all of this?”

She shrugs. “Love
comes with responsibility. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re
responsible for him. It’s your name he toasts to every time he gulps down a
mouthful of whiskey, and trust me, he does that very often. It’s your name he
screams out for in his sleep. You be the judge of what needs to be done. The
jet will be at Vancouver International for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll
leave your name with the crew. If you’re not there by midday tomorrow, it’ll
take off.”

41

SYNC

QUINN

Maybe my cracks
aren’t so bad.

Maybe the chasm
isn’t as deep as I thought.

Maybe she’ll take
the leap with me.

Maybe with her,
I’ll survive the fall.

Maybe she’ll even
save me.

Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe…it’s too
late.

***

LUCKY

I step out of the
limo and take a bracing breath. Above me soars the skyscraper that holds
Quinn’s home. Or so Fionnella tells me.

I’ve been in so
many of his properties I’ve lost count. But this Upper East Side building is
where he is right now.

Where fuck knows
what will happen.

I’m still
slightly stunned by my decision. The last minute dash to the airport
temporarily silenced the vicious butterflies demanding to know what the hell I
was doing.

But here, now,
staring at the glass facade, I hesitate. I shouldn’t have come. Hell, I should
have fled the other way. But will I ever forgive myself if, after all that’s
happened, I lend a hand in the downfall of a man who clearly needs help?

The Monday afternoon
sidewalk traffic is light, or as light as can be without all the tabloid frenzy
that dogged me a few months ago before I escaped to Vancouver. Everywhere I
went I saw my face on the news. Pictures of Quinn and I outside XYNYC alongside
a censored one of me and Q in bed seemed to be pictures of the year.

Although
humiliation still burns from being publicly exposed by Quinn’s film, I’ve made
grudging peace with myself. Even before Fionnella pointed it out yesterday, I
accepted that I walked into the Lucky/Q thing with my eyes wide open and
therefore was accountable for my own actions.

It’s the Elly
part of my story that tore my heart in shreds. And that heart hasn’t recovered.

Pushing my
shoulders back, I walk toward the revolving doors. I can’t linger on the
sidewalk. I’m already attracting curious glances.

The doorman holds
it open for me and the concierge doesn’t stop me as I head for the private
elevator.

Fionnella
provided me with the security code for the door. The possibility that Quinn
won’t be in a state to answer his own front door ramps up the anxiety of what
I’ll find behind the slate double doors.

The interior is
gloomy when I enter. The air-conditioning is turned up high and the place is
dark and cold and desolate.

I want to call
out to him, but fear freezes my vocal cords.

What I can see of
the minimalist decor looks bleak and clinical. The floor to ceiling glass wall
is frosted, blocking out the blazing July sun.

I search the
living room until I find the window remote. I’m about to click when I hear a
sound behind me.

Quinn.

“Leave it,” he
croaks, his voice full of rocks.

He’s a shadow in
the darkened hallway, but I know it’s him just by the ferocious awareness charging
through my body. It freezes me in place as it rams its presence deep, punishing
me for daring to attempt to live without it.

I need to say
something. I open my mouth.

“I don’t want you
here, Nella. You mean well, I’m sure, but I just want to be left alone,” he
says. His voice is low and raw with naked anguish, but the demand is forceful.

I swallow and
take a step forward. “It’s not Fionnella. Quinn, it’s me.”

That fearsome
deathly stillness shrouds him. For minutes we stay like that.

Then he stumbles
forward. “Lights,” he wheezes. Then more forcefully, when the room stays dark.
“Lights!”

Soft light floods
the room. Contrary to what I thought, there are warmer colors in here. Browns
and soft greys blend with the sharper tones. But the decor isn’t what interests
me right now.

Quinn staggers
forward again, his bare feet soundless on the polished hardwood floors. His
black hair is overgrown and wildly unkempt, easily touching his shoulders. He’s
also sporting a full beard, which against the brilliance of his eyes makes his
face even more hauntingly beautiful.

He’s lost a lot
of weight, his hollow cheeks not disguised by the facial hair. His body is
leaner too, the T-shirt and jeans hanging off him. My gaze tracks downward.

And that’s when I
see it.

The whiskey
bottle in his hand. It’s half empty, the amber liquid sloshing around with his
forward momentum.

“Elyse…you…no,”
He stops and shakes his head. Then he smashes his lids closed and takes a huge
gulp of whiskey.

“Quinn.”

He slams out his
free hand, as if to push me away, and, eyes still shut, takes another drink.

“Not real,” he
slurs. “You’re…not…real.”

Another
desperate, memory-wiping gulp and he chokes. He doubles over in a hacking fit.
I drop the control and rush toward him. He rears up abruptly, his chest heaving
as he stares me down.

One arm comes up
and he swipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Feverish eyes
rake me from head to toe, and back again.

“Quinn. It’s me.
I’m here.”

He takes a
tentative step forward. And another.

He stands before
me, tall, strong. Half the man he used to be. And my heart breaks. For the
childhood he can never look back on without pain and sorrow. For the path he
chose because he didn’t manage to do the impossible and save his beloved mother.

For what he’s doing
to himself now.

His eyes are
severely bloodshot, which makes the silver blue stand out even more vividly.

I’ve missed his
eyes…

“Elyse?”

I nod, my throat
too clogged to speak.

The hand he lifts
shakes uncontrollably. He bunches it into a fist but the shaking doesn’t stop.
“Please be real. God. Please.”

My hand covers
his fist and he shudders. “I’m real, Quinn. I promise.”

I catch his thick
wrist in mine and when I walk backwards into the living room, he follows, his
gaze bolted on mine.

“I came…like you
asked. But if you want to talk, you need to put the bottle down, Quinn.”

He shakes his
head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” I
hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”

His grip tightens
around the bottle neck. “No. It’s all I have. It’s the only thing that works. I
can’t…you can’t take it away from me.”

This
was his plan all along…find a way to end it all.

His whiskey
breath washes over me and my heart somersaults in my chest.

He’s trying to
drink himself to death.

“Give me the
bottle, Quinn.” Alarm hardens my voice, but he’s equally as resilient.

“I said no!”

“Okay. Do you
want me to leave? Fine, I’m leaving.”

It’s a lie. I do
a quick search and head for the kitchen. Sure enough, he races after me.

He skates to an
unsteady stop opposite where I stand at the center isle, hands propped on my
hips. “How about we put your precious bottle right here, on the counter? It can
stay here while I fix you something to eat. I’m hungry myself. You don’t want
me to starve, do you?

The act of
frowning makes him dizzy. He sways on his feet. Of course not,” he slurs. “You
can eat. But I don’t want anything.”

I shake my head.
“That’s not going to work for me.” I walk around and push a stool toward him.
“Sit down. I’ll fix us
both
something to eat. I won’t have you ogling me
while I stuff my face.”

That garners half
a pained snort. But he sits, the bottle still tight in his grip.

I dart around the
massive kitchen, opening and closing drawers, fridges and cupboards. I find
enough to make two ham sandwiches and a bowl of mixed fruit. His eyes track me
throughout, and when I sit down next to him, his whole body shudders.

“You’re here,” he
murmurs.

My breath shakes
out, and I close my hand gently over the fist clutching the bottle. “I’m here,
Quinn. I promise.”

He slowly releases
his stranglehold on the whiskey. I set it down out of arms reach and push a
plate in front of him. He barely acknowledges it. My throat feels too tight to
contemplate chewing, never mind swallowing. But I pick up the sandwich, take a
bite.

He makes no
attempt to copy my move. So I pluck a couple of grapes off the stem and hold
them against his mouth. He slowly parts his lips and takes them. He chews
without taking his eyes off my face. Heady with the small triumph, I take turns
eating and feeding him.

He’s halfway
through his sandwich when his face contorts. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he erupts
from the table and darts out of the kitchen on surprisingly steady feet.
 

I chase after
him. “Quinn!”

He doesn’t
respond, but I see him disappear into a room at the far end of the hall. I go
after him and enter the bedroom to hear the sound of gut-rolling retching.

Shit.

I’m halfway to
the bathroom when the image on his large TV screen catches my eye. I stumble to
a halt and stare at the shot of myself, asleep in the Hell’s Kitchen loft.
There’s a time stamp on it and the footage is frozen in place. I’m more shocked
than disturbed by the fact that Quinn is still in possession of images of me.
That he’s watching me even after all this time.

Another bout of
vomiting refocuses my attention. I enter the bathroom to find him crouched over
the toilet. His skin is sallow and beaded with sweat and his whole body shakes
as he expels whiskey-drenched stomach contents.

I grab a
washcloth and run it under cool water. He groans and closes his eyes when I
press it to his forehead. The heaving eventually stops and he collapses against
the vanity.

Sinking down next
to him, I’m lost as to how to help him.

“Can I get you
anything?”

His hand blindly
searches for mine, pulls it onto his stomach and clamps tight. “Stay,” he
rasps.

He takes a deep
breath, two, then he’s surging towards the bowl again.

The retching
continues for a better part of an hour, by which time, I’m shaking with fear.

The second he
quiets down, I race back to the living room for my phone.

Fionnella answers
immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“He won’t stop
throwing up,” I blurt.

“Shit, I was
afraid of that.”

“Afraid of what?”
I demand.

“Possible alcohol
poisoning.”

“
Jesus
. Does he need to go the hospital?”

“No. Keep an eye
on him. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

“
What?
”
I shriek, but she’s hung up.

She calls back
when he’s in the middle of another vomiting bout. “His doctor is on his way.
ETA twenty minutes.”

“Are you sure he
shouldn’t be in hospital?”

“Dr. Hanley will
decide that. We don’t want to give the press another scoop unless it’s
unavoidable. Elyse…are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” I
snap, worry and fear making me cranky. “It’s bad, Fionnella.”

“I know. That’s
why you’re there. You’re my last hope,” she says softly, before she hangs up.

Heart in my
throat, I return to Quinn. He looks like he’s passed out, but I realize he’s
fallen asleep. There’s no way I’m going to get him into bed so I tug the covers
and a couple of pillows off the bed and make him as comfortable as possible.

When the doctor
arrives, I let him in, my breath held as he examines Quinn.

“He’s severely
dehydrated, but he hasn’t quite slipped into poisoning territory.”

Relief shudders
out of me, and stupid tears prickle my eyes.

“When he wakes,
give him a couple of these, then repeat every four hours. They’re rehydration
pills.” He hands me the vial. “And obviously, no more booze,” the small, wiry
man says with a wry smile. He extracts a card from his pocket and sets it on
the vanity. “If anything untoward occurs, call me.”

I nod and see him
out.

Quinn is still
sleeping when I return. I don’t want to leave him, so I drop onto the bathroom
floor, and curl up next to him.

***

“Elyse.”

I open my eyes.
He’s staring at me. His color is healthier, but faint grey lines fan his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he
mutters.

I blink, try not
to cry. “How do you feel?”

He closes his
eyes for a second. “Like hell. But…I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry,” he
repeats.