I, Porn Star (I #1) (5 page)

He’s tall, over
six feet, and my initial assessment that he’s a man who takes his physical
wellbeing seriously is evidenced by his streamlined physique. Every inch of
Quinn Blackwood demands attention. I realize I’m staring again and rouse myself
as he fastens the single button on his business suit and turns away from the
table.

The moment I
start to cross the room with my heaped tray of dirty glasses, I know our paths will
collide.

I should stop.
Turn away. Lower my head.

But I keep
moving, my feet gripped with unbreakable compulsion. My gaze drops to adjust
the tray, but I sense the moment his lands on me.

The sensation is
electrifying enough to snap my head back up.

He’s smooth, I’ll
give him that. But I witness the tiny stumble when our shadows merge. Glimpse
the ephemeral hesitation that tenses his body before he regains absolute
control of himself.

It is worth
absolutely nothing to me in my life’s ultimately fucked up dynamic, but a tiny
part of me frees itself from debilitating terror long enough to perform the
smallest of cartwheels.

That is until our
eyes meet.

Eyes of piercing
silver blue surrounded by a jagged ring of black stare at me. My cartwheel
disintegrates and I wonder if this is why everyone avoids this man.

Quinn Blackwood’s
eyes are soulless pools.

Staring into them
is like staring into a bottomless abyss in the middle of a post-apocalyptic
nightmare.

Something inside
me wants to recoil, but I can’t look away. The power of his stare is extremely
hypnotic. I stand, frozen, as he remains in front of me.

“Your name.” It’s
not a question. It bristles with ultimate power, and demands an answer.

“L…umm, Elly.”

“You served me.”

“Yes.”

He stares for a
fistful of heartbeats. “Thank you, Elly.”

“Yeah…sure.”

He walks way
without a backward glance, leaving me with a strong notion of what it feels
like to be a victim of mind control.

Because Quinn
Blackwood, in those thirty seconds he pinned me with his eyes, could’ve talked
me into doing anything for him.

I return the tray
to the kitchen in a daze. Although I do my job, I remain in a mild fugue state
until Chef
Fancy Pants
dismisses me from his lofty kingdom.

Sully calls me
into his office when I return downstairs and hands me an envelope. Inside I
find two hundred dollars, enough to secure a roof over my head and food for a
week if I’m careful. I form the appropriate words of thanks, but when he
dismisses me, I hardly recall changing my clothes and leaving Blackwood Tower.

The incident
upstairs still has me in its grip.

I regain my
common sense long enough to mind my surroundings as I take the subway back to
Queens. I devour half of the leftover sandwiches I took from the rec room and
wash it down with a can of soda, then shower with tepid water from a barely
functioning showerhead.

There was no time
to pack personal items when I fled The Villa, save for a couple of precious
keepsakes, one of which is a picture of my mother and me, taken on my sixth
birthday. I fish it out of my backpack and stare at it beneath the harsh motel
room light.

She was stunning.
According to some of the girls at The Villa who knew her back in the day, she
used to be Clayton’s prized whore until she messed around behind his back.
Knowing Clayton Getty, I’m not exactly sure how she managed to talk him into
letting her stay at The Villa after I was born.

I lie back on the
bed that stinks of urine and other unthinkable fluids, clutching the picture.
Out of the meager possessions I grew up with, I know why I’m hanging on to the
photo.

Amid the telltale
signs of her losing battle with alcohol abuse, there’s hope in Renee Gilbert’s
face. She didn’t give up hope despite Clayton Getty’s single-minded mission to
turn her life into a living hell. It was that hope with which she clung to my
hand.

Despite the
futility of
my
situation, a
part of me desperately channels that hope.

Eventually, my
body and mind let go of the perpetual fear long enough for me to fall asleep.

I jerk awake
somewhere around two a.m., heart hammering. The glaring lightbulb blinds me for
a few seconds before my eyesight adjusts. I raise the picture from my chest and
stare at my mother’s face, wondering if my fate will echo hers and we’ll both
perish at the hands of Clayton Getty.

As my fingers
glide over the glass, another face slides into my mind.

Quinn Blackwood.

There’s no room
in my life to ponder other people’s shit, but I find myself intrigued all the
same.

His body.

His deathly
stillness.

His mouth.

His unwavering
focus on the view.

His soulless
eyes…

My breath
catches. Mild shock engulfs me as I set the picture aside to watch my nipples
peak beneath the T-shirt I wore to bed. I’m semi-fascinated by my body’s
reaction. Enough to jerk upright in bed seconds later when I feel a distinct
tingle between my thighs.

What
the fuck is wrong with you, Lucky?

He’s hot,
granted. But he’s clearly fucked up in that special way only rich, powerful
people can be, despite having the world at their feet. Fantasizing about Quinn
Blackwood will bring me nowhere near finding a way to get Clayton off my back.

In a last-ditch
act of desperation, I grab my phone, take a deep breath and turn it on.

My heart leaps
into my throat when the mail sign pops onto the screen. Fingers shaking, I
press it.

Monday.
6pm. Midtown. Be punctual
.

5

THE SCOUT

She walks in at
6pm on Monday.

I watch her
through the monitors, and finally admit to myself what I’ve shrugged off all
weekend. The unexpected twist of her turning up at Blackwood Tower has turned
the tide in her favor.

Lucky. Elly. And
whatever the hell other names she has tucked beneath that cheap uniform and
velvety skin, has managed to achieve the impossible; she piqued my interest for
a second time.

There’s a
deliciousness in knowing she could be serving me by day without knowing I’d be
fucking her by night. That unanticipated morsel has elevated my mood from
deadly lethargy to mere languor since Friday.

Well, that and
keeping Maxwell twisting in the wind.

Avoiding Maxwell
won’t last, of course. He won’t let it. He’s never been great with being
ignored. And after almost a week of unanswered summons, it’s only a matter of
time before that particular bough breaks. Languor fades, and I imagine I can
feel
something
.

The intercom next
to my elbow buzzes from the team I have waiting next door. “She’s here. Shall I
take her in and explain the procedure to her?” Fionnella Smith, the team leader
asks.

“Not yet. I want
to talk to her for a minute. I’ll send her out when I’m done.”

“Okay.”

I slide my voice
distorter into place and wait.

She’s shown into
the room five minutes later. She pauses at the door. Her eyes warily assess the
room, her body poised with more than a hint of self-protection. Intrigue
heightens.

She’s scared of
something. Or
someone
.

The urge to
bloody myself with her secrets escalates.

I cross my legs
and wait for her to enter. When she doesn’t, I speak, “It’s good to see you
again. Come in, Lucky. No one’s going to bite you today.”

The provocative
words achieve the desired results. She steps in and shuts the door behind her,
while one eyebrow spikes. “No one’s going to bite me
any day
.”

“Is that your
definitive view on the subject of biting?”

She drops her
tiny backpack and pulls out the chair in front of the camera, a frown crawling
over her exquisite features. “Do I get docked points if I say no?”

“This isn’t a
game show, Lucky. I merely want to assess your boundaries. I bite sometimes
when I fuck. Will that be a problem?”

Heat engulfs her
face, and her fingers drum on the table before rising to curl around the ends
of her ponytail. One shoulder lifts. “I’m okay with it, I guess, as long as you
don’t draw blood.”

“Noted.”

Her gaze flickers
for a second, then she does what I’ve wanted her to do since she walked in. She
stares straight into the camera. She’s better composed now than she was in my
executive restaurant on Friday. She’s had time to prepare for this meeting
whereas then, her reaction to me was raw and unfettered.

I muse over the
possibilities as I stare back at her.

Eventually, the
question spills out, “So, I’ve got the gig?”

I pause for a
long minute. “Yes, Lucky, you have the gig.”

The sharp breath
she takes is curious. Her expression isn’t one of happiness or the ecstasy of
gluttony satisfied. It’s overwhelming relief that stems from abated terror,
like a person snatched back from the jaws of certain death.

Her whole body
trembles with the release of the paralyzing feeling. Her lower lip quivers, but
she kills the telltale action by catching it between her teeth and gnawing on
it.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me
just yet, Lucky. There’s a reason I’m paying you a million dollars for your
time. You will be fucked with, and not always in ways you’ll find…pleasant.”

Her fingers find
her hair again. “But, you won’t hurt me, physically?”

“Not
intentionally, no.”

She clears her
throat. Decision made. “You chose me, and I don’t intend to fail.”
Determination born of self-preservation.

Against my will,
pique digs in a little deeper.

“No. You won’t. I
won’t allow it.”

Her lashes sweep
down for a moment as she gathers herself. “What happens next?”

“Next you get
prepped.”

“Prepped?”

“A minor ground
rule, Lucky. Don’t make me repeat myself. Don’t ask for explanations for things
that are out of your control. A million dollars buys me unlimited access to
your body and a button on your lip, barring further ground rules to be hammered
out. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That said,
you have questions. I’ll allow a few. Make them count.”

I sit back and
sip the whiskey at my elbow. She doesn’t instantly launch into questions. She
takes her time, considers. I approve of that.

“Am I going to
meet you before we start?”

“No.”

“But aren’t you
worried we might not be compatible?”

I recall the
flicker I felt when she served me on Friday. She almost succeeded in piercing
the outer layer of the seething blackness with her unexpected presence. At her
initial interview, I overestimated what a wall of bricks and glass could
achieve. Sensing her close in the restaurant, looking into her eyes afterward,
I’m almost certain the flicker turned into a daring little spark. “I’m not
worried.”

Cynicism twists
over her face. “You sound very sure about that.”

“I have a cock,
you have a cunt. We’re compatible.”

Her nostrils
flutter at the uncouth words, which surprises me in light of the hardened look
I’ve glimpsed in her eyes.

“Does my language
offend you?”

She shakes her
head. “I’ve heard worse.”

I slot the info
away, for what purpose, I don’t know. “Glad to hear it. Do you have any other
questions?”

Green eyes probe
the camera lens. “What…umm, do you have a name?”

“I do.”

She waits a beat,
then I get the cocky eyebrow again. “Are you going to tell me?”

“No.”

She frowns. “Then
what should I call you?”

“What would you
like to call me?”

Her head tilts.
“Mechanical Man?”

“That won’t
suit.”

“I’m not great
with terms of endearment.”

“I don’t require one.”

Exasperation filters
through. “So you want me to call you nothing?”

“If you could
pick a name or an initial for me, what would it be?”

She stares into
the camera for a few seconds, then her gaze drops. The corner of her lower lip
twitches, as if she’s worrying her flesh from the inside. Her fingers still in
her hair, her breathing alters and a light flush drifts over her skin.

“What are you
thinking about, Lucky?” I murmur.

“Nothing.”

“
Who
are
you thinking about, Lucky?”

Focus returns to
her eyes. She blinks rapidly and shakes her head. “Nobody. I don’t feel
comfortable just slapping a name on you when we haven’t even met.”

“A number then.
Or a letter.” I derive detached amusement in herding her where I want her to
go.

Predictably, her
nose wrinkles. “It’ll be weird for me to call you by a number.”

I remain silent.

She sends the
camera another direct stare. “
J
?”

“I’m not a bird,”
I drawl.

Her sumptuous
lips purse. “
M
.
”

“Too British spy
movie. Tell me who you were thinking about a minute ago.”

She shakes her
head again. “I’d rather not.”

“If you insist.
Do you have any more questions?”

“The…umm, money.
How will you pay it to me?”

“However you
want. When the time comes you can furnish me with your wiring details.”

Her brow creases.
“Can I be paid in cash?”

“Of course.” I
press the intercom on the table next to me.

The knock sounds
on her door a minute later. She jumps up immediately, her stance firmly in
fight or flight mode. “That is Fionnella. She works for me. Let her in.”

The fight drains
out of her, but her approach remains wary.

Fionnella enters
and smiles at her. “Hello. I’m head of the team hired to prep you. May I call
you Lucky?”

She eyes the
woman cautiously, then nods.

“Great. Would you
like to come with me?”

“Umm, I’m not
sure if we’re finished here.” She clears her throat and glances over her
shoulder at the camera. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I have some more
questions.”

“They can wait.”

She hesitates,
flicks a glance at Fionnella. “Where are you taking me?”

Fionnella smiles.
“To another room, to answer a few questions to start off with.”

Lucky tenses.
“What sorts of questions?”

Fionnella
indicates the clipboard in her hand. “Routine questions about your health, your
diet, boring stuff like that. Then we get to the exciting part.” Her smile
isn’t reciprocated.

Lucky slides her
hands into her pockets in a feigned gesture of calm. But still she hesitates.

“Go with her if
you want the job, Lucky. Or leave.”

She won’t leave.
I already know that. Fear and desperation hang over her like dark clouds. She
casts one last glance over her shoulder before she nods. “Okay.”

I watch her
leave, track her via the monitors until she reaches the studio set up to begin
her transition. I find myself wondering how far I can push her. How fast her
resistance will hold. Whether I can exploit her fear, take this game to another
level or satisfy myself with finding out what her secrets are.

It’s clear she’ll
do just about anything for the money, despite her feeble attempt to set
boundaries. I also get the feeling her boundaries have already been tested.

But I can’t
imagine they’ve been stretched as far as I intend to stretch them.

And fuck if that
doesn’t make my black soul twitch.