Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) (2 page)

BOOK: Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2)
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“What do you mean?” Casey asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“What are you two doing here?” I tried again.

“You didn’t expect Wiska to travel all that way by herself, did you, Bradley?” Casey scoffed.

“Emerson,” I said through gritted teeth.

Casey waved me off. “You’ll always be Bradley to me. Wiska had never been on a plane before; we couldn’t let her go through that alone. Decker and Andi said you had plenty of room and wouldn’t mind putting us up, too.”

I groaned; this nightmare was morphing into a real life fucking horror story. “For how long?” I somehow managed to force out between gritted teeth.

Casey shrugged. “Until Wiska is settled in.”

Lionel struggled with the suitcases, and I noticed Casey carried nothing.

“And you brought Lionel to carry your luggage?” I wondered out loud.

Casey grinned and winked before spinning around to divest Lionel of one of the suitcases. “Of course not. I brought Lionel to give me orgasms.”

I tried not to smile, but Casey’s crass humor and blunt personality made it difficult to stay serious.

In the meantime, Wiska seemed completely oblivious to the conversation that had transpired between Casey and me, her eyes wide and innocent as she took in her surroundings. She seemed so young, so vibrant, as if the ugliness in life had yet to reach out and touch her. My cock twitched in agreement, finding its own attraction to her obvious beauty.
Back the fuck down, boy
. I grimaced. She’s far from innocent; she’s a fucking porn star for god’s sake, and I’m not whistling that tune ever again.

I reached for her suitcase.

“So, you’re the famous Bradley?” she asked with a gorgeous smile.

“I prefer to be called Emerson,” I explained, though hearing Bradley roll off her tongue hadn’t been all that horrible.

“Emerson? Andi told me your name was Bradley.” She looked confused again.

Was it so hard for the woman to call me Emerson?

“My name is Bradley Emerson, but only close friends and family call me Bradley. Everyone here calls me Emerson, and I would prefer it if you called me Emerson,” I practically ordered.

“Of course she will, Bradley,” Casey purred, and for a split second, I wanted to slap the man.

Slap him? Like a fucking girl? I needed someone to slap me. I wanted to wake up from this ridiculous dream.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bradley Emerson. I’m Wiska.” Her hand was held out in front of me, and I had to switch her suitcase to my opposite hand to take her tiny digits in mine.

“What’s your real name?” I asked gruffly. There was no way I was calling her by her porn name.

“Her real name is Wiska James, Bradley,” Lionel said from my side in an unamused tone. “It’s Ukrainian,” he elaborated.

Oh, well, fuck me. With that knowledge, I found myself pleasantly warmed and intrigued by her name. Wiska, it sounded like the kind of name you would breathe while licking every inch of her body. Hell no! Not . . . gonna . . . happen!

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I grumbled as I began to walk away.

I didn’t check to see if the queersome threesome was following me; I just walked. I was being an asshole, but fuck it. Decker had some hard-core explaining to do, and I had to figure a way to fit three more people into my two bedroom suite. Maybe I could find Casey and Lionel a hotel; I’d pay for them to stay in a five-star, exclusive fucker if I had to. To hell with it, I’d put all three of them up in one, ’cause there was no way I was going to be able to keep my hands off the walking wet dream behind me.

CHAPTER 2

Wiska

Damn, this place was big! I had grown up in New York, so I was used to big cities, but London was something else. It was dark, almost harsh, and a little scary. For not the first time, I sent a little silent thank you to Andi and Decker for demanding Lionel and Casey escort me to London. I could never have done this on my own; traveling made me nervous. I usually preferred to keep my feet on the ground, in familiar territory. I was somewhat of a homebody, but I had to admit, being in another country was exhilarating. If it hadn’t been for Kasper Karish, my feet would still be planted firmly back in New York.

Kasper, the biggest mistake of my life—not my only mistake, ’cause damn, my life was filled with mistakes—but Kasper ate the cake. Or was it took the cake or baked the cake? I shrugged, it was probably none of those because, according to Kasper, I never got anything right. And with that thought came anger. The only person to ever claim I was stupid had been Kasper, and he had been an unfaithful, lying, belittling slut-nugget, and yet I embraced his words as if they were gospel. I had to purge his voice from my brain somehow, and I kind of wished I drank alcohol. Maybe the numbing sensation from drinking a case of beer would help me forget my problems for a while.

I wasn’t a stupid woman; in fact, I was quite bright. At one stage, I had been on my way to a degree in nursing, but like a gutless scaredy cat, I’d wigged out. If I hadn’t dropped out, I’d have graduated and had my license by now. Instead, my small case of ADD made studying difficult, and worried I’d fail to make it through school, I quit before I even had a chance to crash and burn.

Pornography blindsided me. I had no idea how it actually happened, but a weekend job modeling underwear had led to coffee with Ryder Harder, which had led to me becoming an adult film star. You try and connect the dots because I sure as hell couldn’t.

I was book smart, but I had a little case of street idiot. I found it easy to locate a spleen, but I couldn’t spot a crazy-ass douche-bag if he were standing right in front of me, screaming, “I’m a cock-muppet.”

Kasper had been sweet and funny.  He was deliciously handsome, rich, and ridiculously famous. He was a small time reality TV star who had become a big time celebrity, but nobody quite knew how or why. It hadn’t mattered to me, because I kept away from gossip magazines and rarely watched TV. My tinsel town knowledge was appallingly pathetic. I had no idea that Charlie Sheen had slept his way through a handful of my friends or that Bruce Jenner was in the process of becoming a woman. This kind of information wasn’t integral to my day-to-day life; therefore, I didn’t digest this kind of drivel . . . ever!

I had no idea Kasper had an entire second life in another country. When Kasper told me he wanted to keep our relationship a secret, I shrugged with nonchalance. I simply had blinders on and saw nothing but the handsome, sweet-talking man whose talented tongue and tricky fingers could whisk away the insecurities about our relationship into a dark corner in the back of my mind that was locked tight, never to be opened. Kasper turned out to be a controlling, manipulative bastard who wanted nothing more than a blonde piece of hot ass on tap at his convenience. I was so besotted with the handsome prick it was sickening. I sure as hell got the shock of a lifetime when I suddenly became the porn star whore who got off on destroying families. He was married, WITH CHILDREN! He was the picture perfect husband with the picture perfect Spanish wife, two beautiful girls, and a Maltese terrier. They lived in Spain, and Kasper commuted between there and New York. I had been his NY booty call.

The media had been harsh and quick to judge me as a woman scorned, poisoned with jealousy over Kasper’s marriage and quick to seduce the handsome celebrity. Even though Kasper had been the one to cheat, it had somehow ended up being all my fault.

The paparazzi followed me around endlessly, and finally, after a month of moping and feeling sorry for myself, I snapped. I punched one of those camera wielding assholes in the face and broke his nose, earning myself a trip out of the country. THE INJUSTICE OF IT ALL! While the cameraman decided not to press charges, Ryder, owner of Kink Harder Productions, suggested I take a ‘vacation’ and wait for the dust to settle. I didn’t want to wait until the dust settled. I wanted to stir that damned dirt up until it was thick and muddy, and tell the story the way it actually happened. Ryder thought I might still come across as a jilted lover, and I needed to let it go . . . for now. I wasn’t real good at letting go. While I was an easygoing, drama free chick-a-dee, I sure as hell didn’t like my name being tarnished in such a way. I was NOT a home wrecker.

During the Kasper commotion, my parents had been shocked to the core when they found out that their only daughter, who had aspirations of becoming a nurse, was an adult film star. They’d taken a swift step away from the publicity and turmoil, needing time to ‘process’ my career choice. They were embarrassed. I shouldn’t have been hurt or disappointed, because it wasn’t the first time they’d shaken their heads at me in dismay. I seemed to have quite the talent for making my parents’ shoulders knot with tension; my life’s choices were always somewhat unexpected and sometimes controversial. Like the time I dropped out of school to become a mechanic, only to ditch it and return to school because I hated getting grease under my fingernails. Then there was the time I decided to become a practicing Buddhist, which horrified my devout Catholic mother. And let’s not forget the time my nineteen-year-old self dated a thirty-six-year-old man with a nine-year-old son. I’d watched
The Sound of Music
, so I was convinced I had the step-mom role in the bag. That relationship lasted eight weeks before Beau decided I was too ‘flighty’ to be a responsible role model for his boy. I sighed as I watched the buildings pass in a blur of greys and drab browns. I had kept my parents sitting on the edge of their seats, and I hated disappointing them. But this was who I was, Wiska slightly-eccentric-and-a-touch-unpredictable James. They could either take me as I was, or miss out on all the fun and exciting bad choices that were yet to come.

I drew in a deep breath, trying to regain control of my flailing temper. Thoughts of Kasper and my controversial life only encouraged thoughts of violence and blood. A few deep breaths later, my fists unclenched, and I found my peaceful Zen once more.

I was officially swearing myself off men for the rest of my life—like I hadn’t said those words before, but this time I was serious. No more cock for me. From now on, a nice, anatomically correct, eight inch, vibrating, silicone cock with a dollop of lube would be sufficient. His name was Thor, and he rocked my world. Besides, once I screamed out my satisfied orgasm, he went right back in the bedside drawer . . . or my suitcase, which was where he was at the moment.

Speaking of anatomically correct . . . My gaze discreetly slid to the man driving. Bradley Emerson. Andi had assured me he was a good person, trustworthy and honest. She had also warned me he was quite charming and handsome. Charming? Well, I had yet to find any charm under that scowl, but handsome? The man was king and lord of handsome. He was tall—the top of my head barely brushed his shoulders. His hair was a dirty blond, and it was long enough to drag my fingers through. His cheek bones were high, his jaw was masculine, and that body was long, lean, and delicious. I bet it was hard as rock under that suit. Hmmmm, yep, he would do; I had found my orgasm muse. That thought brought a naughty smile to my lips, but the hushed, slightly aggressive undertones of conversation from the front seat made my smile turn upside down. Casey and Bradley were arguing and doing a very poor job of being discreet about it.

“I vote we go shopping first thing in the morning,” Lionel said from beside me in an effort to ignore the bickering from the front seat.

I was happy to eavesdrop, though, so I just smiled and nodded.

“We can go on the London Eye.”

I had no idea what the London Eye was . . . a tourist attraction of an eye? That seemed a little weird and gross.

Lionel must have noticed my scrunched up nose and laughed. “It’s a giant Ferris wheel on the Thames River.”

Why the hell did they call it an eye then?

“I’m scared of heights,” I reminded him. I couldn’t even glance out the window of Lionel and Casey’s two story apartment without feeling sick.

Lionel waved off my phobia with nonchalance. “You can close your eyes.”

I tilted my head as I considered that. There was no reason I couldn’t shut my eyes, then at least I could say I had been on the eye thing. My dad had tried to bring me up as the kind of girl who would chase her fears down and knock the wind right out of them. Except for heights. Chasing that fear down hadn’t worked at all. I’d even had to take a sedative just to take my flight to the UK.

“Ohhhh, I want to go to the wax museum and have my photo taken with Harry!” I thought out loud.

My thoughts were like that, scattered and random. Ideas popped into my head without rhyme or reason, and I learned long ago to just roll with the new direction my mind chose to lead. I had been diagnosed with ADD as a child, and although I had it pretty much under control now, it sometimes had me a little scatterbrained.

“Andi told me that Bradley knows everyone who’s someone over here; maybe he can introduce you to the real Prince Harry. We could at least go see the palace,” Lionel mused.

“Not the prince,” I scoffed. “Harry Styles, from One Direction.”

Lionel sighed and would have appeared disappointed if a small smile hadn’t quirked the corners of his lips upward. “I must admit he has great hair,” he murmured.

“I am taking you to a fucking hotel, and that is final!” Bradley, Emerson, or whatever his name was said in a raised voice.

Casey just glared at him, and Lionel shook his head with dismay. My brow furrowed with confusion. I was under the impression we would be staying with Bradley, all of us, together. I really didn’t want to be alone with Bradley . . . I mean Emerson. He was far too delicious and had that seductive look about him. I was pretty sure he could talk a nun right out of her panties. Since I was now wearing a chastity belt, I didn’t want to risk any man, no matter how gorgeous he was, talking the belt right off my hips and exposing my who-ha.

“If you’re going to a hotel, I’m going with you,” I told Casey firmly.

“Great, it’s settled,” Bradley P. Diddy Emerson said with a smile.

The look Casey gave me wasn’t exactly a happy one. It was that grumpy glower he usually saved for Lionel when his lover denied him afternoon sex.

“It would only be a matter of time before the paparazzi caught wind of where you are,” Lionel explained carefully. “Paps are always prowling the hotels, especially the nice ones, and we are not staying in a horrible one. I’m sorry, Wiska. I love you, but I am a man with needs, and they come with a four-star plus rating.”

From the rearview mirror, I watched Brad . . . I mean Emerson’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Maybe a secluded villa on the Greek isle, something completely private,” Casey mused. “Imagine waking up to the ocean every day. Would you like that, poppet?”

Evidently, poppet was my brand spanking new nickname that Casey had gifted me with. I liked it; it was cute and fatherly coming from Casey. I nodded—what girl would object to staying on the Greek Isle?

“Can we at least go back to your place so I can make other arrangements?” His voice had become hard and pissed off again as he addressed Emerson—BINGO, GOT IT RIGHT—who had the decency to look a little abashed.

“Of course you can.”

We fell into an awkward silence.

“I just don’t have much room,” Emerson began to explain. “My place isn’t that big; penthouse suites in London are quite different to those in New York.”

“Hush, Bradley. This is an inconvenience to you, and considering the delicate circumstances of our visit, perhaps Andi and Decker should have made Wiska’s needs clearer to you,” said Lionel.

Lionel was like the old wise owl of our trio. While Casey and I liked to tease and play, it was Lionel who kept us in line. It was also Lionel who could speak words that had a habit of getting under your skin and burying themselves so deep you’d never forget them. His words obviously made their mark on Puff Daddy Emerson, as he squirmed uncomfortably in the seat.

“What exactly are Wiska’s needs? I haven’t been told much, other than to pick her up from the airport and offer her a room, and might I add, I was told I was picking up Wiska, not Moe and Curly as well.”

Casey’s grin was wide. “I’m totally Curly!”

“Of course you are,” Lionel addressed Casey in a pacifying tone. Turning back to Emerson, he replied, “Wiska attracted some unfortunate media attention in the States.”

My fists curled, and my chin rose. He darn well better not be about to spill my highly embarrassing story to this completely sexy stranger. I’d already proved I could pack one hell of a right hook.

Lionel continued, “The specifics are her business, and if you want to know more you will have to ask her. She needs somewhere she can stay that the media will find difficult to trace. It may only be for a few weeks, maybe a month, until the hype back home dies down and she can inconspicuously make her way home again.”

From the corner of my eye, I checked the rearview mirror again, only to find the man formerly known as Bradley staring at me. I could see the curiosity burning in his gaze, but there was no way I was telling him my story; the last thing I wanted to do was humiliate myself any further.

BOOK: Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2)
8.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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