I, Porn Star (I #1)
Read I, Porn Star (I #1) Online
Authors: Zara Cox
CHAPTER 18 - KANSAS, NOT KANSAS
CHAPTER 32 - SCENE 2 - VIAGRA NIGHTS (PART ONE)
CHAPTER 34 - SCENE 3 - VIAGRA NIGHTS (PART TWO)
CHAPTER 38 - CUTTING ROOM FLOOR
Edited
by Kate Reed
Cover
by
Angela Oltmann
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CASTING
April
2015
There’s no reason
for me to be here. I don’t need to do it.
Not another one.
I have more than
enough to work with. I should end it now.
It’s what I’ve
been telling myself for months now.
Shit, who am I
kidding?
Enough will
never
be enough. He has to pay for what
he’s done with absolutely everything I can take away from him.
Besides, I have
big enough balls to admit it’s become a rush. The delayed gratification is part
of the game. It’s an addiction. In my jaded world where everything comes to me
with a snap of my fingers, risky highs like these are to be treasured.
They’ll be gone
in a blink of an eye. Just like every other pleasure in my life.
I peer at my
watch.
5:58 p.m.
I rise from my
sofa, walk down the wide hallway and enter the empty room. It’s not completely
empty, but it might as well be. I haven’t bothered to decorate since acquiring
it six months ago when my time in Boston was done and I moved back to New York.
It’s as if my subconscious knew I’d need it just for this purpose.
In the middle of
the room, I grab the remote on the table and hit the power button. Three screens
flicker to life. I sit down in the leather chair I placed in here earlier.
Three faces stare back at me. The darkness and mirrored glass means they won’t
see me as clearly. Even if they do, my mask is in place. My black clothing and
leather gloves take care of the rest of my disguise.
Anonymity is key.
I’m too well-known for anything else to be acceptable. Or acceptable for now,
at least. Who knows what’ll happen a month, two months from now? Every day I
fight my impulse. I might wake up tomorrow and decide the time has come to give
in, unveil my plan.
I’m not ashamed
of taking this route to achieve what I want. Far from it. In fact destroying
myself in the process is exactly what I’m aiming for. I want there to be
absolutely nothing left to be sustained or redeemed by the time I’m done.
For now, though, my
public role is integral to my grand plan. And since my sins are already
numerous, I don’t have any qualms about adding vanity to them and admitting I
love my other life. Keeping my identity secret adds to the thrill.
It’s all about
the thrill for me. Without it, I risk prematurely succumbing to the dark abyss.
The abyss my shrink keeps warning me I’m rimming.
She thinks it’s a
revelation, that morsel of news she dropped in my lap three years ago. Little
does she know I’ve been staring into that abyss since I was fifteen years old.
I’ve stared into it for so long, it’s fused with me. We are one. We haven’t
done our final dance yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
I’m twenty-eight
years old.
I won’t live to
see thirty.
It’s an immutable
inevitability, so I take my pleasures where I can.
“You each have
scripts in front of you. When I tell you to, read them out loud. You go first,
Pandora.” I use a voice distorter because my natural voice contains a
distinctive rasp that could give me away. Because of who I am, I’ve had cameras
shoved in my face more times than I’ve had sex. And that’s saying something.
Pandora—fucking
idiotic name—giggles, and her golden curls bounce in an eager nod. I
suppress a growl of irritation and relegate her to the
possibly maybe
list.
“
May I feel,
said he
.” She giggles again.
Ten seconds
later, I place her firmly in the
hell no
list and press the intercom.
She’s escorted out, and I switch my gaze to the next girl.
The redhead is
staring into the camera, her full mouth tilted in a
I-was-born-to-blow-you
curve. I admit the lighting is better on her, but her eyes are a little too
wide. Too green.
I adjust the
camera and scrutinize her closer. “What color are your eyes? And don’t tell me
they’re green. I can see the edges of your contacts.”
She flushes.
“Umm…they’re grey.”
I check the notes
on my tablet. “Missy, is that your real name too?”
She nods eagerly.
“Did you read the
brief?”
“Umm…yeah,” she
answers, her voice trailing off in a semi-question. This one is clearly dim.
“What did it say
about lying?”
The
blow-you
expression drops. “They’re just
contacts.” She leans forward, nearly knocking out the camera with her double
Ds. “Here, I can take them out—”
“No, don’t bother.
Your interview is over. Leave now, please,” I command in my best non-psycho
voice, and press the intercom again.
I may be slightly
unhinged, according to some spectrum my shrink keeps harping on about, but
Mama, God rest her pure soul, taught me to be a gentleman. Mama’s worm food
now, but that’s no reason for me not to honor her with a touch of politeness.
Missy’s lips
purse, then part, as if she’s about to plead her case. The burly guard who
enters the room and taps her on the shoulder convinces her words have lost
their meaning at this point.
I turn to the
last screen.
Her eyes are
downcast. Her lashes are long enough to make me wonder if I have another fake
on my hands. I sigh, then take in the rest of her face. No makeup, or barely
any if she made the effort. Her lips are plump, lightly glossed. I use the
controls on the remote to zoom in. There’s a tiny mole on the left side of her
face, right above her upper lip. Not fake.
I zoom out,
examine the rest of her that I can see. Her grey T-shirt is worn to the point
of threadbare, and her collarbones are a little too pronounced. Malnourishment
wouldn’t be a crowd-pleaser, but that problem can be easily taken care of.
Beneath the
T-shirt, her chest rises and falls in steady breathing, although the pulse
hammering at her throat gives her away. I zoom in on the pulse. The skin overlaying
it is smooth, almost silky, with the faintest wisps of caramel blonde hair
feathering it.
Something about
her draws me forward to the edge of my seat. I like her pretended composure.
Most people fidget under the glare of a camera.
My gaze flicks to
her skeleton bio. “Lucky.”
Slowly, she
raises her head. Her eyelids flick up. Her eyes are a cross between green and
hazel with a natural dark rim that pronounces its vividness. I can’t pinpoint
it exactly, but something about that look in her eye sparks my interest.
Hell, if I had a
heart, I’d swear it just missed a beat.
“Is that your
real name?”
She shrugs. “It
might as well be,” she murmurs.
Fuck, I have
another liar on my hands. “Cryptic may be sexy if you’re auditioning to be the
next Bond Girl. It’s not going to work here. Tell me your real name. Or leave.”
“No.” Her voice
is a sexy husk, enough to distract me for a second before her answer sinks in.
“No?”
“With respect,
you’re tucked away behind a camera issuing orders. I get that you hold the
cards in this little shindig. But I’m not going to show you all of mine right
from the start. My name, for the purposes of this interview, is Lucky. It may
not officially be on my birth certificate, but I’ve responded to it since I was
fifteen years old. That’s all you need to know.”
Well…fuck. I note
with detached surprise that I’m almost within a whisker of cracking a smile.
I rub my gloved
finger over my mouth, torn between letting her get away with mouthing off to me
this way, and sending her packing.
Sure, she
intrigues me. And whatever relevant truth I need would be dug out before she
signs on the dotted line, should it come to that. But for this to work, she
needs to obey my commands, no questions asked.
“Stand up. Move
away from the camera until you reach the wall.”
She rises without
question, restoring a little goodwill in her favor. Moving the chair out of her
way, she backs up slowly. The hem of her loose T-shirt rests on top of faded
jeans. Even before she’s fully exposed to the camera, I catch my first glimpse
of the hourglass figure wrapped in the petite frame. She’s a fifties pinup girl
dressed in cheap clothes. Her breasts are full but not quite double Ds, her
thighs and calves shapely enough to stop traffic, with a naturally golden skin
tone denoting a possible mid-west upbringing.
She’s knock-out
potential—subject to several nourishing meals. But I’ve seen enough and
done enough in this twisted life of mine to know her body isn’t what would draw
attention. It’s the look in her eyes. The secrets and shadows she is trying
hard to batten down. They’re almost eating her alive.
I don’t really
give a shit what those secrets are. But the chance to fuck them…to fuck
with
them, expose them to my cameras, sparks a sinister flame inside me.
“Turn around, let
your hair down.”
Her fingers twitch
at her sides for a second before she faces the wall. One hand reaches up and
pulls the band securing the loose knot on top of her head.
Caramel and gold
tresses cascade down her back. Thick enough to swallow my hands, her wavy hair
reaches past her waist, the tapered ends brushing the top of her perfectly
rounded ass.
I watch her for a
few minutes, then speak into the mic distorting my voice. “Do you have any
distinguishing birth marks I should know about, Lucky?”
The question
sinks in. Her back goes rigid for a second before she forces herself to relax.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the top of my
thigh,” she responds.
“Show me,” I
reply, although I don’t really need to see it. My carefully selected stylists
can disguise any unseemly marks.
Slowly, she turns
around. I expect her gaze to drop or a touch of embarrassment to show, but she
stares straight into the camera as her fingers tackle the buttons of her jeans.
The zipper comes down and she shimmies the denim over her hips. Her white
cotton panties are plain and the last word in unsexy. All the same, my eyes are
drawn to the snug material framing her pussy lips.
I also see the
hint of bush pressed behind the cotton.
I shift in my
seat, but don’t reach for the hardness springing to life behind my fly. Hand
jobs are a waste of my time. I either fuck or I don’t. It’s that simple.
She lowers the jeans
to knee-level and twists her right leg outward. The round red disk just on the
inside of her thigh is distinctive enough to need covering up. I make a mental
note.
“Thank you,
Lucky. You may put your clothes back on.”
A hint of
surprise crosses her face, but she quickly adjusts her clothing. When she’s
done, her hands return to her sides.
“It’s time for
your screen test. Sweep your hair to one side and come closer. Place your hands
flat on the desk, bend forward, but don’t sit down.”
She follows my
instructions to the letter. I adjust the camera so it’s angled up to capture
her face.
“Are you ready?”
She gives a small
nod.
“You’ve just
walked into a bar. You don’t know me. But you see me, the guy in the corner,
nursing a bourbon. And I see you. All of you. Every fantasy you’ve ever had. I
want to give it to you. You’ve found me, Lucky, the guy who wants to fuck you
more than he wants his next breath. Do you see me?”
Her nostrils
quiver slightly. “Yes.”
“Good. Look into
the camera. Don’t blink. Show me what I want to see. Convince me that you’re
worth fucking. Convince me you’re worth
dying
for.”
Her lids lower,
her face contemplative, but she doesn’t blink or lose focus. Slowly, her
expression drifts from disinterested to captivated. Her lids lift and she’s a
green-eyed siren. Her attention is rapt, unwavering. Her bruised-rose lips
part, but she doesn’t swirl her tongue over her lips as I expect. She
just…breathes. In. Out.
She swallows, a
slow movement that draws attention to her neck, then lower to her breasts. Mesmerized
against my will, I watch her nipples harden against the thin material of her
top. Her fingers gradually curl into the hard wood and every inhalation and
exhalation becomes a silent demand.
In…fuck…out…me…
In. Fuck.
Out. Me.
I remain still,
even though my fingers itch to twitch and my muscles burn with a restlessness I
haven’t felt in a long time.
I watch her
command the camera, her body rigid with lustful tension. Her eyes widen with the
need to blink, but she doesn’t.
She stays still, hands
curl into fists and she just breathes sex. Her eyes water and a tear slips down
one cheek. The sight of it is curiously cathartic, a tiny climax.
