I, Porn Star (I #1) (4 page)

Sully sees me
through his window and beckons me with a beefy hand. I look behind me. Should I
make a run for it? How far will I get?

“Elly! I haven’t
got all day.”

I press clammy
palms against my pants and present myself in his office doorway.

“Umm, you wanted
to see me?”

“Yes,” he snaps.
He’s Irish-Italian with a brusque manner that keeps everyone in the catering
support team in line. He moves a few papers around on his desk before his head
snaps up. “You wanna earn some extra money?”

“I…yes?”

He head-tilts. “You
don’t sound sure.”

I swallow hard,
wonder if this is another acid-trip offer without the actual acid high. “I’m
sure.”

He nods a grey
head. “Good. Good. Two of my servers have called in sick. Some bullshit stomach
bug or other. I need you to step in.”

My alarm
escalates. I push it down and manage to nod. “Okay. What…what do you need?”

“Go see Meg in
the uniform department. She’ll find one of the girl’s outfits for you. You need
to be upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

I’m glad I don’t
have to answer because sheer terror has overtaken my vocal cords. I belong in
the basement, in the bowels of the earth where no one can see me. I don’t
belong upstairs doing…whatever Sully wants me to do. But I need this job or
starvation will claim me long before Clayton does. Ninety-nine percent of my
cash goes into paying for my shitty, but extortionate, motel room. The owner
chose to overlook my
no-name-or-address
status in return for a thirty-dollar
a week hike up on normal prices. Right now, I have twenty-two dollars to my
name.

So I force my
feet to move.

“Oh, and Elly?”

I stop. Sully
stares back at me.

“Remember how you
got here. We all have pasts we don’t want held up to the light. I’m not going
to peek at yours. Return the favor by not letting me down. Deal?”

I nod. “Deal.”

He waves me away.

As I leave to go
in search of Meg, relief punches through me.

I’ve been rightly
wary about Sully’s motives. He knows I’m hiding something. But unlike Miguel,
he’s chosen to leave well enough alone. For that, I’m glad. Because tossing my
particular closet open will reveal putrefying skeletons.

The first of
which would explain why I don’t respond well to Elly. Before arriving in New
York no one called me by that name.

My real name is
Elyse Gilbert,
nicknamed ‘Lucky’ by my father,
because according to him, I'm the unluckiest person alive, and I'll die the
same way I came into the world: naked, screaming, and dirt poor.

So far, he’s been right about the unlucky part. Also dead right about the
dirt-poor part.

But what he didn’t predict was that at twenty-two, I’d be on the run for
arson and murder. Or that one of my hunters would possess the single goal of
trying to pry my secret from me before he puts me in the ground.

4

SCENE 1

Lucky

I arrive at the
service elevator in my new server’s uniform of black button down dress and a white
apron. I’ve swapped my hairnet for a white mini-cap and my boots for nude
tights and flats courtesy of Meg. If my heart wasn’t slamming so hard against
my ribs, I’d grimace at how ridiculous I look.

The service
elevator has two buttons—
B. Restaurant
and
B. Executive
. My
shaky finger hits the second button. I swipe at the sheen of sweat dimpling my
forehead, suck in a deep breath and reassure myself of the unlikelihood of Clayton
finding me here. The assurance rings hollow.

He once tracked a
girl who stole two thousand dollars from him, all the way to the ends of
Clusterfuck, Alaska. It took four months, but his patience was inexhaustible.
He found her, dragged her back to Fresno, and chained her to a wall in his
special
room, reserved for clients with the sickest proclivities. When he let her go a
year later, Abby left The Villa, and walked straight into oncoming traffic.

I chose New York
because I hoped the sheer density of the population would buy me some time.
That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable hiding in plain sight. I’d give my pinky to
be back in the basement, handling piles of dirty plates and enduring Miguel’s
ever-increasing cocky advances.

The elevator
pings open and my heart threatens to give out altogether. I step out into a sky
lit atrium decorated with stunning water features, horticultural masterpieces
and stylish furniture I’ve only ever seen in glossy magazines. Contrary to my
fear, the room isn’t crowded, but again, I know I stand out like a nun in a whorehouse.

Already I’m
attracting stares by standing in the middle of the sun-drenched space. I avert
my gaze and head toward the sound of a hissing coffee machine. Two waiters, a young
guy and woman about my age are standing in front a glass and chrome counter
that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Behind the counter, a stocky
chef fires off instructions to a team of four about specific dietary
requirements and the temperature of
foie
gras
before he spears me with a hard stare.

“Are you the
extra I requested?” he snaps.

I clear my
throat. “Yes, my name is Elly. Sully sent me up.”

His mouth
compresses, and he points to the far side of the counter. “Stand there, don’t
move. You’ll get your brief in five minutes.”

My
brief? To serve food?

He returns to barking
instructions at the two servers, who nod briskly and whisk away silver trays to
opposite sides of the executive restaurant.

I wait, making
sure to keep alert so I don’t repeat the spaced-out-in-the-alley incident
Miguel witnessed. But my gaze wanders and lands on a magazine rack three tables
away. On the front cover is an aerial picture of Blackwood Tower and on either
side two men—one older and one younger—facing each other. The
caption reads:
Dynamic Duo or Dynamite Duel?
Even in profile, both men are eye-catching enough to snag my interest.
I’m just about to lean closer to scrutinize the cover when a throat clears next
to me.

The chef looks
even more annoyed than before. “You’ll be serving Mr. Blackwood today. He takes
his lunch at exactly one o’clock.”

I nod. “Okay.” He
starts to walk away. “Umm, I’m sorry, which one is Mr. Blackwood?”

The servers pause
to stare with open shock at me.

The chef swears
in a language I don’t understand and shakes his head. “How long have you worked
here?”

“Two weeks.”

“And you don’t
know whose company you work for?”

I shrug. “I wash
plates and glasses in the basement,” I murmur.

He stares me up
and down, his mouth twitching with disdain. “Figures,” he mutters under his
breath.

I swallow the
anger that rises and force my fists not to ball. “If you wouldn’t mind pointing
him out to me, I’d appreciate it.”

His gaze doesn’t
move from mine. “
Mr. Quinn Blackwood
is sitting in his usual seat by the
north window. He doesn’t like being spoken to, so don’t try to be clever and
engage him in
any
form of chitchat.
He takes his coffee with a dash of cream and two sprinkles of cardamom, in that
order. Stir without touching the sides or bottom of the cup and leave it in
front of him along with his meal. Think you can manage that?”

“Of course,” I
respond briskly, while frantically memorizing the list.

I know firsthand
what craziness power and wealth induces in people, but what the chef’s
describing borders on the ridiculous. But I’m in no position to complain. Sully
has promised more money for working up here today. Pandering to some rich
dude’s peculiar lunch ritual will go a little way to increasing my chances of
survival for a few more days.

While the chef
returns to hovering over the poor minion who is preparing the tray, I look around
again, trying to find my bearings. Where the hell is north? Geography wasn’t a
strong subject in school. In fact, the only thing I excelled in was math and
English, both of which account for zero when all you’re required to do is suck
cock or lie on your back and zone out until whatever asshole on top of you is
done.

My gaze
frantically swings back and forth, trying to work out the exact position of the
sun. On the third pass, I freeze.

He’s sitting
beneath a window, sure, but then so are three other stylishly dressed guys. But
while the other men are talking into cell phones or tapping away on tablets,
this man is staring straight at the view.

I can only see
the back of his head, but even that grips my attention. The slant of sunlight
hits dark, glossy hair and lights up the silky, wavy strands that caress the
collar of his grey suit. Whoever he is, he could easily be a top contender for
a shampoo ad with that hair. My gaze drops to broad, well-muscled shoulders and
thick arms. It’s clear, even from across the room that this man takes care of
his physique. His seated position means I can’t see the rest of him, but as I
watch him, I realize what has absorbed my attention.

He’s deathly
still.

Despite the hum
of activity round him, he hasn’t moved a muscle. It’s disarming enough to send
a shiver down my spine. And I know, even without bruising my brain by further
trying to work out which way is north, that he is Quinn Blackwood.

“Remember my
instructions, Plate Girl?”

I jerk around,
and stare down at the tray. Everything is laid out in pristine condition. China
and silver that I’m sure costs more than Clayton’s prized hot rod sits at exact
angles from each other. “Yes.”

“Lay it out
precisely as it is on the tray. And come back here. You’ll wait until he’s done,
then clear his table. Understood?”

I nod. He hands
the tray to me. I take a step forward and realize my legs are shaking. I pause,
take a deep breath.

It’s
just food. It’s just a goddamn tray of food
.

I make my way to
where he’s sitting. The table next to his is unoccupied. I set the tray down on
it and take the time to work out the angles and distances.

I pick up the
gold-rimmed porcelain plate with the distinctive Tiffany blue pattern, and
turn.

My breath
dissolves to nothing.

Holy heaven
above.

He’s…
beautiful
.
Easily, the most hauntingly captivating man I’ve ever seen.

Quinn Blackwood
doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s staring at the view, although his gaze is narrowed
and lowered, stopping me from seeing the exact color of his eyes. But the
square jaw, the dimple in his chin, the sculptured curvature of his cheekbones,
all align into a face that is so visually and powerfully stunning, my limbs
slack in shock, before blood pumps full bore through my veins.

He blinks, still
without looking at or acknowledging me, but the tiny movement draws my
attention to his lashes. Long, curved. Perfect.

And his mouth…

Jesus
.

For a second, I
wonder if I’m back in my alternate universe, where my life isn’t in danger and
a million dollars is truly within touching distance. Is this another
hallucination? If so, I never want to wake up this time.

My gaze drops to
his hands. They’re big, a little out of proportion with the rest of him, but
they in no way detract from the magnificent package.

As I stand there,
caught in a web of what I can truthfully term as my very first genuine sexual
arousal, his eyelids flutter. His chest continues to rise and fall in even,
unhurried exhalations, but a spark of awareness lances through the air.

Perhaps it’s
another dimension of this weird hallucination. But whatever it is, it takes
hold of me, fires through my body to the very soles of my feet and back up
again. My mouth dries and I firmly refuse my body’s urge to blink. I don’t want
him to disappear. I don’t want him to be a figment of my imagination. Just for
a little while, I desperately want this feeling to replace the constant fear
that blankets me.

I’m not sure how
long I stand there.

His forefinger
taps once. Twice.

The movement
jumpstarts my spatial awareness. My fingers tighten on the plate when I feel it
slip in my clammy grip. I take a hurried step forward and set it down before
him. I instinctively know not to step into his light, so I arrange the place
setting from the side of his table, his profile a constant threat to my equilibrium.
Somehow, I manage to finish laying the table.

I recall and
follow the instructions about his coffee and when I’m done, I step back
reluctantly.

“Thank you,” he
murmurs. His voice is low, coarse, as if he hasn’t used it in a while.

The sexy tenor of
it shivers over my skin and I’m stuck in a vivid loop of imagining how it would
sound were he to murmur something hot and incredibly inappropriate in my ear.

From the corner
of my eye, I see the chef and servers looking my way. It’s clear I’m at risk of
crossing some sacred server-employee line. Fighting everything inside me to
avoid another torrid glance at Quinn Blackwood, I grab the tray, clutch it to
my chest. “You’re welcome,” I reply before I remember that I’m not supposed to
address him.

I risk a glance
at him, gauging to see if I’ve earned a black mark.

His gaze doesn’t
stray from the view, but he reaches for the pristine napkin, unfolds it with a
viciously sexy snap, and drapes it over his lap. There’s an animal grace in
that move that almost halts the step I’m about to take.

But the chef is
rounding the counter, heading my way. I unfreeze myself and hurry away from the
table.

He intercepts me
halfway across the room. “Serve him and return to the kitchen. That was your
brief!” he hisses at me.

“And that’s what
I did,” I clip out.

“No, it was most
certainly not what you did. You were just standing there, gawping at him like a
decapitated fish,” he snarls.

The heat that
rises up my face is unavoidable. “I just…” I pause, because what can I say?
That the man is a visually arresting masterpiece? That he’s the first ever
member of the opposite sex to make my panties damp just by
existing
?
That even now, the urge to turn around, feast my eyes on him again is proving
almost impossible to resist? I clear my throat. “It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.
That is not how we do things here, Miss Plate Washer. Now, are you able to
follow simple instructions or would you like to return to more familiar
subterranean surroundings?” he sneers.

The
money, Lucky. Think of the money
.
“I want to stay and work.”

He stares at me,
thin-lipped, for a handful of seconds, then thumbs the opposite side of the
restaurant from where Quinn Blackwood is sitting. “Tables need clearing over
there. Try not to break anything. Each plates costs more than you’ll earn
washing plates in a year.”

I lower my head
and walk away, reminding myself why I can’t let anger take over. It burns like
a bitch, but I’ve learned the hard way that in a fight for survival, there is
no place for pride. I have to let some things go.

I stack used
plates from three tables in quick succession and return them to the kitchen. As
I return from retrieving the remaining dishes, my gaze swings to Quinn
Blackwood’s table. His gaze is still glued to the view, but he lifts his coffee
to drain the cup.

I can’t help
myself. I stop and stare.

There are men who
command attention for varied reasons.

From the way
everyone around him gives him a wide berth, I get the feeling this man commands
visceral awe and respect without lifting a finger.

He sets the cup
down and rises. Sunlight bathes him from head to toe.