I, Porn Star (I #1) (9 page)

I enter my
father’s study without knocking. He’s standing at the window, his gaze on the
square of darkness and light that forms Central Park at night. When he turns,
he’s holding a crystal cut glass similar to what I just used.

The fury in his
eyes hasn’t abated, but I can tell he’s fighting to get a handle on it. Use it
to his advantage. “Can we discuss the reason I asked you here, like two adults?”

I shut the door
behind me, shove my hands back in my pockets and stroll to the center of the
room. “By all means,
Dad
. But perhaps
I should save you the trouble of a discussion and offer my congratulations?”

He looks taken
aback.

I allow myself a
smile, but I don’t go to him or offer a handshake. There’s a reason my hands
are in my pockets. Touching my father is one step too far for me. “Delilah gave
me the good news. She also mentioned you wanted to talk schedules?”

“Yes, I do.”

I give a
carefree, accommodating shrug. “No problem. Just get your campaign manager to
liaise with my EA. I’ll make sure we work something out.”

His mouth goes
slack for a second. Then he gives a brisk nod. “I appreciate it, son. I thought
this would be yet another battle with you. Although I’m still far from thrilled
about the Miami thing—”

“The Miami thing
is done. There’s no going back. Unless you want to look weak?” I taunt.

Fury washes over
his face but the seductive allure of power dilutes it. “Fine. But I want your
undivided attention on this campaign when I need it.”

My gaze skates
over his shoulder to fix on a skyscraper in the distance. “Of course. This is
important to you. I get that,” I lie.

He pauses for a
moment. Then, “Thank you, son.”

I look into his
eyes and the words trip smoothly off my tongue. “Not at all. Your second term
as Governor of New York will be a memorable one for the Blackwood name. I’ll
make sure of it.”

His sigh of
relief echoes in my ear as I walk out and pass the generations of Blackwood
portraits decorating the hallway.

The first one
dates back to the Mayflower. My steps slow and I look up at the painting of
Ichabod Blackwood. He wears the same arrogant pride I see on my father’s face.
I smile at the portrait, revel in the stern admonishing in Ichabod’s gaze.

“Take a good
look, old man. This train is never going to make it back to the station. Your
line is going to end with me.”

I salute the
portrait and walk out of my father’s house.

9

RECALL

Lucky

When I round the
corner of the block where my motel is located, my practiced stance of
head-down-body-hunched is fully in place, so I don’t see the brewing commotion
until I almost trip over it.

“What the hell do
you mean, I gotta leave?” A half-dressed guest is shouting at the manager.

“I don’t know how
else to explain it to you, mister. Department of Health says I have to shut
down immediately, so yeah, you and every guest here need to pack up your shit
and leave. The inspector is coming back in an hour. With new locks.”

An icy rock drops
into my gut. My feet freeze on the uneven parking lot tarmac as I absorb the
words.

“Bullshit! I’ve
been staying in this shit hole for years because my company is too cheap to put
me up in a better motel when I come into town for business. I’m more than familiar
with your complimentary rodent-per-room standards. So what’s changed? And since
when does the DOH turf people out after hours?”

The manager
shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Look, I’m just the manager, okay? I follow orders from
on high, just like you do, so quit busting my balls.”

“Dammit! So what
am I supposed to do?”

“Hell, I don’t
know, find another place to stay and
expense
it?”

“Fuck you! I want
a full refund, buddy, and I want to be compensated for the inconvenience. Or I
ain’t leaving.”

The manager scratches
his beer belly. “I can only refund seventy-five per cent of the remaining rate
of your stay. You’ll need to take up any further claims with the parent
company.”

“
Are you fucking kidding me
?” The
guest is growing redder in the face.

The manager, who
doesn’t seem one little bit upset by the gathering crowd of disgruntled guests,
shrugs. “Nope. Everything I’ve said is in the small print. Feel free to read
it. Present your booking receipt when you check out and you’ll be given what
you’re due.” He takes a step back and addresses the crowd. “That’ll be all,
folks. Remember, the guys with locks will be here in an hour. If you ain’t
outta here, you’ll be tossed out.”

“Yeah, try it and
I’ll sue the pants off you,” One guest, an ageing woman with pink curlers in
her hair, points an arthritic finger at the manager.

“I’m just doing
my job, but go ahead, give it your best shot, lady,” he sneers.

A few other
patrons voice their anger, but the manager shrugs it off. I wait till he’s
heading back to his office before I sprint out from where I’ve been standing
next to a banged up Corolla.

“Excuse me, sir?”

He stops and
glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know if
you remember me—”

“Sure, I remember
you.” His gaze slides over me. I pull my backpack across my body. He sees the
action and his expression sours. “What do you want?”

“I paid you two
hundred dollars this morning. To cover my stay till the end of the week?”

“Yeah. And?”

My grip tightens
on my strap and I plead with karma to give me a break. “I…obviously, since I
can’t any longer, I need my money back.”

His gaze slides
once more over my body, slower, sleazier this time. A smile I’ve seen more
times than I care to count eases over his pudgy features. “Of course,
sweetheart. Like I said, bring me your paperwork and I’ll sort you out.”

The ice expands
in my gut. “You know I don’t have paperwork.” My voice shakes and I despise
myself for it.

His face contorts
in a show of false regret. “Ah, I’m sorry. No paperwork, no refund. Company
policy.”

Anger dislodges
the ice. I want to fly at him, claw that sick look of glee off his face, but I
force myself to remain calm. For one thing, there are too many people around to
witness it and possibly clock it on their camera phones if I do anything
stupid. For another, I want no part of me touching the shit bag in front of me.
My days of allowing men like him anywhere near me are over. Well…
nearly
over.

“Look, I’m asking
you to show some…mercy.” The word sticks in my throat. The idea of having to
beg this piece of shit to give me back money that’s rightfully mine burns a
hole in my chest.

He steps closer,
his gaze probing where I’ve crossed my hands over my breasts. “I can be
merciful, sugar. Come with me to my office and I’ll show you what Papa Bear can
do for you.” He smiles. His hand starts to lift toward me.

I step back,
partly because the idea of him touching me fills me with severe loathing. And
partly because my knee is itching to make violent contact with the flabby Papa
Bear parts between his legs. He accurately interprets the move.

“I guess you
don’t want your refund, after all.” He waves a beefy hand in the direction of
Union Turnpike subway where I’ve just walked from. “There’s a homeless shelter
that way. Or you can blow some homeless guy into sharing his cart with you.” He
laughs and walks backwards. “Either way, sweetheart, your
situation
is
not my problem.”

He disappears
round the corner into his office and tears surge into my eyes.

I don’t blink.
Because, damn it, tears are of zero use to me right now. But, God, I want to
succumb. I want to find the nearest dark corner and howl my eyes out. I want to
beat myself for falling into a trap of my own making. With leaden feet, I
retrace my steps to the motel room. My larger backpack sits where I left it
this morning. At least the asshole didn’t break in and help himself to my stuff
as well.

I sink onto the
bed and stare at the ugly wall until my vision hazes. Fat tears slide down my
cheeks, shamelessly defying my will. Defeat throbs in my veins and I drop back
on the bed, setting free thick sobs that rip from my throat loud enough to wake
the dead.

I cry until I’m
certain there isn’t a drop of liquid left in my body. When I can bear to drag
myself up, I make my way to the bathroom, blow my nose on coarse toilet paper
and wash my face. My eyes collide with my reflection and I shudder in
revulsion. My face is blotchy, the hair at my temples tear-soaked. Averting my
gaze, I grab more paper and swipe at the damp spots. I throw the paper in the
general vicinity of the trash. It misses. I don’t pick it up. It can be my tiny
fuck you to the cosmos for the unending deluge of shit-dumping.

I return to the
room and catch the sound of an electronic ping. My heart trips in paralyzing
alarm before I remember my new phone. In the tumult of being suddenly made
homeless, I’ve forgotten my appointment with Fionnella and her team back in the
Midtown apartment.

It’s not for
another two hours, but as I’ve found out in the last two days, Fionnella is
nothing if not a stickler for punctuality. At midday today, I received a menu
by text with a prompt to choose my preferred meal. The repeat of the burger and
fries arrived within half an hour. I was in the middle of devouring it, when
Sully found me and informed me of my new work status.

I nearly choked
on a precious mouthful when he told me the two girls who contracted food
poisoning last week had both quit, and that until they were replaced, I would
be working in the executive restaurant. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough,
he calmly announced that my first task would be to serve Quinn Blackwood’s
lunch to him in his office.

A different emotion
weaves through me as I pull out the phone.

What happened in
Quinn’s office still feels a little surreal. After a short exchange while I lay
out his lunch, the man barely spoke more than a few words. Sitting at his
dining table, watching him eat, was a weird experience, for sure. But it wasn’t
the sort of weird that made me recoil. It was a mind-bendingly fascinating
weird. A make-your-heart-flip-flop-in-your-chest-with-each-move-he-made weird.

Watching him
rendered me tongue-tied to the point where I was grateful he didn’t want to
indulge in conversation. But tongue-tied didn’t mean paralyzed. My gaze was
constantly drawn to him, although I didn’t gather the courage to meet his eyes
again—twice was more than enough. Especially when both times the
sensation of sliding at rocket speed toward a dark, but blissfully fatalistic
end knocked my breath out of my body.

And when my
pathetic attempts to resist staring worked, I could feel him watching me, those
piercing, soulless eyes probing me.

My breath draws
out now in a long, shuddering exhale as I recall those eyes.

God
—

Heavy fists pound
the door. I jump and release a husky croak. “What?”

“Time to vacate,
lady!”

I shove the phone
into my back pocket and thoughts of Quinn Blackwood to the back of my mind. I
quickly re-braid my hair and stuff it back under the baseball cap, grab my
stuff and open the door.

The manager
smirks at me, flanked by two burly guys in dark clothing. They don’t have any
distinguishing badges. In fact, they look more like street thugs than DOH, but
then what the fuck do I know? I sidle past them, hurry down the stairs and
cross the parking lot, avoiding the gazes of other guests who’re vacating the
premises.

I lower my head
and strike out towards the subway.

I’m still
terrified to go anywhere near the internet, which is why the first thing I did
when Fionnella handed me the phone was to turn the wi-fi service off,
regardless of her assurance that it was untraceable. If Clayton could track
someone to Alaska, he could track me here. I know that. But that doesn’t mean I
intend to make it easy for him.

As my bag grows
heavy in my hand, the subject of my homelessness looms insurmountably large in
my mind. I consider asking directions to the shelter but even I know you can’t
book a place at a shelter in advance just to stash your luggage. And with my
money almost gone, I don’t even have a hope of finding a place to stay tonight.
The rat-infested piss hole I’m walking away from cost forty-five dollars a
night for the privilege. My only choice is to take all my stuff with me to my
appointment and figure out what to do afterward.

I arrive with
more than fifty minutes to spare. I find a spot under a tree in a park a couple
of blocks away from the penthouse and drop down onto the grass. In order not to
attract too many stares, I pretend interest in my phone. Time drags and with it
a sudden intensity of hunger.

My stomach knows
it’s about to be fed and it has the temerity to grow impatient. When it growls
and clenches one more time, I put away the phone and dig through my smaller backpack.
I stashed an emergency chocolate bar in there a week ago and I almost moan in
relief when my hand closes over it.

I’m on the run
from Clayton Getty. I’ve been recently evicted from my exorbitant hellhole. I’m
sitting in a park, waiting to present myself to a team of strangers in a fuck
off apartment in order to begin a cycle of prepping to whore myself on film
with a man I’ve never met, in return for a million dollars.

I figure I’ve
earned an emergency chocolate bar.