I, Porn Star (I #1) (11 page)

Yes
.

The answer slides
deep into me, twists within my groin and hardens my nipples as Todd snaps away.
The silk sheets tangle around my body. I let my fingers glide over it, loving
the texture, wondering how it would feel warmed by two bodies instead of one. I
slide my hands up, rest them on either side of my head. I know my body is on
show, my nipples clear to see beneath the lace, but I don’t care. In fact, the
idea makes me hotter. So much so, I feel a deep pang of regret when Todd calls
a halt.

The third and
final scene before the vanity mirror is simple. In a purple and black slip that
barely covers my naked ass, I pick up the gold-cased lipstick, lean forward and
slide the tube across my lip. Without instruction, I allow my gaze to find the
lens through the mirror. The faster clicks of the camera tells me I’m doing
something right, and when Todd mutters, “Fantastic!” beneath his breath,
elation spikes through me.

I’m sad when he
lowers his camera. For the first time, he smiles. “That was good. Really good.”

I return his
smile. “Thanks.”

He hands me the
gown to cover up and I see a cheeky gleam in his eyes. “You’re the kind of girl
that gives people the idea that gay guys like me can be convinced to switch
lanes.”

I laugh. “Thanks,
I think.”

He grins and
walks away.

Fionnella is
waiting for me once I change back into my normal clothes.

“The boss would
like to see you. Leave your stuff, you can get them after.”

My heart leaps
into my throat. I try to read her face but she’s too good for me. I leave the
room, my mind a chaotic vortex. He said we wouldn’t speak again until my
training was done. So why does he want me? Have I blown it?

Has he already
seen the pictures and decided I’m no longer suitable? The thought of losing
something I’m even now not sure was ever in my grasp fills me with so much
anguish, my fingers shake as I turn the door handle and enter the familiar
room.

Everything is the
same, and yet I sense a difference in the atmosphere. A subtle shift I’m unable
to pinpoint exactly.

“Lucky.”

The way he says
my name draws a shiver.

“Hi,” I manage as
I shut the door behind me.

“Sit down.”

My movements lack
perfect coordination as I move forward, and for the first time since this whole
surreal situation started I experience real fear. Oh, I’ve been afraid for my
life since fleeing The Villa. But there’s nothing like being offered hope, and
having it yanked away from you without explanation.

Fists balled in
my lap, I stare at the surface of the table. Looking into the camera is too much.
My desperation is too raw.

“Look at me,
Lucky.”

The request is
absurd seeing as he’s not in the room with me, but I know what he means. I want
to pre-empt rejection with a plea. Or a
fuck
you
. But words refuse to form.

I look into the
camera.

“I’m told we have
an accommodation problem.”

Shock spikes
through me. “I…what?”

“You’ve been
evicted from your motel.”

Fionnella.

My gaze drops.
“Yes.”

“Lucky.” The
demand is robotic, but no less intractable.

I find the lens
again.

“A situation like
this is potentially disruptive. Do you agree, Lucky?”

Potentially
. All’s not lost. Yet. I clench my gut
against premature relief. “I won’t let it get in the way of what I’m doing.”

“It already has.”

“How?”

“I’m here.
Talking to you.”

I ignore the
sting of the words. “Right. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You said you
wouldn’t fail me.”

“I haven’t,” I
answer, sharper than I intended. I wince and bite the inside of my lip. “Not
really. I’m sorry Fionnella had to disturb you, but I had things under
control.”

“How?” He throws
my question back at me.

My gaze drops
again, even though I sense that doesn’t please him. But I can’t bear for him to
witness my shame. “I was going to find another place tonight.”

“Where? And
before you think of lying or refusing to answer, know that I won’t allow you to
leave until I have an address where I can reach you.”

I glare at him.
“I wasn’t going to lie.”

“Good.”

He waits.

I purse my lips,
stomp down hard on my shame. It doesn’t die a complete death but it’s
temporarily maimed. “I was going to find a bed at a shelter for the night, then
hunt for somewhere else to live tomorrow.”

Thick silence
pulses through the wall, feeds through the lens. I’m not even sure if he’s in
this apartment or this building, never mind the same city as me. And yet I feel
him. Around me. Above me. Inside me.

“A shelter.”

I nod.

“Remember the guy
in the bar, Lucky? The one who wants to fuck you more than he wants to live? Do
you think that guy would want the woman he craves to be spending the night in a
shelter?”

Who
is this guy? Who the fuck is he to mess with me like this?

Fuck him and fuck
this bullshit.

I charge to my
feet and glare straight into the blinking light of the camera. “That was a
made-up fantasy. This is my life! I’m sorry if I ruined your grand plans for
the evening. You think I enjoy being made homeless? You think I enjoy being
tossed out on my ass without getting my money back for the rathole I had the
privilege of calling home, or some dumb fuck telling me the only way I’m going
to get my money is to suck his cock?”

I know I should
stop, but my last nerve is shredded to pieces along with my hope. And if all
I’m going to get out of this acid trip is a waxed crotch, nice smelling hair
and a few free meals, then I deserve to rant a little.

Because, fuck
karma.

“I know I’m
nothing more than some expendable commodity to you, but you have no right to
call me out for doing what I need to do to survive. I said I’ll take care of it
and I will. If that’s not good enough for you, then too bad.”

My chest burns
with the need for air and I realize I haven’t taken a breath throughout my
outburst. Several quick breaths, then I toss the brand new phone on the table.

Thank God I
didn’t throw the burner away.

“Are you done?”

I raise my chin.
“I’m most definitely done.”

“Sit down.”

I don’t want to.
I don’t want to be led by the nose into hope again. Besides, it’s way past time
to get off this crazy train. “No, thanks.”

“I’ve spent time
and resources on you, Lucky. Sit down.”

“Or what?”

He doesn’t
respond. I walk backward until my ass hits the door, keeping my hands loose at
my sides. So I can what? Make a quick escape if I need to? When every single
person in this place reports to him? When I need a special passcode for the
elevator to go either up or down?

If things head
further south than they are now, I’m fucked. But I’ll remain standing for the
fucking, thanks.

“Would you like
me to help you with your little problem, Lucky?”

 
My
no
surges up my windpipe and
hovers on the tip of my tongue. I pause. Swallow down the
yes
that
threatens to take its place.

This was too good
to be true right from the start. Had I been reading this in the paper or
watching it on some shitty documentary on TV, I’d be screaming at the brainless
bitch for being so gullible.

But reality is a
stark, terrifying place.

“You need help,
Lucky. I’m offering it. All you need to say is
yes
.”

The fight drains
out of me so swiftly and so harshly, it actually resonates as physical pain
within my bones. I want to drop where I stand, hand over the life I’m fighting
so hard for to somebody. Anybody.

Him
.

My booted foot
kicks back against the door in a feeble attempt not to give in.

But he has all
the time in the world.

Whereas I can
count the grains of sand left in my hourglass.

I pick up my
heavy head. Attempt to shake it, but it moves in the opposite direction.

“Say it, Lucky.
If you want my help, say
yes
. Give yourself to me.”

My heartbeat
slows to a drugged thudding. I look into the camera. “Yes.”

***

Q

She’s mine.

And now she’s
exactly where I want her.

Fully under my
control.

PART
TWO

LUCKY

11

FLASHBACK

5
March 2015

The Villa

My day starts
like any other, with the alarm going off just after midday and bitching from a
hung over Lolita, the girl I share a room with. She’s twenty-four to my
twenty-one. Those measly three years are one of many reasons she hates my guts.

The other reason
is because she thinks I’m standing in the way of her promotion to become one of
Clay’s
Entertainers
.

To keep The
Villa’s
Entertainers
exclusive enough to attract wealthy patrons, Clay
limited the girls to a cozy dozen and instituted a fancy booking system that
involved said patrons going on a waiting list. Lolita was gagging to be
promoted after one of the
Entertainers
fell down the stairs and
permanently damaged her back. Clay promoted me instead, earning me an enemy for
life.

But the truth is
Lolita was overlooked because she sucks at giving blow jobs and she sucks at
fucking, although she’s moderate at hand jobs. The one thing she
does
excel at is pole dancing,
courtesy of some fancy ballet training she received from rich foster parents
before they decided she was the wrong side of adorably nuts and tossed her back
into the care system.

For the last six
months, I’ve endured her vitriol. Recently, after overhearing her tell one of
the girls that she hates my hair and intends to cut it off while I sleep, I’ve
taken to sleeping with my hair carefully pinned to my skull and secured with a
swim cap.

It’s
uncomfortable as hell, but so far I’ve woken with my mane unmolested.

I hear her moving
around in the room and pretend to be asleep. My first client isn’t until two,
so I have time to wait for her to shower and leave before I get up.

I also have time
to go over my plan, make sure every angle is covered. It’s only a matter of
time before Clay discovers the documents in his safe are fake. I’m only a
handful of people allowed in his inner sanctum. He doesn’t know I’m aware of
the existence of his safe, but that won’t matter. I need to be far away from
here when he connects the dots, because then he’ll know I’m the only one with
the answers he needs.

Answers I
promised to take to the grave.

Behind me, I hear
Lolita disappear into the adjoining bathroom. I peel the swim cap off my head
and moan in relief as I take out the hairpins.

Once all the pins
are out, I sit on the side of my bed and massage my sore scalp. This is getting
really
old. I return the cap and pins to a different hiding spot, this
time in the zip up section of Lolita’s least favorite handbag. She found three
of my previous hiding spots and slashed the caps to shreds. I would be amused
by her antics if I weren’t so goddamn fed up with wasting precious time to go
to the sports store in Getty Falls to replace them. The last time I went into
the store, the cashier looked at me funny. I could tell he was dying to find
out what sex toy I intended to fashion from a swim cap. I remained silent and
let him conjure up his own pathetic fantasy.

I’m in the middle
of laying out my outfit for the day when I hear a knock. My grip tightens
around the pearl choker my client favors. The only people who knock on the
doors of the North Wing are people who don’t belong in the North Wing.

The North Wing is
strictly out of bounds to patrons of The Villa and most of the male staff. It’s
where the girls in the upper echelons of The Villa hierarchy have their
sleeping quarters. The only way to access it is through a set of double doors
in the East Wing, via a security coded entrance, which is also monitored by two
of Clayton’s bodyguards twenty-four seven.

At this time of
day, before The Villa’s doors open, the only person who could be knocking
is—

“What, you’re too
good to answer the door now, are you?” Lolita pauses in the bathroom doorway,
her wet hair clinging to her damp skin, a towel draped over her voluptuous
figure.

I force my
fingers to release the choker and walk to the door. I gulp down my relief when
I see who it is, although it’s short lived.

“Hey, Ridge,” my
roommate greets sultrily from behind me.

The mountain in
front of me barely acknowledges her with a nod before his gaze drops back down
to me.

Great,
something else for her to hate me for.

I stare at Ridge
Mathews.

Of all of Clay’s
minders, he’s the one that frightens me the most, and most of them are ex-military
or mercenaries and pretty damn scary to begin with. They’re supposedly here for
our protection, but I’ve seen the way Ridge’s eyes follow me when we cross
paths. I suppress a shudder and maintain a neutral expression.

“Clay wants to
see you, asap.”

Six words no girl
at The Villa wants to hear first thing upon waking up. Or at anytime during a
twenty-four-hour cycle.

In the mirrored
picture next to the door, I see Lolita’s expression drop from sneer to
sympathetic for a split second before she catches my gaze and normal service
resumes.

“Oops, has
Daddy’s little girl been
naughty
?”
she sniggers.

“Shut up,
Lolita,” I throw over my shoulder.

She laughs, drops
the towel and walks bare ass naked to her closet. “Come find me after if you
need cooling cream for your paddled ass.”

I don’t bother
responding to her. To Ridge, whose gaze is fixed on me the whole time with an
intensity that is extremely unsettling, I say, “Tell him I’ll be there in
twenty minutes. I need a shower.”

He nods, and
although his gaze doesn’t skim lower, I feel as if he’s stripped me naked just
by looking into my eyes. I step back and shut the door, then continue to the
bathroom before Lolita emerges to deliver another dose of envy-laced snark I’m
not in the mood for.

I intended to
take a bath before work, but I rush through a shower and don a loose sundress
and cowboy boots, catch my hair in a ponytail and slide on a touch of lip gloss
before I leave the North Wing.

The Villa is a
grand residence, despite its soiled reputation. A Pre-Colonial mansion built by
a baron with original Deep South roots, the rambling four-story has been
revamped with questionable decor but top of the line contemporary amenities,
including a security coded elevator that goes straight to the basement, where
Clay’s office is located.

I exit to the hum
of photocopiers and computers and the occasional ringing of a phone.

Clayton Getty treats
whoring like the rest of the legitimate businesses he inherited from his
father. No one has the temerity to question him because he owns every single
person in Getty Falls, be it through bribery or intimidation.

To my memory, the
only person who ever dared to cross him was the man I grew up thinking was my
father. And he paid dearly for it.

As if conjured up
from my thoughts, Earl Gilbert emerges from the door leading into Clay’s office
and slows to a stop when he sees me.

“The fuck you
dressed like that for?” he sneers the moment he catches sight of what I’m
wearing.

“I don’t start
work till two. You’ll just have to contain yourself for a while longer before
the slutty-outfit parade comes out,
Dad
.”

His one
functioning eye, the one not gouged out by Clayton Getty in retribution for
daring to take what was his, blazes holy hell at me. “I told you not to call me
that. You keep giving me lip like that, girl, you’ll see what that gets
you—”

“Enough of that,
Earl. Bicker with her in your own time. Lucky, get in here.”

For the
thousandth time, I puzzle why Earl didn’t leave Getty Falls after what Clayton
did to him. I can only conclude that either Clayton spared Earl and turned him
into a glorified lackey as an example to others or he believed in the
keep your
enemies closer
mantra.

I don’t skirt out
of arms’ reach the way I normally do when I’m within spitting distance of my
father because I know he won’t lash out at me while Clayton’s within earshot.
Although he hasn’t done that lately even when Clayton’s not around. Not after
seeing the way I handled a drunken client recently. Earl knows I’m not afraid
to defend myself.

Still, he eyes me
with icy malice as I walk past him and enter Clayton’s office.

“Shut the door,
Lucky.”

I obey and turn
around, the tendrils of fear I felt in Ridge’s and my father’s presence, giving
way to the real, unadulterated McCoy.

Clayton Getty is
tall and broad-shouldered, his frame more suitable to a farmer or a bounty
hunter than to a brothel boss. His dark brown hair is kept neat and his beard
trimmed by a once-a-week stylist.

Although Clayton
uses the basement of his ancestral mansion as his office, he’s very much the
king in charge of his empire. He swivels his throne-like chair as his gaze
sweeps me from head to toe.

“Earl has a
point, you know? There’s a standard dress code
Entertainers
need to
abide by, even when they’re off duty.”

“Sorry, Clay.
Ridge said it was important,” I slip out the white lie.

He stares at me
in tight-lipped silence for a full minute. Then he nods. “I wanted to
personally let you know that Krakov expects first class treatment today. He
mentioned the last time he was here, you seemed a little…off.”

My skin wants to
turn itself inside out. I barely manage to hold it together. “I…didn’t feel
well. I think I was coming down with a virus.”

“I explained
something to that effect, but he’s the customer, after all. Since you’re
feeling better today, I think we should go the extra mile to keep him happy,
don’t you?”

A boulder lodges
in my throat. “W—what do you mean?”

“I mean, we can
start off by meeting his plane when it lands shortly before two. We’ll begin to
wine and dine him almost as soon as his feet touch the ground and we’ll
continue to do everything in our power to make sure his experience is
unforgettable
.
Can I rely on you to achieve that?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Be dressed
and downstairs at quarter to two. Ridge will drive you to the airstrip in the
limo.”

On the one hand,
I’m two seconds away from emptying the bare contents of my stomach at the
thought of going anywhere near Edward Krakov. On the other, I’m giddy with
relief that this summons isn’t to question me about the documents I took from
his safe two days ago.

I nod and
hightail it to the door. I grasp the handle, taste elusive freedom.

“Oh, one more
thing, Lucky.”

My heart drops to
the soles of my battered boots. I hold my breath, clench my features to neutral
and turn.

“My security
systems shows my passcode was accessed after hours two nights ago. You wouldn’t
happen to know anything about that, would you?”

A touch of
confused surprise. The minute gathering of a frown. Then mild affront. I’ve
practiced it in the mirror a thousand times. “Of course not.” No inflection on
any vowel. A perfect, terror-steeped, delivery.

The gold-plated
ball pen in his hand rocks back and forth. Back and forth, as he watches me.
Eventually, he nods.

“Okay. That’s
all.”