I, Porn Star (I #1) (12 page)

12

CONTINUITY

I jerk awake, my
racing heart on fire, a silent scream locked in my throat. Two nightmares in
one night is a record even for me. The first one is now chillingly
familiar—the sight of Ridge’s face when I shot him through the chest and
watched the life leave his eyes as he dropped dead in Clayton’s office.

The second one is
new. It’s the kind of dream I hate. The one that starts with joy and the
blindingly effervescent promise of happy-ever-after, and ends with you poised
on the edge of some craggy ravine, knowing in your bones you’re about to fall
to your death.

It’s clear that
the ghosts of future past and present don’t intend to leave me alone tonight,
so I drag my fingers through my hair, resign myself to insomnia and slide out
of bed.

The moment I rock
up to a standstill, I’m hit with another bout of overwhelming disbelief.

The room I’m
standing in is bigger than the great room Fionnella’s team uses in the Midtown
apartment. In fact, it takes up three quarters of the whole floor of the loft.
According to Fionnella, this is the smallest loft in the complex where she
delivered me after my breakdown six short hours ago. Despite having lived in a
mansion of The Villa’s proportions, I still find it difficult to wrap my mind
around this place…this
space…
being
all mine, at least for the next few weeks.

Provided Clayton
doesn’t find me first.

The under floor
heating warms my feet as I wander around the bedroom.

True to his word,
Q has come through in helping me.

The Hell’s
Kitchen property is fully furnished, central heated, and more importantly,
stocked to the gills with food, wine and delicacies, some of which I’ve never
heard of, never mind tasted.

I walk across the
mezzanine floor to the railing that overlooks the cavernous space below.
Contemporary furniture and an extensive entertainment center divide the living
room from the dining area, with expensive looking potted plants interspersed
with paintings and eclectic pieces of art. The kitchen is a gourmand’s dream,
and I get the feeling I won’t be brave enough to touch half of the gadgets in
there.

After Fionnella’s
departure, I left a few lights on to brighten the darker corners. I’m not
afraid of the dark, but I have more than enough to be jumpy about. I’d rather
not add shadows in dark corners to the list of things to be concerned about.

Leaving the
bedroom, I make my way slowly down the stairs, then just stand in the middle of
the living room and stare around me.

Who is
this guy?

Q…

Funny, the more I
think about the name I’ve coined for him, the more it suits the stranger behind
the wall. Except he won’t be a stranger for much longer.

I realize I’m not
dreading meeting him as much as I thought. Whether it’s because my mind has
exhausted itself on the possibilities of what he could be, or whether his
treatment of me so far has been decidedly less monster-like than what I’ve been
used to in the past, I’m not sure.

Either way, I
know deep down that no matter what I’m feeling right now, dropping my guard
around him, at any time, is dangerous. And yet, I’m standing in the middle of a
living room, less afraid than I was a few short hours ago.

And once again
getting…
hopeful
.

I squash the
feeling, and cross over to the double-wide fridge. I want to squeal with
delight at being confronted with so much delicious food but I resist the need
to gorge on a little bit of everything, and take out the ingredients to make a
grilled cheese sandwich. I spotted a sandwich press earlier, and five minutes
later am sitting cross-legged on the sofa with my sandwich in my lap.

I take a
groan-worthy bite and reach for the TV control just as a beep emits from a
sleek black gadget on the coffee table. There’s a blinking green light on one
end. Cautioning myself not to freak out, I pick it up. Beneath the light is a
command that reads
Talk/On
.

 
With my half-eaten mouthful of grilled
cheese fast congealing in my mouth, I remain motionless, and will myself not to
panic. The light flashes off after a minute. Just when my heart rate is
beginning to slow, and I’ve almost convinced myself that this is nothing sinister,
the light comes on again.

I rationalize why
it can’t be the worst case scenario. For one thing, Clayton isn’t the type of
man to toy with this prey once it is within his cross hairs. If he knew where I
was, I would already be in his clutches. Therefore the only logical, please
God, conclusion is that this is something else.

I push the
button. The light stops flashing but stays on green.

First, I hear him
exhale. My head jerks up as the sound filters through the room.

“Lucky.”

I drop the
gadget. “Q?” I’m getting used to the smooth automation of his voice. Whatever
tech he’s using must be top of the line, because he sounds less robotic and
more human each time we speak.

“Yes.”

I look around,
spot the discreet speakers tucked into various corners of the living room.

“How are you
doing this…I mean, how did you know I was up?”

“I have a state
of the art security system that alerts me when there’s movement in the property
at odd hours. It’s three in the morning. You should be asleep. My system thinks
you’re an intruder. I wanted to verify that you were not.” His voice flows all
around me.

I take a couple
of steps back and reclaim my sandwich. The explanation is reasonable. But I’m
still a little creeped out, if a lot relieved. My gaze darts around.

“What about cameras?
Do you have cameras installed in here, too?”

“Only on the
outside. I can give you the code to dismantle both if it would make you more
comfortable?”

I take small bite
of my food. “Can you not do it remotely?”

“Of course, but I
suspect you might not believe me if I said it was done?”

I bend my head to
hide my guilty flush, even though he can’t see me. Or at least I hope he can’t.

I swallow before
I reply, “That’s okay. If you say it’s done, I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

I take another
bite and chew through the silence. “I’m sorry if my moving around woke you.”

“I wasn’t
asleep.”

“Oh, okay. Can I
ask what you’re doing awake at 3am?”

“Having a drink.
And reviewing your shots.”

A reel of the
photo shoot flips through my mind and my body heats up. The thought that he’s
staring at those pictures right now makes a part of me tremble, while a
definite part throbs. When he remains silent, I’m forced to ask, “And?”

“And I’m very
much looking forward to fucking you, Lucky.”

The matter of
fact words, spoken softly through a mesh of tech, is hotter than anything I’ve
ever heard in my life. My body grows heavy and a little weak, and I’m glad I’m
sitting down.

“You…you don’t
think I’m too thin?”

“We’re working on
that, are we not?”

I laugh and the
sound is the most natural I’ve heard in a long time. “Fionnella is definitely
single-minded about fattening me up, that’s for sure.”

“She’s following
my instructions. I want you healthy and strong. I want you to be able to keep
up with me.”

My gaze skids to
the far corner of the room where a treadmill and cross-trainer have been set up
next to a yoga mat. “Can I use the equipment in here?”

“Everything in
the apartment is yours, Lucky. You don’t need to ask permission.”

I pause for a
moment and then ask the question that’s been on my mind for a while. “So where
will…the gig take place?”

“At another
property of mine.”

“So, not the Midtown
apartment?”

“No.”

I release a
breath tinged with relief. “Okay. That’s good.”

“Why is it good?”

I shrug, feel a
tad foolish. “Nothing. It’s no big deal.”

“It is, or you
wouldn’t have asked.”

“Just
that…Fionnella is not the kind of person I want to be doing that around.”

He pauses for a
moment before answering. “And why is that?”

“She just seems
the motherly sort.”

The pause is
longer. “You don’t strike me as naive, Lucky. Everyone wears a mask, even seemingly
cookie-baking types like Fionnella. For all you know, hers is the thickest mask
of all.” There’s something hard and sinister in his voice.

My skin prickles.
“Like I said, it’s no big deal. I would’ve done it either way.”

“Glad to hear
it.” His voice still sounds clipped, more mechanical.

I warm my
suddenly chilled arms with my hands and rise from the sofa. “I…uh, thanks for
checking on me.”

“My pleasure.”

“I think I’m
going to head back to bed now.”

 
“You just ate—I heard you chewing.
Going to bed so soon will give you indigestion.”

For an illogical
second, I wonder if he’s lonely and trying to keep me here so he can talk to
me. But then surely a guy like him, with wealth and power at his fingertips,
would have more than enough to occupy him, even at three in the morning?

All the same, I
find myself sitting back down. “I guess I can stay up for a little longer,
maybe watch some TV…”

“If that’s what
you want.”

I glance at the
sleek gadget sitting in a futuristic looking cradle and decide against it. “Or
maybe not. I don’t want to set off any alarms or anything.”

“Tell me what
sort of entertainment you require and I’ll work it from here.”

A tiny bit of
that creepiness whispers closer. “I’m good, thanks. I prefer to just…” I stop
when I realize the wish I’d almost voiced.

“Just what?” he
encourages.

My twitching
fingers grasp a strand of hair and toy with it. “I’d rather…talk, if that’s
okay. It’s been a while.”

A while is more
than an exaggeration. The last person I talked to…truly had a conversation with
that wasn’t blatantly or overtly sexual, was my mother. And she’s been dead for
seven years. And in the last few weeks, the only person I’ve had more than a
one-minute conversation with is Quinn Blackwood, and everything about that man
terrifies me into near speechlessness.

I refocus when I
hear faint sounds of feet on a hardwood floor. He’s moving around. I realize
this is the first time I’ve heard him do something other than speak.

My imagination
fires up, trying to conjure up an image just from his electronic voice alone,
trying to imagine where he is, what he sees when he looks out his window.

“I’m all ears,
Lucky.”

“Are you here? In
New York City?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

The pause is
long, uncomfortably so. “No.”

I’m not sure why
that dims my mood, the fact that we aren’t in the same city. “Are we in the
same country?” I press, despite knowing well enough that I should back off.

His answer this
time is smoothly forthcoming. “Yes, I’m in the States. Does that please you,
Lucky?”

My laugh is
entirely self-conscious. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I sensed
your unhappiness to find me not in the same city as you.”

“You
sensed
it? What are you, psychic?” I play at being amused, but my gut clenches with
trepidation at his astuteness.

“I’m surrounded
by your pictures, Lucky. Your face reflects your mood beautifully, your body
even more so. Your voice is merely another conduit of your emotions.”

“Or I could be a
very good actress.”

“I don’t think
so, but if you insist, I look forward to discovering which version is more
accurate.”

“I have time to
practice my poker face then.”

“Good luck.”

Like all his
words, there’s a thin trace of cruelty in them. I should be disturbed. But I
find myself clutching a plump cushion, and when I turn my head, I realize I’m
reclined on the sofa, the T-shirt I wore to bed now resting just beneath my
panty line. “So, did you…did you like all of the photos?”

“Every single
one. But one in particular captured my attention.”

My breath
catches. I suddenly feel too hot, and I want to peel the T-shirt over my head,
but I don’t want to move. “Which one?” I whisper, half of me hopes my voice is
too low for him to hear and the other half yearns for an answer.

“You’re seated.
Your knees together, feet apart. You look…conflicted. Like you’re fighting
something you want to give in to, but won’t allow yourself.”

My chest vibrates
with the strength of my agitated breathing. Beneath the T-shirt, my nipples are
stiff, ravenous peaks. My stomach is hollowed out, and a wholly involuntary
twitch of my hips clearly outlines my bare pussy against my thin, white
panties.