I, Porn Star (I #1) (2 page)

I subside into my
seat. “That was convincing enough. You may sit down, Lucky.”

She blinks
rapidly before she sinks into the chair. A quick swipe and the tear never
existed. Neither does the promise of the fuck of a lifetime that was on her
face a moment ago.

Her acting skills
are remarkable. For a second, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad
thing. I don’t want her to be too polished. I dismiss the notion and glance
down at her notes.

“You list your
address as a motel?”

The address in
Queens is unfamiliar to me, but the motel chain is notorious for being
exceptionally bad. I hide my distaste and wait for her answer.

“I arrived in
town recently. I don’t have a permanent address yet.”

The secrets in
her eyes, the threadbare clothes, the unkempt hair and unshaven pussy begin to
tell their own story. She may be brave enough to sass me when she risks losing
a job that promises a once in a lifetime payday, but she’s also desperate.

How desperate is
the question.

“Are you
currently working?”

She nods. “I work
on and off for a catering service. But it’s nothing I can’t work around, if
needed.”

“So you’ll be
free to do this if I want you?”

The desperation
escalates, then a hint of anger flashes through her eyes. “
If
?
You mean I did all of this for
nothing?”

I give a low laugh
at her gumption. “You didn’t seriously think you’d waltz your way into a
million dollars on a simple three-minute screen test, did you?”

The anger flees
from her eyes, although her mouth tightens for a moment before she speaks. “So
it’s true? It’s not a con? This job really pays a million dollars? For…sex?”
she rasps.

“You think I’d
admit it if it was a con?”

Her delicate jaw
flexes for a second. “I guess not. So…assuming it’s
not
a con, how will this work, then?”

“If you pass the
next few tests, and I decide you’re a good fit, you get the gig. You’ll receive
one hundred thousand dollars with each performance.”

“So…ten
performances…over how long a period?”

“Depending on how
many takes are needed, anywhere between three weeks and a month. But I should
warn you, it’s hard work, Lucky. If you think you’re just going to lie back and
recite the Star Spangled Banner in your head, think again.”

Her fingers drum
on the table, the first sign of nerves she’s exhibited. “I…I won’t be doing
anything…skanky, will I?”

“Define skanky.”

“This is going to
be straight up sex. No other…bodily stuff? Because that would a firm no for
me.”

My mouth attempts
another twitch. “No water works, waste matter or bestiality will be involved in
the performances.”

Her fingers stop
drumming. “Okay.” She waits a beat, stares straight into the camera. “So when
will I know?”

I hear the barely
disguised urgency and I rub my finger over my lip again. “Soon. I’ll be in
touch within the week.” I’m not sure exactly why I want to toy with her. But I
sense that having her on edge would add another layer of excitement I badly
need.

When she opens
her mouth, I interrupt. “Goodbye, Lucky.”

A passing thought
about the origin of her name is crushed into oblivion. I press the remote to
summon the bodyguard to escort her out, and I leave the room.

In my study a few
minutes later, I bring up the screen on my desk and activate the encrypted
service I need. I open the application and within minutes, the members of my
exclusive gentlemen’s club are logging in.

My email is short
and succinct.

The
next Q Production is scheduled for release on 20 May 2015.

Limited
to ten members.

Bidding
starts in fifteen minutes.

I start the
countdown and rise to pour myself a neat bourbon. I swallow the first mouthful
with two prescribed tablets, which are meant to keep me from going over the
edge, apparently, and stroll to the floor to ceiling window. I look down at
Midtown’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. This mid-level penthouse is one of many I
own in this building and around New York City.

Technically, I
don’t live here. I only use it when volatile pressures demand that I put some
distance between the Upper West Side family mansion and myself. I would never
stray far for long. For one thing, I’ve accepted that my family would never
leave me alone.

I know what I
know. So they’ve made it their business to keep me on a short leash. But with
over three hundred properties in my personal portfolio, and a few thousand more
under the family firm’s control, there are many places to disappear to when the
demons howl.

Today, the
Midtown penthouse is my temporary haven.

I turn when the
timer beeps a one-minute warning.

I return to my
desk and adjust the voice distorter. When the clock reaches zero, I click the
mouse. “Gentlemen, start your bids.”

My words barely
trail off before the first five bids appear on the screen. Sixty seconds later,
the total bid is at two million dollars. I steeple my fingers and wish I were
more excited. The money means nothing. It never has. It’s the end game that excites
me.

My mind drifts
back to Lucky. I turn the gem of her elusiveness this way and that and admit to
myself she has potential.

I want to take a
scalpel to all her secrets, bleed them and soil my hands with the viscera. I
also want to fuck her until her body gives out. Right in this moment, I’m not
sure what I want more.

So I concentrate
on the numbers racing higher on the screen.

Three million.
Four million. Five.

My phone beeps
twice. I pick it up and read the two appointment reminders on the screen.

 
7pm – Dr. Nathanson
. My
shrink.

9pm -
Dinner with Maxwell
.

I re-confirm the
first and delete the second.

Cancelling dinner
will Maxwell will bring a world of irritation to my doorstep. No one cancels
dinner with Maxwell Blackwood. For a start he’s one of the most powerful men in
the country.

He’s also my
father.

Yeah, my name is
Quinn Blackwood, heir to the Blackwood Estate, only child of Maxwell Blackwood
and Adele Blackwood (deceased). My family owns a staggering proportion of
property across the eastern seaboard of the United States and a few in the
west. According to the bean counters, I’m personally worth twenty-six billion
dollars.

But tangling with
my father in hell is what I live for. Have done since I was fifteen. So I
ignore his summons and watch the stragglers fall away until I’m left with the
top ten bidders. The bids wind down, and within the space of half an hour, I’m
just under seven million dollars richer.

I spot the
familiar name of the top bidder and I sneer.

Once bidding
ends, I close down the application and call up another list. Dozens of charity
websites showing pictures of starving children flood my screen. Within minutes,
fifty charities are the grateful recipients of seven million dollars.

I may be Quinn
Blackwood, occasional user of prescribed meds to keep the demons in check, who
moonlights as
Q
, porn star to
an exclusive few who pay millions for my work.

And I may be an
unhinged asshole with serious daddy issues.

But no one said I
wasn’t a giver.

2

PRE-PRODUCTION

“How are you
feeling today, Quinn?”

I sigh. “I’ll pay
you a hundred thousand dollars, if you promise to drop that question from our
sessions.”

Adriana Nathanson
regards me silently for a full minute from the top of her rectangular glasses.
She looks good for a woman in her mid-forties, would even pass for a decent
blonde-and-blue-eyed MILF, although I glimpse signs of a burgeoning Botox
habit. “Why do you want me to drop it?”

“Because we both
know whatever answer I give will be a lie.”

“Here’s an idea.
Why don’t you try the truth for once?”

“Here’s an idea.
Fuck off, Dr. Nathanson.” My pulse barely rises, but there’s more than a hint
of venom in my response, which surprises even me.

Her thin lips
purse. “I thought we were past the hostility stage, Quinn. Making progress.”

“Did you?” I
query with zero interest. “And why would you think that?”

“Because you
haven’t shown signs of it in over a year.” She scribbles in her notes.

I remain silent.

Eventually she
looks up. “Quinn?”

“
Doctor
?”

“Did something
happen since our last session? You appear…agitated.”

I crack my
knuckles loudly. “No. I am not.”

We stare at each
other. We’ve played this game a thousand times.

“How are the
nightmares?”

The space between
my shoulder blades twitches. Have to hand it to her. She has her moments.
They’re not many or I wouldn’t have been coming here for ten years. Although,
technically there’s no cure for what I have.

I lean back, rub
the twitch against the leather chair. “They’re still three shades above garden
variety.”

“There’s nothing
garden variety about them, Quinn. Tell me about the last one.”

The twitch
intensifies. I shrug it off. “It was no different from the one before that. And
the one before that.” No matter what I do, how loud I scream, she still dies in
the end.

Her lips purse
again. “It’ll help to talk through it.”

“I’m absolutely
sure it won’t.”

She sighs, lays
her Montblanc pen on top of her notes and removes her glasses. I’m hit with a
set of determined baby blues. “Your father is back in town. Have you seen him yet?”

I freeze. The
twitches abruptly cease. Before it manifests, I sense it. The abyss. It’s like
a deadly virus, worming its way through me. It starts in my left wrist. Feeds
through my veins and takes root in my brain. It’s not easy to control it, but I
give it a shot. “No, I haven’t.”

“And your
stepmother?”

I crack a
sinister smile. “That’s a stupid question, Dr. Nathanson.”

She has the grace
to look ashamed. We both know my stepmother has been banned from seeing me
without my father present. Ergo…

“How do you feel
about his return?”

“Half a million.”

“You can’t bribe
me not to ask you questions, Quinn.”

“Then ask me
different ones.”

Her head tilts.
As if I genuinely puzzle her. I know I don’t. She knows exactly what I am. What
lies beneath this mockery of civility.

“Don’t you want
to get better?”

Another idiotic
question. We resume the staring match. She uncrosses and re-crosses her legs.

“I called your
office earlier today. Your EA said you left early.”

“Is there a
question in there?”

She shrugs. “It’s
not like you to leave the office until at least ten o’clock.”

“Again, I’m not
hearing a question.”

“I was in the
area. I thought I might join you for lunch.”

“Why?”

She gives a
nervous laugh, the first sign she’s about to crack. I almost laugh. She’s so predictable
it’s boring. “Why does anyone eat lunch?”

“No. What makes
you think I’d want to eat lunch with
you
?”

“Because it’s
what normal people do.” She immediately realizes her slip and grimaces.

“But I’m not
normal, am I, Dr. Nathanson? Isn’t that why I’ve been seeing you every week for
the last ten years? Isn’t that why you’ve been letting me come in your mouth since
I turned eighteen?”

“Quinn—”

“Are we done,
Doctor?”

“I need you to
start opening up a bit more—”

“
Are.
We. Done
?”

“For today, yes.”

“Thank fuck. Do
me a favor? Please stop pretending you know everything about me. You only know
what I share with you in this room.” I crack my knuckles again, a disgusting habit
I’ve never been able to quit. I wait for her to close her leather-bound notebook
and set it down on the table next to her. When her blue eyes return to me, I
sit back and eye her. “Stand up.” She does as instructed. “Turn around, face
the door. Is it locked?”

She shakes her
head. “No.” Her professionalism is gone and her voice shakes with excitement.
For a second, I yearn for a slice of that excitement, but what the hell. I’m
about to pass a decent ten minutes.

“Good. Take off
your clothes.”

The prim black
suit comes off, followed by her cream silk blouse. She folds the clothes away
and straightens. I take in her tightly knotted hair, the gold clasp of the
pearls resting at her nape, the dove-grey lace underwear, the garters, the
heels.

My ennui
intensifies.

“Turn around.”

She obeys. Her
front is marginally improved by a decent rack. I stare objectively. She’s
beautiful, if a little on the too-thin side. Her legs are shapely, hips and
thighs lean and toned. My gaze rises to her face and I read the myriad of
emotions fleeting over her features. None of them touch me. The black poison seeping
through me deadens me from the inside. I lay my head against the chair and shut
my eyes.

“Take the rest
off and come here,” I say.

Her approach
halts two feet from me.

I smell her
pungent arousal. She’s as wet as fuck, and I wish I were in the mood to fuck
her. My hands drop palms down beside my thighs on the sofa.

It’s the tacit
permission she needs to drop to her knees. She tugs at my belt and unbuttons my
pants. Cool hands reach into my briefs and she pulls me out. I hear her excited
gasp a second before her greedy mouth closes over my flaccid head. Saliva lands
on my dick and eager hands rub me up and down. Muscle memory kicks in.

The spark is
there, but it’s pathetically negligible.

I open my eyes
and stare at the white ceiling. In my periphery, I see her head bob up and
down, faster and faster to keep me interested. I count the sconces, then drop
my gaze lower to examine the genuine masterpieces and numerous accolades
draping the walls. Absently, I count them. Twelve impressive citations.

Adriana Nathanson
is accomplished.

But clearly she’s
getting progressively worse at sucking cock.

I sigh loudly.
She bobs faster. One hand creeps over my abs and up my chest.

“No.”

She returns it to
my cock.

I sigh again.

I’m being blown
by my thousand-dollars-an-hour shrink, one of the most acclaimed in New York
City. She’s bare-assed naked and on her knees with her office door unlocked.
Depending on who walks in, she could lose her license. I should be excited.

Instead, I’m
losing my barely-awakened wood.

Just as I’m about
to push her off me, a face slides into my mind.

Lucky.

My cock twitches
back to life. Adriana moans and gags with happiness as I thicken in her mouth.
My eyes drift shut and the image sharpens. Tumbling caramel hair replaces ice
blonde. Worn T-shirt replaces pearls. A full, soft pink mouth wraps around my
cock, tongue swirling. A teasing graze of teeth along my thick vein. I roll my
hips. She takes more of me into her mouth. I hit the back of her throat. She
growls low and long, her membrane vibrating against my cock head.

Air expels in a
half gasp. The veil shrouding my ennui ripples, attempts to lift. Sea green
eyes rest on me as she devours me.

Her hand creeps
over my abs and up my chest.

My eyes blink
open.

Adriana.

“No,” I snarl
again. Disappointment blackens my mood.

Her hand returns
to my cock and she attempts to deep throat me. I’m too big for her. Her gag
sickens me.

“Stop.”

Shock hits her
eyes. My deflating dick pops out of her mouth, wet and heavy.

“Quinn? Is
something w—?”

“Get the fuck off
me.”

She has the nerve
to appear hurt. Rapid blinks designed to imitate held-back tears makes my mouth
twist. To her credit, she retreats without protest.

I tuck myself
back in and zip up. She’s hurrying into her clothes as I stand and buckle my belt.

“Next week, same
time?” I drawl sarcastically.

She pauses
mid-dress. “I can fit you in later this week, if you want?”

I know why she’s
offering. My father is back in town. And perhaps the rare chance that I might
fuck her. “I don’t want.”

Concern attempts
to shift her Botoxed forehead. “Quinn, I’m really worried about you,” she
murmurs.

I laugh. A
genuine, hearty-as-apple-pie laugh that splits my face. Sadly, it doesn’t last.
It too is sucked into the empty void. “You’re
worried
about me?” There’s only a thin veneer of reason left. I
need to leave this place. Now. Her nod stops me.

“Yes,” she
replies. Her hands tremble as she resumes dressing.

“You really are
delusional, aren’t you?”

She finishes
buttoning her blouse and zips up her skirt. “I don’t know why you’re being this
way.”

I laugh again.
“Don’t you, Adriana? What does
your
shrink say about our little
arrangement
?”

She pales and her
mouth drops open. “How do you know about that?”

I scoff at her
expression. “What, you think it’s some big secret that you have a shrink too? I
guess I should be comforted to know you’re not too far-gone to recognize that
you need help. So, tell me, is there a diagnosis of
your
condition?”

 
The breath shakes out of her. “I…I’m not
prepared to discuss it with you. Like our sessions, mine is also confidential.
You get what that means, right?” She’s regaining her composure. Her voice holds
a touch of warning. I want to laugh again, but the whole fucked up situation
suddenly weighs me down.

“Cut the confidential
crap, Adriana. I started coming to you when I was seventeen. You’ve been
sucking my cock since my eighteenth birthday—I’m guessing crossing the
line into pedophilia was a step too far for you?”

Her bravado
vanishes. She holds out a hand. “You’re not…You can’t tell anyone about us,
Quinn.”

“There is no
us
!”
I hiss. “And don’t deny a part of you wants to be discovered. You blow me most
of the time with your door unlocked, after all. The idea of someone walking in
on us gives you a cheap thrill, doesn’t it?” I drawl.

Her pale face
turns guilty. But her gaze rushes over me with sickeningly carnal hunger.

I stride to the
door and wrench it open.

“Same time next
week,” she says behind me.

I leave without
responding.

Two hours later,
I’m in the VIP lounge of
XYNYC
, the SoHo club I co-own with an old
college buddy. It’s one of several business ventures I’m silent partners of
because all that obscene Blackwood money needs to go
somewhere
, right?

I nurse another whiskey
and watch scantily-clad girls dance below my roped off lounge. Several cast
suggestive glances my way. I clinically assess and discard, my gaze searching
but not finding what I’m looking for. I wonder why I even bother. Maybe I don’t
want to give in to the inevitability of the expanding blackness just yet?

In spite of
knowing and accepting my fate, does a part of me want things to be different?

My phone buzzes
in my pocket, the fourth time since I got here. I abandon my useless thoughts
but ignore the phone. I’m not in the mood to deal with Maxwell Blackwood. He
can wait.

I settle on a
skinny brunette in a silver backless dress and crook a finger at her.

The swiftness
with which she abandons her friends and hops up the steps to me is almost
comical. I nod at the bouncer to let her in and take her back to the velvet
couches grouped in the back. My private waiter delivers a glass of vintage
champagne to her. I sit back in the seat and don’t protest when she settles her
long-legged figure next to me. Over a thumping
The Weekend
number, she
babbles about fuck knows what. I don’t speak. With her third glass of
champagne, she grows bolder. She leans closer and her fingers tease my shirt
button. Sultry words whisper in my ear.