I, Porn Star (I #1)

by Zara Cox

He stops a dozen feet away. I’m disappointed.

  “Is everything a joke to you, son?”

  My bark of laughter strangles off within a nanosecond. “I never joke about wine. Or cheese.”

  At fifty-one, Maxwell Blackwood is in prime, Blackwood condition. He’s fourth generation in a long line of power-wielding Blackwoods, built from the ground up in pure New York royalty. His brief but illustrious stint in the army has also added a touch of grit to his innate charisma. What Maxwell Blackwood couldn’t obtain with a smile he claims with an iron fist. It’s what makes him one of the most respected and feared men in the country.

  We face off in the wide hallway of the mansion. Felix hovers at a discreet distance, his decades-long service to my family having anaesthetized him to confrontations such as these. I stare at my father. His snowy white tuxedo shirt indicates he’s just returned from one of the many functions that demand his time these days.

  Hands planted on lean hips, eyes two shades darker than mine narrow and glare in white hot anger. “Did you or did you not give away my Miami condo project to a fucking homeless charity?”

  Maxwell seldom swears. So twice in two sentences is an achievement.

  “Oh…that. The quarterly charity drive is weeks away. I thought I’d get a jump on it.”

  A vein pops in his temple. “That project is worth eighty million dollars. You didn’t think to discuss it with me first, before you issued a goddamn press release announcing the donation?”

  I slide my hands into my pockets before he can see them bunch. “Frankly, no.”

  He looks furiously incredulous. He starts to whirl away, but checks back almost instantly, points a finger at me. “You will cancel the contract tomorrow, Quinn. Take out another press release stating you made a mistake. Give them something else if you must, but you will not give them the Miami project.”

  “I could, but then how would you look, Dad? The donation was made in your name, from a company that bears your name. Think of the embarrassment factor.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re the goddamn embarrassment!” He reaches up and yanks loose the first stud securing the tuxedo.

  I roll on the balls of my feet. “Thanks. Now, are were going to get to the real reason I’m here, or shall I leave and go back to ignoring your phone calls?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I’m almost tempted to tell him. Surely, he can’t be that dense? But then I remember that hubris is a giant flaw of the Blackwoods.

  So I shrug.

  “I need an answer, dammit. A shrug isn’t going to cut it, son.”

  I grit my back teeth against the tug of satanic rage that engulfs me every time he calls me son. “If you say so.”

  We go back to facing off again.

  Felix clears his throat. “Mister Quinn, can I get you something to drink?”

  “That would be excellent,” I reply without taking my gaze off my father. “You have any of that Macallan ’46 still tucked safely away, old man?”

  “Of course. Coming right up, sir. Same for you, Mr. Blackwood?”

  My father breaks my stare long enough to glare at Felix before he turns and stalks off. “No,” he snaps. “Quinn, we’ll finish this in my study.”

  I nod at Felix before I follow at a much more leisurely pace. I’m halfway to my destination when I hear the click of heels behind me. I don’t turn around. The faint cloud of Coco Mademoiselle is enough to announce her.

  Warm hands slide over my shoulder to rest at my nape. Somewhere along the line, she’s gotten it into her head that she owns me, or at least enough of me to touch me when no one’s watching. “I thought that was you, Quinn,” she murmurs in my ear. “Nothing else fires Max up quite like you do.”

  “You sure about that?” I drawl.

  The husky laugh is exaggerated. “Well, I won’t lie. I have my moments of inciting Max-related fires too.”

  “You’ll be good enough to spare me the details, of course.”

  Another laugh as she steps around me to block my view of the portraits of generations of Blackwoods lining the walls. She does so without letting go of my nape, filling my vision completely. My gaze rakes her from neck to toe.

  She’s wearing a kimono-style leisure gown in black with bold gold swirls. The V-shaped neckline and the cinched in waist emphasizes her many considerable assets.

  A tall and statuesque ex-stock broker, Delilah Blackwood dragged herself from dirt poor to powerful adversary in a little over a decade. She’s stunningly beautiful, with straight, jet-black hair that falls to her waist. Combined with the razor-sharp fringe nearly touching her lashes, and perpetually scarlet painted lips, she is difficult to look away from when she walks into a room.

  I give her her due, let my scrutiny linger complimentarily before I greet her gaze with a guarded, less hostile one while she continues to play with the ends of my hair.

  “Of course. I know how you hate the details.” She offers a dazzling smile I don’t reciprocate.

  Eventually, all attempts at playing the unflappable mistress of the house leaves her face. Behind her we both hear my father pacing his study. He lets loose another curse and his footsteps grow louder.

  Delilah leans in close and under the pretext of kissing me hello, whispers in my ear, “I’ve missed you, darling. Albany was hell without you.”

  “But isn’t hell where you thrive best, Stepmother Dearest? I bet you had the staff running around in circles to make hell more interesting for you?”

  For a naked moment her grey eyes blaze with a sinister light, uncloaking the real Delilah Frost. When you strip away the gloss and polish, she’s an alley cat in the basest form, ready to claw and gouge with gold-digging talons to keep what is hers. Her unvarnished thirst for power saw her land the biggest fish in New York at twenty-five. But she has a thirst for other things, namely rough, dangerous sex. The rougher, the better. The kind she made clear from the beginning she was not getting from Blackwood senior.

  “I haven’t got all night, Quinn. For the love of God, can you show me some respect—? Oh, Lilah, I thought you were already in bed?”

  Delilah swivels on stiletto slippers, her face rearranged in an adoring and accommodating wifely smile. “I was just about to head there, when I heard the heated discussion. Then I remembered you said Quinn would be stopping by. I thought it would be rude not to say hello.”

  Maxwell’s tension eases a fraction as his arm slides around his wife’s waist. At thirty-five, she’s the right age not to attract veiled sniggers of cradle-snatching attached to such powerful and high-profile relationships. She’s also very quickly made a name for herself where it counts to the extent that those who don’t know her can almost be forgiven for thinking she’s my father’s equal.

  She’s not.

  And it’s that last rung of elusive acceptance that makes her watch me with blatant hunger that would’ve been almost amusing had it not been for a simple, hard truth.

  She’s Mrs. Maxwell Blackwood. But the title doesn’t belong to her. She took it by unforgivable force.

  “At least someone around here appreciates the basic tenets of good manners,” Maxwell snipes, narrowed eyes leaving his wife’s to clash with mine.

  A noise swirls in my head, rising in volume with each heartbeat. “You’ll have to take me as I am, Dad. I’m far too big for you to put me over your knee.”

  The growl from his chest fades away beneath the soothing hand his wife places on his chest.

  Delilah sighs. “You two wear me out with your constant wrangling. Darling, I think you should go pour yourself a drink, let me speak to Quinn for a minute?”

  Maxwell starts to shake his head. Delilah steps in front of him, demands his attention. “Max. Go.”

  Fury aimed at me is tampered, and he stalks back into his study and slams the door.

  Delilah whirls to face me, her eyes fierce and determined. “I want to see you again. This week.”

  “No. Tell me why he wants to see m
e.”

  “Agree to see me first.”

  I turn around and head back down the hallway. “Fuck off, Delilah.”

  She rushes after me. “Don’t speak to me like that!” she hisses.

  “I’ll speak to you any way I damn well please.”

  She reaches my side and lays a hand on my arm. I’m about to shake her off when I see Felix heading my way, a sterling silver tray with a single glass on it. Delilah’s hand falls away without an ounce of guilt.

  I snag the glass from the tray and knock back ten thousand dollars’ worth of prime whiskey in one swallow. I swear I catch a wince from Felix as I set the glass back on the tray. “Thanks, old man.”

  “Always a pleasure, sir.”

  “Tell my father something came up, would you?”

  Felix opens his mouth. Delilah beats him to the punch. “Really, Quinn. Do you have to be so difficult? You bothered to come all the way here. And you’re just going to turn around and leave again?” There’s a frisky little fire in her eyes that I want to stoke, but being in this house, with so many reminders, risks setting me off.

  “Tell him to send me an email or you tell me what this is about.”

  Delilah transfers her attention to Felix. “That will be all, thank you.”

  The old man retreats with a stiff nod.

  “I mean it, Quinn,” she whispers fiercely. “I need to see you. It’s been months.”

  “And the last time you asked me nicely, I accommodated you. I believe the you-owe-me-one box is ticked in my favor?”

  She swallows. “That…it wasn’t the same.” Her hand finds my arm, her grip firmer. “Please, baby. I can’t function.”

  I ignore her plea and jerk a thumb toward the study. “What the hell does he want? I won’t ask you again.”

  She waves an impatient hand at the question. “It’s something to do with schedules and the campaign.”

  My brain ticks over for a minute. “What about the campaign? Is he thinking of not running?”

  She frowns. “No, quite the opposite. Since you played an integral part last time, he wants to go over a few things with you. He just wants to get the ball rolling asap, that’s all. But I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about us…”

  I exhale slowly, let her words drift over me. My plans would remain the same regardless of which course Maxwell takes, but this is a better outcome.

  I thought he intended to discuss Blackwood Estate business even though he no longer plays a day-to-day role in the company. Now I know what the summons is about, the cogs in my plans resume spinning.

  “Quinn?” Delilah presses harder.

  I step away from the clinical analysis of my plans and stare down into her face. She swipes a tongue over her lower lip, leaving it glistening in the hallway light.

  I cover the hand on my arm with mine. “Fine. I’ll be in touch in a few days. Are you able to bear waiting that long?”

  Relief and triumph swirl over her face and she gives a sultry laugh. “I’ll manage. Just about.” I start to walk away, to head back to the study. Her grip tightens. “Will it…I want it to be just you and me this time.”

  I tap the tip of her nose. “You know better than to make demands, Delilah. You get it the way I give it to you. Or you don’t get it at all. Is that going to be a problem?”

  Her face drops along with her hand. “I don’t know why I tolerate this from you, Quinn.”

  My finger traces the side of her pursing mouth. “Spare me the affronted routine, hmm? We both know it’s fake. Now run along back to bed. I’ll be in touch.” I walk away without a backward glance. I know she’s still watching me because I don’t hear her footsteps retreating.

  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 th
e 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.