I, Porn Star (I #1)

by Zara Cox

“Elyse! Jesus. Let go of her. I swear to God, if you hurt her—”

  His words are cut off abruptly, and he grunts in pain.

  My heart lurches at the sound of pounding feet. A tussle. Someone groans and curses. Then pounding feet again.

  I’m tossed into the back of a van. My tailbone wails in pain as my head cracks against the side.

  The last thing I see before the van door slams shut are fists flying. Quinn goes down. The van door opens and shuts. “Let’s go!”

  I stare into the blackness. I want to scream again.

  But I’m locked in deeper shock.

  Quinn is Q.

  Q is Quinn.

  This has been one twisted game for both all along.

  Fuck.

  My.

  Life.

  ***

  QUINN

  I pry my eyes open. Faces are swimming above me. Some hold concern, others rabid curiosity. Pain radiates from the side of my head, from my wrist and ribs. I know the metallic taste in my mouth is blood before I swallow. Someone mentions an ambulance. Someone takes a picture.

  I struggle to sit up. Look around.

  Memory returns in a blinding flash of cold fire.

  38

  CUTTING ROOM FLOOR

  QUINN

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, Fuck!

  39

  IT’S A WRAP…OR NOT

  Q is Quinn.

  Quinn is Q.

  My shock is wearing off.

  Bitch-slapped with reality, the truth becomes glaringly obvious.

  Dear God, I must be the stupidest woman on earth. Even when my brain force-fed me the information, I ignored it.

  I believed myself in love with two men. Ha!

  What I am is addicted to two sociopaths who are actually one person, thus ensuring I doubt my sanity for the rest of my life.

  If I have a life left to live, that is.

  The black cloth over my head is stifling. Even more so than the tape across my mouth. I’m not sure exactly how much time has passed. A day? Two? The gnawing hunger eating my intestines tells me it’s closer to the latter.

  The whole production meant to scare the living shit out of me has so far bounced off my armor plate of shock.

  The ominous footsteps. The hands tied behind my back. Feet bound. The bright light in the face one moment, then the black bag over the head again? Rinse and repeat. It’s so cliché I want to laugh. Except I suspect I’ll choke, what with the tape and all. So I plead with my brain to hold on just a little bit longer. Breathe, Elyse. Just breathe. The terror will probably return in good time, I don’t need to help it along.

  Clayton won’t like it when I refuse to divulge Petra’s whereabouts. And an angry Clayton is—

  “Well, young lady. Quite the merry go round you’ve led me on, isn’t it?”

  The bag is whipped off my head. The action drags my hair in front of my face. I look around, try to orient myself. Not quite the dungeon under a castle in the middle of the South China Sea, but it’s dark and dingy all right. We’re in a basement. Eight feet above, small, filthy rectangular windows reflect streetlights. Somewhere in the distance, hip hop blares from loud speakers.

  The naked bulb above my head burns into my skin and blinds me, but I’m able to make out Clay, sitting on a chair six feet from me. Our gazes collide, and I see hate blazing from eyes the same color as mine.

  I shrug.

  He lifts an eyebrow. “That’s all I get? After hunting you for six weeks? A shrug?”

  I stare back at him. He has the nerve to look disappointed.

  “I see you haven’t let all that time go to waste, though? Quite the industrious little bee you’ve been. Such a shame you didn’t think to work that enthusiastically for me back at The Villa.”

  I let my gaze radiate boredom. It’s the only way to get what I want, the tape off my mouth. Sure enough, he snaps his fingers impatiently. A figure appears from the circle of light. Earl, his one eye glaring hate and condescension.

  “Didn’t I tell you you’d end up like this, you filthy slut?” he crows, then he rips the tape off my mouth.

  The rippling trail of pain it leaves forces a gasp out of me. “No, actually, you were wrong. I’m not screaming and I’m not naked. I’m also sure as hell not dead.”

  “We’ll see about that—”

  “Enough, Earl.”

  Earl sneers and moves out of the way.

  Clayton smirks. “You were saying?”

  “Go fuck yourself?”

  He grimaces. “Ah, she lives. I suppose I’ve had that coming for…what? Two months? Ten years? More?”

  “I’m never going to tell you where she is. Never!”

  He nods. “I know. But I’ll find her. I’m a patient man. I’ll find her and bring her home.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “I just want us to be a family, Lucky. Is that so bad?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I may be in shock but I’m not insane.”

  His head tilts. “You sure about that? From the circus blowing all over the news, I say you inherited some of your mother’s mental instability.”

  “She got that way because of what you did to her!”

  “What? Treat her like a queen? Give her the best that money can buy only to find out she’s screwing that dimwit behind my back?”

  Earl grumbles. Clayton ignores him.

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

  He regards me steadily for a minute. “Ridge didn’t deserve what you did to him.”

  Now the fear invades. So does the rage. “He tried to rape me, with your blessing.”

  “Now, let’s not sling unfair accusations around. You went down there of your own free will. Like your mother, you thought you could pull the wool over my eyes when I was two steps ahead of you the whole time.”

  “If you were you would’ve foreseen what happened to your lapdog.”

  Fury shrouds his face. “Watch your tone. That man was a veteran, a defender of his country. He didn’t deserve to be barbecued by a second rate whore.”

  My eyes widen. “My God, you loved him, didn’t you? What, he was the son you never had, while the daughter under your nose deserved to be passed around like a Sunday afternoon buffet?”

  “I kept you fed and clothed—”

  “While keeping me under guard twenty-four hours and whoring me off seven days a week. Yeah, I felt really loved.”

  “This isn’t a father-daughter bonding session, Lucky.” He reaches into his suede jacket and pulls out a folded document. “This is a warrant for your arrest, signed by my good friend, Judge Tolley, you remember him? You gave him a birthday treat to remember last year. All I need is to act on this, and you’ll be back in Getty Falls standing trial for murder.”

  Despite the quaking inside, I lift my chin. “Are you sure? I’m pretty certain the authorities will have something to say about a Sheriff three thousand miles from his sand pit randomly slapping handcuffs on a citizen.”

  “You assume anyone knows I’m here. I have a private jet on standby. I could have you back home and in jail by nightfall. And while you’re awaiting your trial, I’ll continue my search for Petra.”

  Her name on his lips liquefies my insides. “There are billions of girls in the world, Clay. Thousands who will buy the Kool Aid you’re selling, unfortunately. Why her? Why can’t you just leave her be?”

  He staggers to his feet, his face livid. “Because she is mine!”

  He’s not going to stop looking for her. Never. “I have money. I’ll give it all to you if you promise to give up searching for her. That’s what you want her for, isn’t it? To be your next star attraction? Tell me what she’s worth, I’ll pay it.”

  “How? You think that rich asshole you were cavorting with will bail you out? I say he has enough problems of his own right now.”

  The vice around my heart tightens. “What are you talking about?”

  He snaps his fingers. “R
ight. You’ve been in the dark, literally for the last two days, haven’t you? Earl, bring the laptop. Show Lucky here all the excitement she’s missed. If you ask me, you’re the star attraction everyone’s interested in now.” He waves the document at me. “Maybe I should revisit my decision. You’re an Internet sensation now. Your premium has gone up—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I demand louder.

  Earl steps back into the light, a laptop clutched in his hand. He snags a chair and sets it down with the laptop a few feet from me. With a nasty smirk, he hits the button, stands back and folds his arms.

  At first I’m not sure what I’m seeing. The camera is shaking badly, the person holding it hiding behind a curtain or drape. The shot gets better when a woman walks into view, accompanied by a man. The footage is years old, but I recognize a younger Maxwell Blackwood immediately.

  He walks the woman into a bedroom suite. On the bed, two half-dressed men wait. The expressions on their faces are ones I’m unwillingly familiar with. Maxwell murmurs in her ear, then turns to leave. She tries to grab him, her sobs escalating. He pushes her back toward the bed. When she protests, he reaches into his pocket and pulls at a set of handcuffs and secures her to the bedpost.

  “You can’t go back on your promises, Adele. I’m disappointed in you.” He leaves her there, walks out. The men rise from the bed, and move towards her.

  My heart shreds as the name registers. Adele. Quinn’s mother.

  The camera cuts to another, similar footage of Adele with other men. On and on. Six in total. Then to a different scene. Maxwell is sitting on a sofa with Adele. He’s wearing a suit, she’s in her nightgown. Again there are hints of a drape in the corner of the screen. He talks in a low, insistent voice. She’s weeping softly and nodding. After a minute, he nods to someone off camera. A woman walks onto the screen and hands Maxwell a vial of pills.

  As she turns away, I see her face and my breath catches.

  It’s Quinn’s stepmother, Delilah Blackwood.

  Maxwell carries on talking to Adele, one hand soothing her back. The footage is fast-forwarded to where he sets the pills down in front of her and kisses her temple. She rises, goes to a drawer, and returns with a black clothed lump. When she sits down, he pats her hand.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Adele. It’s for the greater good,” he says.

  He leaves the room. Adele reaches for the pills, shakes them out into her palm and swallows them with a glass of water. Her movements are slow when she parts the black cloth and picks up a gun.

  No!

  The camera wobbles. “Mama?” The cracked voice of a boy not quite yet a man.

  Adele’s head turns slowly towards the voice, the gun rising in her hand.

  The camera swings downward, then falls to the carpet. Feet rush in and out of shot.

  “No, Mama! No!”

  The still rolling camera records the sound of the shot.

  Then the endless screaming starts.

  I absently note the sobs ripping from my throat, the wetness on my face. Somewhere beyond the buzzing in my head, I hear Earl chuckle.

  The footage moves on. Quinn in his early twenties, sitting on a sofa. He’s being asked questions by a woman with her back to the camera. They’re about the state of his mental health.

  His shrink.

  His answers are monosyllabic. Every now and then, he smirks at the camera over her shoulder. The video rolls forward, until, unbelievably she gets up and begins to undress. Quinn issues instructions, which she follows, all the way through giving him oral sex. And through it all, his eyes stare soullessly into the camera.

  Fast-forward again through the shrink’s footage. At one point it stops at a plaque in her office. Adriana Nathanson.

  Then comes the one that sends a spike straight through my gut.

  Quinn and Delilah. Nausea punches through my diaphragm. My whole body heaves and I prepare to hurl. At the last instant it subsides, but I can’t take my eyes off the depravity happening onscreen.

  Delilah and Quinn.

  Sometimes on their own. Other times with multiple partners.

  Fast-forward to two days ago. Breaking news. Maxwell and Delilah’s ashen faces when the footage is projected onto a large screen at a gala they’re attending. Friends being interviewed. The mayor giving his opinion on the scandal. The footage shown again.

  The police leading Maxwell away in handcuffs. Then Delilah in handcuffs.

  Different footage of Quinn. He’s also with the police, but there are no handcuffs. Cameras are shoved in his face. The look in his eyes…soulless.

  Then Q, masked. Q, unmasked. Q with other women.

  Q with me. I have my blindfold on for all of the footage, unlike the other women.

  I now understand the need for the blindfold, but that brings zero relief.

  A sound bubbles up from my throat. My vision blurs with raw tears and burning humiliation. The footage rolls forward and ends with the caption: The Life & Times Of The Notorious, Murdering Blackwoods.

  Earl smirks as he retrieves the laptop.

  I feel dead inside.

  “Your man is quite the internet sensation, just like you.” Clayton shakes his head. “What a family. All that money. Not a single sane brain cell between them.”

  “He did it for his mother.” That much is glaringly obvious.

  But why the fuck am I defending him?

  “He’s a sick freak. The only reason he isn’t locked away yet is because of all those Blackwood billions. But I see he got his claws into you.” His eyes gleam with malice, then turn contemplative. “What did you make out of this shindig? And don’t say nothing. I taught you better than that. I also heard when you said you had money.”

  I use the only bargaining chip I have. “Eight hundred thousand dollars. It’s yours if you let me go and promise never to go after Petra.”

  Earl snorts. “She’s lying.”

  Clayton eyes me. “What’s to stop me from taking the money and going after her anyway?”

  I force myself to remain calm. “I’ll give you half of it now. Then a hundred thousand every nine months for the next thirty-six months.”

  He smiles. “You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you? You think I won’t go after her once she turns eighteen?”

  “Think about it. You make half a million from all the girls combined in a year—yes, I’ve seen the books. I’m offering you eight hundred thousand for one girl.”

  “What about you burning down my family home? You expect me to just forget about that? And Ridge?”

  “The insurance will take care of The Villa. As for Ridge, you’ve already had the coroner rule his death an accident. Use the money to mourn him.”

  He rushes forward and seizes my chin in his hands. “You have it all figured out, haven’t you?” he seethes. “I should teach you an unforgettable lesson. Fortunately, for you, incest isn’t my thing.”

  I don’t answer. Fury blazes in his eyes. He’s on the edge. All I can do is count on cold hard cash saving my life. And Petra’s.

  “Where’s the money?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not telling you. Not until we have a deal.”

  He stares down at me for an age. Then he hands the warrant to Earl. “You and I are going to get this money. Earl will sit on this for two hours. If we’re not back by then, he’ll happily put the wheels in motion, won’t you, Earl?”

  Earl takes the warrant and stuffs it in his pocket. “With pleasure.”

  My hands and feet are untied. I stagger to my feet, then stumble as blood rushes back into deprived areas of my body. At some point my boots were taken off, so I follow Clayton out of the basement in my soiled socks.

  “Can I have my shoes back?”

  He shrugs. “I have no clue where they are. Besides, if no shoes will keep you in line, I’m all for it.”

  We reach the top of the stairs and I look around. If anyone lives here, they’ve long since given up on any need to keep the p
lace tidy. There’s a soiled, ripped futon sofa shoved up against one wall, actual holes in the carpet, beer bottles and pizza boxes discarded everywhere, and the fridge door is hanging on one screw.

  Before I can ask who lives here, a rake-thin man emerges from the single bedroom. His eyes are bloodshot and track marks trail down both gangly arms.

  Clayton passes him a hundred-dollar note, which he pounces on with rabid glee. “Remember what we talked about. Keep an eye on things and you’ll get another one of those.”

  The junkie nods. When he cracks open the bedroom door and dives back in, I see my shoes tucked against the door.

  I have a fair idea how much they cost, and what the resale value means to an addict. I’m not prepared to die over shoes, so I follow Clayton out. Two of his henchmen are guarding the hallway, another two the stairwell.

  We head up dark stairs, across a series of hallways, then down ten flights of stairs in a weird relay formation. When I spot the black van sitting on the curb, I don’t know whether to be frightened or relieved. One way or the other, this is about to be over.

  We step out into light rain and my feet are wet and cold in seconds.

  Clay is about to shove me into the back of the van when sirens rip through the air. He drags me against his body, and starts fumbling for his belt.

  I take advantage of his distraction and bite down hard on the arm restraining my shoulder.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  The moment his grip loosens, I break free and run. I only get two blocks before I hear another siren behind me.

  “FBI. Stop!”

  I stop immediately, thrust my hands into the air.

  Heart hammering, teeth clenched, I wait.

  “Are you Elyse Gilbert?”

  I tentatively turn my head. “Y…yes?”

  One male and one female officer approach. “Was Clayton Getty holding you against your will?”

  “Yes. Where am I?” I ask.

  “You’re in the Bronx. Put your hands down, Miss. We will be taking you in for questioning, but you’re not under arrest.”

  “I’m not?”

  The female officer who approaches, shakes her head. “Are you all right?”