I, Porn Star (I #1) (3 page)

I allow my hand
to play in her hair as I slip deeper into my personal void. I note absently
that the blackness is increasing since I gave up my attempts to hold it back.

My phone buzzes
again as her hand creeps over my crotch.

I lay my head
back and unlock the vault where my darkest plans reside.

In eighteen months,
I’ll be thirty.

I’ll inherit
fifteen billion dollars.

I’ll be one of
the richest men on earth.

I’ll also, if my
plans succeed, be a murderer.

3

TABLE READ

Lucky

One
million dollars.

The three words
echo in my head as I pull the baseball cap low over my brow and huddle into the
battered leather jacket I found discarded near a thrift store yesterday
morning. It’s three sizes too big, but at least the scent of cheap perfume and
spunk has faded a little after the quick wash I gave it in my motel room.

I hurry along the
sidewalk, careful to avoid the morning rush hour crowd. I bumped into someone
by accident two days ago. The abuse hurled at me by the guy in the snazzy suit
was eye-watering. Had I not been reluctant to draw attention to myself, I
would’ve responded with a few choice words of my own. But keeping my head down
was more essential than losing my shit on him. The worst that happened to him
was a few drops of ten-dollar, fancy-assed coffee spilled on his suit.

What could happen
to me should I be discovered is an outcome I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
So I keep my head down, the soiled tips of my worn boots guiding my feet on the
wet sidewalk as I speed walk.

The train ride
from my ratty, roach-infested Queens motel to Wall Street is thankfully
uneventful, but I’m even more nervous when I exit the subway station. In the
sea of suited stock market traders and high-fliers, my cheap clothes and poor
disguise stands out. Not enough to attract notice unless you were really paying
attention.

Problem is,
someone is paying attention.

Clayton Getty is
looking for me. So is the man I grew up thinking was my father. Between the two
of them, they have endless resources with which to find me, regardless of where
I am.

Right now, the
problem isn’t
if
they find me, but
when
.
It’s the time between now and
when
that I’m desperate to prolong. It’s the
when
that drove me to the pay phone on the street corner near my motel, where I
risked precious money to make a frankly absurd phone call and send my picture
to an unknown social media account. It drove me to risk leaving my cell number
on a stranger’s voicemail in the hope that I’d land a job that promises a
ridiculous payday.

Even as I told
myself I was old enough to know better than to fall for a scam, the fear and
desperation that gnawed like acid in my stomach spurred me on. It led me to a
sterile room that reeked of money and sinister intentions in a Midtown
penthouse, and a mechanical voice that still echoes in my head and sends
shivers down my spine.

It could all be
for nothing. The voice that has haunted my dreams the last three days could be
the perfect
fuck you
to the cosmic
fuck up that is the sum total of my life. But I can’t get
it
, and the
possibilities, out of my mind.

That cryptic
article in a discarded newspaper started a chain of events that I know deep
down could be my undoing.

It’s given me
hope
.

And right now,
hope is all I have left.

One
million dollars.

For sex. For my
life.

It’s unthinkable
to me that anyone would pay that much for sex. Back where I’m from, lap dances
cost sixty dollars, blow jobs are ninety-five. Sex attracts the princely sum of
a hundred seventy-five, often negotiated down to a flat one-fifty if your
belly’s full. If you were caught in the gleeful talons of starvation and you
were stupid enough to let your desperation show, you’d be lucky to walk away
with eighty.

Unless you were
fortunate enough to be promoted to a job at The Villa. The special wing at The Villa
is where every girl aspires to be. The Villa is where Clayton Getty rules his
kingdom with titanium fists, aided and abetted by my father, his
second-in-command.

It was where I
was born and where I lived until I was five, when my mother was unceremoniously
tossed out, and I was introduced to Trailer Trash Central.

I didn’t know how
thankful I should’ve been with my lot until Ma died and my absentee father
reappeared and dragged me back to The Villa.

Initially, I
thought that karma decided to stop shitting on me. The food was great, the
showers hot, and the bed gloriously lump-free. Little did I know that karma was
merely taking a short nap while the clock, and Clayton, counted down to my
seventeenth birthday; that the six months between Ma succumbing to her fucked
up liver and my seventeenth birthday was just a pit stop between Armageddon and
Hell. A mere dress rehearsal for the patrons of The Villa.

And what a show
it was. I was dressed up like a doll every night. Paraded before hungry
assholes while closely guarded by Ridge, Clayton’s top dog. The months’ long
look but don’t touch
threat
sent them into a frenzy by the end, and on the morning of my seventeenth, Clayton
was all but salivating. His disappointment that I wasn’t a virgin was obscenely
palpable. Still, he had every sleazy patron eating out of his hand.

The night my
father delivered the news that I was elevated to Clayton’s Top Whore, I vomited
all over his shoes. That earned me a backhand, the sting of which I can still
taste. The ones that came after have faded with time, but, as the song goes,
you never forget your first…

I round the
corner onto Wall Street and get hit in the face by a cannonball of chilly wind.
A shiver rattles my teeth. I’m not used to freezing conditions. The town
outside Fresno, California, where I grew up may have been a shit hole, but at
least it was a
warm
shit hole. Going from perpetual sunshine to
interchangeable weather has been a body shock. But the weather is the least of
my worries.

There are even
more street cameras here and fewer people dressed like me.

I raise my head a
fraction and see the building I’m headed for two blocks away.

Blackwood Tower.

More
specifically, the basement.

I have no clue
what goes on above street level. I haven’t gone anywhere near the Internet
since I hightailed it from Fresno. The one and only time I attempted to use my
phone, Clayton found me within the hour. I ditched that phone at a rest stop in
Iowa, stuck to hitchhikes all the way to New York, and bullshitted my way to a
burner phone.

Whatever
high-flying business happens up in the glass and steel tower is none of my
concern. All I care about is that this job pays in cash, and that, as long as I
keep my head down, no one notices me.

I hurry past the
entrance of the building to the side street door that leads down into the
cavernous basement. I enter the security code, walk through a large industrial
kitchen, then down another set of stairs to the sub-sub-basement level. I shove
the heavy double doors open, and a wall of steam and the sound of clanging
plates greet me. A smaller side door leads me to the rec and locker room, where
I quickly change out of my jeans and T-shirt into my work gear.

The white shirt
and matching pants hang loose on me, the result of one too many missed meals. I
secure the pants with the cheap rope belt I brought and make sure my hair is
tucked under the black hairnet before I head back out.

“Hey, sweet
thing. You’re early,” a voice greets me over the rattle and shake of rows of
machines churning out glasses and plates.

I slow my stride
and nod at Miguel, but I don’t stop as I pass his station. I’ve noticed his
eyes on my boobs and ass more times than I’m comfortable with. So far my mild
fuck off
vibe is working. I’m not
sure how long it’ll last though. Experience has taught me that a half-decent
set of tits and ass blinds most men to just about everything else.

“Yeah,” I
respond. “I lucked out with the subway.” I reach my station and activate the
machine. Seconds later, the first stack of clean, steaming plates arrives in
front of me.

“That’s great.
So…uh, where is it you said you commute from again?” He raises his voice to be
heard above the sound of the plates I’m stacking on the tallboy trolley.

I turn and spear
him with a cold look. “I
didn’t
say.”

He looks taken
aback for an instant. Then he grins. “Come on,
muchacha
.
I’m just trying to get to know you.
No need to be so prickly.”

I turn away
without answering. He gets the hint because he doesn’t engage me again for the
rest of the morning.

An hour before
the lunchtime rush is when hundreds of dirty plates are sent down. I found out
through a talkative Miguel that not only are Blackwood Tower employees given
three squares daily free of charge, the top executives are also given brunch,
hence the late morning madness. The only sliver of a lull comes after lunch, but
we’re allowed to take fifteen-minute breaks twice a day besides our lunch break.

During the first
break, I pour myself a cup of cheap, but free, coffee from the rec room, grab
the burner phone from my locker and head upstairs. Outside, I head deeper into
the side street and make sure I’m alone before I turn on the phone.

My heart hammers
and my palms grow clammy as I wait for the blue wheel to stop spinning. My
rational brain tells me it’s a burner and Clayton will have no way to trace it
unless I do something stupid, like call someone back at The Villa. I don’t
intend to. For one thing, nothing and no one back there triggers anything near
nostalgia, although every now and then I suffer a twinge of guilt for what I
did.

All the same I’m
nearly dizzy with fear as I check for missed calls.

Nothing.

My heart drops,
thankfully along with a large dose of terror once the phone is powered down.
But in its place, anxiety rises.

It’s Thursday.
The stranger with the mechanical voice said he’d be in touch within the week.
Did that mean in the next seven days or within this week, i.e. before Friday? I
stare into the middle distance and mull the words over. The longer I think
about what happened in that room, the more surreal it feels.

The stunning, but
starkly minimalist apartment. The light grey walls with the uncomfortably,
artsy chair. The mirror. The futuristic looking camera.

His robotic,
hypnotic voice.

Had that all
really happened?

“Elly.”

My mind frees
itself from the lingering fear. I conclude that I must have fallen into some
Kubrick-style, hunger-induced delirium and fantasized the whole thing.

“Elly?”

Which means, my
life is still set on a countdown clock, which spans days, possibly a week or
two, tops. Because Clayton
will
find me. And when he does, he’ll kill
me. It might be slow or it might be fast. But death will be the ultimate
penalty.

“Hey,
Elly!
”

It takes a
nano-second for the name to register as mine. Snapping fingers emphasize the call
and I turn to find Miguel hovering five feet from me. A cigarette dangles from
his fingers as he stares at me funny.

My skin prickles
with thoughts of discovery, thoughts of flight. I force myself to remain calm,
not give away the fact that the name he’s calling me by is as familiar as it is
alien to me. “Yes?”

He laughs. “You
didn’t hear me? You spaced out there for a sec, huh?”

I slowly slide
the phone into my pocket. “Did you want something, Miguel?”

“Not me, no. But
the boss wants you.”

My heart skips several
beats. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Hell
if I know. But he wants to see you, pronto.”

I manage a nod
and keep a sensible distance between us as I leave the alley.

“Uh…Elly?”

My back stiffens,
the name a reminder of why I’m here in this cold, noisy city awaiting a
gruesome fate that looks
exactly
like
death. I look over my shoulder.

“Is everything
okay with you?” Miguel asks.

“We don’t know
each other well enough for you to ask me that.”

He shrugs. “Maybe
not. But I’m asking all the same.”

I think of all
the answers I can give. Then settle on the only option available. “I’m fine.” I
dispose of my Styrofoam cup and hurry inside before he can stick his nose
further into my business.

The man I work
for, Sully Manning, overheard me enquiring about a short term job in the shop
where I bought my phone in Queens. His shrewd pale grey eyes assessed me
throughout my conversation with the shop owner. He followed me outside, scaring
the shit out of me before he said he might be able to help. It took two tries
before I conquered my fear long enough to call the number he gave me.

Now, as I
approach his office, I wonder if that fear wasn’t justified. Have I been too
trusting? Hunger and terror have a way of messing with your mind. By letting
one overrule the other, have I walked into a trap?

My feet falter.
Fight or flight spikes adrenaline into my veins.