I, Porn Star (I #1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

swipe at the sheen of sweat dimpling my
forehead, suck in a deep breath and reassure myself of the unlikelihood of Clayton
finding me here. The assurance rings hollow.
    He once tracked a
girl who stole two thousand dollars from him, all the way to the ends of
Clusterfuck, Alaska. It took four months, but his patience was inexhaustible.
He found her, dragged her back to Fresno, and chained her to a wall in his special room, reserved for clients with the sickest proclivities. When he let her go a
year later, Abby left The Villa, and walked straight into oncoming traffic.
    I chose New York
because I hoped the sheer density of the population would buy me some time.
That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable hiding in plain sight. I’d give my pinky to
be back in the basement, handling piles of dirty plates and enduring Miguel’s
ever-increasing cocky advances.
    The elevator
pings open and my heart threatens to give out altogether. I step out into a sky
lit atrium decorated with stunning water features, horticultural masterpieces
and stylish furniture I’ve only ever seen in glossy magazines. Contrary to my
fear, the room isn’t crowded, but again, I know I stand out like a nun in a whorehouse.
    Already I’m
attracting stares by standing in the middle of the sun-drenched space. I avert
my gaze and head toward the sound of a hissing coffee machine. Two waiters, a young
guy and woman about my age are standing in front a glass and chrome counter
that looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Behind the counter, a stocky
chef fires off instructions to a team of four about specific dietary
requirements and the temperature of foie
gras before he spears me with a hard stare.
    “Are you the
extra I requested?” he snaps.
    I clear my
throat. “Yes, my name is Elly. Sully sent me up.”
    His mouth
compresses, and he points to the far side of the counter. “Stand there, don’t
move. You’ll get your brief in five minutes.”
    My
brief? To serve food?
    He returns to barking
instructions at the two servers, who nod briskly and whisk away silver trays to
opposite sides of the executive restaurant.
    I wait, making
sure to keep alert so I don’t repeat the spaced-out-in-the-alley incident
Miguel witnessed. But my gaze wanders and lands on a magazine rack three tables
away. On the front cover is an aerial picture of Blackwood Tower and on either
side two men—one older and one younger—facing each other. The
caption reads: Dynamic Duo or Dynamite Duel? Even in profile, both men are eye-catching enough to snag my interest. I’m just about to lean closer to scrutinize the cover when a throat clears next
to me.
    The chef looks
even more annoyed than before. “You’ll be serving Mr. Blackwood today. He takes
his lunch at exactly one o’clock.”
    I nod. “Okay.” He
starts to walk away. “Umm, I’m sorry, which one is Mr. Blackwood?”
    The servers pause
to stare with open shock at me.
    The chef swears
in a language I don’t understand and shakes his head. “How long have you worked
here?”
    “Two weeks.”
    “And you don’t
know whose company you work for?”
    I shrug. “I wash
plates and glasses in the basement,” I murmur.
    He stares me up
and down, his mouth twitching with disdain. “Figures,” he mutters under his
breath.
    I swallow the
anger that rises and force my fists not to ball. “If you wouldn’t mind pointing
him out to me, I’d appreciate it.”
    His gaze doesn’t
move from mine. “ Mr. Quinn Blackwood is sitting in his usual seat by the
north window. He doesn’t like being spoken to, so don’t try to be clever and
engage him in any form of chitchat.
He takes his coffee with a dash of cream and two sprinkles of cardamom, in that
order. Stir without touching the sides or bottom of the cup and leave it in
front of him along with his meal. Think you can manage that?”
    “Of course,” I
respond briskly, while frantically memorizing the list.
    I know firsthand
what craziness power and wealth induces in