I, Porn Star(113)
I launch off the sofa, my hand fumbling with the control. I hit rewind, hoping, praying that I saw wrong. But yes, there it is. His hand. On her ass. Squeeze.
Oh God!
I stagger backward, force myself to listen to the rest of the newscast. Maxwell Blackwood intends to run for a second term as governor, blah blah blah….support of his second wife, Delilah Blackwood, and his son, Quinn Blackwood.
My heart drops to my feet.
He was copping a feel of his stepmother’s ass on live TV?
The remote drops from my numb fingers as I’m hurled once again into Twilight Zone.
What the fuck?
Nausea rolls through my stomach. I return to the sofa before my legs give way.
I try to control my breathing. Calm the fuck down. There must be an explanation. But what, though? How do you explain something like that away?
I look back at the TV. The segment has moved on, but it’s still about Quinn. The caption Chameleon Blackwood is now slapped across the screen. Next to his normal clean cut, suit wearing picture is another one in which he’s sporting a lighter hair color, a chilling frown, and giving the picture taker—most likely a pap—a finger. The background in the second picture looks like the outside of XYNYC. There’s no sound so I can’t hear what the segment’s about. The mute button must have activated when the remote fell. I frown at the two pictures.
My brain is firing warnings at me, but my mind is too fixated on that image of his hand on his stepmother’s ass to accommodate anything else.
The program moves onto another celebrity. I lie back and spike my fingers into my hair. I want to grab my phone, call him and demand an explanation.
But when it comes down to it, what rights do I have? We fell into this…thing…without rhyme or reason. And Quinn has been aware from the beginning that I have something else going on. Something he has accommodated. So really, I don’t have a leg to stand on.
That bracing reality drags spikes of pain through me. I’m still sitting on the sofa, staring into space, when he buzzes the door.
He’s wearing the dark grey suit from TV, minus the tie.
I try to smile when he walks in. I fail. I try to throw myself into the long, beautiful make out session he stages with my mouth. I succeed. But only just.
Silver blue eyes pierce me when he lifts his head. “Something’s wrong.”
No shit.
“I saw you on TV.”
That deathly stillness engulfs his whole body. “And?”
What could I say? You had your hand on your stepmother’s ass and besides the actively eww factor of it, I don’t know what to do with this insane jealousy riding me?
“Quinn, are you seeing someone else?”
The only reaction I get is a slight flare of his nostrils. “What sort of question is that?”
“A normal one that I should’ve asked before this…whatever this is, started.”
“I’m seeing you. Am I fucking someone else? Not right now. But I love to fuck, Elyse. I won’t deny it. I fuck when the urge takes me. I’m hoping to fuck the shit out of you when you’re done with your thing. When that happens, I intend for you to be the only one I fuck. Does that answer your question?”#p#分页标题#e#
Not even close. But I nod, because I can’t bring myself to ask the other question.
“Good, then let’s go.”
I glance down at my jeans and cream cashmere sweater. “Do I need to change?”
His eyes, still containing jagged shadows, fly over me. “No, come as you are. Maybe bring a scarf.”
“Where are we going?”
“For a drive. I need to clear my head. Do you mind?”
“No.” I could do with some head-clearing myself.
I hurry upstairs, slip my feet into new tan knee-high boots. I loop a long blue and silver scarf around my neck, glide on some lip gloss and leave my hair loose. I shove some money and my phone into one of my new cross-body purses and check myself out in the mirror one last time.
His jacket is off and he’s pacing the living room when I return. The moment he catches sight of me, he holds out his hand. A tight knot inside me eases. When I reach him, he takes my hand, pulls me close and kisses me long and hard before he walks us out the door.
He’s not driving the DB9 today. Sitting on the curb is another low slung sports car. A silver Mercedes-AMG. It looks scarily powerful.
He helps me into it, tosses his jacket into the back, and walks round to his side with stilted movements. The throaty engine roars to life and he burns rubber as he leaves the curb. He doesn’t talk as we endure the late afternoon traffic out of Manhattan, but he catches my hand, kisses my knuckles a few times before resting it on his thigh. Jazz and rock anthems blast from the speakers.