I, Porn Star(127)

SYNC



QUINN



Maybe my cracks aren’t so bad.

Maybe the chasm isn’t as deep as I thought.

Maybe she’ll take the leap with me.

Maybe with her, I’ll survive the fall.

Maybe she’ll even save me.

Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe…it’s too late.

***

LUCKY



I step out of the limo and take a bracing breath. Above me soars the skyscraper that holds Quinn’s home. Or so Fionnella tells me.

I’ve been in so many of his properties I’ve lost count. But this Upper East Side building is where he is right now.

Where fuck knows what will happen.

I’m still slightly stunned by my decision. The last minute dash to the airport temporarily silenced the vicious butterflies demanding to know what the hell I was doing.

But here, now, staring at the glass facade, I hesitate. I shouldn’t have come. Hell, I should have fled the other way. But will I ever forgive myself if, after all that’s happened, I lend a hand in the downfall of a man who clearly needs help?

The Monday afternoon sidewalk traffic is light, or as light as can be without all the tabloid frenzy that dogged me a few months ago before I escaped to Vancouver. Everywhere I went I saw my face on the news. Pictures of Quinn and I outside XYNYC alongside a censored one of me and Q in bed seemed to be pictures of the year.#p#分页标题#e#

Although humiliation still burns from being publicly exposed by Quinn’s film, I’ve made grudging peace with myself. Even before Fionnella pointed it out yesterday, I accepted that I walked into the Lucky/Q thing with my eyes wide open and therefore was accountable for my own actions.

It’s the Elly part of my story that tore my heart in shreds. And that heart hasn’t recovered.

Pushing my shoulders back, I walk toward the revolving doors. I can’t linger on the sidewalk. I’m already attracting curious glances.

The doorman holds it open for me and the concierge doesn’t stop me as I head for the private elevator.

Fionnella provided me with the security code for the door. The possibility that Quinn won’t be in a state to answer his own front door ramps up the anxiety of what I’ll find behind the slate double doors.

The interior is gloomy when I enter. The air-conditioning is turned up high and the place is dark and cold and desolate.

I want to call out to him, but fear freezes my vocal cords.

What I can see of the minimalist decor looks bleak and clinical. The floor to ceiling glass wall is frosted, blocking out the blazing July sun.

I search the living room until I find the window remote. I’m about to click when I hear a sound behind me.

Quinn.

“Leave it,” he croaks, his voice full of rocks.

He’s a shadow in the darkened hallway, but I know it’s him just by the ferocious awareness charging through my body. It freezes me in place as it rams its presence deep, punishing me for daring to attempt to live without it.

I need to say something. I open my mouth.

“I don’t want you here, Nella. You mean well, I’m sure, but I just want to be left alone,” he says. His voice is low and raw with naked anguish, but the demand is forceful.

I swallow and take a step forward. “It’s not Fionnella. Quinn, it’s me.”

That fearsome deathly stillness shrouds him. For minutes we stay like that.

Then he stumbles forward. “Lights,” he wheezes. Then more forcefully, when the room stays dark. “Lights!”

Soft light floods the room. Contrary to what I thought, there are warmer colors in here. Browns and soft greys blend with the sharper tones. But the decor isn’t what interests me right now.

Quinn staggers forward again, his bare feet soundless on the polished hardwood floors. His black hair is overgrown and wildly unkempt, easily touching his shoulders. He’s also sporting a full beard, which against the brilliance of his eyes makes his face even more hauntingly beautiful.

He’s lost a lot of weight, his hollow cheeks not disguised by the facial hair. His body is leaner too, the T-shirt and jeans hanging off him. My gaze tracks downward.

And that’s when I see it.

The whiskey bottle in his hand. It’s half empty, the amber liquid sloshing around with his forward momentum.

“Elyse…you…no,” He stops and shakes his head. Then he smashes his lids closed and takes a huge gulp of whiskey.

“Quinn.”

He slams out his free hand, as if to push me away, and, eyes still shut, takes another drink.

“Not real,” he slurs. “You’re…not…real.”

Another desperate, memory-wiping gulp and he chokes. He doubles over in a hacking fit. I drop the control and rush toward him. He rears up abruptly, his chest heaving as he stares me down.