I, Porn Star(92)

I glance at him. “Looks like you have your hands full with your own situation that needs taking care off.”

“Yeah,” he growls. “Fucking tell me about it.”

I look back at the woman. She looks familiar, but my brain is too wired to accommodate anything other than the need to dig myself deeper into my abyss, wipe the last two hours from my immediate memory.

“Thanks for the taking care of the other situation,” I say.

He shrugs. “My guy at the DOH says they’ve had a hard on for that chain of motels for a while. Greasing the right palm just…encouraged them to bump it to the top of their list. All it needed was a phone call and a few of my bodyguards to get the place evacuated.” He flicks a glance at me before the woman commands his attention once more. “Did the right person end up where they needed to be?”

I nod. “Yes.” The thought of Lucky suddenly makes my skin itch in a better way, but the underlying disgust remains from my encounter with Delilah. “You still keep the apartment upstairs, right?”

Axel drags his gaze from the woman. “Yeah, I do.”

“Can I hit your shower?” I ask, aware that my voice is bleeding pure black void.

His eyes narrow. “Sure. Take as much time as you need. Change of clothes in the closet too. I’ll get one of the girls to bring up a bottle.”

I jerk out a nod and head for the side of the bar. I slam my hand against the Authorized Personnel Only door and head for the small elevator tucked in the back. The apartment belongs to the club, so technically it’s half mine, but since Axel spends most of his time in XYNYC, he uses it more than I do.

My clothes come off long before I make it to the shower. I turn the temperature to scalding, scrub myself three times in quick succession. It barely makes a dent. Bile rises again and I throw up. With a hint of unfamiliar desperation, I wrench the knob to freezing cold. The ice settles me and I welcome the shivers that race over my skin.#p#分页标题#e#

I’m not sure how long I stand with my hands braced on the shower wall. The knock on the door forces me to switch off the water. Snapping a towel around my waist, I wrench the door open.

The female bartender, dressed in a tight sleeveless black dress stares back at me with wide blue eyes. Both her arms are covered in elaborate ink, and her blue-black hair is cut in drastically sharp angles. She’s pretty, in a pixie sort of way.

“Yes?” I hiss.

Her sharp inhale doesn’t stop her gaze flicking over my body. “Uh, Axel sent me up with a bottle. I knocked on the door a few times, but you didn’t answer…”

I walk past her into the bedroom. The Macallan M is sitting on the silver tray next to an ice bucket and a glass. I pick it up, pull out the cork with my teeth and take a long swig. I turn around. She’s still standing in the bathroom doorway, her eyes telegraphing a look I’m all too familiar with.

Striding to the bedroom door, I kick it hard enough to slam it into the wall. “Thanks for the delivery, sweetheart. Be sure to tell Axel to give you a nice tip from me. But sadly, there’s nothing else on offer tonight.”

She rearranges her features from disappointment to nonchalance, and walks out with her chin in the air. I take another swig, slam the bottle down and head for the closet. I’m tugging a black Tee over the borrowed jeans when I hear the ping of a text.

I leave the bedroom and hunt for my discarded clothes. I find the phone on the floor next to the coffee table in the living room and swipe it awake.

The text message produces a reaction that makes me question whether the heart I thought was dead is actually still alive, somewhere in the seething mass of emptiness inside me.

I take a step back and sink into the sofa. Then I read the message again.

You’re in my head, too.

***

I shouldn’t do it.

The session with Delilah tonight has thrown a bracing perspective on my intended goals. Or rather my goal posts. They need shifting. Fast. Or I risk every plan I’ve put into place over the last ten years unraveling.

Maxwell unofficially announced his intention to run for a second term this morning, partly necessitating my return from South Carolina on Tuesday. I stood next to him and Delilah, dutiful son and stepson and applauded after his speech at the governor’s mansion in Albany.

The time and place I have etched on my mind is months away. All I need to do is bide my time.

So I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t draw Lucky further into this soulless circus. My cracks are wide open, unassailable crevasses. She has no idea what she’s risking if she allows me to see her again.

But… I’m Quinn Blackwood. Selflessness is an alien concept.