I, Porn Star (I #1)

By: Zara Cox





April 2015

There’s no reason for me to be here. I don’t need to do it.

Not another one.

I have more than enough to work with. I should end it now.

It’s what I’ve been telling myself for months now.

Shit, who am I kidding?

Enough will never be enough. He has to pay for what he’s done with absolutely everything I can take away from him.

Besides, I have big enough balls to admit it’s become a rush. The delayed gratification is part of the game. It’s an addiction. In my jaded world where everything comes to me with a snap of my fingers, risky highs like these are to be treasured.

They’ll be gone in a blink of an eye. Just like every other pleasure in my life.

I peer at my watch.

5:58 p.m.

I rise from my sofa, walk down the wide hallway and enter the empty room. It’s not completely empty, but it might as well be. I haven’t bothered to decorate since acquiring it six months ago when my time in Boston was done and I moved back to New York. It’s as if my subconscious knew I’d need it just for this purpose.

In the middle of the room, I grab the remote on the table and hit the power button. Three screens flicker to life. I sit down in the leather chair I placed in here earlier. Three faces stare back at me. The darkness and mirrored glass means they won’t see me as clearly. Even if they do, my mask is in place. My black clothing and leather gloves take care of the rest of my disguise.

Anonymity is key. I’m too well-known for anything else to be acceptable. Or acceptable for now, at least. Who knows what’ll happen a month, two months from now? Every day I fight my impulse. I might wake up tomorrow and decide the time has come to give in, unveil my plan.

I’m not ashamed of taking this route to achieve what I want. Far from it. In fact destroying myself in the process is exactly what I’m aiming for. I want there to be absolutely nothing left to be sustained or redeemed by the time I’m done.

For now, though, my public role is integral to my grand plan. And since my sins are already numerous, I don’t have any qualms about adding vanity to them and admitting I love my other life. Keeping my identity secret adds to the thrill.

It’s all about the thrill for me. Without it, I risk prematurely succumbing to the dark abyss. The abyss my shrink keeps warning me I’m rimming.

She thinks it’s a revelation, that morsel of news she dropped in my lap three years ago. Little does she know I’ve been staring into that abyss since I was fifteen years old. I’ve stared into it for so long, it’s fused with me. We are one. We haven’t done our final dance yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

I’m twenty-eight years old.

I won’t live to see thirty.

It’s an immutable inevitability, so I take my pleasures where I can.

“You each have scripts in front of you. When I tell you to, read them out loud. You go first, Pandora.” I use a voice distorter because my natural voice contains a distinctive rasp that could give me away. Because of who I am, I’ve had cameras shoved in my face more times than I’ve had sex. And that’s saying something.

Pandora—fucking idiotic name—giggles, and her golden curls bounce in an eager nod. I suppress a growl of irritation and relegate her to the possibly maybe list.

“May I feel, said he.” She giggles again.

Ten seconds later, I place her firmly in the hell no list and press the intercom. She’s escorted out, and I switch my gaze to the next girl.

The redhead is staring into the camera, her full mouth tilted in a I-was-born-to-blow-you curve. I admit the lighting is better on her, but her eyes are a little too wide. Too green.

I adjust the camera and scrutinize her closer. “What color are your eyes? And don’t tell me they’re green. I can see the edges of your contacts.”

She flushes. “Umm…they’re grey.”

I check the notes on my tablet. “Missy, is that your real name too?”

She nods eagerly.

“Did you read the brief?”

“Umm…yeah,” she answers, her voice trailing off in a semi-question. This one is clearly dim.

“What did it say about lying?”

The blow-you expression drops. “They’re just contacts.” She leans forward, nearly knocking out the camera with her double Ds. “Here, I can take them out—”

“No, don’t bother. Your interview is over. Leave now, please,” I command in my best non-psycho voice, and press the intercom again.

I may be slightly unhinged, according to some spectrum my shrink keeps harping on about, but Mama, God rest her pure soul, taught me to be a gentleman. Mama’s worm food now, but that’s no reason for me not to honor her with a touch of politeness.