Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) (27 page)

“I like my hand,” I murmured. As I studied it, I realized there were now two attached to that arm.

“Yeah, but I bet your hand doesn’t make your heart hammer like you’ve run a marathon at simply the sight of it. See you in a few days, bro.” He hung up, and I let the phone fall to the rug at my side.

“Don’t listen to him. We make a great couple,” I said to my hand . . . s.

Somewhere in the foggy recesses of my drunken addled mind, I recalled Floyd’s words as he had helped my pathetic ass into my apartment yesterday. I had told him everything in the elevator; we had taken several trips up and down before I had the entire story out in a manner that Floyd was able to understand. He had patiently listened with the occasional ahhhhh and sympathetic nod of agreement.

He asked me if I regretted the time I spent with Miss James. I stopped in my tracks and realized there wasn’t a single day that I regretted, except possibly the few weeks early on when I had tried desperately to avoid her like an ass. Then he asked me if I would regret not fighting for her. At the time, I had rambled on about being a lover not a fighter, but the shock from Decker’s conversation, and the fact I wasn’t quite past the half way mark with Pappy, had me thinking differently.

Maybe I needed to be a fighter to be a lover. Maybe the two went hand in hand. My eyes landed on the sticky note stuck haphazardly to the side of the couch. On the note was a picture of a heart, and written inside it:

Well fuck that, the feisty little woman was going to hear me out, and she was damn well giving me her heart back. It belonged to me—I worked hard to woo that heart. This messy fiasco had gone on long enough. I was going home to claim my pussycat.

I tried to stand up again, and fell back down. I sighed and closed my eyes. I’d get going right after I slept a little, and probably puked a little, too.

Wiska

Being depressed sucked. I’d been holed up in my apartment for almost three weeks now, and if it wasn't for the fact I needed money to pay rent and bills, I’d have never left the sweet, one bedroom residence. I loved my home. The décor was old and simple; the living room and adjoining kitchen and dining area comprised of warm, honey colored hardwood floors. In the living room, a bright red, fluffy rug spread out before a relatively new, plush grey love seat that sat in front of a small flat screen TV. A red arm chair had been crammed into the small area to give an extra seat. Floor to ceiling windows made up one wall in the living area that looked down upon a tolerable second floor drop to the street below. The kitchen area was tiny, but I preferred to think of it as quaint. In the bedroom, there was barely enough room to move around my queen size bed, which was pushed against one wall with a tall wooden armoire sitting against the wall at its foot. I loved my bed; it was like a big, white, fluffy cloud, covered in way too many comfy pillows of varying sizes and colors. Above my bed was a massive painting of a woman dancing on a pole, inverted and in a split; she was spectacular.

No matter how comfortable my apartment was though, it didn’t bring any solace to my aching heart. Thankfully, Andi dragged my sorry, weepy excuse of an ass into The Best Bar in Manhattan—that’s not my personal opinion, that’s actually the name—and with puffy red eyes, wearing nothing but old sweats, I was hired. The hours were crappy, it was a long forty minute bus ride from my apartment, and the pay was appallingly average.  The staff seemed friendly, and the owner, Sal, was a whole stack of cray cray, he but made the job startlingly enjoyable. He had the voice of a tenor and broke out into songs that radically conflicted with the pop beats coming from the DJ or band.

I had to admit, I didn’t actually hate working there. I had only been working for Kink Harder seven months, but in that time, my pay had increased quickly and astronomically. The money had been a huge plus to working in adult film, but if I was honest with myself, having sex in front of a room full of people was not exactly my idea of fun. I was occasionally recognized at The Best Bar, and on a few occasions, they had asked for a photo. Sal came to my rescue, forbidding pictures of his staff while they were on the clock; it worked a charm. For the most part, I kept my head down, worked hard, and kept to myself, and my constant sullen expression seemed to keep most people from trying to engage in conversation. The Best Bar peaked on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and the place would be pumping. I was so busy I barely had time to wipe the sweat from my brow let alone think about my tragic love life.

Choices . . . choices, choices, choices. It seemed I sucked at making choices; I always made the wrong one. I thought I had it in the bag this time, but my own pathetic damn luck came back to bitch slap me in spectacular fashion.

Hearing Bradley’s conversation with those hideous men didn’t just break my heart, the damn thing had been ripped from my rib cage and stomped on. I felt empty. I wished my chest cavity felt hollow, but it didn’t—it was full of pain.

However, seeds of doubt and a small sprinkling of hope had been planted when Andi confessed Decker had spoken to Bradley, and he seemed to suggest there had been some sort of misunderstanding. I know what I had heard, though. My ears worked just fine. The words Bradley had spoken were said with callous disregard for me. I’d never heard Bradley speak to anyone with such a low, dangerous voice. Heck, he worked for the goddamn mafia, of course there was a side to him I’d never seen, an angry side, a dangerous side. And yet, it felt like I was swallowing a bitter lie trying to convince myself that Bradley was anything but the sweet, albeit sometimes moody, exciting, passionate, romantic man I’d met in London. I rolled over on the couch, my back to the TV playing
MTV’s Hits of the 00’s
.

My friends were right in telling me the craziness that surrounded Kasper’s betrayal had died down. Currently, a little known, wannabe, white boy gangster had found his way to the front cover of every smutty and trashy gossip magazine. Dozie Boy was the flavor of the month, and yes, that’s his name, so gangster, isn’t it? He’d found himself in a rather amorous position in an elevator with a well-known female celebrity who was happily married to a man thirty years Dozie’s senior. Having been put through the paparazzi ringer myself, I felt a pang of sympathy for the pair, then I remembered the blurry image of her on her knees in front of Dozie in a public elevator, and thought they were the world’s biggest pair of dumbasses for doing something so private in public. Then again, maybe Dozie didn’t know she was married, and the cheating ho needed to hook up with Kasper. They could represent Team Adulterer.

I’d been home almost three weeks, and I hadn’t seen or heard hide nor tail of Kasper Karish. Kasper, Willie Bianco’s nephew! How was I supposed to know that? HE DIDN’T HAVE THE BIANCO NAME! Apparently, Kasper was the product of another marriage between his mother and Mr. Karish. Mrs. Karish had left her husband for Willie Bianco’s brother, Tony. From what Ryder was able to attain, Willie barely tolerated Kasper’s behavior and only did so out of love for his brother. It hadn’t stopped him from persuading Kasper to date me in an attempt to lure me over to Brutal Babes, though. Bradley’s boss was an asshole!

To top it all off, now I was sick. I had the flu, and it was like adding another miserable layer on top of the already existing gloomy, pathetic misery that had buried me. My head throbbed like a bitch, my nose was stuffed up, sore, and red, my eyes watered, and my limbs were weak. As I lay on my couch with a tissue stuffed up one leaky nostril, I allowed a tear to slip free. I pretended it was simply an excess build-up of fluid in my eye, but when it trickled down the side of my face, it was accompanied by a familiar pang of regret and sorrow. It was hard to believe I had tears left. As Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me A River” wafted from the TV, I let out a humorless chuckle. It was more like cry me an entire freaking ocean of woe. When the realization it was Justin Timberlake singing, Justin Freaking Timberlake, former NSYNC band member, I began wailing like an inconsolable banshee. Bradley had been an NSYNC fan. Damn him and damn his bad taste in music!

Surely this was my rock bottom: snotty, stuffy, and balling my eyes out to JT. Any lower and I’d drown. As soon as the song finished and “Who Let The Dogs Out” began barking, I crawled from the couch and stumbled my way to the bathroom. Peeling the sweaty, baggy, pity pajamas from my body, I tossed them in the laundry hamper and climbed under the shower head. The water was about one hundred degrees too hot, but I still shivered. I sagged there for the longest time, my head resting against the tiled wall, as the water sluiced over my body until it became lukewarm, then sub-arctic freezing. Wrapped in a giant fluffy towel, I simply stood there and allowed the fabric to soak up the water. I was too tired to bother drying myself.

Wrapping my hair in a smaller towel, I tottered to my bedroom and pulled out my Minnie Mouse pajamas. Once dressed and my hair towel dried, I felt a little closer to alive and functional, and by little, I meant less than one quarter of an inch closer. Grabbing another pillow from my bed, I turned and headed for the couch of grief and anguish, when a loud knock on my door stopped me in my tracks. My mom and dad had been over this morning and said they’d call tonight, so I knew it wasn’t them.

Yes, I’d made up with my mom. As soon as I’d stepped into my apartment after arriving home from the UK, I called her and burst into tears. She was on my doorstep half an hour later, and she’d been hovering close by ever since. Her guilt for abandoning me when I needed her was almost palpable, but she was here now, and honestly, I needed her more now than I did then.

On tippy toes, I peeked through the peep hole in the door only to find Leah and another Kink Harder star and friend, Trix, staring back at me. I unlatched the lock and pulled it open. This was the first time I had seen Leah since I’d returned. She was absolutely stunning, and I could understand why Bradley was attracted to her. Her long brunette hair fell from a perfect part down the middle; her eyes were a startling shade of blue-green; her lips were full; her figure was divine—tall and svelte. It wasn’t just her looks that people were attracted to, though. She was smart . . . like really super smart. And she was honest, fair, and sweet. We instantly became friends when I joined Kink Harder. Right now, her beautiful blue eyes were full of sorrow.

“Honey,” she whispered with sympathy, and then I burst into tears, again.

I kinda wanted my mom, but as soon as Leah wrapped me into her arms, and Trix wrapped herself around my back, I felt warm and loved.

“Come on, we brought soup.” She pulled me further into my apartment, and Trix shut the door behind us.

“It’s chicken soup. I made it,” Trix said proudly.

Trix was only an inch taller than me, her bust easily a cup larger, her hair longer, her lips fuller. She was what one might expect a female adult porn star to look like. She was also as cute and lovable as they come. Trix wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but that only added to her charm. It also made her friends and work colleagues somewhat protective of her. Trix was also an amazing cook; this would be the first time I would get to sample her much praised culinary skills.

“You girls shouldn’t be here. You might catch my flu.” My voice sounded nasally and distorted.

Leah waved away my concerns, though, and reheated the chicken soup in my microwave, while Trix tucked my heavy patchwork quilt around my shoulders.

“Don’t be silly. You need us right now, and the saying ‘to catch a cold’ is an old wives’ tale. You can’t catch a cold.” Trix scoffed as she cuddled up on the couch, my feet in her lap.

Leah and I both gave her bemused looks.

“Of course you can catch a cold. Germs from coughing and sneezing can easily be spread,” Leah explained carefully.

“Really?” Trix asked with a raised brow. “Holy cow, I thought someone was just being silly. I mean, catch a cold? That’s ridiculous! Sure, you can catch a ball, but how do you catch a cold?”

Leah and I cast each other a small smile before she brought the warm soup to me. Propping a few pillows under my head so I could eat, she sat on the small arm chair beside me and Trix, and watched me carefully as I gave the liquid a stir.

“I didn’t know you were back until a few days ago.” The look Leah gave me was one of reproach. “Decker stopped by Ryder’s office and told us what happened.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured as I took a sip from the soup. Now everyone knew of my pitiful failed love story, even Bradley’s ex. “Oh, my god, this is amazing,” I exclaimed after the warm, slightly spicy liquid, which tasted like the god’s nectar, hit my tongue.

Trix beamed with pride.

“I’d say she’s in the wrong profession,” Leah said with a small smile. “But she does look great on film.”

I knew Leah and Trix had done a few scenes together. Even though Leah assured me she was not bisexual, when it came to performing for Kink Harder, that’s what she did—perform. She would do whatever she needed to get a scene done. She could also fake an orgasm with the best of them.

“So, tell me what happened with Emerson.”

Emerson? She called him Emerson? Only his friends and family called him Bradley, and he had dated Leah for almost six months. Surely that made her a friend? I couldn’t help but be a little thrilled that she hadn’t called him Bradley, but I had.

“Didn’t Decker fill you in?” I said with a sigh.

“Bits and pieces,” Leah admitted. “I can honestly say there is no way I can bring myself to believe Emerson would try and lure you, or any girl for that matter, over to Brutal Babes. I can’t even for the life of me fathom why he would; he has no affiliation with pornography, other than Decker.”

Leah had no idea who Bradley worked for; he hadn’t entrusted her with his secrets like he had trusted me. That fact, coupled with the thought that he let
me
call him Bradley, cheered me up, slightly. The memory that he had broken my heart had me sinking back down into the pits of misery just as fast.

“While Emerson, for the most part, was a mystery to me, which was the reason we broke up, he was one of the most kind and protective men I had dated in a long time. I can’t imagine him hurting you in any way.”

“He’s moody,” I reluctantly admitted, trying to point out his faults. “He was brooding for the first three weeks I was in the UK.”

Leah’s brow furrowed. “I never noticed that side to him,” she admitted. “If anything, he seemed to try a little too hard to be happy. I knew he wasn’t one hundred percent invested in our relationship. I think he just wanted what Decker and Andi had. But he was . . . sweet.” She said it with a wistful smile that flared up the green eyed monster in me.

“After he got over his brooding, he was pretty sweet with me, too,” I whispered. “He was funny and incredibly romantic.”

Leah’s eyebrows shot up. “Romantic? I never saw romance! He was a clown, almost as bad as Decker. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Emerson?”

I placed my now empty bowl on the coffee table and snuggled back into the couch. Trix was busy flicking through channels, ignoring the heart to heart between exes.

“If you saw things in him I didn’t, and I saw things in him you didn’t, don’t you think it’s possible there is an uglier side to him neither of us saw?”

Leah seemed to consider that a moment. “Or,” she said almost cautiously, “he was really in love with you and only trying to be in love with me.”