The Princess and the Porn Star

by Lauren Gallagher

  I avoided it as best I could. Tried to, anyway. It was like a powerful magnet sitting in the middle of my tour bus. No matter where I went, it drew me back.

  And damn him, Quinn had left the browser open to the article, so it would be there as soon as I turned on the iPad. Unless I turned it off completely first.

  But he wasn’t one to push gossip in front of me unless he had a damned good reason.

  “Because pictures don’t lie.” His words echoed in the silence. “Sometimes even the ones in the gossip rags tell the truth.”

  Question was, did I want to hear that truth?

  Finally, I took a deep breath and turned on the iPad.

  IS IT OVER FOR TAYHARD?—Looks Like She’s Finally Come to Her Senses… But is it too Late to Stop the Downward Spiral?

  It seems controversial pop star Olivia Taylor’s ongoing tryst with her porn-star lover has come to an end: the headline-grabbing lust birds haven’t been seen together in weeks. Both have dodged questions about their relationship, which went public in a surprise appearance at this year’s Rock N Rhapsody Awards. There has been much speculation the appearance was little more than a publicity stunt, especially as the two refused to show any real affection on the red carpet, a place where celebrity couples are notorious for cozying up together for the cameras.

  Whatever the case, it appears to be over. Yesterday, a distracted and unkempt Taylor, 26, was seen dining alone in Des Moines. Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, Harder, 29, couldn’t seem to crack a smile as he shopped in downtown Anaheim with friends before stopping for dinner and drinks at an upscale bistro.

  As the former lovers appear to move on alone, friends, family, fans and record execs alike are undoubtedly relieved to see Taylor steering away from another destructive path.

  “She’s so much better than that,” a source close to Taylor said on condition of anonymity.

  “Thank God!” says actress Jessica Hailey, her co-star during the infamous Marooned incident. “Now can someone please find her a good man?”

  Says blogger Sally Kate, “Maybe now [Taylor] can use her incredible talent to drive her career, rather than seeing how far ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’ can get someone.”

  Taylor may not be out of the woods yet, though. Between her rocky past and her alarming appearance, those close to Taylor are sure to be concerned she might backslide into her old habits. Or has she already?

  Just two days ago, walking through Chicago with ever-present personal assistant Quinn Doyle, 25, Taylor looked more than depressed. The usually stylish pop princess stepped out without makeup with her hair in a ponytail, eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses that made her look even paler.

  “It’s hard to tell from pictures alone,” says a body language expert on condition of anonymity, “but based on her past, recent and otherwise, as well as how pale and rundown she is in these photos, I think it’s entirely possible [Taylor] is once again consuming controlled substances.”

  A representative from Risen Star Records denied Taylor is taking drugs, and emphatically stated that drug abuse would not be tolerated by the record label. She declined to comment on the status of Taylor and Harder’s relationship or Risen Star’s tolerance thereof.

  I read the article again. Then a third time, just to make sure it really said what I thought it did. At least I didn’t make the mistake of reading the reader comments—there were over three hundred already, and the article was six hours old—before I pushed my iPad away.

  I wanted to choke Quinn. Why did I need to read that?

  “Because pictures don’t lie.” His voice reverberated through my mind. “Sometimes even the ones in the gossip rags tell the truth.”

  Swearing under my breath, I snatched up the iPad again and went back to the article. I didn’t look at the words this time, though, instead scrolling to the photos.

  The writer of the article had gotten one thing right: Lee looked miserable. Eyes down. Shoulders down. Maybe it was just the photos they’d picked. The photographer caught a few shots of Lee when he was distracted or something, and put them together to make it look like he’d been that way the whole time.

  But Lee wasn’t like that. Ever. If he looked miserable enough for a photographer to grab those images, it wasn’t just deceptive captioning.

  With my heart in my throat, I made myself scroll back up to the pictures of myself.

  Gossip rags couldn’t stand things like ponytails and hoodies and going out with—horrors!—no makeup, so it was no surprise the reporter had gutted my appearance like that. Truth be told, I even understood why the reporter suggested I was back to my old ways, because I looked like hell. I looked like a zombie. Light was on, but no one was home. The lights weren’t even burning all that bright.

  To add insult to injury, the magazine had included an old photo from my painkiller-addiction days, and I couldn’t disagree with the caption: “Déjà vu? Taylor, shown last week (left) and three years ago (right) just days before being admitted to rehab after nearly overdosing on painkillers.”

  I pushed the iPad away again, but the damage was done. I couldn’t get the images out of my mind.

  Quinn was right. Let the tabloids say what they wanted, but the photos didn’t lie.

  Lee was miserable. I was miserable.

  I let my head fall into my hands and exhaled hard. Everyone thought splitting up with Lee was a good thing. The best thing for my image and my career and my comeback, and all of that bullshit that was getting less important to me by the day.

  While everyone who thought they gave a damn about Olivia Taylor celebrated, I—Rachel Taylor—sat alone in my empty tour bus as the truth sank in: letting go of Lee was the worst thing I’d ever done.

  I sat back and looked at the darkened iPad. There were a lot of mistakes I couldn’t correct, but this one?

  Maybe I still could.

  The plane deposited me at LAX at a little after nine in the morning. By now, Quinn had found my note, and Rich had gotten my e-mail. Everyone would be flipping out and losing their minds, wondering why I’d left “for one night” and if I really would “be back tomorrow in time for sound check.”

  But I needed to do this.

  I swung by my place to change clothes. If there was one advantage to touring, it got me used to running on less sleep than the human body required. After a shower and a cup of coffee, I was awake and alert, and my stomach was wound into a million knots as I steeled myself against this whole thing being a waste of time.

  Standing in my kitchen with my heart in my throat, I called Lee’s cell phone.

  “Rachel,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

  But is it a good one?

  “I’m in town,” I said. “I’d…I’d like to see you.”

  Silence weighed the line down.

  “Please, Lee,” I whispered. “I just want to talk.”

  More silence.

  Then, “I’m at the house. Do you want me to meet you somewhere?”

  “No, that’s okay. I can drive to you.” I paused. “If…if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure. Yeah. I’ll be here.”

  The drive out to his house seemed ten times longer than usual. The highway sprawled out in front of me, meandering along the coast, and I was sure there was more distance between each of the wind-battered mile markers.

  But finally, I was there, pulling up in front of his garage door and not giving a damn if a hundred photographers had followed me. Let people take their pictures and spread their rumors.

  I rang the doorbell. He opened the door.

  One look at him, and my throat was so tight I didn’t know how I’d ever speak at all. All the way here, I’d thought of a thousand things I needed to say and a million ways to phrase them, but now I couldn’t find the words at all.

  He looked exhausted. His eyes—those beautiful green eyes—had lost some of their intensity, and when he ran a hand through his blond hair, the gesture seemed to take all the ener
gy he had.

  Neither of us spoke as he let me in, and we stood in the foyer. After a moment, we moved to his kitchen, where I declined an offer of a drink, and he didn’t get anything for himself, and we just… We just stood there. Silent. Not looking at each other.

  Finally, I whispered the only three words that would come to me: “I miss you.”

  Lee flinched, lowering his gaze, and I held my breath because I didn’t know what that flinch meant.

  “I think I made a mistake,” I said. “When I…when I left.”

  His eyes met mine again. “I don’t see how we had any choice, though.”

  “That’s what I thought until I spent a few weeks away from you. Around everyone who thinks I did the right thing by leaving you behind.”

  Another flinch.

  I went on, “But they were wrong. And so were we.”

  His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t speak.

  “Everyone else is obsessed with Olivia Taylor and her image,” I said. “But you never have been. From day one, you gave a shit about me. I mean, when we were rehearsing the video, I was being all standoffish, and you asked what you could do so I’d be more comfortable. You…” I swiped at my eyes. “Besides Quinn, I swear you’re the only one left who cares about Rachel.” Sniffing sharply, I dropped my gaze. “You’re the only one who knows Rachel.”

  “What about me?” he asked. “This affects me too.”

  I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say.

  He rested his hands on the stainless steel countertop, and as his shoulders slumped, I saw the exhausted, sad-eyed man from the photos in that article.

  He looked me in the eye. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch the whole damned world gut you every time we made a move? Seeing you called horrible names because of me?” Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze. “Rachel, it tore me apart every time. Every damned time. I can’t…” He let out a sudden breath, as if all the air had left his lungs at once, and then he looked at me again. “I can’t be the reason they’re doing that to you.”

  I reached for his hand. “You’re not the reason they’re saying all those things.”

  He lifted his gaze. “I’m a porn star, Rachel. I have sex with other women in front of cameras. For being with me, you’ve been raked over the coals and called a slut and a whore. How am I not the reason?”

  “They’re saying it all so they can sell magazines,” I said.

  “And it’s working,” he whispered.

  “I know. But I…I can’t let people who say those things dictate how I live my life.”

  “You know as well as I do that this would cause another media firestorm. People would say—”

  “Let them talk.” I looked in his eyes. “I just don’t care anymore.”

  “What about your record label?”

  My shoulders slumped. “You know what? Let them drop me.”

  “But… Your career…”

  “Honestly? I don’t care anymore.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

  “Yes, it is, Lee.” I shifted my weight. “I care about the music. I’ve been killing myself trying to keep from losing this record deal, but the fact is, the label can’t take the music away from me. I’ll have it whether I’m signed with them or not. But I let them take you away from me.”

  He chewed his lip.

  “Music makes me happy,” I went on. “If I have to go back to independently recording albums that less than a hundred people download, or playing at no-name clubs with more bartenders than customers, then…fine. That’s what I’ll do. The fame, the world tours, the money, the awards…” I exhaled hard and waved a hand. “All of that’s fine and good, but not if I have to give up myself to keep them, and not if I have to give you up too. I just… I just don’t fucking care. There’s nothing in that contract that’s worth more to me than who I am and what I stupidly walked away from.”

  Lee still didn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He reached for me, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or hurt even more as he wrapped his arms around me. Like his earlier flinch, a hug could mean anything. It could be platonic, affectionate, apologetic…

  “Neither of us did anything wrong,” he said. “But our circumstances, they’re… Those are things beyond our control.”

  Apologetic, then.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing back tears. “Lee…”

  “We both have careers that, whether we like it or not, have an impact on our personal lives. And publicize our personal lives.”

  “I know.”

  He drew back, taking all the air in the room with him, and lifted my chin with a crooked finger. “But none of that changes how I feel.”

  I stared at him, dumbstruck.

  “It kills me to even think about you getting hurt because of me,” he whispered. “Because, my God, I love you, Rachel.”

  I shut my eyes tight, and a hot tear slid down my cheek. “I love you too, Lee.”

  He kissed me. So softly, so gently, he kissed me. I couldn’t tell if the world was caving in under our feet or finally righting itself, only that I’d never felt it move quite so fast as it did right then, right there, with Lee’s lips pressed to mine.

  When he broke away, he pulled back just enough to look in my eyes. The weight of his presence was overwhelming. Breathtaking. As he moved in again, so did I, drawn across the narrowing distance by the intense magnetism of him.

  Our lips were almost touching when he stopped, pausing and taking in a ragged breath. My heart pounded. His lip brushed mine. He came a little closer and finally pressed his lips to mine, not moving, just touching, before he drew back just a little and then came back for more.

  He tilted his head, and I parted my lips for him. The kiss deepened. The nonexistent space between us shrank even more, going from a sliver of warmth to nothing but clothes.

  We’d kissed before. Dozens of times. Still, there was something about this one that was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, something I could only describe as honest. He kissed me like this was all he wanted, all he needed, just tasting my mouth and breathing me in.

  He kissed me. He loved me.

  And right then, nothing else mattered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lee

  We made it to my bedroom. How, I’ll never know, but we made it.

  And three steps past the doorway, she stumbled. Then I did. Someone’s center of gravity shifted, and the other followed, and we dropped to the carpet. I caught myself to keep from landing on top of her, but as soon as she hit the floor, she dragged me the rest of the way down.

  We tangled up in each other. Kissing, fumbling with clothes, toeing shoes off. A button on my shirt popped off. A seam on her blouse ripped. She gripped my hair, nails biting into my scalp, and I groaned as I pressed my cock against her. We only broke contact when it was necessary to get clothes out of the way, and I kissed her desperately, hungrily, trying frantically to make up for lost time as I tasted her, touched her, tore away the layers that kept me from her.

  Panting, I broke the kiss and lifted myself up onto my forearms.

  The bed was a few feet away, but we didn’t get any closer to it. The mirrored closet doors were right there, but I didn’t look because there was nothing to see that wasn’t right here in my immediate field of vision, in the close-up view I had of Rachel. Holy fuck, I’d missed this. I’d missed her. Everything about her. And I still couldn’t believe she was here, so I came down and kissed her again because tasting was believing, and I tasted her, and she held me tighter, and…fuck. I’d never needed a woman like this.

  I needed her. Right now. My God.

  “We need…” I licked my lips. “Condom.”

  She moaned. “Can’t wait.”

  “Neither can I.” I pushed myself up. When I offered her my hand, she clasped hers around my forearm and stood. O
ur eyes met, and we could have easily collided in another hot, knee-buckling kiss, but then we’d never get to the part we both wanted. Instead, I opened the drawer and got out a condom.

  Putting one on had never been this complicated, this difficult, not even when I was a nervous first timer. Not that it helped when Rachel lay back across my bed, her legs apart and her pussy ready and waiting.

  Finally. Holy fuck.

  Rachel squirmed as I climbed onto the bed to join her. She whimpered softly, and when I met her eyes again, hers were already starting to tear up. As I guided my cock to her, she closed her eyes and pulled in a breath, her breasts rising with the swell of her ribcage; she was the absolute personification of arousal, and the fact that she was like that with me—in my bed, under me, wriggling in anticipation of the two of us fucking until we collapsed—drew a groan from my throat before I’d even pressed against her.

  And then I was against her, and with one thrust, I was all the way inside her. Oh God. I was inside her, deep inside her, with her legs around my waist and her back arching underneath us, and I needed a moment just to realize that, to comprehend it, to feel her pussy around my cock and her hands on my shoulders.

  “Lee,” she whispered. “Lee, please…”

  I kissed her hard, and we both shivered as I withdrew. As soon as I thrust into her again, her whole body relaxed except for her pussy, which tightened around me and took my breath away.

  Just like on the set of her music video a lifetime ago, our bodies fell into synch, fell into a rhythm, and even though I couldn’t hear that rhythm, I followed it. I had no choice. My body needed to move with hers, hers moved with mine, and we moved together so perfectly, we may as well have been designed for this and nothing else. Even our sharp huffs of breath fell into synch, adding a sharp backbeat to the creaking bed frame and rustling fabric.

  I slid my arms under her and hooked my hands under her shoulders, using her body for leverage to drive myself deeper. She gasped. Then she rolled her hips, and I damn near lost it because she took me at just the right angle, and she was so tight, and so wet, and…fuck.