by Lola Cherry
The Porn Star
By
Lola Cherry
Table of Contents
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
The Porn Star by Lola Cherry
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2014 Lola Cherry
Published by Lola Cherry
All rights reserved
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Cover Design: Studio 22 Cover Designs
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination.
Summary
He’s hot, he’s sexy and he lives next door.
Lila Scialfi arrives home one Christmas to find out her parents have a new neighbor. But Carter Grant isn’t just anybody. He’s the hottest porn star in town¸ and he knows it.
She should ignore him and get on with her studies. She should close the window and pretend she can’t hear the sounds of sex coming from his hot, humid backyard. She should do a lot of things…but she doesn’t.
Lila thinks he’s a distraction. Carter thinks she’s a princess. But first impressions are rarely true, as they’re both about to find out.
A short and sensual story of approximately 20,000 words.
Chapter 1
I swing my car into the driveway and look up at our over-decorated house. The normally bland, ranch-style building is bright, gaudy and looks like Christmas threw up all over it. Thick rope lights are twisted around the walls and windows, and thin icicles hang down from the roof. The driveway is lined on either side with lurid candy canes. The pièce de résistance—a life-size Santa in his sleigh, complete with nine reindeer—takes pride of place by the front steps. I shake my head, suppressing a grin, feeling a level of sympathy for all our neighbors. At least when I’m inside the house, I won’t have to gaze at the monstrosity. Sadly, they have no such luxury.
When I pull at the handle of my car door and step onto the driveway, I can feel the warm breeze dancing against my face. I stand for a moment and stretch my stiff legs. I’ve been sitting for way too long, and they feel like they’ve seized up. The sweet fragrance of desert lavender hits me, and for a moment I close my eyes and savor the feeling.
I’m home.
The front door of our McMansion flies open and my mom runs down the steps, throwing her arms around me as soon as she meets me on the driveway. She lets out a sharp squeal, which about bursts my eardrums. Her skin is warm against mine, and I let myself melt into her, my cheek soft against hers, until I turn and see my stepfather emerging from the house.
Don walks at a slower pace than my mom, and he crosses to the back of my car and starts pulling my bags out of the trunk. His eyebrows rise up at the amount of luggage I have brought for a one-week visit. I just shrug at his quizzical expression. A girl has to have options, and more importantly, a girl has to have a washing machine. The laundromat at school is always full of weirdos and guys trying to pick up women, and I’m sick of having to whip my delicates out of the dryer before somebody else steals them for their own enjoyment.
Mom releases me and stands back, running her appraising eye up and down my body. “Your hair needs a trim, and you’ve let the color grow out.” She reaches out and touches the dry ends of my dark-blonde hair that falls against my shoulder. “I don’t even want to look at your nails. Why do you let yourself go so much?”
I bite my lip, wanting to remind her I’ve spent the last semester with my head down, trying to complete my thesis proposal and simultaneously make applications for grad school. Somehow, the need to remain perfectly groomed has escaped my consciousness, and I’m aware my priorities make her hopping mad.
“I’ll book us an appointment at Frederico’s; maybe Bebe can come, too?” She doesn’t wait for a reply and starts to scroll through the calendar app on her phone. Her perfectly manicured nails tap at the screen for a moment until she finds a suitable time and date, quickly reserving it for our trip to the beautician. She doesn’t even have to call Frederico to check—as one of his highest spending customers, her requests are always met.
Bebe is my stepsister, and Don’s daughter. At twenty-four, she’s three years older than me, but still lives with Mom and Don, despite graduating from UCLA three years ago. She says she’s trying to “find herself,” and seems to be looking in all the right places: Rodeo Drive, the Country Club and every tanning salon east of Santa Monica. I suspect her search may take some time.
“Sounds delightful,” I deadpan, and Mom’s lips twitch. We walk up to the house, and I marvel at how warm it is for December. Even though I’ve lived in LA for most of my life, I still can’t get over how it can get up to eighty degrees at Christmas time. I’m half-inclined to move east for Grad School to experience a white Christmas. I blame Walt Disney for making me a sentimental sap.
As we reach the porch, the loud growl of an engine cuts through the air, and I turn to see a black, pimped-out truck swerve into the drive of the bungalow next door. The stereo is pumping, causing the air to vibrate with the slamming base, making Mom sigh loudly. I watch her exchange glances with Don before she pushes me inside the house, slamming the door behind us in an unusually desperate move.
“Who was that?” I ask, noticing they both seem on edge.
“You don’t even want to know,” Mom mutters; her sigh is deeper this time, matched only by Don’s growl. Their downcast expressions somehow depress me; it’s like the atmosphere in the house is slightly ‘off’, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I start to wonder whether coming home for Christmas was such a good idea after all.
“I swear if that guy has a party one more time, I’m going to call the cops.” Don’s annoyed tone is so far away from his usual calm demeanor. The lawyer in him tries to see things from all angles, so this new development is clearly causing him severe issues. I’ve always got along well with him, ever since he and Mom got married eleven years ago, and the fact he is angry does nothing to dispel my uneasy feeling.
“His name is Carter Grant, and I sincerely hope you’ve never heard of him before.” Mom’s reply is cryptic, and I look to Don for more information.
A blush rises up his neck, and I can’t help but gape at his embarrassment. Who the hell is Carter Grant?
“I’ve never heard of him,” I tell them. “But, you’ve got me intrigued now.”
“He’s in the adult film industry.” Mom whispers the last three words, as if she can barely bring herself to say them. She glances down at her nails, turning her hand over like she is inspecting them, trying to look anywhere but at me.
I start to laugh. “He’s a porn star?” I want to run back out to the driveway and take a good look. “A porn star has moved in next door … for real?” I’m itching to get on Facebook and update my status. I’m going to dine out on this for weeks. It’s not every day that a guy who fucks for a living moves into the bungalow next to yours. Suddenly, my day has gotten very interesting.
“It’s not funny, Lila.” Don’s face is still red. “He’s brought the tone of the neighborhood right down. I hate to think what it’s done to our house values.”
It’s the modern nightmare of the
home-owning generation. In years gone by our shared demons were blood-sucking and evil, now they’re just people who devalue our commodities. Every street needs a scapegoat, and whoever Carter Grant is, he’s managed to provide Elm Circle with our very own Beelzebub.
“We’ve had a couple of community meetings about him,” Mom reveals, then adds, “Don even went to see him and nicely suggested some other areas he might want to live in.”
“He laughed in my face.” Don shakes his head slowly from side to side. “That’s when the parties started.”
We walk through the hallway and into the large open-plan kitchen, and Mom switches on the coffee machine. I was planning to run up to my room as soon as I arrived, but now I’m so intrigued I could talk about this forever. I’ve never met a porn star, hell I’ve never even watched porn unless you count the late night soft focus shit they show on HBO. When I was a teenager I used to sneak downstairs after everybody was in bed and sit on the couch, open-mouthed at the dirty films shown after dark. Even now I can get off to them in no time at all.
I’m easily pleased.
“What parties?” I take a sip of the hot coffee and marvel at my mother’s ability to somehow ruin what should be a delicious beverage with a few dashes of creamer. She doesn’t drink coffee herself and has no idea just how bad her efforts taste. Neither Don nor I have the heart to educate her.
“Loud ones, full of scantily clad women and dirty men.” Don’s puritanical streak comes across strongly. I love him to bits, but he’s somewhat of a prude. Luckily, he’s never discovered my late night YouPorn passion. He prefers to drag me to church on a Sunday. I have to find increasingly creative excuses to avoid his quest to save me.
“They spill out into his backyard,” Mom confesses. “And I don’t even want to tell you what goes on. Make sure you keep your window shut.”
That’s easier said than done in this unseasonably hot weather, particularly as Mom likes to keep the hot air running all year round. My room is at the back corner of our house, looking out over both our own backyard and the one next door. It wasn’t a problem when old Mrs. Grittoni lived there—in fact I used to love looking out at her beautifully tended garden when I was a kid. I wonder if this Carter has managed to kill all the wonderful flowers. And I know I’m never going to keep that window shut.
Before I get into bed that evening, I unpack my things and make a huge pile of washing to take down to the laundry room in the morning. I haven’t gotten the guts to ask Maggie, our cleaner, to put them on for me. She’ll just give me hell for making more work for her. I adore her, but she’s the laziest housekeeper I’ve ever met, and Mom is way too intimidated to fire her. So, we find ourselves cleaning the house before she’s due to arrive, fretting over whether things are good enough for her. We’re truly submissive when it comes to employing help.
Closing the closet door, I glance over at the window, and like a moth to a flame I’m drawn to it, knowing Mom and Don are already asleep and they won’t hear me push it open. I creep across the carpeted floor, as if I have something to hide, and hesitate for a moment before moving right up against the window.
Unlocking the handle, I push it up, the glass opening with a ‘pop’ as the seal is released. The evening air rushes through the gap. There is a faint trace of smoke in the atmosphere, and when I look down I see a dark-haired guy sitting on the patio, his legs propped up on a coffee table in front of him. The red light of his cigarette brightens with each inhalation.
He doesn’t notice me at first. It gives me a chance to take a good look at him, especially since he’s only yards away from our boundary line. His messy hair falls over his forehead, almost touching his eyes, which glisten in the soft glow of the patio light. There’s no seventies porn-style ‘stache to be seen, nor is he perma-tanned and old, which was kind of what I expected. In my mind I was anticipating a cross between a younger Tom Selleck and Burt Reynolds, but this guy bucks all the stereotypes.
In fact, he’s hot.
My cheeks warm up as I check out his body. He’s long and lean, and his defined chest muscles are visible through his tight grey t-shirt. They ripple as he throws his cigarette on the ground and stamps it out, before grabbing his bottle of beer from the coffee table.
That’s when he notices me. He glances up and sees me staring down, and I realize I’m only wearing a pair of shorts with a skimpy tank. His lips draw up into a smile, and I swear his eyes light up. For a moment he stares at me, his mouth slightly open, his brows raised.
I’m like a deer caught in headlights. I don’t know if I’m more embarrassed I’ve been caught ogling him, or that I’m looking at a real-life porn star.
Either way, I’m getting turned on.
Porn-guy doesn’t seem to be suffering any of my muteness, and he opens his lips wider and calls up to me.
“Hey, Princess, does your mommy know you’re out of bed?”
My neck is covered by a deep flush, and I feel myself bristle. He’s such an asshole; a hot, gorgeous, sex-loving, grade-A dick. I debate slamming the window shut and flouncing off, but something keeps my feet glued to the ground.
“I’m disappointed,” I reply dryly. “I was promised hot, sexy guys and a porn party. Instead all I get is Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”
He takes another gulp of his beer and chuckles, never once taking his eyes off me.
“I hate to be the harbinger of disappointment. I’ll be sure to invite you to the next one.” His words excite me, despite my disdain.
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“I know you.” His voice is deep and graveled. “You’re a college princess. Finishing up your final year, trying to decide what career you’re going to follow before you bag yourself a rich husband. You’ll buy a house in the suburbs, push out two point four kids, and start the cycle all over again.” He sounds as bitter as I am annoyed. I find myself picking at my nails, angrily pulling at my cuticles, as I bristle at his words.
“And you’re a guy who gets paid to film stuff that other people can jerk off to,” I call down, feeling my inner-snark rising up. “Sounds like we’ll both end up fucking people to make some cash.”
He lifts his bottle up as if in a salute. “Touché, Princess. I guess we aren’t so different after all.”
I smile snidely and try to ignore his look of interest as he continues to stare at me. “The only difference is I don’t intend to get married. I already know what my career is going to be, and it’s never going to involve people jerking off to my naked body.” I move to slam the window shut, wishing his head was in the gap. “Good night, Mr. Grant. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
Yanking the curtains across to block out the moonlight, I storm across to my bed, feeling angry as hell. I’m a little horny, too, and it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes of moving my fingers up and down my clit for a strong orgasm to jerk its way through my body. And when I close my eyes, it’s his face I see staring up at me, and he’s talking to me with his deep, grainy voice, as my climax rocks my world.
Chapter 2
I spend the next few days shopping for presents, wrapping them and trying to get some work done in the relative peace of my bedroom. My laptop whirrs from overheating, but I keep tapping at the keys, typing and deleting words until I can barely look at them on the screen anymore.
Mom slowly drives me crazy, trying to set me up on dates with her friends’ sons, and inviting me to join the Country Club’s Christmas tennis tournament. It’s an annual event which involves wearing a short white skirt and bending down as often as possible in front of the club pros, if the usual matches are anything to go by. She finally drags me, kicking and screaming, to Frederico’s, telling me I can’t sit through Christmas dinner with nails like a hobo’s. It’s like my torn cuticles are enough to make the baby Jesus cry.
The night before Christmas Eve I’m so exhausted I end up in bed by ten o’clock, drifting aimlessly toward sleep and feeling all soft and cozy under the bed covers. I’m
hovering on the edge between awareness and nothingness, when something makes me open my eyes, and I turn my head to make sure I am alone. A moment later I sit up, disturbed by the loud music that starts to pound through my open window. I groan and attempt to lie back down, pulling my feather pillow over my head to try to drown out the music. It’s no good; my dream-like state is well and truly disturbed and the increased cadence of my heartbeat makes my blood tingle through my veins.
I guess he’s having a Christmas party … of sorts.
I lay there for nearly an hour, listening to the sound of voices rising up from his patio, and hearing the overly loud Christmas music morph into slow, seductive beats. A splashing sound rises up from his garden, and I realize the party has moved to either the pool or the hot tub. Even in the current warm spell we’re having, I have to admit his guests are brave. It can get so much cooler as soon as the sun falls below the horizon, and I, for one, wouldn’t want to be swimming at this hour.
Which makes me wonder what exactly they are doing in the pool.
Eventually, I can’t resist the lure of the unknown, and I drag myself out of bed. Padding over to the window, I pull open the curtains so I can see what’s going on. I keep my bedroom light out, because I don’t want to bring any attention to myself as I shamelessly spy on my porn star neighbor and his friends.
His garden is full of people in various states of undress. The majority of women wander around as naked as the day they were born, though the guys seem slightly more covered. But even they have their shirts off; revealing tanned, muscled chests, and a severe lack of body hair.
My eyes sweep the crowd, looking for Carter, wondering whether he, too, is undressed. The dirty, desperate part of me hopes he is and that I get a good look. I finally spot him on the edge of his garden, jeans pooled at his feet, his hands digging into the hair of a half-naked platinum blonde as he slowly moves his cock in and out of her mouth.