I, Porn Star (I #1) by Zara Cox Page B

be compensated for the inconvenience. Or I
ain’t leaving.”
    The manager scratches
his beer belly. “I can only refund seventy-five per cent of the remaining rate
of your stay. You’ll need to take up any further claims with the parent
company.”
    “ Are you fucking kidding me ?” The
guest is growing redder in the face.
    The manager, who
doesn’t seem one little bit upset by the gathering crowd of disgruntled guests,
shrugs. “Nope. Everything I’ve said is in the small print. Feel free to read
it. Present your booking receipt when you check out and you’ll be given what
you’re due.” He takes a step back and addresses the crowd. “That’ll be all,
folks. Remember, the guys with locks will be here in an hour. If you ain’t
outta here, you’ll be tossed out.”
    “Yeah, try it and
I’ll sue the pants off you,” One guest, an ageing woman with pink curlers in
her hair, points an arthritic finger at the manager.
    “I’m just doing
my job, but go ahead, give it your best shot, lady,” he sneers.
    A few other
patrons voice their anger, but the manager shrugs it off. I wait till he’s
heading back to his office before I sprint out from where I’ve been standing
next to a banged up Corolla.
    “Excuse me, sir?”
    He stops and
glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
    “I don’t know if
you remember me—”
    “Sure, I remember
you.” His gaze slides over me. I pull my backpack across my body. He sees the
action and his expression sours. “What do you want?”
    “I paid you two
hundred dollars this morning. To cover my stay till the end of the week?”
    “Yeah. And?”
    My grip tightens
on my strap and I plead with karma to give me a break. “I…obviously, since I
can’t any longer, I need my money back.”
    His gaze slides
once more over my body, slower, sleazier this time. A smile I’ve seen more
times than I care to count eases over his pudgy features. “Of course,
sweetheart. Like I said, bring me your paperwork and I’ll sort you out.”
    The ice expands
in my gut. “You know I don’t have paperwork.” My voice shakes and I despise
myself for it.
    His face contorts
in a show of false regret. “Ah, I’m sorry. No paperwork, no refund. Company
policy.”
    Anger dislodges
the ice. I want to fly at him, claw that sick look of glee off his face, but I
force myself to remain calm. For one thing, there are too many people around to
witness it and possibly clock it on their camera phones if I do anything
stupid. For another, I want no part of me touching the shit bag in front of me.
My days of allowing men like him anywhere near me are over. Well… nearly over.
    “Look, I’m asking
you to show some…mercy.” The word sticks in my throat. The idea of having to
beg this piece of shit to give me back money that’s rightfully mine burns a
hole in my chest.
    He steps closer,
his gaze probing where I’ve crossed my hands over my breasts. “I can be
merciful, sugar. Come with me to my office and I’ll show you what Papa Bear can
do for you.” He smiles. His hand starts to lift toward me.
    I step back,
partly because the idea of him touching me fills me with severe loathing. And
partly because my knee is itching to make violent contact with the flabby Papa
Bear parts between his legs. He accurately interprets the move.
    “I guess you
don’t want your refund, after all.” He waves a beefy hand in the direction of
Union Turnpike subway where I’ve just walked from. “There’s a homeless shelter
that way. Or you can blow some homeless guy into sharing his cart with you.” He
laughs and walks backwards. “Either way, sweetheart, your situation is
not my problem.”
    He disappears
round the corner into his office and tears surge into my eyes.
    I don’t blink.
Because, damn it, tears are of zero use to me right now. But, God, I want to
succumb. I want to find the nearest dark corner and howl my eyes out. I want to
beat myself for falling into a trap of my own making. With leaden feet,