All of the things I told myself earlier—that my heart wasn’t clear enough to start chasing after Devi, that it would be unprofessional given that we were on a fake first date, it all blows away in the breeze.
Instead I’m left with this warm certainty, this feeling like a balloon is expanding in my chest. The movie-moment feeling is still here, still achingly, clarifyingly present, and the only thing that should happen next, that must happen next, is me kissing her. Tilting her face up to mine and finding her lips, and kissing her against the backdrop of the movie screen.
I forget about the camera, about the job we are supposed to be doing, about the fact that the ostensible reason I asked Devi to do the project with me was so I could make sure things like our first kiss had chemistry and so I should be making damn sure that I film this—everything is lost except the feeling of my skin against hers as I reach over and slide my hand up the long column of her neck.
I feel her swallow against my hand, and then she slowly turns her head up to me, her amber eyes meeting mine as my hand moves up to cradle her face. Her pupils are massive, huge pools of black rimmed with gold, and her lips begin to part.
“Logan…” she breathes.
I bend my face closer to hers, my heart pounding. “Yeah?”
I never find out what she was going to say because her phone starts vibrating noisily on the plastic lid of the cooler, bzzz, bzzz, while Rihanna’s tinny, digital voice starts singing the opening lines of “Work.”
Devi flushes a deep red and then reaches for her phone, pulling away from me and leaving my body aching with the sudden absence of her touch. A few people on blankets around us look over disapprovingly as Devi fumbles for the silent button on her phone.
“‘Work’?” I ask, eyebrows raised, as she finally succeeds in silencing the call. It still lights up her screen, though, and just as I glimpse the name on the screen, Sinner’s Playpen, she answers me. “It’s my ringtone for business stuff. My agent and other performers and people like that. Hey, are you okay?”
She peers up at me quizzically, her phone still lit up in her lap, and I nod and clear my throat, as I move away under the pretense of getting her more champagne, but really to give myself space.
Sinner’s Playpen is one of the biggest web-only studios out there right now, and if they’re calling Devi, then that must mean either they’re interested in her or her agent has let them know that she’s interested in them, which is only significant because Sinner’s Playpen specializes in hardcore porn. Hardcore het porn. She really is moving wider with her career, not just with me.
Devi will soon be getting fucked by other men.
And the moment I saw that name on the screen, my blood ran hot with the most intense jealousy imaginable, jealousy like acid eating up my veins. And the moment I recognized the jealousy, regret and shame and logic barreled into me. Who the fuck am I to care what other jobs Devi works? I already knew that she was thinking of moving away from the lesbian porn, that’s why I felt like I could ask her to do this project with me, and it would be beyond unreasonable—it would be creepy and insane—to assume that our project would be the only one she would do. She’s got bills to pay, after all, and even if we did have a thing, we would never expect the other not to work. Raven and I never slowed down our careers for each other when we were dating; if you dated another porn star, you both had to respect the job. I would never say that it is an easy thing to do, but what’s the alternative? Leaving a career you enjoy and make a living at? I don’t know when I’ll ever meet someone worth that.
Except.
Except except except.
Except right now, when I can’t force the adrenalized anger out of my blood, when I can’t force my breathing to return to a normal, non-caveman-like state. I’ve never felt this intensely jealous over even just the possibility of a girl I liked doing a scene, and all I want to do is drive her to some beach cabin where we can live forever without either of us ever touching another human being again…and get it fucking together, O’Toole!
I take a deep breath. I’m being a total fucking hypocrite. If I pulled up my calendar on my phone right now, I would see scenes booked for almost every day of the week. How did I have the fucking nerve to be jealous of Devi working when I was planning on screwing seven different women in the next five days?
I clear my throat. “I’m fine,” I say, handing her another full cup of champagne. “Just thirsty is all.”
“Okay,” she says, her eyes and voice full of this gentle implicit trust that I haven’t fucking earned, and fucking hell, that punches me right in the chest.
What is happening to me right now? I need to get my shit together, mentally and emotionally and also spiritually, since spiritual is the only word I can think of to define at exactly what level Devi Dare affects me.
I grab for the camera, because that’s the one thing I know for sure will put me back on level ground. But while I’m turning it on, she touches a hand to my shoulder.