Porn Star

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” she asks in a low purr, her mouth in that performance pout I witnessed at Vida’s. “Aren’t you mad enough at me that it would feel so good to pin me down and take me hard?”

I hate how well she knows me; hate how well she knows I itch for exactly that. But what she doesn’t know is that even as I itch for it, I’m also repulsed by the idea of ever touching her again. “No, Julie,” I say, using her real name. “I’d rather not.”

Her jaw drops and I can’t tell if it’s using her real name or my outright refusal to work with or sleep with her again, but I don’t care. I keep going. “I’m sorry that you felt lost and I’m sorry that you felt like you couldn’t talk to me. But for future reference, that’s only a good reason to cheat on your partner in indie movies and book club novels. It doesn’t excuse what you did, and while I will work on forgiving, I would be an idiot to forget.”

I put Prior back in her arms. Her stunned expression is slowly giving way to fury.

“Fuck you,” she hisses. “Fuck you, D—” And I see it coming, hear it on the tip of her tongue, but I block it out. She can say my real name in all its twangy and possibly ironic grandeur, but it doesn’t change anything about how I feel.

“Goodbye, Raven,” I say, and then she shoots me a look of such livid fury that I actually feel its acidic heat prickle against my skin.

She leaves without another word, and after a moment’s thought, I shuffle into the kitchen and root around for some scotch. I finally said goodbye to Raven, I finally got all the closure I had once so desperately craved, but I don’t feel satisfied. I don’t feel at peace.

I feel like getting drunk.





11





Thursday dawns with the kind of aggressive sunshine only California in late August can muster. I open one eye, then the other, fully appreciating how much like shit I feel, from my scuzzy mouth to my roiling stomach to my pounding headache.

Yep, I sure showed Raven last night. I drank half a bottle of scotch and sang Ben Folds Five’s “Song for the Dumped” at the top of my lungs for about two hours straight, and then I think I went swimming with my clothes on, guessing from the strong smell of chlorine around me and my still-damp clothes.

So what’s on the docket today, Your Honor?

Devi. We have a scene today.

I stumble into the bathroom, where I drink approximately seven glasses of water and swallow a handful of Advil without bothering to count out how many.

Well, Cass. I think it’s about time you returned a certain favor for me.

I can’t wait. Can I come over now?

I glance up at the mirror, wincing at my reflection. I look like Deadpool without his mask.

Sure thing, gorgeous. I partied a little too hard last night, so I’m going to hop in the shower and scrub the top layer of skin off my body, but go ahead and let yourself in. I’ve got a key under the potted succulent plant by the door.

The three telltale dots appear on my screen while she types and I use the lull in our conversation to brush my teeth and find a clean towel.

Then my phone pings. I can’t believe you didn’t make a joke about the word succulent.

I groan. She’s right. I’m off my game.

I think I killed a few brain cells last night. They must have been the funny ones.

Jesus. What—or who—did you do last night?

It involves Ben Folds and mid-level scotch. It doesn’t matter. Drive here so I can give you orgasms.

Okay, Cyrano. I’m on my way.

I brush my teeth several more times in the shower and scour my body with soap and a washcloth until the drunk-last-night feeling starts to wash away. “I’m never drinking again,” I promise myself in a mumble. And I actually kind of believe it. The truth is that I was never a heavy drinker—I preferred being buzzed to being drunk—but after Raven left, I had no emotional tools to cope with it. No tools except for liquor, that is.

But I feel released from Raven now, released from my complicated emotions about her. I meant what I said yesterday. I’m not in love with her anymore. And I’ve moved on. In fact, on the other side of things, it’s incredible to believe that I was so devastated. Yesterday proved just how different we are, and how I ever thought what we had was actually sustainable happiness is astounding.

Finally clean and awake, I turn off the shower and pad into my room, settling for my usual uniform of a T-shirt and jeans. I scrub at my hair with the towel, don’t bother brushing it, and then walk out to my living room, where I find the patio door open and Devi Dare out by my pool. Hopping into my pool, actually.

And she’s completely naked.

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