My heart feels like it’s in my throat, and it was already pounding so hard I was sure it would bruise my insides. I blink up at LaRue several times. “Jesus, are you kidding me?”
LaRue cocks his hip against the desk. “I was going to ask the same about you. You signed a contract to do a certain type of work for me, and now you’re not only walking out of that contract, but are crying foul when other people on my set expect you to live up to what you agreed to? That’s not how this business works.”
His tone is calm and reasonable, and for a fraction of a second I think he may be right—that I am obviously the one in the wrong, that it’s my choices that have put me in this situation, that I’m being too sensitive. What had Bruce Madden really done, anyway? Touched my skin? I came here today with the intention of letting him doing so much more.
But then the moment of doubt passes and a lifetime of lessons in self-respect and personal rights takes hold of my emotions, turning them to blind rage. “First of all,” I channel my anger into talking points. “I quit because the terms I agreed to were not being met. Second of all, this room is not your set. Third of all, even if it were, I still get to decide what happens to me. Just because I signed a contract doesn’t mean I give up consent. That’s not how my body—or the law—works.”
LaRue shakes his head, incredulous. “Damn, I knew you were young, but I didn’t think you were so na?ve. Do you realize what you’ve cost me today? I’ve already had to pay the crew for thirty minutes of standing around because you were running late and now because of your cold feet. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get a reputation for being a diva, and that’s no way to launch the next part of your career.”
I’m still angry, still indignant, but LaRue’s chiding is an echo of Raven’s earlier words, and self-doubt forces me into an apology I don’t mean. “I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your money. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Doesn’t matter what your intention was. I’ve lost money and I expect you to help recuperate my expenses.”
I turn my head sharply in his direction and tighten my arms around my chest, instantly wary of what he expects in the form of retribution.
He waves his hand, seeming to understand what I assume he’s suggesting. “I’m sure you give a fine fuck, but even if you have a golden cunt, it’s not going to translate to cash unless you wipe your eyes, pull yourself together, and go out there and shoot this scene. Give me a dynamite performance, and I’ll forget that we had a rocky start.”
He turns to leave as though the conversation is over, as though the matter is settled.
I’m flabbergasted. “Like hell I’m shooting anything with you. I don’t care what I cost you. I’m out of here.”
Though I’d prefer to dress without him in the room, that want is a far second to the need to leave. I pull my cut-off shorts on then turn away from him to shed my robe and put on my T-shirt, foregoing a bra in favor of speedy dressing.
For the first time since he’s come into the room, LaRue’s voice sharpens. “You walk out of here without doing that scene, and you’ve just kissed your career goodbye.”
I slip my feet into my flip-flops and gather up my Ralph’s bag. “Well, let’s just see what happens when I tell people what happened today.”
“Tell who what? Who’s even going to care what you have to say? Na?ve, Devi.” His words hit my backside as I rush out of the room. “Your agent will be hearing from me,” he shouts after me.
I manage to make it out of the house and to my car without anyone stopping or bothering me, but I’m on the road before I finally take a real breath. And then I burst into tears. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want or what to think, so I drive aimlessly as the sun sinks lower in the sky, trying to gather my thoughts together. I’ve spent three years in the erotica industry and have never felt so violated. I’ve heard stories from other performers, stories of abuse and harassment, and yet it always felt so far away from me. And it was far away from me—because I’d carefully chosen my projects and producers, because I’d made sure that the jobs I’d taken had been vetted by people I trust.
Until now.
And why? Why did I take this job without investigating it further?
Logan.
Because I wanted to prove to myself that my emotions for Logan wouldn’t affect my work. Instead, I’ve proven just the opposite. I’ve proven that what he makes me feel is frightening enough to cause me to ignore my usual thorough standards. I’ve proven that these feelings are the strong kind, probably strong enough to be given a label. Strong enough to call them love.
I’m still too dazed from everything that’s just happened to fully feel the impact of this realization, but I want to feel it. I want to feel something that isn’t this dirty, terrible, violated feeling.