“I really fucked up, didn’t I?” And I don’t mean by walking off the job but by pushing to take it in the first place. By staying in this business instead of figuring out what I really want to do with my life. Because is this really what I want to be doing in five years? In ten? Is porn my passion? Is all of this bullshit worth it?
And wasn’t it just this morning at my shoot with Lynne that I thought I could do this forever?
Well, maybe I could have if I hadn’t fucked it up.
“Hey. Don’t blame yourself for this. We should be able to salvage your career, though it might be a good idea to focus on just print work for a while.”
“Whatever you think is best.” I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure about anything anymore.
“Out of curiosity—was there a reason in particular that you were wary before you arrived on set?”
There’s a part of me that wants to tell her about Logan, about how I’ve fallen head over heels for him, about how I kind of only want to have sex with him now.
But if I thought I sounded na?ve complaining about Bruce, I can only imagine how na?ve it will sound to declare that I’m in love with a porn star.
So I say, “I just had a bad feeling. That’s all.”
If Lucy senses I’m withholding something, she doesn’t let on. “Sounds like you’ve got good instincts. But it’s probably best we not mention that you had any issues before you walked in. It weakens the argument for the inappropriate work environment. Let’s meet next week, and we can prepare a formal record of complaint as rebuttal against LaRue’s accusation of breach of contract.”
“Okay. But, Lucy? If Hagen tries to make bargains—like, even if he hires a new crew or changes the rules for the set behavior—I don’t want to do a reshoot.”
“I understand.” And though I can tell she truly does, I can also tell that this would be so much easier if I would just agree to do another shoot. Thankfully, she doesn’t say that. “Don’t think about this too much tonight, Dev. Be proud for sticking up for yourself. That took guts. A lot of women wouldn’t have been able to do that.”
I tell her I’ll try to focus on the positive and agree to call her in a day or two. We hang up, and I’m back to where I was before she called—lost and drifting. I need a shower. But I don’t want to go home—I need to not be alone. I need to be somewhere I feel safe and supported.
I’m not sure when or if I actually decide where I’m going, but at some point my driving turns from aimless to purposeful, and before long I’m pulling into his driveway and using the key under the succulent plant to let myself into his house.
Logan’s stretched out on his front room couch. He’s wearing nothing but jeans; his bare feet are crossed at the ankles in front of him as he edits some footage on his laptop.
He sits up, surprised, when I walk in the room, but then I think he must get a good look at me, and his features quickly wrinkle into concern. Instantly, he’s on his feet. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering him, I fall into his open arms and let out a raspy, “I need you.” Because, the truth is, now that I’m wrapped in the cocoon of his warmth and his scent and his touch and his him-ness, the answer to his question is, “nothing.”
16
Devi’s face is buried in my shoulder, and I want to pull back to look at her, but then I feel the unmistakable warmth of tears on my skin, and so I don’t. Instead, I hook an arm behind her knees and scoop her up into my arms and carry her into my dark bedroom, where the drawn shades keep out most of the afternoon sun. I sit on the edge of the bed with her still in my arms, and simply sit, rocking her slowly and resting my head on top of hers.
I don’t ask her what’s wrong again, even though I’m itching in the worst way to know. When I last saw her this morning, she was dewy-faced and flushed from her scene with Kendi (and, I secretly hoped, the moment we shared on set). And when she kissed me goodbye, she seemed happy and chipper, if a little nervous. I know she had a scene scheduled after the one I saw—could that be what’s upsetting her? Something that happened on set?
I rack my brain, trying to remember if she told me any details about the shoot she was going to. Generally, her scenes don’t get much rougher than some dildo play and maybe the occasional light bondage, but certainly not the kind of punishing scenes some actors film. So maybe she fought with someone on set? Another performer? A director?
“Devi,” I say. It’s an invitation for her to speak, but it’s also an affirmation, a reminder that I am here for her and only for her, and that she is completely safe and cared for in my arms.
“I—I didn’t tell you something,” she gets out.
I frown, my eyebrows pulling together. “Whatever it is, babe, it’s fine.”
She shakes her head against my chest. “It wasn’t fine,” she says, the tears flowing faster and harder now. “I—I thought I could do it and then he was so aggressive and he cornered me—”
He?
A fucking he?
What the fuck was she doing this afternoon? While I was missing her and feeling lonely as I worked on my couch, she was on a set with a he?