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? Naïve, 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.
So I say the words out loud, seeing if it makes a difference. “I love Logan. I’m in love with Logan.”
The acknowledgment helps. I’m still cold and numb, but there’s a light now, something hopeful, like the first star in a night sky. Like something I can cling to in order to keep from drowning in the darkness.
My phone starts singing the ringtone I’ve assigned for my agent, and thank God I’m at a stoplight so I can dig through my purse to find it. “Thank, fuck,” I say, skipping a formal greeting. “The shoot with LaRue? Fucking terrible. It was unsafe, un-female friendly. The director—I still don’t know his fucking name—treated me as an inferior. The dressing room didn’t lock. Bruce Madden walked right in and made himself at home with my body. I swear he would have raped me if LaRue hadn’t walked in.” Talking about it renews my anger. I’m shaking by the time I get through everything. “I just…I’m so upset, Lucy, I can’t even.”
“Take a deep breath,” Lucy says calmly. “Now, are you driving? You’re upset. Should you pull over?”
“Probably. But I need to keep driving.” I’m not sure where I am. There are places I could park—a gas station, a McDonald’s parking lot—but the thought of stopping makes me panic, as though Bruce might be driving right behind me, just waiting for me to let my guard down.
Lucy doesn’t try to argue. “Understood. Be careful, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now, first. Are you hurt?”
I shake my head before realizing she can’t see me. “No. I’m just worked up.”
“Would you rather I call you back?”
“Don’t hang up!” I didn’t realize how desperate I was to talk to someone until now. “I just. I might not be very coherent. But I want to talk. Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Do you want to tell me what happened with Bruce?”
“He harassed me. He scared me.” I tell her the whole thing in as much detail as I can muster. I hear myself as I’m talking, and I know I sound melodramatic. I begin to doubt myself again.
But Lucy is supportive and reassuring, treating my every emotion as valid and legitimate.
“And Bruce is the reason you quit the scene?” she asks eventually.