Porn Star(11)

She’s performing, I realize. She’s performing even though there are no cameras here, even though most of the people in the room are preoccupied with drugs or their own f*cking. It hits me the minute those dark eyes flutter up to meet mine, and that curling smile grows bigger.

She’s performing for me.

Shit.

I stumble backwards, the weight of her dark eyes so much heavier than anything else—than the two guys screwing her or her nakedness or her smile—it’s those eyes. Weighted with...what? Revenge? Contrition? Scornfulness?

And then I recognize it.

Satisfaction. She wanted me to see this and now I have, and she’s pleased about that for whatever twisted reason.

I’m pushing backward into people now, spilling their drinks and breaking apart kisses, but I don’t care. Those eyes sear into my flesh, peeling away the shell I’ve maintained for the last three months and revealing the empty, shredded mess inside, and I can’t stand it. I tear my eyes away, but the image of her is still burned into my retinas, and I press against the crowd, needing to make it out of here, needing to leave, needing to find a drink.

Needing to forget.





4





I can still feel Raven’s stare on me as I finally break through the crowd at the door and emerge into the hallway, my pulse pounding as if I just witnessed a grisly murder. As if I just came face to face with my own personal super-villain.

I walk numbly down the hallway, my mind racing. She must have known I’d be here tonight. And she wanted me to see her there, f*cking in the raw, and I played right into her hands.

I grab an open bottle of scotch without even really looking at it, moving through the living room without seeing it, and going straight outside, un-stoppering my bottle as I do.

Though the pool is off the main floor, Vida’s mansion is built on a steep slope, meaning that the pool terrace can extend into a ledge overlooking the city. I walk across the wide, white terrace with its sparkling water and curtained cabana—all of it currently devoid of party guests—and make my way to the chest-high wall rimming the edge of the balcony. I take a swig from the bottle as I survey the city—my city—and then wince.

“Fuck,” I wheeze. It’s Laphroaig.

I f*cking hate Laphroaig.

I take another drink, a longer one this time. I don’t deserve a scotch I like to drink right now—or maybe it’s not that I don’t deserve it, but it’s more like I can’t imagine any part of this night being pleasant or enjoyable. Not with my ex-girlfriend f*cking just yards away from me right now.

No, I want my drink to taste like shit. I want my mouth to taste like old ashtrays, and I want to get dizzily, pukingly, disgustingly drunk. Because if I’m drunk, then I don’t have to process Raven and her f*cking mind games. I won’t be tempted to scroll through her Instagram to find out when she got back to L.A., if she’s still with Italian Guy, and I certainly won’t be tempted to text her.

I pull out my phone, taking another long drink of the smoky liquor and open up my messages. I deleted her number long ago, but I still have it memorized, and maybe I could just send her one text. Just one. I could call her a bitch and tell her to go to hell. Tell her I knew exactly what she was up to.

Or I could beg her to come over to my house and just f*cking talk to me. We haven’t exchanged a word since the day she left, and all I’ve wanted these past three months is an explanation or an apology maybe, or even some f*cking closure.

I tap in her number and open up a new message. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, the first golden glow of the scotch beginning to dull my anger. Maybe I would invite her to talk—that’s what grown-ups did, right? Talk? And if it led to me f*cking all the lies and deceit right out of her skinny body...

Jesus. I’m like the werewolf who needs to be chained to a radiator during the full moon. Of course I can’t text her. Eliciting that kind of reaction is probably exactly what she wants, and f*ck me if I’m going to do anything that she wants me to do.

I spin around and throw my phone as hard as I can into the pool.

It lands with a small splash, sinking like a brushed-aluminum stone straight to the bottom. My momentary satisfaction is eclipsed by immense regret, because I just got that phone a few weeks ago. Fuck it, I can get a new one tomorrow. If that’s the price I have to pay to keep myself separate from Raven, then so be it.

I take a few healthy chugs of the Laphroaig.

“I hope you’ve got a good warranty,” a cheerful voice says from next to me. Even over the smoky scent of the whisky, I smell her. Cinnamon and sunshine.

I inelegantly swallow the scotch still in my mouth, turning to face the person next to me. “Devi.”

She flashes me her sunny grin, and then returns the greeting by playfully bumping her shoulder against my arm. Heat flares across my bicep, emanating from the place where our bare skin touched, and the heat slowly migrates towards my chest, independent of the blood now pumping to my groin.

I am suddenly very aware of the fact that Devi and I have never been alone. Strange, given that we’ve given each other orgasms, but Raven’s Real Playdates was the only time we’ve worked together, and there are so many people on a porn set that it’s impossible to feel any sense of alone-ness, even when you’re staring someone in the eyes while they suck you off. And even though we’ve seen each other at parties and events since then, we’ve only ever said hi or how are you or where’s the bar? Not exactly the basis for a deep understanding of one another.