Porn Star(4)

No, the problem is that the party will have the feminist porn crowd there. And the art-porn crowd, and the alt-porn crowd, and the locus at the middle of those three groups…

Raven.

My brain stutters to a halt, and I blink at the lighting board I just set on the floor.

Tanner reads my mind. “She may not be there, you know.”

“I know,” I say defensively, like my brain hasn’t just been immolated by a thousand terrible, wonderful memories.

“And even if she is, maybe it’s time you showed her that you’re over…whatever it was that happened. You’re one of the biggest names in the industry right now—this is your playground too. You can’t hide from everything forever.”

I take my time answering, fussing with the lighting board stand far longer than necessary. But when I do answer, it’s only two words. “You’re right.”

This satisfies Tanner. “Of course, I’m right. I’m always right. I was right about tacos for breakfast this morning and I am right about Vida’s party. You go, impress everyone with your smile and your dick, and you make Raven regret the day she left you.”

Tanner makes it sound so easy, so direct, and for a moment, I see it in my head the way I would film it. An establishing shot of Vida’s modernist mansion, richly lit, scored by something low but catchy. Me, laughing, making other people laugh. Raven, alone and glowering into a glass of mid-range white wine. There would be a moment—closely tracked, carefully scored—where I would pass her on the way to somewhere, the balcony maybe. And she would lift her eyes to mine, and see the easygoing confidence I’m famous for, and nothing else. She wouldn’t see the empty scotch bottles or that night I saw Goldfinger three times in a row at a classic movie theater because I couldn’t bear the thought of going home to an empty house. No, she would see the real Logan, the new Logan. The Logan who was about to kick everybody’s ass (and then come all over those asses afterwards.)

Adrenaline pumps through me. For three months, my life has been a cycle of f*cking, filming, and editing. I’ve only seen my friends if they happened to be part of my filming and f*cking cycle. But tonight, all of that is going to change. Tonight, I’m going to take back my old life.

“Get the girls,” I tell Tanner with a grin as I unbutton my jeans. “I’m ready.”

Tonight, Logan O’Toole will finally come back from the land of the brokenhearted.





2





I can't even.

And not just because my mother is in the middle of naked yoga in front of me. I did just drop in, so I’m the one interrupting her routine, and normally her ritualistic meditation practices don't faze me. I’m used to her. She's my mother, after all.

But it is rather hard to concentrate on the bill in my hands from the student loan department when my mother's hoo-ha is right at eye level while she's in downward dog. Especially with a bush as full as hers. I respect my mother’s hippie liberal ways and totally support the female form in its natural state, but I’m not convinced that Eve didn’t do a bit of pruning first thing after she threw that apple core to the ground.

It’s because I’m proud to be a woman that I spend so much time waxing and plucking. I know, I know, different strokes for different folks and all that jazz.

At the moment, it feels awfully apropos to be faced with her * when I’ve just discovered that life is dealing me a pile of shit. Goodbye new apartment in El Segundo. I can’t even. This is terrible.

I must have said that last part out loud, because a second later my mother interrupts her ohms to ask, “What’s terrible, Dev?”

“Everything,” I answer. “Everything is terrible.”

“‘Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.’” She’s quoting Buddha. I swear that in a lifetime of being her daughter, less than fifty percent of everything she’s ever said to me has been original.

I wish my words would influence her to stop her routine and tell me how to get out of the financial mess I seem to be in. Why did I decide to stop by to pick up my mail today anyway? I could have continued through the rest of the week, blissfully unaware that my one semester at UCLA was coming back to haunt me.

I look up as my mother moves into half downward dog, and immediately regret it. Shielding my eyes, I groan, “Maman, do you mind?”

As she glides into her next pose, she glances back at me and whatever she sees causes her to shriek—ironic considering that I’m the one watching a fifty-year-old woman doing naked yoga.

“Devi!” she exclaims. “Your aura’s so murky it’s practically black! Sit down, sit down. I’ll get you some turmeric juice and then give you a Reiki treatment.”

“Thanks, but I think I just need to talk for a minute.” At least I’m now the focus of her attention. That’s the way with my mother—she’s either oblivious or doting. There’s nothing in between.

“Nonsense.” She’s already pouring me a glass of her favorite elixir. “If you could see what I’m seeing, you’d know how badly your life energy needs healing.”

“Actually, what needs healing is my bank account.”

“‘Contentment is the greatest wealth,’” my dad says, coming in from the kitchen, the bamboo beads in the doorway clacking together as they fall behind him.