Porn Star(45)

I swivel my head to look at her. She’s standing beside me now, her eyes on the pool as well, one pale hand pressed against the glass.

And then she says it.

“I’m still in love with you.” Her dark eyes meet mine. “I know I’ve f*cked things up, but I’m not too proud to beg.”

For a moment, I remember why I loved her once. Her sharp beauty. Her stubborn pride. “You don’t still love me,” I tell her. “You’re here because things didn’t go according to plan, and I’m the last person you remember being happy with. Whatever you’re looking for though, I can’t help you. I’ve moved on.”

She takes this on the chin, her only sign of disturbance at my rejection of her a slight sucking of her top teeth.

“You’ve moved on,” she echoes. “Who is she?”

Devi flashes to mind, but no f*cking way am I willing to tempt fate like that. Instead I say, “There’s not another girl. I just mean that I’ve moved on personally. I’m past what happened, and I’m looking to the future. I’ve got a great new project lined up, too.”

“A new project?”

I have no interest in pitching Star-Crossed to her, but my latent enthusiasm for it bleeds into my words anyway. “It’s a new project with Vida and that Dutch studio Lelie, like a reality show where two people are falling in love, but all the sex is also open-door, which makes it better than reality TV. Plus I’m making it with Devi Dare—remember that girl from Real Playdates? She’s f*cking amazing. Like, her body melts my brain, and her actual brain could melt my brain, she’s so smart.”

Raven chews her lip. “Sounds like quite the project.”

I shrug. “I’m super pumped about it, but yeah. It’s needing pretty much all of my free time.”

“That’s a shame. I was kind of hoping we could at least work together while I’m in L.A. this month.” She drops her hand from the window and smooths her skirt. “You know, some clear-the-air kind of f*cking. Even if we don’t get back together, it would still feel good, wouldn’t it?”

She steps so close to me that I can feel her breath on my chest. Prior squirms to get down, but I hold him tight.

“Don’t you want to f*ck me?” she asks in a low purr, her mouth in that performance pout I witnessed at Vida’s. “Aren’t you mad enough at me that it would feel so good to pin me down and take me hard?”

I hate how well she knows me; hate how well she knows I itch for exactly that. But what she doesn’t know is that even as I itch for it, I’m also repulsed by the idea of ever touching her again. “No, Julie,” I say, using her real name. “I’d rather not.”

Her jaw drops and I can’t tell if it’s using her real name or my outright refusal to work with or sleep with her again, but I don’t care. I keep going. “I’m sorry that you felt lost and I’m sorry that you felt like you couldn’t talk to me. But for future reference, that’s only a good reason to cheat on your partner in indie movies and book club novels. It doesn’t excuse what you did, and while I will work on forgiving, I would be an idiot to forget.”

I put Prior back in her arms. Her stunned expression is slowly giving way to fury.

“Fuck you,” she hisses. “Fuck you, D—” And I see it coming, hear it on the tip of her tongue, but I block it out. She can say my real name in all its twangy and possibly ironic grandeur, but it doesn’t change anything about how I feel.

“Goodbye, Raven,” I say, and then she shoots me a look of such livid fury that I actually feel its acidic heat prickle against my skin.

She leaves without another word, and after a moment’s thought, I shuffle into the kitchen and root around for some scotch. I finally said goodbye to Raven, I finally got all the closure I had once so desperately craved, but I don’t feel satisfied. I don’t feel at peace.

I feel like getting drunk.





11





Thursday dawns with the kind of aggressive sunshine only California in late August can muster. I open one eye, then the other, fully appreciating how much like shit I feel, from my scuzzy mouth to my roiling stomach to my pounding headache.

Yep, I sure showed Raven last night. I drank half a bottle of scotch and sang Ben Folds Five’s “Song for the Dumped” at the top of my lungs for about two hours straight, and then I think I went swimming with my clothes on, guessing from the strong smell of chlorine around me and my still-damp clothes.

So what’s on the docket today, Your Honor?

Devi. We have a scene today.

I stumble into the bathroom, where I drink approximately seven glasses of water and swallow a handful of Advil without bothering to count out how many.

Well, Cass. I think it’s about time you returned a certain favor for me.

I can’t wait. Can I come over now?

I glance up at the mirror, wincing at my reflection. I look like Deadpool without his mask.

Sure thing, gorgeous. I partied a little too hard last night, so I’m going to hop in the shower and scrub the top layer of skin off my body, but go ahead and let yourself in. I’ve got a key under the potted succulent plant by the door.

The three telltale dots appear on my screen while she types and I use the lull in our conversation to brush my teeth and find a clean towel.