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.
Then my phone pings. I can’t believe you didn’t make a joke about the word succulent.
I groan. She’s right. I’m off my game.
I think I killed a few brain cells last night. They must have been the funny ones.
Jesus. What—or who—did you do last night?
It involves Ben Folds and mid-level scotch. It doesn’t matter. Drive here so I can give you orgasms.
Okay, Cyrano. I’m on my way.
I brush my teeth several more times in the shower and scour my body with soap and a washcloth until the drunk-last-night feeling starts to wash away. “I’m never drinking again,” I promise myself in a mumble. And I actually kind of believe it. The truth is that I was never a heavy drinker—I preferred being buzzed to being drunk—but after Raven left, I had no emotional tools to cope with it. No tools except for liquor, that is.
But I feel released from Raven now, released from my complicated emotions about her. I meant what I said yesterday. I’m not in love with her anymore. And I’ve moved on. In fact, on the other side of things, it’s incredible to believe that I was so devastated. Yesterday proved just how different we are, and how I ever thought what we had was actually sustainable happiness is astounding.
Finally clean and awake, I turn off the shower and pad into my room, settling for my usual uniform of a T-shirt and jeans. I scrub at my hair with the towel, don’t bother brushing it, and then walk out to my living room, where I find the patio door open and Devi Dare out by my pool. Hopping into my pool, actually.
And she’s completely naked.
I walk over to call out to her, to tell her that I’m finished getting ready, but then I pause as she breaks the surface of the water, slicks her hair back, and starts backstroking easily across the pool. She has no idea I’m standing here, has no idea that anyone is watching, and she’s so unself-conscious right now, so natural. So fucking sexy.
I lick my lips as I watch her, water droplets shimmering on the soft curves of her breasts, on the taut lines of her stomach. A small pool of water has gathered in her navel, highlighting the dip it makes in her trim but still feminine stomach. Her skin is a dark bronze in the bluish-clear water, and her hair is like a coffee-colored cloud around her head.
Her eyes are shut, her nipples are hard, and God-fucking-damn if I’m not more turned on than I’ve ever been. My cock is already pushing against my jeans, my pulse speeding up, and never have I wanted to fuck someone so badly that it’s like I want to crawl inside of them, like I want to fuse my soul to theirs.
But that’s how I feel now.
Quietly, like a sailor trying not to disturb a mermaid, I move closer to the door and pull out my phone. I start filming her.
It’s mesmerizing, the way she effortlessly cuts through the water. The grace, the supple lines of her body, the sharp contrasts in color coupled with the occasional tantalizing glance of her pussy—
It’s not porn, I know that, otherwise I’d be running for my actual camera. But it’s undeniably, powerfully, painfully erotic; it’s that slow burn of desire that reminds you with subtle but insistent nudges that you are a sexual being. It’s the kind of image that lodges in your mind before it nudges your dick, and makes it that much harder to shake, that much more consuming. My theater teacher in high school liked to talk about the unities, where time and place and action all converged into one point. Well, Devi is my unity right now. Drawing my body and my mind and my heart into a single, crystalline point, fusing all the disparate Logans into one bewitched, infatuated man.
I was wrong earlier—I’m not falling for her.
I’ve already fallen.
I don’t know how, given that I can count the number of times we’ve hung out on one hand, and I don’t know why necessarily, given that she’s so vastly different than the other career porn stars I’ve dated.
But it’s true, nonetheless.
I tap my phone screen and end my private video, my throat tight for no reason other than the display of beauty in front of me. I want to jump in there, I want to fish her out of that damn pool and make love to her right here in the sun, but I don’t, because I’m a coward. Because I still remember how it felt to be abandoned, rejected by someone I loved.