The scene goes long.

Lynne says it was too beautiful, and she couldn’t bear to call cut. “Absolutely the best thing I’ve seen from you,” she says, and I look past her to Logan, who has surely heard her, and I wonder if he knows, like I do, that he’s the reason my performance today was so superb.

I don’t have time to find out because now I’m running late for the scene that I have booked with LaRue, and I barely have a chance to gather my things and kiss Logan goodbye before I have to be on the road.

It’s not a long drive, and instead of using the little time I have to prepare mentally for the next scene, I spend it thinking about the one I just left. Thinking about last night. Thinking about Logan, and how he’s burrowed inside me, how I should have maybe built more walls to keep him out. How I don’t know what my career will look like now that he’s in my life. Wondering how I will ever be able to work again without him.

It’s not until I’m parked in the driveway of the mansion that LaRue has rented in the Hills that I finally pull my thoughts into focus and realize I’m about to film my first het sex without him. A male/female scene without Logan.

Oh shit.

Seriously, oh shit.

I’m being silly. I’ve done lots of scenes without Logan. I’ve had lots of sex that wasn’t with Logan. I can have sex now in a scene without Logan.

I start to get out of the car, and my stomach lurches. For half a second I wonder if I can pretend I’m sick, but I quickly dismiss that plan. The phrase “the show must go on”? I’m pretty sure a porn director coined it. After a performer has been booked and the contracts have been signed, there’s almost nothing that could prevent the show from being filmed. Even if the performer is on the rag, even if she’s puking her guts up, even if she’s got Montezuma’s Revenge and they’re shooting an anal scene—the show goes on. There’s too much money on the floor not to; a crew and other actors that have to be paid. It’s too expensive to forego a scene for just one person.

I check the time. I have a few minutes before I need to be inside so I get back in the car and phone my agent. The call goes to voicemail. I groan as it plays but sound like my usual chipper self when I leave my message. “Hey, it’s Devi. I’m at the LaRue job, and I can’t…” My voice trails off.

Any way I explain this is going to sound terrible, especially left in a voicemail. Besides, I don’t know exactly what it is I want her to do for me. Talk me down? Remind me of my obligations? Tell me it’s okay to cancel? “Just call me. Please. As soon as possible.”

I hang up and stare at my cell for several minutes—four of them, to be precise—willing it to ring.

It doesn’t. Now, officially late for my call time, I start to panic. What if I can’t get aroused? What if I can? Is this cheating? Can it even be cheating when I’m not officially anything to Logan? Only a sort-of girlfriend? Can you even cheat on a porn star?

I’m overwhelmed with doubts and anxiety and this isn’t like me at all. I’m level-headed, dammit. I’m calm, cool, collected. I’m a professional.

So get your shit together and act like one!

I take a deep breath.

A professional would pull up her big-girl panties, go in and do the scene. It’s one scene. Two hours of my life. I can imagine the guy is Logan. I can pretend it’s for him like the last scene was. Afterwards, I don’t have to book another het scene again until I figure out, well, everything.

Right. Yes. I can do this.

One more breath, and I’m out of my car. Three more, and I’ve made it to the door. A sign on the door says to come in quietly in case the camera’s running. I turn the handle and step in.

And run smack into Raven.

And it’s embarrassing because I run into her with such force that the reusable shopping bag I’m carrying full of wardrobe choices spills and my panties are strewn all over the entryway and on top of Raven’s Jimmy Choo ballet slipper-style shoes.

Yes, that Raven. The Raven. The only Raven. Logan’s Raven.

He’s never talked to me about her, and I’m not sure what all went down with Raven and Logan, but everyone in the biz, as well as a lot of people outside of the biz, knew about their relationship. They were an “It” couple. For nearly three years, they made XBIZ’s “Porn Pair We Ship” List and frequently graced the cover of Adult Video News together. They played on the same charity softball team. They had an Instagram account for Prior, their Yorkie. They held hands at the O’Toole Films press conference where he announced his commitment to respect women in the industry. When Logan won his last AVN award, he thanked her with an intimate wink that suggested they had a whole secret language between them.

Then, one day, without any explanation, Logan’s name wasn’t on Prior’s social media accounts anymore, and Raven posted a vague Facebook status about having to deal with movers. The media immediately assumed they’d broken up. Neither party confirmed or denied it, but it was obvious to everyone that the love bubble had burst.

I can’t say that I wasn’t happy about it. And curious. But I respected Logan’s privacy.

Now, seeing her, I realize that by never asking him about her, I am just as unprepared to face her as I am for this scene. What’s happening between Logan and me is brand new, but it’s definitely a relationship now. And yet, I know nothing about the ex.

I should have asked.

He should have told me.

I ignore the tightening knot in my belly. “Sorry,” I say, bending down to scoop up my underwear, hoping she’ll walk past, and we can circumvent the whole ex-girlfriend encounter.

But she says, “Devi,” and she’s not warm or surprised, and she’s not trying to get by me, and it almost feels like she’s been waiting for me.

“Raven.” Still squatting, I glance past her and see the crew setting up to shoot in the dining room. The cameras are off, and the director, for now at least, doesn’t seem to be anxious to get going.

I stuff my clothes back in the bag and stand up to give Raven the attention she seems to be waiting for. Except for her lipstick, which seems newly applied, her makeup is mussed, and her hair's a mess, and under the heavy scent of perfume, I catch the smell of sweat and sex. She’s just done a scene. And she still looks absolutely fuckable. I’m positive I don’t look the same after being on set with Kendi.

But whatever. “Were you shooting with Sinner’s today too?” I ask, trying to be polite.

Raven nods with a tight smile, her red lips bright against her creamy pale skin. “I saw your name on the call schedule and thought I’d stick around and say hi. It’s been—what? Three years since we’ve done any work together?”

I’m immediately suspicious of her motives because: (a) she’s the ex, and (b) what she said is not true. We’ve done a couple of movies together since then; we just haven’t been in the same scenes and have somehow managed to never bump into each other on set. Maybe she’s not the type to pay attention to details like that, but if that’s the case, why would she pay attention now?

Unless it’s because of Logan.

So I don’t exactly correct her. “Three years since Raven’s Real Playdates. Time really flies, doesn’t it?”

“Wow.” She looks me over, her gaze as hungry in condescension as Logan’s was hungry in lust earlier. “You’re so grown up.”

It’s been three years. Not thirty. But I nod and accept her statement like it’s a compliment. “Yep. Crazy how that happens.”

“Logan tells me you’re working on a series together.”

And there it is. There he is, making himself known, saying I’m the guy that will cause you girls to fail a Bechdel test.

Well, now I know I was right—that her interest in me today is because of him.

Also, I know that he’s talked to her. Recently. About me. And I have no idea what that means or how to feel about it, except unsettled.

I know I need time to process, so I’m careful to leave emotion out of my response. “Yeah, we are.”

“Hmm.” She draws the mmm out, and it’s seductive and sexy and I understand why she’s such a star. Because Raven isn’t just beautiful—she’s bewitching. And glamorous. And sophisticated.

And I’m the girl who carries her cotton underwear to the set in a bag from Ralph’s.

“What’s the show about, anyway?” She’s fishing, which means Logan hasn’t gone into details with her, and there are several possible reasons for this. The ones in the front of my mind are the ones that bother me to think about.

Regardless of his reasons, if Logan remained vague, I want to remain vague as well. “It’s still shaping, actually. Lots of improv. Probably won’t really know what it is until it’s done.”

Behind her, the director catches my eye. “Excuse me, Raven, if you don’t mind, I need to—”

She ignores my cue of dismissal. “If Tanner isn’t on set with you, you should be carrying an EpiPen. Logan will never think to bring it himself.”

I blink. “EpiPen?”

“For his allergy. You know how to use it, right?”

“I…” I didn’t know Logan had any allergies. I didn’t know he needed an EpiPen. I didn’t know that he wasn’t the type to address his own serious medical conditions.

I’m sure that Raven can read the ignorance all over my face, but I try to remain composed. “I’ll make sure he has one on set,” I say. “Now it was really good seeing you again, but I’m late.”

I brush past her but she stops me with her next words. “You don’t normally do het scenes, do you? Did you take this job because of Logan? If you’re hoping to make him jealous…”

My nails dig into the Ralph’s bag as I hug it to my chest. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

I turn back to her and tilt my chin up. “I took the job for me.”

But I don’t sound very convincing because even I’m not sure anymore why I took the job, and there’s a good chance it was for Logan, just like the reasons I don’t want to do the job now are for Logan.

Raven lets out a laugh, then immediately covers her mouth with her hand, as if she hadn’t really meant to laugh out loud. “Oh. You’re really adorable, Devi.” She looks me over again and this time her gaze is sympathetic, the kind of look that says, You’re so young; you’re so naïve; you’ll learn when you’re older.

I desperately want to know what it is she knows that I don’t, and I don’t want to know all at the same time. Because being young doesn’t necessarily mean I’m ignorant. But also it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not, and the worst part about my age and lack of life experience is that there’s no way to know which is true in this moment.

I’m off-balance, and I’m sure Raven knows it.

She takes a step toward me. “Word of advice?” She poses it like a question but doesn’t leave a space for me to respond. “Logan doesn’t care where you’re sleeping. In fact, he’s happier when he knows you’re fucking other people because then he figures he won’t have to deal with any shit about him fucking other people. And, take it from me—he’s always fucking other people.”

It’s a knife in my gut. Which makes no sense because this isn’t any sort of revelation. Of course Logan is always fucking other people—it’s his job.

But she’s said it in such a way that makes me think she’s insinuating that Logan fucked other girls off set when she was with him. And maybe he did. But I can’t know that unless I ask Logan. And suddenly I’m painfully aware of all the things I’ve never asked Logan, all the things I don’t know about him or about us, things I’m not sure I have the right to ask. Things I’m not sure I want to know the answer to.

Someone calls from the set behind me. “You Devi Dare?”

“Me?” I twist my head and see both the director and Bruce staring at me. “Yes.”

“Gotta run,” Raven says, and she’s gone before I can even say goodbye.

As much as I didn’t want a confrontation with her, I’m almost disappointed that she’s left. Or, rather, I’m disappointed that she’s left and I’m still agitated.

“I want to shoot in five,” the director says in a tone that suggests he wants to shoot now but knows I’m not ready. “Do you know what you’re wearing?”

With Raven gone, I have nothing keeping me in the entryway. I cross to him. My knees feel weak, and I’m distracted, and I wish I could focus on the things distracting me instead of on what I should be wearing before I’m not wearing anything.

But I can’t.

When I reach the director, I hold out my Ralph’s bag. “I have other options.”

Without looking at my clothes, he shoos the bag away. “Not necessary. We’re already running long on some of the other scenes. This one needs to be concise.”

“What are you thinking?” The buddy-buddy way Bruce confers with the director puts me immediately on guard.

For the first time since I’ve arrived, I scan the room. The crew is entirely comprised of men. Middle-aged white men, to be precise. The director’s assistant is a blonde in a short skirt. The gray-bearded lighting guy’s T-shirt reads, “It won’t suck itself.” The cameraman is ogling the girls dressing in the next room—the kitchen, which seems to be the makeshift dressing room. There’s no door, so everyone can watch the performers dress, which might seem like no big deal since we’re shooting porn, but it is a big deal. To me it is. This set is a total boys’ club—the kind of set I have managed to avoid in my three-year career.

“I’m thinking we lose the clothes,” the director says to Bruce. “Cut the time it takes her to strip. Let’s put her in a robe and maybe she’s cleaning up after dinner and then you come in and fuck her on the table.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Bruce says, his pupils dilating as he leers at me.

“Debs, see if there are some dishes in the kitchen cabinets we can use for this scene.”

“How does that sound to you, Devi?” LaRue Hagen puts his hand on my arm, startling me with both his touch and his presence. I haven’t seen him until just now and wasn’t even sure he’d be on set today.

I’m grateful he is—not only is he a friendly face, but he’s the only person who seems to care what my opinion is about the proposed changes to the scene.

“It sounds—” ridiculous, unrealistic, and grossly male-centric. The dishes the director’s assistant is already setting out on the table aren’t dirty—why would I be clearing them? Yes, I know, porn isn’t about making sense, just…

Ugh.

But, honestly, if it shortens the scene, I’m game. “It sounds okay to me. Thank you for asking. Is there another room where I can get undressed? A room with a door?”

The director doesn’t hide his eye roll, but LaRue smiles reassuringly. “Definitely. Why don’t you use the office? I believe there’s a mirror above the mini-bar. We’re running late, though, so get yourself changed and back out here quickly.”

“Sure.”

I scurry into the office and shut the door, which doesn’t lock, but I don’t have time to be annoyed. It only takes a minute to undress and put on my robe. Then I take another minute to center myself. My head is all over the place, and I need to be focused to do my job.

The breath goes in, the breath goes out, I say to myself, concentrating on the air as it fills my lungs and as I release it. The breath goes in, the breath goes out. The breath goes in, the breath goes out.

I bet Raven knows Logan’s real name.

The thought is sudden and paralyzing, but before I can recover there’s a knock on the door.

“Devi?” LaRue says through the wood door. “We’re ready for you.”

I’m not ready for them. I’m not ready for any of this.

I open the door, about to give an excuse to stall, but before I can say anything, LaRue’s ushering me back to the set. “Everything okay, Dev?”

I’m not sure that he’s really interested in my answer, and I get it. It’s his money we’re burning with every minute the camera isn’t rolling. He’s a good guy, though, and I think he’d genuinely want to know that I’m having issues.

So I decide to tell him. “Actually,” and then LaRue’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

“Excuse me,” he says as he pulls it out to look at the screen. He clicks the talk button saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this. Jerry, hi!” Cell to his ear, LaRue makes his way through the naked women in the kitchen and steps outside on the back lanai, closing the sliding door behind him.

With his boss gone, the director, who has yet to introduce himself, gets more assertive. “Okay, Devi, babe. Drop the robe, will ya, so we can set light levels. Debs tried to step in for you, but you’re darker than her.”

It’s not a racist comment, yet he sounds like a douche when he says it. Possibly because he’s telling me to take my clothes off in the same breath. Yes, I’m comfortable naked, but typically the directors I work with still respect that I’m a person, not just a body. They’re courteous and nurturing, and conscious of what I need to feel safe while performing.

Maybe this is just the way mainstream porn works, though. Maybe I really am as naïve as Raven suggested I was.

At the thought of ultra-experienced Raven, I undo my belt and shed the robe.

“Nice,” the director says with a wink. He continues to chat with me while the bearded guy checks the light levels against my skin. “When the camera rolls, you’ll be gathering these dishes. Bruce will come in behind you and pull off the robe. The dishes are plastic so it’s okay if you drop them. Bruce and I have worked through the choreography, so you just let him lead.”

I throw a glance toward Bruce who’s staring at me while Debs is fluffing his cock. So he’ll be hard when the scene starts. That means he won’t need time to get aroused, and since we’ve already nixed the undressing, I’m afraid foreplay is going to be cut all together.

The idea makes me uncomfortable. “I’d rather know the sequence for myself. Could you go over it, please?”

The director shakes his head curtly. “If you wanted to know the sequence, you should have been to the set on time. Okay, everyone, we’re ready to shoot.”

As I tie the belt of my robe again, Bruce zips up his jeans and gives me a predatory grin. “Go ahead and make it tight, sweetheart. It’s not going to stop me.”

And then I realize—I can’t.

I can’t do this.

I can’t tune out the warning bells in my head. I can’t dismiss this sexist environment. I can’t pretend I feel safe on this set. And I can’t have sex with Bruce Madden.

And even if Logan will always be fucking other people, and even though I don’t know if I can handle that, I do know with a fair amount of certainty that a good part of the reason I can’t have sex with this caveman alpha in front of me is Logan.

So when the director calls places, I shake my head, and without an apology, I quit.