The director yells behind me as I run from the room. “You can’t quit! You’re already here. You’re already naked. Just do the fuck—”

I make it to the office and slam the door. The director’s voice turns into muffled noise, and I let out a sigh of relief.

It’s not like me to make emotional or spur-of-the-moment decisions, but I feel justified. The list of reasons I can’t do this scene is comprehensive and rational:

1.     I don’t feel comfortable on this set.

2.     I don’t feel safe on this set.

3.     The director refused to explain what my performance partner would do to me in the scene.

4.     I don’t trust my partner.

But as logical and sensible as I am about this, as clearly as I can state my complaints, I’m lying to myself if I don’t admit that the biggest reason for quitting is Logan. The other reasons just make it easier to follow through with my heart on this one.

Footsteps outside the office spur me into action. Eventually someone will come after me, and I’d prefer to be clothed and ready to leave when they do. I head to the desk where I piled my belongings when I stripped earlier.

The door opens as soon as I move from it. I peer over my shoulder to find Bruce. Gritting my teeth, I pretend his presence irritates me rather than makes me nervous. “I’m getting dressed in here.”

Ignoring the hint, he enters the room. “That’s a shame.”

“I’m asking you not to come in here.” I step into my panties and pull them up under my robe, wanting desperately to be dressed.

Bruce swaggers over to me. “Calm your tits, sweets. I’m just coming in here to make sure you’re okay.” He reaches a hand out and rests it on my upper arm. “Okay?”

I let out a breath of air, willing my shoulders to relax. Maybe I’m being paranoid where he’s concerned. The only thing Bruce is guilty of at this point is being a man in a man’s business. He just wants to do his job, and here I am fucking with that. “Yes. Sorry. I’m just not in the right mindset for this. Things weren’t presented to me quite accurately.”

I pull at the knot at my waist and accidentally make it tighter. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, frustrated.

“Here. Let me help you.” He grabs the ends of my belt and drags me toward him. Immediately I tense, not sure if I should be wary or not. I barely breathe as he works the knot. When it’s loosened, I start to pull away, but he pulls me back, opening my robe completely. His lip curls into a devilish smile. “Told you this wouldn’t stop me from getting you naked.”

I tug at the garment, trying to close it, but Bruce wraps each end of my belt around his hands, drawing me even closer to him.

My heart is hammering so loud in my chest, I wonder if he can hear it. “Stop it.” My voice is quiet and strained. “Please. I want you to go.”

“Hey, I’m just playing around.” He lets go of the belt, but before I can move away, his hands grip my bare hips.

“Don’t touch me.” I try again to pull away, but his fingernails dig into my skin.

His eyes are dark and full of greed as he smirks. “God, you’re such a fucking tease. It’s really not nice when you tease like you do.”

“I’m not a tease.” Again, I try to push him away, but Bruce is stronger than me.

“You are. You took your clothes off and made me want you.” He leans against the desk and positions himself so my legs are caught in his. Now he has more freedom to rove his hands over me. He jerks me forward so my pelvis bumps against his cock. He bucks into me. “Feel that. You did that.”

My throat goes dry as I suddenly become aware of the gravity of the situation. If I don’t start seriously fighting back, there’s a good chance this could end with me bent over and Bruce having his merry old way with me—the very thing I left the set trying to avoid.

I struggle in earnest now.

“I think you should lick it.”

“I’m not licking anything. Let me go.”

“Come on, Dev. Just a little taste. Lick me.” With his leg coiled around me and one hand snaked around my waist, he tries to push my head toward his crotch. “Are you going to make this easy? Or are you going to make this fun?”

My eyes are watering now. My throat’s tight. “I’ll scream.”

“Fun then.” Bruce pushes my head down again, this time with more force. I can’t fight him—he’s too strong—but I try anyway, flailing and kicking.

I’m gathering my voice to let out a scream when there’s a knock on the door “Devi?”

Bruce freezes, and before he can think to prevent me, I shout, “Come in!”

The door opens, and LaRue walks in. Bruce still has his hands on me, but this time when I pull out of his grasp, he lets go. I wrap the robe around myself, holding it tightly at my neck and waist.

The producer looks from me to Bruce and back to me. “Everything okay in here?”

Fuck. No. Not okay in the least.

Bruce is the one who answers first. “Thought I could make her a little more comfortable before filming. That’s all.” He lifts his hand to draw two fingers down my cheek. “See you on set, Devi.”

I shudder and wrap my arms tighter around myself. My lips are trembling and I can’t tell if I’m about to cry or throw up. I want to get out of here more than ever, but I can’t move. I can’t speak. If LaRue hadn’t come after me, if he hadn’t interrupted….

“Hey, what’s this I hear about you quitting?”

I barely register what he says, practically crying as I let out a tremulous breath. “Thank you. For coming when you did. Bruce…he…he just…”

Concerned, LaRue steps toward me. But I flinch when he reaches his hand out. “What is it?” he asks.

“He tried to come on to me. He wouldn’t stop.” I’m shook up, completely unsettled, and it’s difficult to form my scattered thoughts into sentences so I just repeat myself. “He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.”

My skin burns where Bruce touched me, as if his fingers were doused in acid, and I feel the urgent need to shower and scrub, though I also never want to take my clothes off again.

LaRue drops his hands to his sides, and the look on his face is both cautious and perplexed. “Bruce Madden just tried to come on to you?” he asks slowly.

“Yes!” Didn’t I fucking say that? “After I said no!”

“Well, Devi.” He pauses, as if about to deliver news he thinks I don’t want to hear, and I can already tell he’s right. “You are here to make porn. What did you expect would happen?”

My heart feels like it’s in my throat, and it was already pounding so hard I was sure it would bruise my insides. I blink up at LaRue several times. “Jesus, are you kidding me?”

LaRue cocks his hip against the desk. “I was going to ask the same about you. You signed a contract to do a certain type of work for me, and now you’re not only walking out of that contract, but are crying foul when other people on my set expect you to live up to what you agreed to? That’s not how this business works.”

His tone is calm and reasonable, and for a fraction of a second I think he may be right—that I am obviously the one in the wrong, that it’s my choices that have put me in this situation, that I’m being too sensitive. What had Bruce Madden really done, anyway? Touched my skin? I came here today with the intention of letting him doing so much more.

But then the moment of doubt passes and a lifetime of lessons in self-respect and personal rights takes hold of my emotions, turning them to blind rage. “First of all,” I channel my anger into talking points. “I quit because the terms I agreed to were not being met. Second of all, this room is not your set. Third of all, even if it were, I still get to decide what happens to me. Just because I signed a contract doesn’t mean I give up consent. That’s not how my body—or the law—works.”

LaRue shakes his head, incredulous. “Damn, I knew you were young, but I didn’t think you were so naïve. Do you realize what you’ve cost me today? I’ve already had to pay the crew for thirty minutes of standing around because you were running late and now because of your cold feet. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get a reputation for being a diva, and that’s no way to launch the next part of your career.”

I’m still angry, still indignant, but LaRue’s chiding is an echo of Raven’s earlier words, and self-doubt forces me into an apology I don’t mean. “I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your money. That wasn’t my intention.”

“Doesn’t matter what your intention was. I’ve lost money and I expect you to help recuperate my expenses.”

I turn my head sharply in his direction and tighten my arms around my chest, instantly wary of what he expects in the form of retribution.

He waves his hand, seeming to understand what I assume he’s suggesting. “I’m sure you give a fine fuck, but even if you have a golden cunt, it’s not going to translate to cash unless you wipe your eyes, pull yourself together, and go out there and shoot this scene. Give me a dynamite performance, and I’ll forget that we had a rocky start.”

He turns to leave as though the conversation is over, as though the matter is settled.

I’m flabbergasted. “Like hell I’m shooting anything with you. I don’t care what I cost you. I’m out of here.”  

Though I’d prefer to dress without him in the room, that want is a far second to the need to leave. I pull my cut-off shorts on then turn away from him to shed my robe and put on my T-shirt, foregoing a bra in favor of speedy dressing.

For the first time since he’s come into the room, LaRue’s voice sharpens. “You walk out of here without doing that scene, and you’ve just kissed your career goodbye.”

I slip my feet into my flip-flops and gather up my Ralph’s bag. “Well, let’s just see what happens when I tell people what happened today.”

“Tell who what? Who’s even going to care what you have to say? Naïve, Devi.” His words hit my backside as I rush out of the room. “Your agent will be hearing from me,” he shouts after me.

I manage to make it out of the house and to my car without anyone stopping or bothering me, but I’m on the road before I finally take a real breath. And then I burst into tears. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want or what to think, so I drive aimlessly as the sun sinks lower in the sky, trying to gather my thoughts together.  I’ve spent three years in the erotica industry and have never felt so violated. I’ve heard stories from other performers, stories of abuse and harassment, and yet it always felt so far away from me. And it was far away from me—because I’d carefully chosen my projects and producers, because I’d made sure that the jobs I’d taken had been vetted by people I trust.

Until now.

And why? Why did I take this job without investigating it further?

Logan.

Because I wanted to prove to myself that my emotions for Logan wouldn’t affect my work. Instead, I’ve proven just the opposite. I’ve proven that what he makes me feel is frightening enough to cause me to ignore my usual thorough standards. I’ve proven that these feelings are the strong kind, probably strong enough to be given a label. Strong enough to call them love.

I’m still too dazed from everything that’s just happened to fully feel the impact of this realization, but I want to feel it. I want to feel something that isn’t this dirty, terrible, violated feeling.

So I say the words out loud, seeing if it makes a difference. “I love Logan. I’m in love with Logan.”

The acknowledgment helps. I’m still cold and numb, but there’s a light now, something hopeful, like the first star in a night sky. Like something I can cling to in order to keep from drowning in the darkness.

My phone starts singing the ringtone I’ve assigned for my agent, and thank God I’m at a stoplight so I can dig through my purse to find it. “Thank, fuck,” I say, skipping a formal greeting. “The shoot with LaRue? Fucking terrible. It was unsafe, un-female friendly. The director—I still don’t know his fucking name—treated me as an inferior. The dressing room didn’t lock. Bruce Madden walked right in and made himself at home with my body. I swear he would have raped me if LaRue hadn’t walked in.” Talking about it renews my anger. I’m shaking by the time I get through everything. “I just…I’m so upset, Lucy, I can’t even.”

“Take a deep breath,” Lucy says calmly. “Now, are you driving? You’re upset. Should you pull over?”

“Probably. But I need to keep driving.” I’m not sure where I am. There are places I could park—a gas station, a McDonald’s parking lot—but the thought of stopping makes me panic, as though Bruce might be driving right behind me, just waiting for me to let my guard down.

Lucy doesn’t try to argue. “Understood. Be careful, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, first. Are you hurt?”

I shake my head before realizing she can’t see me. “No. I’m just worked up.”

“Would you rather I call you back?”

“Don’t hang up!” I didn’t realize how desperate I was to talk to someone until now. “I just. I might not be very coherent. But I want to talk. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Do you want to tell me what happened with Bruce?”

“He harassed me. He scared me.” I tell her the whole thing in as much detail as I can muster. I hear myself as I’m talking, and I know I sound melodramatic. I begin to doubt myself again.

But Lucy is supportive and reassuring, treating my every emotion as valid and legitimate.

“And Bruce is the reason you quit the scene?” she asks eventually.

“No—wait. How do you know—?” I try to remember if I mentioned quitting but can’t recall.

“I just got off the phone with LaRue,” she explains.

Of course he called her immediately. I probably wasn’t even out of the house before he’d dialed her number. “Whatever he said to you is full of shit. That situation was one hundred percent not appropriate.”

“I understand, and I’m sorry.” There’s a beat before she goes on. “But you left me a phone message before you even got to the set, didn’t you? Saying you couldn’t do the scene?”

“Oh, great. You think I’m being ridiculous too.”

“I didn’t say that, Devi. I’m trying to get a clear picture of the situation so that I can get you out of this the best I can.”

“Get me out of what? I’m not the one who did anything that needs getting out of. Is LaRue trying to sue or…?” I trail off, overwhelmed by the prospect of a legal battle.

“Yes, he wants to be reimbursed for money lost.” Well, fuck. There goes my apartment. “But I’m pretty sure I can get him to drop that, Devi. I’m more concerned about what he’s going to do to your reputation going forward.”

“He can shit on my rep all he wants. I’m not doing het porn. I thought I was cut out for it, but I was wrong.” I know it’s not fair to assume all those sets are alike, but I’m not about to take the chance of repeating this afternoon’s experience.

And there’s the other reason I won’t consider doing het porn again anytime soon. The reason that has nothing to do with Bruce or LaRue and that has everything to do with Logan.

Lucy is silent for a second. “It’s not just male/female scenes I’m concerned about. Hagen has a lot of pull in the industry. I’m afraid you’re going to see fallout in your regular jobs as well.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I bite the inside of my cheek and fight the new set of tears that are threatening to fall. “Do you think I did the wrong thing by walking off the set?”

“No.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “But there are rules in this industry. Rules I don’t agree with, but they’re there all the same. They’re unethical and illegal even, but very few people take sex workers seriously. If you’re not making any formal allegations then we have a better shot at coming out of this, but it’s going to be hard to not point fingers at something if we’re trying to get out of your contractual obligation to LaRue Hagen’s company.”

I bite my cheek harder, taking in what she’s said. Nothing here is a revelation. I know what kind of world I’m part of. I’m not that ignorant.

“I really fucked up, didn’t I?” And I don’t mean by walking off the job but by pushing to take it in the first place. By staying in this business instead of figuring out what I really want to do with my life. Because is this really what I want to be doing in five years? In ten? Is porn my passion? Is all of this bullshit worth it?

And wasn’t it just this morning at my shoot with Lynne that I thought I could do this forever?

Well, maybe I could have if I hadn’t fucked it up.

“Hey. Don’t blame yourself for this. We should be able to salvage your career, though it might be a good idea to focus on just print work for a while.”

“Whatever you think is best.” I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure about anything anymore.

“Out of curiosity—was there a reason in particular that you were wary before you arrived on set?”

There’s a part of me that wants to tell her about Logan, about how I’ve fallen head over heels for him, about how I kind of only want to have sex with him now.

But if I thought I sounded naïve complaining about Bruce, I can only imagine how naïve it will sound to declare that I’m in love with a porn star.

So I say, “I just had a bad feeling. That’s all.”

If Lucy senses I’m withholding something, she doesn’t let on. “Sounds like you’ve got good instincts. But it’s probably best we not mention that you had any issues before you walked in. It weakens the argument for the inappropriate work environment. Let’s meet next week, and we can prepare a formal record of complaint as rebuttal against LaRue’s accusation of breach of contract.”

“Okay. But, Lucy? If Hagen tries to make bargains—like, even if he hires a new crew or changes the rules for the set behavior—I don’t want to do a reshoot.”

“I understand.” And though I can tell she truly does, I can also tell that this would be so much easier if I would just agree to do another shoot. Thankfully, she doesn’t say that. “Don’t think about this too much tonight, Dev. Be proud for sticking up for yourself. That took guts. A lot of women wouldn’t have been able to do that.”

I tell her I’ll try to focus on the positive and agree to call her in a day or two.  We hang up, and I’m back to where I was before she called—lost and drifting. I need a shower. But I don’t want to go home—I need to not be alone. I need to be somewhere I feel safe and supported.

I’m not sure when or if I actually decide where I’m going, but at some point my driving turns from aimless to purposeful, and before long I’m pulling into his driveway and using the key under the succulent plant to let myself into his house.

Logan’s stretched out on his front room couch. He’s wearing nothing but jeans; his bare feet are crossed at the ankles in front of him as he edits some footage on his laptop.

He sits up, surprised, when I walk in the room, but then I think he must get a good look at me, and his features quickly wrinkle into concern. Instantly, he’s on his feet. “What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering him, I fall into his open arms and let out a raspy, “I need you.” Because, the truth is, now that I’m wrapped in the cocoon of his warmth and his scent and his touch and his him-ness, the answer to his question is, “nothing.”