Hot Cop Boxed Set

by Paige, Laurelin

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say in a mock-submissive voice, and she rolls her eyes, but a suppressed smile tugs at her lips as she walks past me. I drain the last of my scotch, set the glass down on a nearby table, and follow.

  We go down an open flight of steps, all roughly welded metal and dark wood planks, and then we’re in the heart of Vida’s filming operations. As we walk down a darkened hallway to her office, I see rooms filled with St. Andrew’s crosses, rooms furnished like high-school classrooms, rooms filled with nothing more than bare white walls and beds. And not all of these rooms are vacant; as we pass the last one on the right, I see that a small group of people have availed themselves of one of the beds. They’re all skin and mouths and sloshing drinks, and without thinking, I reach for the doorknob and tug their door slowly shut before I walk into Vida’s office. When I first got into this business, I would have been right there with them, but maybe it was the threesome I had this morning or the fact that I actually wanted to hear what Vida had to say, but the whole scenario failed to interest me.

  Now, if Devi had been in there…

  I drop into a chair by Vida’s desk, crossing my long legs as she sits. She appraises me, and I find myself shifting a little. Her gaze is too perceptive...too kind. There’s understanding in her faded blue eyes, and I remember that she’s been divorced twice, that she’s been in this business for twenty-five years. I remember that Vida’s studio was one of those involved in the Great Logan-Raven Break-Up.

  “It’s okay to need time,” she says, glancing past me to the door I just shut in the hallway. “We’ve all been there.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, maybe a little too convincingly, because she shrugs like she’s ready to move on, and then a tiny, silly part of me wishes that she would keep asking me about it. I’ve kept this heartbreak under wraps for so long, held it inside me, and suddenly I wonder if it would hurt less if I simply talked about it. Instead, I’ve trapped the pain inside me, a hungry wolf that’s long since devoured my heart and is now gnawing on my ribs, snarling and howling in the empty space where my heart used to be.

  But the moment is gone, and Vida is all business once again. “Sinfully Vida has weathered the last year as best as can be expected,” she says, referring to her production company. “But we took a hit with the rape stuff. I won’t lie. It was a pretty big hit, and it left a huge gap in our content.”

  The rape stuff. It hit everyone pretty hard here on the west coast, the accusations that one of porn’s biggest stars was a rapist, and then of course, the follow-up allegations that porn had fostered a rape-friendly culture. Studios had hurriedly re-drafted performer agreements, pulled down content featuring the accused, and splashed disclaimers all over their websites. Even I was affected, receiving fucktons of hate mail from people all over the world, even though I barely knew the guy who’d been accused, and I made consent a huge part of my work.

  It sucked. It still sucks.

  “Sinfully Vida had more content with him than any other studio,” Vida says, and there’s a note of betrayal in her voice. “And so we not only have a content gap, we have some image rehabilitation to do.”

  “Thus the Lelie purchase,” I fill in for her.

  She nods, tapping her fake nails on her desk. “Yes. Buying them is good for business. We need more ‘feminist’ porn, and we need it yesterday.” She says feminist with air-quotes, as if it’s some ridiculous, imaginary concept, and if Tanner were here, he’d lose his social justice warrior shit. I bite back a smile as I imagine it, and Vida mistakes my expression. “So you’re onboard?”

  Uh, what?

  “Pardon?” I ask politely.

  “Logan, you are the obvious frontrunner to fill...his...shoes for Sinfully Vida.” I notice how she doesn’t say the other guy’s name, like he’s Voldemort or Rumpelstiltskin or something. “You’re hot, you’re insanely popular, and you’ve got the whole pro-women thing going on.”

  “So you want me to film a scene for Lelie?”

  She leans forward. “More than a scene. I want you. We can partner with O’Toole Films of course, find a mutually profitable agreement, but I want you long-term. And I want it to be something big, something no one else is doing right now, something that engages a lot of the subscribing viewers we lost last year.”

  I like big and new and different, I like engaging, but I don’t know about long-term. The last long-term thing I did ended with me crying naked in the shower while my ex-girlfriend fucked an Italian half a world away.

  On the other hand, didn’t I just promise myself this morning that I won’t let Raven dictate any more of my life? That it’s time for Logan O’Toole to start kicking asses and taking names?

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask.

  Vida sighs, turning her chair to stare out of the office window. Outside, the sky glows purple above the city, and lights sprawl for miles and miles. I suddenly feel lonely again, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why—whether it’s the city so massive and crowded and self-absorbed, or the sight of Vida Gines, Her Royal Majesty of Porn, looking so lonely herself.

  Is this going to be me in fifteen years? Alone? With only my business for company?

  “I’m not sure,” she admits, and I can tell the admission pains her. “Porn is changing. And I’m used to adapting to how people watch it, how they pay, and how they steal, but adapting to these bigger things…”

  She drifts off, her eyes pinned to the cityscape outside.

  “We need something new,” she finally says, and she turns back to me. “Something fresh. I don’t know what that it is, and that’s why I need you. You’re young, you’re sexy, and most importantly, both men and women connect to your scenes. They don’t just skip to the fucking and jerk off, they watch the whole thing, and then they come back and watch it again. They have favorites. Your subscription rates are through the roof and you’re a social media darling. Logan, Lelie needs you if it’s going to become more than art-house porn. I need you.”

  I think for a minute. Lelie has vision. Partnering with them would put me closer to my goal of creating unique and artistically driven films. And it sounds like Vida is basically giving me carte blanche to do whatever I want, so long as it bolsters Sinfully Vida’s female-friendly reputation and ultimately makes money. There’s no reason to say no, except…

  “Vida, I’d love to work with Lelie.”

  She smiles.

  “But I have no idea what to do.”

  She waves a hand, those nails like streaks of pink light through the air. “You don’t need to know now. Just promise me you’ll think about it. And when you’re ready,” she reaches for her smartphone and taps at the screen a few times, “contact Marieke de Vries. She’s the head of Lelie, and she will get you whatever you need.”

  My phone lights up with Vida’s text.

  “Thanks, Vida.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she says. “Now get upstairs and drink my liquor.”

  * * *

  In that way that certain parties will, the mood has shifted and only half of the people here know it. When I make it upstairs, the unknowing half still laughs and drinks and dances, but the crowd in the common area of the house has noticeably thinned. I see the cluster of people in the upstairs hallway—crowding around the orgy that’s undoubtedly happening in one of Vida’s many bedrooms—I take in the unmistakable smell of pot and sex, and I know it’s time for me to go home.

  And that’s okay, because all I want to do is think about Vida’s offer. I’m excited about it, I’m nervous about it, I’m obsessed with it already, and so there’s no room for an impersonal and drug-fueled orgy in my mind.

  But then I hear her voice.

  Not Vida’s voice. Not Devi’s voice.

  Hers. My own personal Voldemort.

  You know when you have a bruise and you can’t stop pressing on it? Or a cut on your lip that you lick over and over again, even though you know it simply makes it worse? It’s this impulse, this sick fascination,
like you want to feel the ache, you want to hurt yourself, you want to be both the recipient and the giver of the pain all at the same time. And that is the only explanation I can find right now for why I’m walking toward the hallway, pushing through the crowd and standing in the doorway of one of Vida’s bedrooms.

  I’m not shocked at what I see in front of me. I’ve seen it hundreds, maybe thousands of times, both on set and off. There are five people on the bed and scattered couples around the room, all in various stages of fucking. Dicks, cunts, mouths. Legs spread, sweat glistening. Tonight there are more tattoos and piercings than normal, hair in blue or bright red victory rolls rather than sleek highlights, but it’s all still the same.

  But I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at the pale, dark-haired woman in the middle of the bed, who’s riding one man while another fucks her in the ass, no condoms in sight. Her head is thrown back, her eyes are closed and she’s moaning and panting as her stomach tenses up with her impending climax.

  Raven always did like double penetration.

  I don’t need to see this. If I wanted to see my ex-girlfriend get fucked by another man—or two—all I have to do is crack open my laptop. I don’t have to witness it like this, in this dark, smoke-wreathed room with Lana Del Rey droning in the background.

  But I can’t seem to make myself move. My traitorous dick jolts as she cries out and comes hard, her smooth thighs tensing and fingernails digging into the shoulders of the guy she’s riding. God, she’s a wonder to watch fucking, all those lithe muscles and that pale skin. Was it only three months ago that it was my cock inside her pussy? Only three months ago that I was the one to pull on that hair, kiss that neck, fight her for the blankets at night? Only three months since she broke my fucking heart?

  She comes down from her orgasm with a breathy moan, looking coyly over her shoulder at the guy fucking her from behind, giving him the fluttering eyelashes and curled smile that I recognize all too well. It’s her scene-smile, her I’m-going-to-make-you-feel-like-a-big-strong-man smile, and it’s definitely not an expression she ever bothers to trot out when she’s having real, off-screen sex.

  She’s performing, I realize. She’s performing even though there are no cameras here, even though most of the people in the room are preoccupied with drugs or their own fucking. It hits me the minute those dark eyes flutter up to meet mine, and that curling smile grows bigger.

  She’s performing for me.

  Shit.

  I stumble backwards, the weight of her dark eyes so much heavier than anything else—than the two guys screwing her or her nakedness or her smile—it’s those eyes. Weighted with...what? Revenge? Contrition? Scornfulness?

  And then I recognize it.

  Satisfaction. She wanted me to see this and now I have, and she’s pleased about that for whatever twisted reason.

  I’m pushing into people now, spilling their drinks and breaking apart kisses, but I don’t care. Those eyes sear into my flesh, peeling away the shell I’ve maintained for the last three months and revealing the empty, shredded mess inside, and I can’t stand it. I tear my eyes away, even though the image of her is burned into my retinas, and press against the crowd, needing to make it out of here, needing to leave, needing to find a drink.

  Needing to forget.

  Four

  I can still feel Raven’s stare on me as I finally break through the crowd at the door and emerge into the hallway, my pulse pounding as if I’d just witnessed a grisly murder. As if I’d just came face to face with my own personal super-villain.

  I walk numbly down the hallway, my mind racing. She must have known I’d be here tonight. And she wanted me to see her there, fucking in the raw, and I played right into her hands.

  I grab an open bottle of scotch without even really looking at it, moving through the living room without even seeing it, and going straight outside, un-stoppering my bottle as I do.

  Though the pool is off the main floor, Vida’s mansion is built on a steep slope, meaning that the pool terrace can extend into a ledge overlooking the city. I walk across the wide, white terrace with its sparkling water and curtained cabana—all of it currently devoid of party guests—and make my way to the chest-high wall rimming the edge of the balcony. I take a swig from the bottle as I survey the city—my city—and then wince.

  “Fuck,” I wheeze. It’s Laphroaig.

  I fucking hate Laphroaig.

  I take another drink, a longer one this time. I don’t deserve a scotch I like to drink right now—or maybe it’s not that I don’t deserve it, but it’s more like I can’t imagine any part of this night being pleasant or enjoyable. Not with my ex-girlfriend fucking just yards away from me right now.

  No, I want my drink to taste like shit. I want my mouth to taste like old ashtrays, and I want to get dizzily, pukingly, disgustingly drunk. Because if I’m drunk, then I don’t have to process Raven and her fucking mind games. I won’t be tempted to scroll through her Instagram to find out when she got back to L.A., if she’s still with Italian Guy, and I certainly won’t be tempted to text her.

  I pull out my phone, taking another long drink of the smoky liquor and open up my messages. I deleted her number long ago, but I still have it memorized, and maybe I could just send her one text. Just one. I could call her a bitch and tell her to go to hell. Tell her I knew exactly what she was up to.

  Or I could beg her to come over to my house and just fucking talk to me. We haven’t exchanged a word since the day she left, and all I’ve wanted these past three months is an explanation or an apology maybe, or even some fucking closure.

  I tap in her number and open up a new message. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, the first golden glow of the scotch beginning to dull my anger. Maybe I would invite her to talk—that’s what grown-ups did, right? Talk? And if it led to me fucking all the lies and deceit right out of her skinny body...

  Jesus. I’m like the werewolf who needs to be chained to a radiator during the full moon. Of course, I can’t text her. Eliciting that kind of reaction is probably exactly what she wants, and fuck me if I’m going to do anything that she wants me to do.

  I spin around and throw my phone as hard as I can into the pool.

  It lands with a small splash, sinking like a brushed-aluminum stone straight to the bottom. My momentary satisfaction is eclipsed by immense regret, because I just got that phone a few weeks ago. Fuck it, I can get a new one tomorrow. If that’s the price I have to pay to keep myself separate from Raven, then so be it.

  I take a few healthy chugs of the Laphroaig.

  “I hope you’ve got a good warranty,” a cheerful voice says from next to me. Even over the smoky scent of the whisky, I smell her. Cinnamon and sunshine.

  I inelegantly swallow the scotch still in my mouth, turning to face the person next to me. “Devi.”

  She flashes me her sunny grin, and then returns the greeting by playfully bumping her shoulder against my arm. Heat flares across my bicep, emanating from the place where our bare skin touched, and the heat slowly migrates towards my chest, independent of the blood now pumping to my groin.

  I am suddenly very aware of the fact that Devi and I have never been alone. Strange, given that we’ve given each other orgasms, but Raven’s Real Playdates was the only time we’ve worked together, and there are so many people on a porn set that it’s impossible to feel any sense of alone-ness, even when you’re staring someone in the eyes while they suck you off. And even though we’ve seen each other at parties and events since then, we’ve only ever said hi or how are you or where’s the bar? Not exactly the basis for a deep understanding of one another.

  So I should probably explain to her why I just chucked a brand new phone into the water, and also maybe not reveal the fact that I have a massive crush on her.

  I try to muster the casual, flirty guy I was earlier tonight. “Devi, I…”

  I jack off to you almost every day.

  “…I, uh, didn’t know anyone else was out here. Or I
wouldn’t have, you know.” I mime throwing the phone.

  She laughs and then bends down to unfasten her leather heel. “If it’s in a good case, it might still be okay,” she says. I watch, transfixed, as she kicks off both shoes, shimmies out of her shorts, and then walks to the edge of the pool. She’s wearing what legally might qualify as underwear, but only just barely.

  Have I mentioned Devi Dare’s ass? Because I should. She has one of the best asses known to mankind. Plump and thick and juicy, the kind of ass that invites biting and squeezing, and the way it slopes out from her small waist is pure poetry. And those legs—despite the obvious muscles in her calves and thighs, they still move as she walks, like her ass does, and there’s something so healthy about it, so tantalizing about her body with its wide hips and slightly soft stomach and full breasts. She’s sexy in such a visceral, biological way, the kind of way that says you want to make babies with me. My cock lengthens as I watch her, tens of thousands of years of evolution telling me to haul her off and impregnate her.

  She turns, hands on her hips. “Are you going to join me?”

  “I was just enjoying the view,” I say, and it comes out a little too raspy, a little too honest, but then I follow it up with a weak grin, and then she laughs and jumps into the pool. With a final gulp of whisky, I put the cork in the bottle and then fling myself in after her, clothes, shoes and all.

  The water is cool and it’s the best kind of contrast to the dry heat of the night and the warmth of the scotch in my stomach, and to the new kind of warmth that’s agitating in my chest, something frictive and thrilling pressing up against my anger and my broken heart. Something that started the moment Devi brushed against my arm.

  I jumped into the deep end, so it’s a few beats before my feet press flat against the bottom and I can push myself back up. I break the surface, sputtering, and awkwardly try to swim over to Devi with one hand still clenched around my scotch bottle. She treads water as steadily and gracefully as a water nymph, her long hair floating around her shoulders and her gold top drifting away from her skin, giving me just the barest glimpse of one nipple, dark rose and peaked into a tight furl. Water droplets cling to the thick fringe of her eyelashes.