Hot Cop Boxed Set

by Paige, Laurelin

  “Ew. Jealousy. ‘Keep yourselves far from envy; because it eats up and takes away good actions, like a fire eats up and burns wood.’” With that, my father turns back to his game.

  Frustrated, I dig my nails into my palm. “At least the quote came from Muhammad this time,” I mutter.

  Baba tilts his head and studies me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just its nice to know there are inspirational people who aren’t Buddha.” I’m being unfair. My parents find inspiration in pretty much everything. They’ve never identified with one religion over another. They love parts of so many faiths and philosophies—Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, agnostic. They’re socialists and communists and democrats, and every hippie idea in between. Basically they live by a hodgepodge of good ideas. And I freaking love that about them. I love that they raised me to be like that too.

  But today I can’t seem to see through the same rose-colored glasses they look through, like someone smudged a handful of mud all over the lenses—Raven maybe, or Bruce Madden. Because every inspirational notion they have seems trite and impossible to embrace.

  “Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.” This time I’m the one to quote Buddha, and I do it in my head then follow it up with a few deep breaths.

  It doesn’t help.

  I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I thought it would help to talk about everything, but I think I just need some time alone.”

  My mother offers a warm smile. “It will blow over, Boombalee. Meanwhile, alone time is good. Relax and take your mind off of all this bad energy. Do some tai chi and a yoni steam. Just you wait—the universe will give you the answers.”

  I know her heart is in the right place, but my heart is all over. I’ve reached my limit. I snap. “Goddammit, Mâmân. No. I don’t want to do a yoni steam or tai chi, or have a Reiki session or a Tarot reading. I don’t want advice from Buddha or Susan B. Anthony or William Faulkner or the universe. I want advice from you!”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes and count to ten quietly in Farci in an attempt to calm myself down. Yek, do, se, char, panj…

  My outburst is followed by silence, and when I force myself to glance over at my parents, the expressions on both their faces reflect shock and alarm. Possibly a little hurt, too. That thought breaks me. The last thing I want is to make them feel bad. I love them fiercely, and I’ve just attacked everything that they are, simply because my immature ass can’t handle my shit.

  I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, wishing I could disappear into the den’s lime green shag carpet. Once down there, I decide I might as well go full meltdown. I shift and stretch out fully on the floor. With my arm draped over my eyes, I bite my cheek to keep from crying full out, but I can’t prevent tears from spilling down my cheeks. In just a few minutes, I’m lost to my own misery, so it takes me longer than usual to notice the shift in energy around me.

  Lifting my arm slightly, I peek out and find both my mother and my father standing over me. The pain I’d thought I’d seen in their eyes a moment before is still there, but now that they’re closer, I can see that they aren’t hurt because of me—they’re hurt for me.

  Whatever resolve I had disappears, and a sob slips out from between my lips.

  Mâmân squats down next to me, and like an injured child who desperately needs the embrace of her mother, I sit up and fall into her arms.

  “I’ve been The Fool,” I say, like I’m confessing. It’s a reference to the first card of the Tarot deck. Or the last card, depending on how you look at it, since every journey ends back where it began. The Fool is exactly like he sounds—foolish. He’s the madman, the jester, the beggar. The majnun. “I’ve been stumbling around, carefree, taking risks without worrying about the consequences. And I don’t know if I’m at the beginning or the end of this particular journey. I just feel lost, without a guide, and I don’t know how long my faith is going to hold out.”

  Sometimes, with Logan, I’d convinced myself that I was being an adult, that we had a grown-up relationship. And with the naiveté of a kid, I’d let myself fall blindly in love.

  And it had been wonderful.

  But now it isn’t anymore. Now I am tangled up and twisted inside. Now I am lost in the dark, afraid to take a step for fear of walking off a mountainside.

  “I don’t know what to do.” My words are muffled in the fabric of my mother’s muumuu, but somehow I know she gets the gist. “Tell me what to do.”

  Mâmân rocks me gently, her hand stroking my hair. “Oh, sweetie. I know it hurts, and I wish I could tell you what—”

  I know where this speech goes. I wish I could tell you what to do but I can’t because blah blah blah, personal life journey, growth. All that crap.

  But before she can finish, my father, who is still looming above us, cuts her off. “You want our advice, Devi? Let me give you some advice.” He’s firm and there’s enough impatience in his tone to cause my mother to still her sway.

  I hold my breath and clutch onto her dress. He has my full attention even though I’m too scared to look at him directly.

  “Go back to school. You’re a learner. You have a thinker’s mind. Go to school.”

  “But—” I start to deliver all my usual protests—what will I study? What if I don’t choose the right degree?

  He seems to read my mind. “Just pick a major, Devi. If it’s the wrong one, you’ll change to another. And if that one’s wrong, you’ll change again. What’s the worst that can happen? Higher student loans? Are you really going to let fear keep you from happiness?”

  He says it as though money shouldn’t be a factor in my decision, which is completely unrealistic. Except I can’t really argue with him because, at the same time, do I really want to let my dreams be decided by the current balance of my bank account?

  Bâbâ bends down closer to me, and his tone is softer when he speaks again. “You can’t know if your path is the right one until you completely become The Fool. You have to take that blind step to see if you’re walking on solid ground or if you’re falling off a ledge. That’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to be unsure. You’re supposed to dare, not stand still. You risk. You take chances. You figure out how to live by living.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You mean: ‘You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself’?” I ask, giving Buddha as a thank you for the perfect, perfect words my father’s delivered.

  “Yeah. Something like that.” He taps my nose lightly with his finger before standing again. “And if it’s not school that interests you, that’s fine too. Just…is what you’re doing now what you want to be doing forever?”

  I shake my head.

  He raises a brow. “Is it leading you closer to whatever that is?”

  This time I don’t say or gesture anything because I don’t know the answer.

  “Well, then,” he says, as though everything’s been resolved. Then he slinks back to his backgammon board, and I know it’s not because he’s not interested in what I’m going through. He just recognizes that every fool has to make the journey alone. I’m grateful that he’s pointed out the path he thinks is right for me. I still might not choose it, but it feels like he’s given me a place to start.

  My mother wipes a tear from my cheek with the pad of her thumb. “Look. Everything’s worked itself out.”

  I let out a short laugh. “I wouldn’t quite say that.”

  “Why not? Your father told you to go back to school. So you’ll go back to school.”

  “Mom, do you want me to go back to school?” I know she does. It’s what she hints at in every Tarot reading she does for me, but it felt good hearing my father tell me what he thought and I want to hear advice from her, too.

  “I do.” She’s confident with her answer, but then she adds, “If that’s what you want.”

  I bite back my amusement. It’s the closest she’ll ever get to telling me w
hat to do, so worried that she will stifle who I’m meant to be.

  I love her for that. So much.

  “Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to hear you say that.” But there’s still another subject I’m completely lost on. “And what do I do about Logan?”

  My mother pulls back to look at me, her expression slightly perplexed. “It seems like you’ve already figured that out, haven’t you?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Not in the least.

  She shakes her head, dismissing my response. “You have. When you really want to see it in your conscious mind, you will.”

  I know she’s figured out something that I haven’t yet, either because she’s older and wiser, or just because she’s wiser in general. Or maybe because she’s my mother and she knows me better than I know myself, or because she really is more in tune with the universe than I am. It’s frustrating that she can see an answer that’s still hidden to me, but I don’t press her. Because I trust her when she says I’ll see it when I’m ready.

  Understanding that doesn’t lessen my current anguish.

  I peer up at her, suddenly feeling half my age and very vulnerable. My voice is shaky when I ask, “How can I ever hope to see anything when everything around me is so dark?”

  “Not so dark.” She pulls me tighter into her embrace. “You just have to find your North Star. Let that be what guides you.”

  There’s sharp insight in her words and a comfort in the energy she gives, and though I’m not sure yet what—or who—my North Star is, I’m reminded of the Tarot reading she did for me not too long ago and the star card that showed up in my future—hope.

  And with nothing quite resolved, I cling again to that hope, trusting that the universe will give me the answer soon.

  Nineteen

  “Logan O’Toole, you are a god.”

  My head snaps up. I’ve been sitting on my couch staring at my hands, my thoughts racing, but Bambi Roo has just walked in the living room, smelling like baby wipes and with her bag slung over her shoulder, and I become aware that I’ve been sitting like this for almost half an hour.

  I give her a weak smile. “Hardly.”

  “No, really. That thing you did the third time you made me come, when you had me bent over the table? Oh my God, I’ve never come that hard, I swear.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Bambi says, tossing her long, dark hair behind her shoulder with a grin. “I’m telling my agent to make sure I book a thousand more scenes with you.”

  A couple months ago, this is the kind of thing that would have made me proud, made me a little smug. I like knowing my girls are happy when they leave my set, I like having a reputation as someone who’s amazing to have sex with. But right now, all I feel is a churning dread in my gut, a sick feeling of worry and shame—and if I’m being honest, a little bit of self-righteous anger.

  “You going somewhere?” Bambi asks, gesturing at me. I’m fully clothed, shoes on and a baseball cap pulled down over my hair, and I’ve been that way since our scene ended, leaving Bambi to clean herself up while I frantically tried to call and text Devi. She wouldn’t answer her phone, and there was no way in fuck I could wait for her to call me back. So I got dressed and I’ve been waiting anxiously for everyone to leave my house so I can drive to Devi’s apartment and figure out what the fuck is going on.

  “I’m going to my girlfriend’s,” I say, trying to make it clear that I really want to go now and also trying not to be rude.

  But really, lady. Get the fuck out of my house so I can leave.

  Bambi looks simultaneously disappointed and excited to hear gossip. “You have a girlfriend? Was it the girl who was here today?”

  “Yeah. Her name’s Devi.”

  “She’s really hot,” Bambi says approvingly.

  Something twists inside me. “Yeah. She’s pretty much perfect.”

  “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” Bambi says, and shrugs her bag higher up on her shoulder, walking toward the door. “Oh, and I saw Raven’s tweet while I was getting dressed. Congratulations, dude. People will fall all over themselves for that.”

  Raven’s name and the word congratulations should not ever share the same space, unless someone is congratulating me on escaping our relationship, and I’m immediately wary and on edge. But I also have to get out of here and find Devi, so I decide to shelve this Raven thing for the moment and make sure Bambi leaves.

  “It was great working with you,” I say, and I think it sounds convincing because she flashes me a big smile.

  “I would say the same to you, except you already know how great it was for me.” She winks, and then she waves and walks out the door, blowing me a kiss before she shuts it behind her.

  And I’m on my feet in an instant, swiping my keys off the counter, jogging to my garage door. As I get in my car and back out of my driveway, I dig my phone out, thinking I’d have to dig to find this tweet of Raven’s that Bambi mentioned, but nope. It’s right there in my notifications on my lock screen.

  New project with @number1Toole CUMMING soon. #staytuned #bignews

  “What the fuck?” I mumble, steering with one hand, my eyes flicking between the empty road and my phone. I swipe at the tweet, opening up the app, and then I see not only Raven’s tweet, but the innumerable number of replies, people shitting themselves over Raven’s “announcement.”

  @theRealRaven does this mean you and logan are back together?????

  @theRealRaven omfg i can’t wait to see you two together again, you guys were my favorite couple.

  I can’t wait to see @number1Toole and @theRealRaven fuck again!!!! #bestcouple #truelove

  I already feel sick, but this actually sends my stomach clenching, and for a minute, I have to will myself not to puke all over the Shelby’s steering wheel. What the fuck is Raven doing? There’s definitely no project and there’s definitely no chance in hell that I would even consider a project with her, so why the public announcement?

  And worse, she’s not doing anything to dispel the rumors that we’re back together. At this point, the mere thought of dating Raven again is enough to make me go Hulk Smash on the nearest building.

  I’m dialing Raven’s number without giving it any additional consideration or caution, because fuck caution. I’m pissed as hell, and she’s going to know about it. She picks up the phone after only a couple of rings, as if she expected me to call.

  “Logan.” Her voice is confident, controlled. “How nice to hear from you.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Julie?”

  “You know if you use my real name, I will use yours, and it bothers you much more than it bothers me.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Now explain yourself.”

  Raven/Julie lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I was just trying to gauge interest in a joint project. We talked about doing one when I was over at your house, remember? I figured why not toss it around publicly? See how our fans react?”

  My jaw is clenched so tightly my head hurts. “You talked about doing a scene together. I refused, if you recall.”

  I can practically hear the one-shouldered shrug on the other side of the call. “You were upset and not thinking clearly. I figured once you saw how much traction a joint scene would get, you’d see that it’s a good idea after all. And now that it’s announced, you don’t want to disappoint all your fans, do you?”

  At the last moment, I decide not to take the highway and turn onto Venice Boulevard, driving a little faster and more aggressively than necessary. “You aren’t going to force my hand by doing this. My answer hasn’t changed. It’s still no.”

  “You’ve changed,” she accuses. “You used to put the business first. Now all of a sudden you’re too good for it?”

  “Don’t try that tactic. Even you don’t believe it’s true.”

  “Then it’s that girl, isn’t it?”

  There’s something raw and exposed underneath her bravado, and suddenly my nausea is replaced with something hea
vier, something tired. Is that what all this boils down to? Jealousy over Devi?

  “You’re the one who left me, remember? Why do you care who I’m with?”

  There’s a pause, and I wonder what she’s thinking, what her face looks like. It’s funny to think that she used to be the closest person in the world to me, but now there’s this insurmountable wedge between us, a wedge so large that I have no idea what she’s thinking and feeling right now. And then I remember what she said, that it was my career that was the wedge that drove her away from me, and my stomach knots in fear. I press down harder on the gas pedal, desperate to see Devi as soon as possible.

  “She’s too young for you,” Raven says. “You should have seen her on LaRue’s set, Logan. She looked terrified.”

  “She is none of your business,” I say firmly. “And neither am I. I’m done with this—all of it. I’ll let you deal with explaining to everyone that there’s no project.”

  “Think about what you’re doing,” she chastises. “Throwing away an opportunity for what? A girl?”

  “No.” I stop myself from saying all the angry things that beg to be said, all the threats I want to make if she ever bothers Devi again. Instead I just say, “It’s over between us, Julie. Emotionally and professionally. And I’d appreciate it if you could respect that.”

  And then I hang up, because I’m driving past the airport and getting close to Devi’s apartment, and also because I don’t think I can keep my temper under control if I talk to Raven a second longer. I turn onto Grand Avenue, trying to process everything that’s happened, but unable to focus on anything other than my quest to find Devi.

  My Devi. It makes me ache to think of her feeling lonely or unsure or scared on LaRue’s set, and I wish that I could have been there, by her side. She is so young, so very young, and maybe I haven’t been careful enough of that.