Chapter 11
Lana
The next night, I stood in front of his filming room at eight twenty-five, with my notebook pressed against my chest, and my heart hammering like I was about to take a test I hadn’t studied for.
The door was closed, and for some reason, I didn’t dare to reach for the handle and open it.
I had been standing there for at least two minutes, pretending to reread the notes I’d written earlier, but all I was really doing was trying to calm down.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see once I went inside.
I’d seen movie sets before. I’d done interviews and documentaries for class.
But this was different. I wasn’t about to walk into a regular production.
My palms were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans, then clicked my pen exactly ten times for no reason other than to keep myself occupied.
The notebook was already open to a clean page, with my notes and questions on the previous side.
I’d told myself all week that this was just another assignment.
Just an essay. But the longer I stood there, the more that lie started to sound ridiculous.
This was so much more than a simple essay.
The sound of a door creaking somewhere behind me made me jump. A man’s voice followed, casual and amused. “You plan on going in, or are you just gonna stand there all night?”
I turned around and saw Rocco walking toward me.
He had that look people get when they’ve been working too long but don’t care enough to slow down.
Just like Callan, Rocco was a workaholic.
I knew because every time he was here, he would run around, give orders, and get annoyed when someone didn’t listen.
He held a cup with some hot beverage in one hand and smirked when I didn’t answer right away.
“I, uh…I’m waiting for Callan,” I said quickly, trying to sound casual but hearing how unconvincing I was.
He nodded like he already knew. “He’s in there setting up. He told me you’d be stopping by.” He took a sip from his cup, studying me over the rim. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” he said, not buying it for a second. “You’ve been staring at that door for three minutes. That’s a record. Usually, the new girls go straight in.”
“I’m not a new girl.”
That only made his smirk widen. “No, you most certainly are not. Brave of you to write an essay about porn. Your professor must really love you.”
I shifted the notebook in my hands. “I’m not writing about porn. I’m writing about the adult film industry.”
He laughed. “You make my job sound fucking boring, darling.”
“It’s just a nicer way to put it,” I replied, standing a little straighter now. “I’ll be writing about the set part of it all. Not the actual…fucking.”
“Right,” he said slowly, dragging out the word. “Then why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He tilted his head toward the door. “You think there’s something scary in there?”
“No,” I said, then hesitated. “I just…don’t want to interrupt anything.”
Rocco laughed quietly. “You think they’re in the middle of shooting right now? It’s prep time, sweetheart. We’re just checking the lighting and sound. No one’s naked yet.”
I felt my face heat. “That’s not what I meant.”
He shrugged. “You sure? Because it kind of sounded like that’s what you meant.”
“I just don’t know what the rules are,” I said, annoyed with myself for even answering.
“The rule is pretty simple,” he said, stepping closer. “You knock, you walk in, and you keep out of the way and take your little notes. That’s it.”
I looked past him at the door again. I could hear Callan talk now.
Rocco followed my gaze. “He’s not gonna bite, you know. He might glare a little, but that’s just his face.”
“I know.”
“Of course, you know. You’re his stepdaughter.”
“Ex-stepdaughter,” I corrected.
“Does it matter?” He grinned, amused.
“Yes, it does matter.”
“Wouldn’t matter to me. I’d proudly call you my stepdaughter even after getting a divorce. You’d actually make for great content. You know, ‘stepdaddy fucks his redhead stepdaughter.’”
Gross.
“Please don’t say stuff like that.”
He laughed again. “You look like you’re about to throw up,” he said, chuckling. “Relax. He’s just a guy with cameras and a sex addiction.”
I rolled my eyes at his last comment, knowing he was only joking about the sex addiction thing. Callan wasn’t addicted to sex. He just liked it. A lot. Maybe even more than the average man. I gripped the notebook tighter. “You’ve known him a long time, right?”
“Too long.” Rocco grinned. “Since before he was the big moral philosopher of porn.”
That earned a small laugh out of me, which seemed to please him.
“There you go,” he said. “See? You can breathe. You’re not gonna die. He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. And if you start hyperventilating, I’ll be right here to drag you out. Believe it or not, I’m a pretty decent guy.”
That made me want to laugh again, but I didn’t. “Thanks.”
He grinned wider. “So what’s your angle, pretty girl? You planning on writing about the corruption of the industry, or are you gonna praise us for our deep artistic merit?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said honestly. “All I know is that I truly want to keep it about the filmmaking. Not the actual act.”
“Fair.” He nodded toward the door. “Well, good luck in there. Try not to faint. He hates it when people faint.” Now he was just mocking me.
“I’m not going to faint,” I said again, then I frowned. “Why would anyone faint—oh…”
His grin widened. “Yeah. Happened a couple of times. Apparently, your stepdaddy can get any woman to orgasm so hard they lose their consciousness.”
That was a detail I didn’t necessarily need. I grimaced. “I’m not here for that,” I reminded him.
“I know, I know. Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
I took a deep breath and turned around to face the door, and Rocco followed me when I pushed inside.
“Showtime,” he said lightly. “Or, you know, pre-showtime.”
The lights were already on, and Callan stood near one of the cameras, head tilted while checking the angle. It wasn’t the only camera in the room. There were two more on either side of the room, and another one on the bed, which I figured was going to be used by a cameraman.
I stepped a little closer but didn’t dare to walk past the lights. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he said, eyes still on the camera. “You’re early. The girls aren’t here yet.”
“You said eight-thirty.”
He gave me a look that said, Yeah, so?
Rocco walked past me, setting his coffee on a side table. “She’s been standing outside for five minutes,” he said, smirking. “Almost fainted, I think.”
I glared at him. “I didn’t almost faint.”
“You looked like you were prepping for surgery. All focused and shit.”
“Enough,” Callan said roughly, not looking up.
His tone wasn’t angry, just slightly tense.
Rocco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Then he looked at me again.
“I’m still setting up. I’m sure that’s something you’ll want to write about since your essay’s going to be about production rather than the movie itself. ”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
I let my eyes wander around the room. A simple bed sat at the center of the space, with the head against the large floor-to-ceiling window, and with light gray bedding.
The walls were painted a neutral off-white, and black curtains were pulled to the far left.
There was no smell of perfume or anything overtly sexual like I had imagined.
The room smelled faintly of detergent, which was pleasant.
Callan finished whatever adjustment he was making and finally turned toward me. “You can sit over there,” he said, pointing to a folding chair near one of the monitors. “Stay behind the yellow tape on the floor. Don’t move around once we start.”
I nodded and moved toward the chair, then sat down and set my notebook on my lap.
My palms were already damp, so I wiped them on my jeans before clicking my pen four times.
The yellow tape on the floor marked a clear division between the set and the rest of the room.
It felt strange to be separated like that, but then I reminded myself that I would rather be an observer than a participant. At least in this situation.
Rocco came to stand beside me. He leaned down slightly. “You still look like you’re scared,” he said, unable to stop mocking me.
“I’m not scared,” I shot back, which sounded like a lie even to me.
“Sure,” he said, grinning. “Your heart’s practically visible through your shirt.”
“Rocco,” Callan said again, sharper this time. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t need distractions. She needs to focus.”
I didn’t expect that from Callan at all, but I was glad he said something. Because I sure wouldn’t have.
Rocco straightened, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave.” Then to me, he added, “You’re fine, kid. Just take your notes and stay out of the splash zone.”
I blinked. “The what?”
“Jesus Christ,” Callan hissed, shooting him a look.
Rocco chuckled under his breath and went to check something by the soundboard. I tried to focus on the questions I wrote down this morning instead.
Callan moved to another camera, adjusting its lens, and muttering to himself. He was calm and focused, and it looked like this was his routine. Every time he bent to check an angle or adjust a light, I found myself watching him more intently.
When the silence became a bit too insufferable, I decided it was time for some research. I cleared my throat and asked, “Do you always do all this yourself?”
He didn’t look up. “Mostly.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like mistakes.”
That made me sit up straighter. “Does that mean you don’t trust the people who work for you?”
His head turned immediately, and the look on his face told me that he didn’t like how I interpreted his reply. His jaw tightened. “No, that’s not what it means.”