37. Johnny

The following Tuesday morning, Kurt drops me off in front of an office tower in downtown Los Angeles. He gives me a quick kiss and a "You got this" before I get out of the car. I smooth down the lapels of the new suede jacket that he bought me, which I'm wearing with a white western shirt, a bolo tie, tight black jeans, and my old boots. I feel physically comfortable, but my nerves are swarming like bees emerging angry from a hive.

I walk into the lobby to meet Noah and Danny. Today's the day this case is scheduled for mediation. But all I can think is that it's the day I have to face my fucking rapist.

Even if he never actually stuck his dick in me, he's the one who orchestrated the whole thing. It makes me sick. No matter what his legal defenses are, he's a goddamn criminal.

I dunno how much therapy I'm going to need when this lawsuit is over. Because I goddamn know the assault wasn't my fault … yet I still blame myself for letting my guard down. For not making sure that I knew every single thing that was going to happen. For letting myself be tricked. I feel like a damn fool.

My lawyers are waiting for me, and we take the elevator up into the sky. At the top of this big, tall building, I feel removed from the real world.

I need my husband. My dog. I need to get out of here. I need …

"We won't do a joint session," Noah says as we step out of the elevator and into the foyer of the mediation company, or whatever it's called. "You likely won't see Gary at all. We'll be in separate rooms."

I cough. I'm glad. Relieved. I never want to see his evil face again. But at the same time, it seems, I don't know. Like I'm taking a shortcut. Like I should face the one I'm accusing and look him in the eye.

But I doubt that would do any good. He's rotten to the core. Me telling him what I think of him isn't going to change a damn thing. The only way we could ever hurt him is in his pocketbook.

That's if he hasn't hidden his money so it's impossible to get to anyhow.

"I don't wanna talk to him," I say, feeling like a coward.

Noah seems to read the look on my face and gives me a reassuring nod. "That's fine. It's standard for you not to see the other side, because they know it will just drive you farther and farther apart."

That makes me feel sorta better, but this whole thing is shit, because he's never going to admit what he did.

We go into a conference room and wait. And wait. And wait. Eventually the mediator comes in.

"Mr. Pinkerton is offering to settle for $15,000."

I stand up. "Let's go. This is a waste of time."

Noah makes a "sit down" motion. "There's a thing in mediation called the ‘insult-outrage round.' That's where we're insulted they offered so little, and they're outraged we're demanding so much."

"We haven't demanded too much," I grumble. "If this goes to trial, I'll be wanting a lot more. I'm willing to take a discount just to get this over with."

"Suffice it to say," Danny says to the mediator, "the offer is declined."

The mediator takes this in stride. "Do you have a counter?"

We'd discussed this ahead of time, and Danny tells him our counter is $350,000. The mediator nods. "Honestly, that's a reasonable number," he says, "given what I understand about this case." He smiles. "I'll see what I can do."

For the next hour and a half, Noah, Danny, and I stare out the window. Talk with each other. Order lunch.

"Why's it takin' so long?" I ask.

"The mediator could be laying into him. Telling him the weak parts of his case. Trying to get him to see our point of view," Danny says.

"Yeah, I can see that happening … never," I mutter.

"The mediator's probably trying to get him to offer something that isn't an insult. Let him take his time," Noah advises. "From what I know about Gary, it'll take some convincing to get him to offer more than a token amount."

Finally, the mediator returns. After explaining the other side's position and their defenses—namely all the shit I already know, like how I'm a porn star and getting fucked is part of the job, although he doesn't say it that crassly—he gets to the point. "Mr. Pinkerton is offering $69,000."

I stare, my jaw dropping. "Does he think that's funny?"

The mediator purses his lips. "To tell you the truth, I don't think he's taking this case seriously enough, so yes, I think the number is him being … a smart aleck."

Danny looks pissed. "More like a jackass.'' He tells the mediator, "Let us talk with our client," and the mediator leaves.

Noah looks at me. "How are you doing?"

"Not that well. What do you think about that number?" I ask.

"I think it's a lot of money, but it's nowhere near what your case is worth," Noah says. "The mediator's right that our initial request was reasonable. Your case is worth more than $350k. Ask people if they'd take $69,000 to be gang-raped and drugged and lose their livelihood. Given your former earnings, how you haven't had work in months, how you don't have prospects of future work—it's pennies on the dollar. Plus, you've had to go through the drama and expense of a lawsuit. But it's your call, because $69k is still a significant chunk of change. The risk is that you lose at trial or the jury awards you less than that, and then you'd be kicking yourself for not taking the offer."

"Fuck," I say, scrubbing my face. "I don't like this. I don't like having to decide." Because it is a lot of money. I haven't been able to send my mama hardly anything in months, and this would help with that.

But it also seems like I'd be selling myself cheap.

I'm at war with myself. I don't like the idea of being a greedy plaintiff seeking millions, but I was really, really fucking hurt—physically, financially, psychologically—and no amount of money would ever be able to make up for that.

Also, if I settle, no one will know. That's one of the reasons why these settlements exist—to avoid a public trial where everyone is going to parade their dirtiest laundry out in front of the world.

That's what I deserve. For everyone to see what a loser I am.

I'm tempted to settle. To take what they're offering, even though I think it's insulting. To get rid of some debts, move on with my life, pay my lawyers, and have some closure.

But then it'll feel like Gary got off without any serious consequences.

I want fucking consequences.

So I call Kurt.

"Babe, I don't know what to do." I summarize the negotiations. "It's not what I wanted, but it's still a lot of money."

"It is and it isn't," he says. "It's a little bit like my election. Sometimes you have to go in and fight the fight to be able to live with yourself. Even if it means you get a reputation you didn't entirely want or deserve."

"You're right about that. As a porn star, I already had a certain notoriety, but the one who goes to trial over the wrong kind of sex on screen? That's when I become …"

"A legend?" Kurt supplies.

"Or the least smart porn star who ever walked the earth. One with nothin' under his hat but hair. Lord, what if the jury sees me as a body to be used and decides that what I agreed to doesn't matter?"

"Then you need to educate them about boundaries and consent. So much of this stuff is education. Once people become more aware of how there are others who may not necessarily behave like them or think like them, but they're still human beings worthy of respect, the world becomes a much more accepting place."

"Hmm." I think about it, and Kurt stays quiet. Finally, I say, "I think I ain't gonna settle. I didn't go this far down this path to be quiet about what he did. If they'd offered me enough that I felt like I was being compensated for the actual harm he caused—to my career, to my body, to my psyche—that would be different. And I feel like such a tool, because I know $69k is a lot of money. But looking at my career and what I need to help my mama, it's barely enough to get by on, and it's nowhere near what I'd've made over the next however much longer that I worked. I know, as things turned out with you and all, you're glad I'm not filming anymore, but that wasn't my original plan. Porn stars don't get pensions, so I was gonna work as long as I could."

"I support you, babe," Kurt says without hesitation. "You have to do what's right in your heart, and if that's not enough for you to settle, then you need to say no. There are nonfinancial alternatives, I suppose. You could see if they'd do something like a written apology or a video saying that what they did was wrong. But it doesn't sound like this guy wants to admit anything."

"Exactly," I say. "That'd make me feel better, but when we've suggested things like that in the past, they've been nonstarters. I'll bring it up again and see if they go for it. But otherwise, we're walking out."

"That's fine, babe. That's why we have the court system. When someone hurts another, it's one way to get redress."

Sure enough, the apology idea doesn't go anywhere. That means we're going to trial, and all my horrible experiences will be out there in public for the entire world to comment on.

I feel sick thinking about it, but I know I had to make the decision that would help me sleep at night. And I couldn't sleep if I let Gary Pinkerton get away with thinking he can fuck over porn stars—figuratively and literally—for his own gain.

Kurt picks me up in the same spot where he dropped me off and gives me the best hug he can from behind the wheel. "I'm sorry they weren't more reasonable," he says.

The violins wail in my head. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Do you have time to go for a short drive? I want to show you something."

I shrug. "Sure."

He drives me to a part of South LA I've never been to. It isn't the nicest. He pulls over beside a row of old houses with graffiti on the walls and bars on the windows and gets out of the car.

"This is where we lived when I was little," he says. We're standing on a street littered with broken glass. The small houses have overgrown front yards with sunburned grass. The air smells of weed and exhaust.

"But your family's rich."

"Like I told you, my parents got lucky with some investments when I was a kid. But they didn't come from money. They came from … this."

I look around.

"With you growing up on the ranch, I think you might have had it easier than I did," Kurt says. "At least until Amazon took off and my parents were able to cash out some." He takes my hand. "I have a condo with a view and a nice car and everything else because of their investments. When they got lucky, I suppose they could've given all the money away. And they do give to charity—that's always been important to them. But it made their lives—and mine—better to keep some of that bounty and use it for our own comfort."

"You're saying that I ain't accepting help," I say.

"You are and you aren't. I think you're getting better at it. But I also think you have trouble internalizing that it's okay to have some good things for yourself."

"Like you?"

"Like us, together." He squeezes my hand and gives me a sweet smile. "So … does this help you understand that I really think of money as mostly a matter of luck? I mean, sure, people should do something productive with their lives if they can—and you do. But if what you do from here on out is never as lucrative as your old career, that isn't going to make me think you're any less successful. And since I have plenty for both of us, can you maybe stop trying to pay me back for everything? My parents hit it big, and our lives changed. But that doesn't make me any different from you."

I think about his words as hard as I can for a minute, then nod. "Yeah. I can try."

He kisses me. "Good. Then let's get out of here."

When we get home, I fall into Kurt's arms, needing comfort but not wanting to admit it. This lawyer crap is hard, but going through the ups and downs of a lawsuit alone was so many times worse.

Lady sleeps at our feet, as usual, and I'm grateful to have her there. I need all the help I can get.