by Roxie Noir
It could go better. They mostly talk, and I mostly stand there politely, mind elsewhere. I’ve got a growing, gnawing suspicion that Gavin is someone of note, maybe even someone in the band.
Someone Brianna would prefer that I not have been an asshole to.
Thankfully, after five minutes Brianna waves her arms for attention.
“Hey, the show’s gonna start soon so we should all head upstairs!” she says brightly. “We’re in the vee-eye-pee section.”
She pronounces each letter loudly and thoroughly, as if to make sure that we all fully understand that we’re VIPs tonight. I grab my briefcase from where it’s leaning against the wall and join the troupe of sequined blonde girls as we parade out of that room, through the maze backstage, and then up a staircase to the balcony.
Half of it’s roped off, filled with couches and chairs and tables. There’s more champagne in ice buckets up here, and when she sees it, Brianna squeals and claps her hands together.
I try not to think mean thoughts. It’s her birthday, she’s drunk, and we’re friends.
I lean against the balcony railing, hoping I look casual, like I’m a totally cool, hip person who goes to secret rock shows all the time. Even though I can’t actually remember the band’s name right now.
Floor polish? I think. Sparkle... something. Sparklehorse? Mudhoney?
Nope.
A girl leans on the railing next to me. She’s less blonde than the rest, but not by a lot.
“I am so excited,” she says, carefully pushing her hair behind one ear, champagne in her other hand. “Earlier Gavin said my dress was brilliant and I just can’t believe it!”
So he’s definitely not a roadie. My stomach flutters a little.
“That’s great!” I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster.
“Right?!” she says. “I was totally — ooooooh!”
The lights over the audience dim, and a huge cheer goes up from the crowd. I take the opportunity to slip my feet out of my shoes, because right now I don’t care if this floor is covered in a mixture of saliva, old beer, and drugs, I cannot wear them anymore.
Lights go on at the back of the stage. Now I can make out the big drum that says DIRTSHINE in ornate-but-grungy letters.
The name sounds vaguely familiar.
The other girls gather around me, clustering at the railing. For once, I’m glad I’m short so the blondes in heels can see over my head.
The crowd cheers. The girls squeal. Even though I don’t know a thing about the band, my heart starts to beat faster, because there’s something exciting about being with people this amped up — I can’t help but feel it, too.
A guy comes out, backlit so I can’t see his face. The crowd cheers louder, and he sits behind the drums and waves. Another guy walks out and picks up a guitar, then a woman who also grabs a bass.
I think one of them might be Gavin, but I can’t tell.
Now everyone is screaming, stomping, and clapping. I’m clapping. The floor below my feet is vibrating with the noise.
Another guy comes out, and now everyone in the entire place loses their minds. It’s so loud I nearly cover my ears, only I don’t want to seem like an even bigger dork than I already am.
He’s backlit, and I can’t see his face. He’s got the right haircut and the right build, but mostly, it’s the churning in my stomach that tells me it’s Gavin.
Okay, so he’s the singer of some band, I think. Who cares?
Probably-Gavin grabs a guitar. He steps up to the microphone. The drummer raises his sticks in the air, and they all pause.
Then the drummer counts off one-two-three-four and all at once, a wall of sound crashes over the audience and the stage lights go on.
It’s Gavin, his head thrown back, the muscles in his forearms knotting as he plays hard and loud, the same thing he was half-playing out in the alleyway only now they’re all together, playing as one on stage even as he seems like he doesn’t notice that the crowd is there, going crazy.
And it’s loud, but it’s good, nothing like the dissonant noise of the opening band. I can almost feel the heavy guitar surround me in the air, like it’s lifting me up, taking me somewhere that’s not this grungy club or this balcony full of screaming girls.
I think I recognize the song. I think I’ve heard it before, somewhere.
The guitar stops, leaving nothing but a scant drumbeat and a bass line. The audience holds its breath as one, like a monster with hundreds of throats. I hold my breath.
Gavin steps forward. He takes the microphone in one hand and leans into it, like he’s whispering to a lover. It’s so intense that I can almost feel his breath on my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
Then he starts singing.
Wrap me in sunrise...
His voice is deep and melodic and rough in exactly the right ways, and I realize: I’ve heard this song at least a million times.
I do know who Gavin is.
At least he’s so famous you’ll never have to see him again, I think.
5
Gavin
God, I’d almost forgotten how this felt.
Playing together with Darcy and Trent again, all of us so close and so together that it feels like our hearts are beating in rhythm as the music flows from my fingers, through the guitar, out of the speakers and over the crowd.
We’ve practiced together since the tour ended abruptly, of course. Eddie joined the band when Liam left and we had to break him in, so to speak, and that was good, but there’s absolutely nothing like hundreds of people standing and watching you in awe, mouthing the words to the songs you wrote, screaming for you.
Makes you feel like a king. A god. This is why rock stars become complete tossers.
The first song ends. The crowd roars but Darcy slides her hand down the neck of her bass, strings squealing, the throb coming through the soles of my feet and just like that we’re together again, into the next song, all parts of the same animal.
Right now, I don’t miss being high. Not at all.
As we play, I look out over the crowd, the people who were either lucky enough or in-the-know enough to come to our “secret” show at this tiny, ugly, dirty club on the Sunset Strip. In this moment I fucking love every last one of them.
I glance at the balcony. It’s a riot of sparkles, so that’s where the party girls must be, but they seem into it so it’s fine.
No: it’s great. Everything is great.
At the front of the balcony is one person not in sequins, and even though it’s hard to see with the lights in my eyes, I can just barely make her out: white blouse, black skirt, standing still like she’s rapt at attention.
The girl from the alley.
My heart beats just a little faster.
We play until one in the morning, and then we play two encores, and we’d play a third if the Whiskey Room didn’t turn its house lights on.
When I walk offstage, I’m buzzing, high as a kite, my blood humming through my veins even though I’m covered in sweat and the fingertips of my left hand are a bit sore. I haven’t played that hard or that long in months.
Not to mention that it’s been even longer — years, probably — since I took the stage sober.
I do wish Liam had been there. I can’t help it. Eddie’s a wonderful bloke, great drummer, nice as can be, but it’s not the same. It still feels a bit like driving on three tires and a spare, but I just have to trust that after a while it’ll all be as good as it ever was, only without Liam, because some messes are beyond saving.
Backstage, everything feels like it’s happening in hyper-speed, and I’m just standing in the middle as people rush around, carrying instruments and microphones and sound equipment. The party girls seem to be gone, probably off to another party, and though I didn’t need to see them again there’s a tiny pang of regret in my gut that I won’t see Alley Girl.
She wasn’t exactly nice, but I don’t think I want nice. There are thousands of people who’ll be nice to
me.
“Great show, man!” a voice behind me shouts, just as a hand lands on my shoulder so hard it makes my skin tingle. “That was awesome, just awesome!”
It’s Eddie, grinning so bright he could light up a football pitch at night. I slap him on the shoulder.
“Not bad for your first show with the band, huh?” I say, grinning almost as wide as him.
He shakes his head, hair flopping around.
“You know, I was really nervous beforehand, like, butterflies and all that, but once I got out there it was just—”
He whistles, gliding a hand through the air, possibly to indicate smooth sailing.
“You’ve got it down cold, mate,” I say. “That was fucking perfect.”
Darcy and Trent appear to my left, both looking somewhere between cautious and relieved. Eddie looks at them, looks at me, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
“I’m gonna go make sure they’re not... you know, with the drums... catch you guys later,” he says, backing away.
We watch him go.
“He’s sweet,” Darcy says.
“He’s a good drummer,” I say.
Then we stand there in silence for another beat. Darcy sighs.
“Fuck,” she says, and wraps me in a hug. “Just, fuck, Gavin, what the fuck.”
She squeezes me harder.
“This is why I write the lyrics,” I say, and she laughs, then lets me go.
Trent shrugs.
“Fuck?” he says.
We hug as well.
“Listen, guys,” I start.
Trent shakes his head.
“We’ll work it out,” he says, then points over his shoulder, back toward the stage. “I’m still pissed at you, but that? Worth working it out.”
Another twinge, deep down, the missing piece that’s Liam. He knows the show was tonight and he’s probably piss-drunk somewhere, if not disastrously high.
“I’m also still pissed,” Darcy offers, not sounding cross at all, and I laugh.
“That’s fair,” I say.
They glance at each other.
“Listen, we’re going to this bar a couple blocks away where some people are getting together, and do you want to... come or anything?” Trent asks, his voice very careful.
I can feel the weight of seventeen thin leather bands on my wrist, and I shake my head.
“No thanks,” I say.
They both look relieved. There’s a big part of me that wants to go, but I know I’ll end up following the old pattern. Rounds of shots, then lines of blow in the men’s room, partying until dawn. Near-inevitably finding myself in a room with a needle and someone who wants a story about shooting up with Gavin Lockwood.
My therapist and I have talked a lot about changing habits.
“Okay,” Darcy says, and squeezes my shoulder. “Chin up, all right mate?”
It sounds goofy as hell with her American accent, and I smile.
“Right-o, spot on,” I answer, and they walk away.
I hang around back stage for a while, long enough that anyone waiting for me outside will have given up, or at least I hope so. Fans I can deal with, but paparazzi? Not so much.
I’m just not sure I’m up for that yet, the shouted questions about do you think you can stay clean or what’s the band like without Liam or what do you want to tell your detractors?
I don’t want to tell them a damn thing besides sod off, so I stay backstage and annoy the roadies by being underfoot for another while, but there’s nothing doing here either.
It’s strange as hell and a little lonely, being bored after a show, even as I’m still amped up from being on stage, from the screaming crowd. It seems like there ought to be something happening now, something properly enjoyable that doesn’t involve substances, and as I put my jacket on I think, maybe one drink.
You can hold your liquor. You were a junkie, not an alcoholic. Just one.
I should know better. I do know better, but the thought of everyone else celebrating without me while I go home, sip tea and watch telly grates on me like sandpaper. It was my show more than anyone else’s, and fuck this, I deserve to celebrate, just a little.
One drink. Maybe two. Two drinks is fine.
I leave the room and I’m heading down the hall, the space between the wall and the stage, when I hear a voice, pleading, maybe on the verge of tears, and I look over my shoulder.
It’s Alley Girl, arguing with a security officer nearly twice her size.
“I don’t care about Gavin or the band,” she’s insisting, her voice getting louder. “I was with Brianna Diamant’s birthday party and I left something really important back there. I just want to look for it, I swear.”
I can’t hear the answer, but I can tell from her face it’s not good.
Don’t get involved, I think. You were a right cock to her last time you spoke and you’re unlikely to make it better now by trying to swoop in and save the day.
Doesn’t matter. I’ve already turned and I’m walking toward the guard’s back, the girl’s eyes tracking me suspiciously.
“Hey,” I say, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “She’s all right.”
The security guard shrugs and steps aside, but the girl just stands there, looking surprised.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, nodding her backstage.
6
Marisol
I’d like a redo on today.
First the library didn’t have the book, then I forgot my flats and have been wearing these stupid heels for hours, then I locked myself out of the Whiskey Room and got into a fight with a famous rock star, and now I’ve left behind the book that I bought and planned to return.
The book I need to return. I don’t have $200 to throw away on a stupid, champagne-fueled mistake, not if I’d like to eat and pay my rent next month.
Of course the person who’s taken up my cause is the one I was hoping not to see again.
“Thanks,” I say to Gavin, because I know my manners.
Maybe he’s slightly less of a dick than I thought. Or maybe he just wants to bring me backstage again so he can keep being a dick, but right now, I don’t care.
I’ve only had two glasses of champagne, but I drink so rarely that I’m pretty tipsy, and that means I’m on the verge of tears. About this stupid, expensive book.
I take a deep breath.
“I think I left a book back here by accident,” I say, eyes ahead and not looking at him, voice steady. “I already checked outside and it’s not there.”
“A book,” he says thoughtfully.
For some reason, that’s what makes me snap.
“Yes, a book,” I say, grabbing the strap of my briefcase tightly in one hand. “Made of paper, has words and sometimes pictures, weighs about two pounds, generally used by the moderately educated to impart important information to others.”
He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
I’m a jerk. He’s not even being a dick right now.
“Crap, I’m sorry, I’ve just had a really stupid day and now this,” I say, putting one hand over my eyes. “I just really need this book and I’ll be out of your hair.”
I hear a low, throaty sound and look up. He’s laughing.
“I’ve always been told that stupid questions get stupid answers,” he says.
“It wasn’t that stupid of a question,” I say apologetically.
“What does this method of imparting information look like?” he asks, still laughing.
I describe Contemporary Issues in American Asylum Law, Second Edition as he leads me through the backstage area and then opens a door. It’s the room where we were earlier, before the show.
“I should warn you, I’ve not seen it,” he says, stepping inside and looking around. “And frankly, back here a book would stick out like a nun at a stag party.”
My stomach is in knots and my face is hot, because as much as I need to find the book, I don’t want to admit to him just how much I can’t afford to lose i
t.
“It was in a plastic bag,” I say. “And I put it down against that wall, next to my briefcase, and then didn’t pick it back up...”
There’s no book by the wall, but Gavin shrugs. Then he strides over to the couch and starts pulling cushions off, though one’s already missing.
“I can look,” I say quickly. “You looked like you were leaving, I don’t want to keep you here if you’ve got somewhere else to be.”
“Just my tea and my telly,” he says, pulling off another cushion. No book.
I sigh, bending and looking under a table, moving aside a few boxes.
“Okay, I give up,” I say. “What’s that code for?”
“What, tea and telly?”
His voice is muffled as he peers down the side of the couch, his hand in the crevice.
“Right,” I say, crawling under a table so I can turn everything upside down. “You said it earlier, too.”
I go through a couple boxes: nothing, nothing, nothing. Panic is starting to give way to the dull, numb feeling of inevitability that I’m never going to see that book again.
Now I can’t do the reading or get my money back, which is the worst of both worlds. Now my participation grade will be shit, I’ll have to do spectacularly well on that final essay, and I’m going to be eating ramen, rice, and beans for a month.
I wish I’d never had the brilliant idea to buy it and return it.
“It just means tea and television,” he says, straightening up. “There’s no code.”
I’m on the floor, and I lean on one hand, tucking my legs under me. Hopefully I’m not flashing the very hot rock star, but I don’t even care any more. I’m sure he’s seen panties before, and how much worse can tonight go?
“So, right now, you’re going to go home, drink tea, and watch television,” I say, my voice doubtful.
“You don’t sound like you believe me,” he says, collapsing onto the sofa, arms stretched wide, one cushion is still missing.
