by Roxie Noir
“There you are,” she answers her phone. “My god, Marisol, I was about to form a search party.”
“I was in class,” I point out, rolling my eyes as I walk down the street. “Which is on my schedule, actually.”
“This is important,” she says. “Emergency meeting, can you get down here?”
I walk a little faster.
“What’s the emergency?” I ask. I don’t really know what qualifies as an emergency to Valerie, because I suspect it could range anywhere from real, actual life-or-death situation — Gavin in the hospital? — to a blog that said something slightly uncharitable about us.
“I don’t think it’s an emergency, Val,” Gavin’s voice says.
Apparently we’re on a conference call. You know, like couples routinely do with their publicists.
Valerie huffs into the phone.
“Please just get to my office,” she says. “It’s rather confidential in nature and I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone.”
“It’s not that confidential,” Gavin’s voice says, but the phone line goes quiet.
I guess I’m not studying much this afternoon.
The offices of First Place PR are less expensive-looking but more trendy than Diamant & Skellar’s offices, but they’re not any less sterile. My footsteps echo when I walk in, and a receptionist snaps her head up.
“Marisol, meeting with Valerie, right? Big conference room on the end,” she says, all smiles and perfect teeth.
“Thanks,” I say.
When I get to the door, Valerie practically runs me over, rushing out of the room.
“Oh, thank God,” she says. “Give me one minute, all this kale juice is really moving through me.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just power-walks to the women’s bathroom as I walk into the conference room. Gavin’s already sitting there, in an executive leather chair, and I sit next to him.
“Tell me this is actually important,” I say.
He grins at me and leans back in his chair.
“It’s important,” he says. “But it’s not an emergency. We got invited to play at the National Music Awards on Saturday so now you’re on for a whole red carpet do.”
My heart squeezes slowly, and I try to think about what the red carpet at an awards show even looks like. All I can remember is hundreds of photographers and celebrities looking polished and perfect, smiling in every direction while people ask who they’re wearing.
Oh, my God, that means there are TV cameras. From real TV stations, not just GossipNewsDaily and TMZ or whatever we’ve been dealing with. Actual reporters will be asking me actual questions and expecting me to actually respond while people at home talk to each other about whether I’m cute enough to date Gavin Lockwood.
And it’s in four days. And I’m supposed to wear something red carpet-worthy, not that I have any idea where one even gets that sort of outfit.
Crap. Crap.
“Hey,” Gavin says, leaning forward in his chair. He loops one arm around my shoulders, and suddenly our faces are six inches apart. “You all right? You went quiet.”
“Sorry,” I say, swallowing. “I spazzed for a minute there. Red carpet sounds like a big step up.”
His fingers trace a slow circle on my shoulder blade, and it’s soothing and heart-pounding all at once, but I relax a little with Gavin’s arm around me.
Even if it’s fake, even if it’s practice, it’s safe and warm and nice like this.
“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s just a bunch of gibbering idiots who shove cameras in your face and ask idiotic, easy questions, like ‘Don’t you think music is nice?’ and you say, ‘Yeah, it’s brilliant,’ and everyone’s happy.”
I laugh, and as I do I fight the urge to reach out to him, put a hand on his knee or something, lean my forehead against his. More and more, every time I’m near him — even alone, like this — the deep, instinctual part of my brain is whispering at me to touch him, make all those little gestures that couples do.
I don’t, but for just a moment, I glance up, into his eyes.
The air sucks out of the room and suddenly the conference room doesn’t exist, the fluorescent lighting doesn’t exist, this high rise doesn’t exist. It’s just us, his deep brown eyes staring into mine, every inch of my skin charged and crackling with sheer electricity.
Gavin doesn’t say anything. I don’t say anything. His fingers curl around my shoulder and I lean toward him, just a little more, my heart beating so fast I think it might explode.
“Marisol,” he murmurs, so close I can feel his voice vibrate. “What if this—”
The door opens so fast it practically explodes.
“—why it’s called a juice cleanse, wow!” Valerie’s saying as she marches in. “I’m still waiting for that clean, calm energy it says I’m supposed to have, though.”
We both practically leap backwards, like teenagers afraid of getting caught. Even though we’re adults who weren’t doing anything.
Valerie doesn’t seem to notice.
“All right, Marisol,” she says, sitting at the head of the table and opening a folder. “There’s a lot to do to prep you for Saturday, so here’s your schedule and itinerary and by God, once you’re on that red carpet you’ll be buffed and shined and ready for the spotlight.”
She slides a stapled bundle of papers over to me, across the perfectly polished table, and I catch them, looking at the first entry.
Saturday, 7:00 a.m., arrive at Dean LaMont salon to begin skin and hair prep.
Valerie’s still talking, going over my incredibly-detailed itinerary, so I just interrupt her.
“I can’t,” I say.
She stops, mouth slightly open, and stares at me.
“Are you allergic to one of the treatments?” she asks. “We can change them, there are other things that’ll fix your—”
“I’m busy most of Saturday,” I say. “I’m volunteering at an immigration law clinic from nine until four. I mean, I can still make the awards at six, but I’m gonna have to skip the Miracle Clay Mud Wrap.”
She looks down at the paper, then back up at me.
“I don’t think you understand,” she says. “This event is going to take all day, so you need to reschedule your volunteer thing.”
“I volunteered months ago,” I say, the butterflies in my chest starting to flutter. “I can’t just back out now. People are depending on me to be there. I’m halfway through their green card applications.”
“You’re doing it for free, they can find someone else,” she says.
My mouth is going dry, because I know that I’m getting paid a ton of money to be Gavin’s girlfriend, and that means last-minute awards shows, but the volunteer gig is actually a big deal, and it’s important to my career — the one I’m going to have once I’m not Gavin’s fake girlfriend any longer, and the money has been spent on my parents’ house and my student loans.
“I really don’t want to ask them to do that,” I say, trying to sound as reasonable as I can. “This is a big—”
“Val, Marisol’s not coming to the awards show,” Gavin interrupts. He’s leaning back in his chair, one hand drumming on the table, restless.
Valerie rolls her eyes.
“This is why you’re paying her, Gavin,” she says. “She is getting a million dollars to come places with you, and I think that outweighs—”
“She said she’s busy, so she’s busy,” he interrupts her. “She’s got real work to do, not faffing about in a pretty dress watching the rich and famous pat each other on the back.”
Valerie looks down at my carefully-scheduled itinerary for a long moment, quickly tapping a pen against the table, her face perfectly expressionless, smooth and blank in a studied way.
Then, finally, she looks up at me.
“Can you at least make the after party?” she asks, sounding annoyed.
“Yes,” I say. We were supposed to have a date that night anyway.
“Good,”
she says. “Whirl magazine rented a mansion for their annual party, and you’re both coming to that, at least you’ll still be seen by plenty of people. Gavin, I’m going to put it around that the reporters should ask you about the rumor that you’re dating someone, and you say yeah, she’s out saving the world or whatever...”
Valerie is furiously scribbling on the packet of paper in front of her, slashing through line items, half muttering to herself and half to me and Gavin. I start taking notes, hoping that I look like I’m paying attention and being studious, because I am.
I want to do this right, be the best possible fake girlfriend that I can be. I just can’t do two things at once.
Gavin, on the other hand, couldn’t be paying less attention to Valerie. He glances over at me, sees me writing, and grins.
I stick my tongue out at him.
He puts one hand on my knee, holding it there for a long moment, and I feel the butterflies and tension drain out of me, only to replaced with that same electric feeling, a shiver passing over my whole body. Valerie doesn’t notice a thing.
After a little while, Gavin takes his hand off.
I wonder what he was about to tell me earlier.
17
Gavin
“At least you don’t have to worry about whether we win something or not this time,” Eddie says brightly. He’s looking out over his shoulder, through the window of the stretch limo, as we come up on the theater where the National Music Awards are being held.
“Right, we can just sit there and wonder if we should have had another dress rehearsal,” Darcy says dryly.
“I’m sure all the pyrotechnics will go off without a hitch,” Trent says. “Just don’t miss your cue.”
Darcy, Eddie, and I all snap our heads around to stare at him.
“Fireworks?” Eddie blurts, but Trent laughs.
“Kidding,” he says. “Chill, you guys, you’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be fine,” Darcy says, tugging at her dress again. “You haven’t got half a mile of duct tape holding up your tits right now.”
“You don’t know that,” Trent says.
“Well, whatever’s going on in there, they look great,” Darcy teases.
“Thank you,” Trent says. “And, for the record, you look nice as well.”
“Thanks,” Darcy says. “I somehow got talked into a glam makeover and I think I might live to regret it.”
“Do you need one of us to walk on either side you just in case you topple suddenly?” I ask. “Perhaps there’ll be a strong breeze or something, and those shoes look quite risky.”
Darcy just laughs. I’ve only rarely seen her wear something besides combat boots or maybe flat sandals, so I have a feeling she’s not accustomed to heels.
“You’re joking, but it’s not a bad idea,” she says. “Though I might make headlines if I fall ass-over-tits and show the nightly news my snatch.”
“I wouldn’t mind having someone else take the heat for a bit,” I say. “Maybe I’ll push you.”
The limo comes to a stop, and we all look through the windows at the red carpet, dotted with other celebrities swanning along slowly, row after row of cameras pointed at them.
“If you push me, I will kill you,” Darcy says. “God, I hate this part.”
“Just fucking get it over with,” Trent says grimly.
Only Eddie looks kind of excited, but it’s his first time at one of these events.
“Three, two, one,” I say, taking the door handle, since I’m the closest. “Geronimo!”
I open it and step out to the sound of shutters clicking away, adjusting my jacket as I do.
“He’s been in the U.S. too long,” I hear Trent mutter behind me. I turn and offer Darcy my hand as she gets out. She bravely steps up on the curb, not wobbling more than a little.
“Fuck,” she whispers to me, dropping my hand.
A handler, holding a clipboard and wearing a microphone, comes over and starts telling us how to stand, where to go, what to do, which cameras to look at. About a hundred of them ask Darcy who she’s wearing, and I hear her make up four different designers, because of course she has no idea.
Earlier today, one of Valerie’s minions tried to talk me into wearing a suit, and I had the thing on, nearly ready to go, but then I remembered something Liam said.
We used to be a rock and roll band.
Now I’m wearing jeans and a leather jacket.
We walk down the red carpet slowly. We smile big. And finally, we reach the end, where the video cameras are rolling, with pretty, polished reporters ready to ask questions.
A brunette practically leaps onto Darcy, whose smile is frozen in place, and asks her who she’s wearing.
“Mister Camino,” I hear Darcy answer.
The reporter’s never heard of that designer, and I try not to laugh as someone pulls me in, practically yanking me in front of a camera, which she then faces.
“I’m here with Dirtshine lead singer Gavin Lockwood,” she says, then turns to me. “How does it feel to be playing your first big show with your new drummer after you kicked out longtime member Liam Fenwick?”
I hate these questions. What am I supposed to say, it feels great that we booted my best friend? But I smile anyway.
“I’m quite excited,” I say. “Eddie’s a fantastic drummer and we’re very lucky he’s agreed to join.”
She moves right on to the next question, like a shark onto the next kill.
“You’ve been seen around town with a mystery woman on your arm,” she says. “But I don’t see her anywhere here, have you already broken up?”
I smile at the thought of Marisol as a mystery woman, and also at the thought of how much she’d hate being here right now.
“Marisol’s in her final year of law school,” I say, giving the camera my most charming smile. “I’m afraid she’s out fighting for truth and justice at the moment instead of being here, playing dress up with me.”
The reporter laughs, a semi-forced laugh, showing me all of her teeth.
“Well, I think you dress up quite well,” she says. “Thanks for talking to us, Gavin.”
“My pleasure,” I say.
That exact scene, more or less, gets repeated a good six or seven times before we finally make it inside, where we wait around more before we sit down in the theater to wait around for our performance.
By the time we head backstage to get ready, I feel like I might explode.
It’s been ages since I played a show this size, even though it’s not nearly as big as some of the shows we did last tour. But it’s much larger than the Whiskey Room, and the crowd is completely different — rows and rows of seated people wearing suits and ball gowns, politely watching as you sing your heart out on stage.
Harder to get excited when that’s what’s staring back at you. Harder to feel in sync with your bandmates when the stage is the size of the house where I grew up and we all may as well be in different rooms.
I’m not nervous, not exactly. I’ve done this a thousand times, just not recently, and hardly ever stone cold sober. I didn’t start shooting up before shows until near the end, but before the Whiskey Room it had been years since I went on stage without at least a drink and usually more.
The presenters are on stage, reading out the nominees for the night’s final award. We’re the last performance, closing out the show, and then everyone leaves and goes to whichever afterparty they’re attending.
That means I get to see Marisol soon, and that thought makes me stupidly happy.
I keep catching myself wishing she were here. I keep imagining what she’d think of this whole thing, of sitting around watching people pat themselves on the back for being able to sing songs well, whether she’d find it wonderful or stupid or somewhere in between.
And more than anything, I wish she were here to see the show itself. I don’t think I care if all these people in their shiny outfits with their carefully arranged faces like the songs we’ll be playing
, but I want to impress her, want to share something I love with her.
The audience bursts into applause, and backstage, I start paying attention again. Five young men wearing matching suits come up to the stage, take the shining statue, and start speaking into the microphone.
“We’re next,” Trent’s voice says behind me.
I turn. The four of us are all here, and we’re all back to the way we normally look: torn jeans and flannel shirts and combat boots and ripped fishnet, too much eyeliner on Darcy, messy hair.
It’s us. Us minus Liam, but recognizably us.
“Okay, you fuckers,” I say.
Darcy and Trent grin. Eddie looks nervous, and Darcy rubs his shoulder.
“Let’s go play some fucking rock and roll, yeah?” I ask as the lights all dim.
“Fuck yeah,” Darcy says.
“Right on,” Trent says.
“Yes,” Eddie says.
We walk out to our places on the pitch-black stage. The stagehands are busily rearranging all the set pieces, and I pick up my guitar in the dark, looking out at the audience. It’s the only time all night I’ll be able to see them: excited but sedate, sitting politely.
The rush of stagehands stops as they leave. Everything goes still for a moment. I take a deep breath, feeling the most sober I’ve ever felt, everything crystal clear and sharp, and in that second I’d give anything for some chemical assistance.
But there’s nothing, of course, so here we go with the new version of Dirtshine, the new version of me.
Eddie counts off. Darcy’s bass line dives and hums, going so low I can feel it in my bones before it climbs again. The crowd cheers just as Trent joins in, the two melodies intertwining, trading back and forth for a few bars.
The lights come up slowly, and I close my eyes. I pretend I’m at the Whiskey Room, where it’s hot and stuffy, the lights are blinding, it smells like stale beer and I can barely hear myself think over the screaming.
The guitars squeal and fade. My heartbeat buzzes through my veins, and I imagine the Whiskey Room’s balcony, a girl wearing a skirt and blouse in the very front, looking utterly out of place. She’s watching me, not excited but intrigued.
