Never Enough: A Rockstar Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “I can’t hold them because I don’t—”

  Gavin holds up my clutch.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “I think it’s best if I see you in,” he teases gently. I stop arguing.

  As we head up the three flights of stairs, I quietly pray that my underwear drawer is shut and my vibrator isn’t out somewhere, since I may as well have named the damn thing after him by now. My apartment is usually pretty neat, and I’m not in the habit of just leaving things like that around, but I also know that if it were going to happen it would happen now.

  Maybe if he sees your underpants or vibrator he’ll get some ideas, I think. You could put the moves on him, and if he turns you down, next time you see him act like you don’t remember.

  I unlock my apartment door, his hand protectively on my lower back, sparks shooting up my spine. It makes my heart beat faster whenever Gavin touches me, but right now everything is amplified ten times and it’s driving me crazy.

  I want his hands on my skin. I want his mouth on mine. I want to run my fingers over the chiseled abs I’ve still only seen in pictures. I want—

  “Were you going to open the door, or just stand there with it unlocked?” he asks.

  I pull the key out, turn the knob, push my door.

  “Sorry, I forgot,” I say.

  My apartment’s tiny, a studio with a two-burner stove, no oven, and a miniature sink. The bathroom’s too small for a tub, so it’s just got a shower. The main piece of furniture is my bed — which I’m pleased to discover I made this morning — along with a loveseat I got for free when a friend got rid of it.

  The only table is my desk, next to an ugly-but-sturdy and completely full bookshelf that I got from the Salvation Army for ten dollars. There’s one chair. My dresser is also my bedside table, which, thank God, doesn’t have my vibrator sitting on it.

  It’s not fancy, but I can just barely afford it without roommates, and that’s all I want.

  “This is a nice place,” Gavin says.

  I toss my keys onto my desk, then flop onto my bed, shoes and dress still on, and close my eyes.

  “No, it’s not,” I say.

  “I like it,” he says. “It’s cozy. Feels like home, you know? All the cheap flats I’ve ever lived in were infested rat holes. Possibly because dirty junkies don’t always keep the cleanest quarters.”

  “I’ve seen roaches,” I admit. “It’s the neighbors. They come through the walls. I hate it. There’s nothing I can do.”

  A quick, vivid memory: opening a drawer to bugs scuttling away from the light.

  I think I’m less high. Am I? Yes? Yes.

  “I did once have a long conversation with a rat while he was sitting in my sink,” he says.

  “Did the rat tell you to stop doing drugs?” I ask. “I wish I had a rat to tell me that right now.”

  Gavin just laughs.

  “You’ll be surprised to learn I don’t recall what the rat said,” he says. I can hear him opening and closing my cabinets, then the sound of glasses clinking softly. The water goes on, then off, and he walks over to the bed.

  “Here,” he says. “Sit up and drink some water at least.”

  I let him pull me up and take the water without opening my eyes. I don’t like opening my eyes. I’m fairly certain I’ve stopped dissolving, but sight just reminds me how terrible everything feels.

  “Thanks,” I say when the water is gone.

  “Where do you keep pajamas?” he asks.

  I don’t.

  I sleep naked, but I definitely cannot tell him that right now.

  Take your dress off and tell him that this is your pajamas, I think. You’re already in your bed, and he probably kissed you in the limousine. It could work. The terrible kiss was just a fluke.

  Just thinking of it ties my stomach in a knot, but I take a deep breath and look up at him. Seductively. I hope.

  I feel like I’m looking at him through a kaleidoscope I can’t see, tiny particles of everything, of me and him and the bed and the room and the universe all flying through the air and crashing together haphazardly.

  I close my eyes again. I don’t think my seduction is working.

  “Pajamas,” he repeats softly.

  21

  Gavin

  I cannot give in right now. Marisol’s still high as a kite, and even though I’m in her flat, right by her bed, and she’s looking up at me with wide eyes and lips parted, I’m not giving in.

  I’m not even going to kiss her. Much less push her backward, pull her dress down, and run my lips down her neck as she gasps. Absolutely not, no matter how badly I’m aching to touch her.

  No matter that I’m fighting a losing battle with my own dick right now, and I’m at half-mast despite my most desperate attempts to visualize the Queen.

  “I’m not leaving until you’re in bed,” I tell her, wishing I meant it anything but literally. “Otherwise I’m afraid you’ll sit here and stare at your own hand all night.”

  She rubs her face, then reaches for a dresser drawer and pulls out shorts and a t-shirt, tossing them on the bed next to her, and stands, reaching behind herself.

  It takes every bit of self-control I’ve got to turn around.

  “Wait,” she says. “Unzip me?”

  I wish I was high, or drunk, or anything besides perfectly sober, because then every curve of her body and every inch of her skin wouldn’t be taunting me in crystal-clear detail.

  I wish Marisol were sober instead of completely off her head, because sober I could kiss her again and not feel like I was taking advantage.

  Her back’s to me. I move her hair from her neck, my fingertips brushing her warm skin. A thrill runs through me, and I grit my teeth together, grasp the zipper, and slide it down as a slim oval of Marisol’s back is revealed.

  I almost fucking lose it. I’m struck by the urge to kneel, press my lips to the base of her spine, and then climb her vertebra by vertebra until I’m at her neck. It’s so strong that I almost can’t help myself, and I rock back on my heels, strung tighter than piano wire.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “Right,” I say, and turn my back while I still can.

  There are rustling noises. Her dress falls to the ground, softly, while I breathe and wait, trying to think of anything besides Marisol naked, right behind me.

  I distract myself by looking at the books on the top of her dresser, all of which have a library sticker on them. The bottom one is Clean: Overcoming Addiction, then Addiction Recovery for Dummies, then Twelve Roadblocks to Recovery, then The Neurochemistry of Opioid Addiction.

  I blink. Something squeezes in my chest.

  She didn’t have to, I think.

  Then I hear her voice again.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I turn. She’s wearing a University of Los Angeles Debate Team t-shirt and plaid shorts, taking off her shoes.

  “I’ll leave when your head’s on the pillow,” I say. I know I sound like a particularly strict nanny, but I can’t help it. She’s so small and vulnerable right now that I’m driven by the weird urge to take care of her, give her water and make sure she gets enough sleep.

  And the urge to punch Eddie. Jesus I wish I was drunk, because at least being tits-over-arse is an excellent excuse for violence.

  Marisol gets between the covers, then kicks them half off.

  “I think the bathtub was better, just in case,” she says. “I wish my apartment had one.”

  I laugh softly.

  “All this and you wish I’d left you there,” I say.

  “I’m sorry I made you skip your fun rock and roll party.”

  “It wasn’t that fun,” I say. “Nor was it that rock and roll.”

  “Still,” she says, and then we both go quiet for a long moment.

  Marisol doesn’t move, her chest rising and falling. I refill her water glass as quietly as I can, set it by her bed.

  And give in to the wild urge to kiss her on the forehead.
r />   “Stay,” she murmurs, her face just underneath mine.

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell her, nerves suddenly jangling.

  “Please?” she says, her voice soft and sleepy and distant.

  “Your couch isn’t big enough,” I point out.

  “Don’t sleep on the couch.”

  I nearly kiss her on the lips, because she’s soft and warm and tempting and I’m stretched near my breaking point, but I don’t. In the last few months, since rehab, I’ve done a lot of teaching myself to think about consequences, so now I think about waking up tomorrow, Marisol remembering I’ve kissed her while she was incapacitated, the betrayed look on her face.

  And I know I should do the same about staying here. I should call an Uber and go to my own house, my own bed, but I don’t.

  “All right,” I say. I take off my jacket and shoes and I lay down next to Marisol, still wearing my shirt and jeans. She turns to face me and puts her hands in mine.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m dead sober next to a girl who’s out of her mind, I can’t believe I’m fully clothed in her bed, and I can’t believe I’m not going to do a thing about it. If Gavin from six months ago saw this, he’d laugh his arse off.

  “Thanks,” Marisol murmurs.

  Past Gavin can go fuck himself.

  I wake up because it’s too hot and too bright and I’ve clearly slept in my clothes.

  Hungover and jonesing again next to some groupie slag, I think automatically, more asleep than awake.

  My eyes open onto an empty pillow, and I brace myself for the crashing headache. It doesn’t come.

  You stopped doing that, you pillock, I think, but it’s somehow still a pleasant surprise that I don’t feel like a clammy wreck itching in my own skin, and that I can remember everything from last night perfectly well.

  I’m at Marisol’s, in her bed, because she asked me to stay. Being sober feels like life on easy mode sometimes, and I roll over, looking around her cozy flat in the daylight.

  She’s not there. It’s easy enough to see her whole place from the bed, and she’s not anywhere in it. Half-awake disappointment crawls through me, and I sit up slowly, feeling a bit stupid.

  I’d thought, as I fell asleep holding her hand last night, that maybe I’d wake up with her in my arms this morning. That maybe she’d look at me, whisper my name and we’d kiss properly as she rolled over, straddling me, my hands sliding up underneath her shirt—

  But she’s not here. All that’s here is a note on the table.

  Gavin—

  I went to study group & didn’t want to wake you. Help yourself to coffee & breakfast if you want it. Lock the knob when you leave.

  Valerie’s called a meeting at 5pm in her office. See you there.

  Marisol

  I’m gut-punched, and last night is fading away, replaced by the constant, unforgiving hard sunlight of Los Angeles.

  She was toasted off her gourd, I think. She barely even knew she was asking you to stay.

  I feel like an idiot. A sober idiot, but an idiot to think it meant anything. Now all I’ve got is a drummer with a black eye, a furious band, and a pretend girlfriend who’s really just pretending no matter what I tell myself, not to mention the fucking train wreck of a human staying at my house indefinitely.

  It doesn’t fucking matter, I think. You’ve cocked this up beyond repair and you didn’t even need to be high. You just needed to be you.

  I stand and put my shoes on again, shove both hands through my hair, and stuff the note in my pocket.

  I at least deserve a fucking drink, I think. If everything’s going to hell in a handcart, might as well drink while it does.

  As I turn to go my eyes sweep across the dresser, stacked with Marisol’s books. The ones about getting clean and sober. My stomach turns. I take a deep breath.

  If you still want one after the meeting.

  Then I lock the knob on Marisol’s door, shut it behind me, and leave.

  22

  Marisol

  All day there’s been a feeling of grinding dread deep in the pit of my stomach, and walking toward the skyscraper that contains Valerie’s Public Relations firm, it’s only getting worse.

  Everyone’s angry. Gavin’s angry with Eddie. Eddie, Darcy, and Trent are angry with Gavin. The record company is angry with Gavin. Nigel’s probably on his fourth scotch already, and it’s barely four in the afternoon.

  Every gossip website is running stories about how he’s out of control on a drug and alcohol-fueled bender. It’s rumored that Dirtshine is breaking up because Gavin’s a total maniac and they’ve completely had it with him.

  And it’s my fault, because I ate some gummi bears like an idiot. I knew they tasted weird, and I ate them anyway without stopping to think hey, Marisol, you’re backstage at a rock concert, maybe don’t eat things that taste weird.

  And because there are probably children who can keep it together better when they’re super high than I can. Who the hell curls up in a bathtub and babbles on and on about dissolving just because they’re stoned? Who makes their very famous fake boyfriend spend the night in their shitty apartment just because they had a little pot?

  I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I don’t think I’m helping anything at this point. My contract specifies that I still get some of the money, and I think it’s enough that I can get my parents another apartment, just until I’ve got a real job and can help them better.

  I pull open the heavy glass door on the building’s ground floor lobby and try to steel myself for what’s coming. If I don’t get fired, I’m going to suggest that maybe I’m not the right choice, and maybe Gavin and I start having our public breakup.

  Walking through the lobby, I go over my reasoning one last time. This isn’t fair to him; he needs someone who can handle the attention without getting awkward. After all, I had to work up the nerve to kiss him on the cheek, and when it came to lip-on-lip I botched it completely.

  Plus, I can’t act for shit; he deserves someone prettier than me; he needs someone who won’t turn down important things like awards shows. Overall, I’m just the wrong choice, and we’ll go our separate ways professionally and amicably.

  And yet, I want to cry, because I went and got attached.

  It’s just more proof that I’m not the woman for the job.

  I round a corner toward the elevator bank, then stop in my tracks. There’s a very familiar form leaning against the wall, and he looks up from his phone.

  “There you are,” Gavin says, walking toward me.

  “You’re early?” I ask, because that’s not exactly his normal style.

  “Just this once,” he says. “I wanted to see you before the piranhas moved in.”

  Tell him now and get it over with, I think. He’s going to be the hardest one to tell, so just do it first.

  “Good, I’m glad you came down,” I say.

  I straighten my back and take a deep breath.

  “I think we should start discussing our breakup because I’m clearly not the right person to be playing your girlfriend,” I say, all in one breath, spitting it out before I lose my nerve.

  Gavin doesn’t react. He just stares at me, in the hallway by the elevators. Two women in suits walk by. One of them turns to give him a second look.

  “No,” he finally says.

  There’s a huge lump in my throat, and I’m holding my breath, trying to act normal and not get emotional in near-public like this.

  “What do you mean, no?” I ask.

  “No,” he says again, shaking his head. “No to you, no to this, no to all the bloody play-acting—”

  He breaks off, looking around. Then he takes my hand and pulls me toward a door marked EXIT.

  It’s also marked FIRE DOOR, DO NOT OPEN, but he ignores that and pulls me through into a narrow-but-sunny alleyway. An alarm goes off in the building, silenced as the door shuts behind us.

  I start talking.

  “I got
high by accident and freaked out, I don’t know anything about music, I’m awkward in front of cameras—”

  Gavin turns and takes my face in both hands.

  “I don’t care,” he says.

  I keep talking, an anxious train that can’t stop.

  “—I was almost too nervous to kiss you on the cheek, and then the lip-on-lip was really awkward and bad—”

  He kisses me.

  His lips are warm and firm on mine, his fingers in my hair, and for a split second I’m so surprised that I don’t move.

  Then I kiss him back. There’s no one else around. No cameras, no reporters, no other people at all. Just us. I drop my briefcase and slide one hand around Gavin’s neck, his skin hot underneath my fingers as our mouths move together, slow and deliberate.

  He pulls back a fraction of an inch, one thumb stroking across my cheekbone. In a heartbeat, I close the distance between us again, pressing my body against his, one of his hands trailing down my back as my spine turns to molten liquid.

  It’s nothing like the kiss yesterday.

  When we finally separate, he leans his forehead against mine, and I try to breathe, my heart slamming against my ribs.

  “I’m not pretending,” he says, his voice low and quiet and rough.

  “I’m not either,” I whisper.

  He kisses me again. It’s almost deliriously slow, our mouths moving together, our bodies drawing closer as we explore each other for the very first time.

  A river of heat floods my body, and I’m swept away in it. I didn’t really think this was in the cards. I thought we’d kiss politely in public and shake hands in private.

  I thought I’d just be fantasizing about Gavin’s body pressed against mine like he needs me, his tongue slow and deliberate against my bottom lip, his fingers curled into my hip. But this isn’t fantasy, this is real — his arm around me, his mouth on mine.

  His massive erection making me ache fiercely.

  We pull back again after a long time, both breathing hard. Even though it’s our first kiss — sort of — I still want to wrap my legs around him, right here in this alley, feel his hips move against mine.