by Roxie Noir
Two undergrad girls walk by, whispering about some party tonight, both wearing Tiffany bracelets and casually carrying laptops worth as much as my rent. A pang of jealousy stabs through me.
I should have married a rich guy too, I think. Or just been born to rich parents in the first place.
I feel guilty instantly. My parents didn’t pay my college or law school tuition because they couldn’t, not because they didn’t want to.
But while my classmates’ parents were smoking pot in college, mine were escaping a decades-long civil war in Guatemala. When their parents had their first full-time jobs, mine were picking strawberries on migrant worker visas, entering the lottery for permanent resident status over and over again. When their parents were in their twenties, working office jobs and going to happy hour, my parents were learning English, navigating a labyrinthine immigration system, and studying to become U.S. citizens.
And now, when they’re in their fifties and they should be slowing down, working less, enjoying what they’ve earned? Their scumbag landlord’s evicting them. The part of town where they live, Highland Park, has suddenly become the preferred neighborhood of white hipsters, and that means rent has skyrocketed.
Their apartment is rent-controlled, so instead of raising their rent, they’re just getting kicked out. The landlord says his son is going to live in the apartment — one of the few reasons you can evict someone — which I know is bullshit. But I can’t prove it, so now my sister and I are helping them look for another place to live, and it’s not going well.
I sigh, pull my five-year-old laptop out of my bag, and fire it up. If I can’t actually get the book, maybe I can find something written about it and still contribute to the discussion on Monday.
But then, watching my laptop’s load screen, I have a flash of genius.
The bookstore has a fourteen-day return policy. I’ve got a credit card that I hardly ever use.
As long as I don’t damage it, I can buy this stupid book. I can get my reading done, get my participation grade, and then return it. Of course.
I grin, shut my laptop, and shove it back in my bag. Today’s got nothing on me.
3
Gavin
I’m backstage, forty-five minutes before we go on, and of course the band is having a row.
“You’re kidding, right?” Darcy says, her arms crossed over her chest, her stance wide, like she’s ready to fight. Which she most certainly is.
“I’m not going to make gaga eyes at this child for months to prove that I’m fucking clean,” I say, crossing my own arms.
“Goddamn it,” Trent says, then turns and walks away, toward the door.
“God fucking damn it,” I hear as he jerks the door open and stomps through. For a split second, I can hear the screaming, thrashing guitar of the opening band before he slams the door and it’s muffled again.
I let him leave. I knew they’d be angry.
“I can’t do it,” I say to Darcy. “I can’t fake interest in someone just so we’re photographed properly and the fucking gossip blogs can write about how former junkie Gavin—”
“This was our way back!” Darcy suddenly yells, throwing her arms wide. “We finally got Crumble City to agree to something, and it was so fucking easy, Gavin, you just hang out with a cute girl for a while and voila, we keep our contract.”
Crumble City is our record label. They’re the ones insisting that I improve my image or they’ll be dropping the band.
“As if there are no other record labels,” I say. “As if Lucid Dream didn’t go triple-fucking-platinum and buy the head of Crumble City another fucking Aston Martin.”
Darcy’s nostrils flare, just slightly, her pale face flushed with anger.
“That was before you made headlines by nodding out on stage and we had to refund all those tickets,” she says, her voice tight and furious. “That was before people stopped buying tickets because they all learned you were a junkie who might nod out on stage. It was way before Allen died and Liam nearly did.”
“We used to be a rock and roll band, not a collection of arseholes spit-shined and polished to present the nicest public image to grannies in Florida,” I shoot back. “You think anyone’s going to buy an album from Gavin Lockwood, Nice Family Bloke?”
“There’s not going to be an album from any other Gavin,” Darcy snaps.
She’s started pacing back and forth in the small room, growling guitar licks leaking through the thin walls separating us from the stage where we’re due in forty-five minutes.
“No one’s interested in the liability of Junkie Mess Gavin, no matter how good his songs are.”
And there it fucking is, the worst truth, the ice pick to the heart. I wrote great fucking songs when I was high as a kite and since I got clean I haven’t written a note.
Suddenly I can’t be here, in this room, with Darcy any more. I stride for the door Trent left through.
“I’m not pretending to fuck some angel-faced child to make a fat asshole in a suit happy,” I say, and yank the door open.
“Jesus fucking—”
I shut the door before Darcy can get to Christ, walking down the passageway along the back wall of the Whiskey Room, a ratty black curtain the only thing separating me from the musical overtures of Skullfuck, our opener.
I open another door to another room, and then stop short. It’s half-filled with young blonde women in sky-high heels and tight dresses, all holding glasses of champagne, and for a few moments I wonder if they’re lost.
Then one of them comes over and hugs me, kissing each cheek like we’ve met before.
“Gavin!” she says, flashing a very white smile. “Thank you so much for letting me hang out with the band.”
Bingo. It’s Larry’s trophy wife whose name I can’t recall. I just smile and nod at her, doing my best to be congenial.
“Not a problem,” I say, crossing the small room away from her. I grab a guitar off a stand and hoist it over my shoulder, because I need an excuse to leave. I’ve had more than enough blonde girls for the day.
“It’s so cool,” another one gushes. I nod at her.
“I’ve got to go tune, but have a lovely time, yeah?” I say, my hand already on the doorknob.
They look like they’re about to pout, but I head through the door before I have to see it, a faint “Bye!” trailing after me. I’d completely forgotten that Larry talked me into letting his new wife and ten of her closest friends come backstage before the show. I think it’s her birthday or something.
Down another hallway, Skullfuck loud as ever, through a door, right, and then I’m outside at last in a near-quiet alleyway. It’s set up as a smoker’s outpost with Christmas lights and two plastic chairs, but no one smokes any more so I’m alone.
I ease the door closed carefully, leaving it just barely ajar so I can get back in, and lean against the wall, taking a deep breath of the cool, dry Los Angeles air.
And I begin to feel guilty.
Maybe Darcy’s right. I’ve fucked up spectacularly, and Dirtshine isn’t just my band, it’s theirs too. Maybe I owe it to her and Trent to pretend to date Daisy for a few months, no matter how little she interests me. Surely there are worse things than having dinner with a pretty girl who’s a bad conversationalist.
I thumb the A string. A hair flat. The sound is quiet and twangy when the guitar’s not plugged into an amp, and it feels muffled in this alleyway as I twist the knob, tightening the string.
I do the same to the E string. Realistically, I’m sure I could get away with a single date a week, maybe two hours. Just two hours, how bad could it be?
Someone pushes the door open, steps outside, and stops.
Holy mother of God.
I can’t see much more than a silhouette, but I freeze, thumb poised above my guitar strings.
And I just stare at this woman.
It’s been ages since I actually found someone attractive. It’s been even longer since I found myself simply staring at
someone, but there’s something about the curves of her body, the way she’s standing, the arc of her neck as she looks around.
Then I notice the door swinging shut behind her, and I’m unfrozen.
“Oi!” I shout. “Don’t let that door—”
It shuts. She whirls around, one hand on her briefcase, and then lunges for the door but of course it’s already locked. That doesn’t stop her tugging on it for a moment while I watch her, suspicion unfurling in my chest.
She’s carrying a briefcase and dressed like she’s on her way to the board meeting of Pointless Wankers, Inc.
I wouldn’t put it above Crumble City to keep tabs on me, the fuckers. In fact, given all our recent communications, I’d almost be surprised if they didn’t send spies to this show, to make sure that I’m not high or strung out.
And they think that if they send a fucking gorgeous woman to spy on me, I won’t mind.
As I said: fuckers.
The sexy spy woman pulls on the door again, pointlessly, then finally looks up at the wall.
“Useless,” I call, standing, arms crossed over my chest. “It’s locked tighter than a spinster’s arsehole.”
She turns and looks at me, surprise written all over her very pretty face.
Busted.
4
Marisol
I yank on the door one more time, but it’s obviously not going to work. Instead of finding Brianna’s birthday party I’ve locked myself in an alley with a man who just used the phrase spinster’s arsehole.
The door doesn’t open. I admit defeat and turn toward the voice.
“Sorry, love,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. “Tighter than a spinster’s butthole.”
I think he’s a roadie, because he’s out here, leaning against the wall, a guitar slung over one shoulder. But instead of apologizing, like I should, I don’t say anything.
Because he’s really hot. Probably the hottest roadie ever.
Not that I’ve met a lot of roadies. I don’t go to a lot of concerts, and especially not a lot of secret, cool concerts, but my impression of roadies was that they were mostly dour, stringy-haired guys with weird facial hair.
This guy, on the other hand, is wearing a black t-shirt that’s bulging at the biceps and chest, all broad shoulders and powerful arms. He’s got two full-sleeve tattoos, deep brown eyes, and a square jaw.
And he’s looking me up and down, taking in the heels, the briefcase, the whole dressed-for-success outfit that is wildly out of place right now.
I’m trapped in an alleyway. There’s an extremely attractive man here, with a British accent no less, and he just used the phrase “spinster’s butthole.”
Law school has not prepared me for this, but I open my mouth anyway.
“I’m shocked at spinster, not asshole,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say that since my great-grandma died.”
I take a good look at him, one hand steadying my briefcase on my shoulder, sizing him up. Hot but smug, and there’s something else I can’t put my finger on about his expression — there’s something just a little dangerous about it, like he’s challenging me to something.
He raises one eyebrow. Surprise: it’s very attractive.
“I’m sure your great-grandma and I have a quite a lot else in common,” he says. “I also fancy a good knitting session and a nice cup of tea on my nights off. Staying in, watching telly, bedtime at ten, that’s me these days. Not a lick of fun.”
“Well, Nana stays in all the time, being dead,” I point out, my eyes narrowing.
I have no idea why this man is telling me how quiet and uneventful his life is. Is he hitting on me?
Do I look like someone whose knees go weak at the phrase knitting session?
“Then our lives are about equally interesting,” he says.
“You’ve had five children and hide the good tequila in the Guadalupe statue by the stove?”
“I haven’t got any good tequila to hide,” he counters. “Nor any children.”
“Sounds like your life is actually less interesting than hers was,” I say.
We’re definitely arguing, and I definitely have no idea why.
“Leaps and bounds less,” he says, and then we just look at each other for a long moment. I pull my phone out.
“Let me text my friend,” I say. “She can come open the door.”
“Right,” he says, and sits down in an ugly plastic chair. I text Brianna that I’m trapped in an alleyway and hope she’s not too annoyed to come rescue me.
I wait. She doesn’t text back. My feet are screaming because of my shoes and my shoulder’s screaming because of the heavy bag, so I brace myself against the door and give it one more good, hard yank because I don’t really feel like being in this alley with a standoffish jerk, no matter how hot he is.
The door doesn’t open. The standoffish jerk laughs.
“It’s quite locked,” he calls, tooling around a little on the guitar.
I take a deep breath, eyes closed, and then I walk over to the other plastic chair and sit in it, because if I’m going to be stuck out here I may as well not be on my feet.
“Just double-checking,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. “I’d feel like an idiot if it weren’t locked and we were out here for no reason.”
“No worries, there’s a reason,” he says. “You ruined my carefully executed plan.”
I snort. Screw this guy.
“Your half-assed plan was not carefully executed,” I say.
“Like hell it wasn’t,” he retorts, fingers still plucking at the guitar strings, a faint melody issuing forth. “It does take finesse to leave that door almost closed.”
“I’m certain you could have found a chunk of cinderblock out here to prop it open if you’d tried,” I say, leaning my head back against the concrete wall. “That’s a plan.”
“There’s a trick,” he says. “If you leave the door too far open the alarms go off, and then you’ve got management up your arse when you’re just trying to tune an instrument in peace.”
“And you’d prefer your ass stay tight as a spinster’s,” I say without thinking.
He stops tooling around with the guitar and looks at me. I meet his gaze.
He’s not smiling, but he’s kinda close.
“I’d prefer management at least buy me a few drinks first,” he says, his eyes just barely crinkling at the corners.
I raise my eyebrows.
“And you tried to tell me that your life is all knitting, tea, and television,” I say. “Not that I believed you.”
That was the wrong thing to say, because his face changes. The almost-smile disappears, and he looks down, both hands back on the guitar, half-playing some fast, angry melody that sounds vaguely familiar.
“Nah, of course not,” he mutters, half to himself. “It’s not as if people can change without a bleeding nanny around to supervise, right?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it sounds weird and paranoid, and I’m starting to get nervous. I stand, pain throbbing through my feet, and hoist my briefcase over my shoulder.
“I’m gonna walk around front,” I say.
“There’s a fence,” he says without looking up.
“Then I’ll walk around the block.”
“Fence both ways,” he says.
I frown. That’s a pretty serious code violation.
“This is a fire exit,” I say, pointing at the door.
He glances at it.
“Indeed,” he says.
“You can’t have a fire door open onto a blind alley,” I say. “What if the building catches fire? People will just be trapped here instead of inside.”
“Perhaps you could tattle to the fire marshal as well,” he suggests. “Two birds with one stone.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. I probably shouldn’t get in a yelling match with a stranger who’s got a good eight inches and eighty pounds on me in a mostly-dark alley, but t
oday has been stupid.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I finally ask, my voice raising. “I don’t know what crawled up your butt and died, but if you’ve got some prob—”
The door opens, cutting me off, and Brianna teeters out in a tiny dress and sky-high shoes.
“Mare?” she calls.
Thank Christ.
“Bree!” I say. “I’m so sorry, I got weird directions from the bouncer and then this door locked by accident and I—”
She’s not even looking at me anymore, she’s looking at the British jerk.
“Gavin!” she says, cutting me off. “Jeez, good thing I found you!”
He smiles tightly and stands.
The thought crosses my mind: maybe he’s not a roadie.
Brianna would never in a million years know a roadie’s first name.
“I do turn up in the strangest places,” Gavin says.
“Come on!” Brianna says brightly, stepping back. We both follow her into the Whiskey Room, silently, as I wish I hadn’t just lost my cool.
Once inside, Gavin pushes open one of the other doors — apparently it sticks, that’s why I thought it was locked — and disappears while Brianna grabs my arm, practically dragging me along.
“You didn’t tell me you were out there with Gavin,” she says.
I didn’t know I was out there with Gavin, I think.
“I was hoping I was important enough to get rescued on my own,” I say.
She squeezes my arm and laughs.
“Stop it, you know what I meant,” she says, and opens another door, leading me through.
On one side of the room is a gaggle of women dressed to party, all clearly her friends, all holding champagne glasses. On the other is a slightly grungier collection of people who look considerably more at home in the Whiskey Room, all ripped denim and t-shirts.
The two halves aren’t interacting.
“Here,” Brianna says, pushing a champagne flute into my hands. “They told me the show is starting in ten minutes, so make sure you have a drink!”
We clink our glasses together. I wish her happy birthday. Then I put down the plastic bookstore bag and briefcase and try to join the girl-gaggle conversation.