Never Enough: A Rockstar Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Only a little, but due mainly to the particulars,” I say carefully. My fingers trace a slow oval around a midsection of her back, her wild, curly hair tickling my face. “If you’d been having an excellent time I’d have been quite tempted, but given that you were miserable and didn’t even have the pot on you any longer, the idea wasn’t terribly alluring.”

  She sighs.

  “I can’t believe I just ate those gummi bears after specifically noticing that they tasted weird,” she admits. “I had common sense once, I think.”

  “It’s been pushed out of your head by all that book learning,” I say.

  “I think I’ve just gotten soft in college and law school,” she says. “I used to be a street-wise badass.”

  I just laugh.

  “Okay, I used to be more street-wise,” she says. “I did grow up in East L.A.”

  “I can’t imagine you walking around with brass knuckles and punching the snot out of your rivals,” I say.

  “I did punch a punching bag with brass knuckles once,” she says. “It didn’t go that well, I wasn’t holding them right and I managed to bruise my hand really bad. I was actually afraid I’d broken it.”

  “Such a badass,” I murmur.

  “I kicked a boy in the nuts for bothering Brianna,” she goes on. “And the only reason his friends didn’t come after me was because they thought it was hilarious that a girl had taken him down like that.”

  “Brianna,” I say. I know I know that name, but I can’t place it.

  “Larry’s wife,” Marisol says. “The blond who invited me to your secret show.”

  “She’s from your neighborhood?”

  “She grew up down the block from me,” she says. “We used to play Barbies together. Well, knockoff Barbies.”

  “And now she’s married to Larry?”

  Marisol just laughs and rolls over until her chin is propped up on my chest and she’s looking at me.

  “Her dad’s... Salvadorean, I think,” Marisol says. “She dyes her hair blond and wears blue contacts so she can pass for white.”

  “I really thought she was a spoiled rich girl from Beverly Hills or something,” I go on. “Though it does explain why you’re friends in the first place, I always found that a bit strange.”

  “When I went to college, she started getting low-level modeling jobs,” she says. “She’d waitress at clubs, be that girl who walks around half-naked with a tray of shots, and eventually she started getting hired for private parties and... poof, now she’s married to a rich lawyer with fancy celebrity friends.”

  “I think clients is the word you’re looking for,” I say. “Larry and I aren’t exactly getting pints down at the local together.”

  “She would be very upset to hear you say that,” Marisol murmurs, rolling her cheek down so now she’s on my chest, looking at me sideways, the upper half of her body draped across me.

  I’ve got one hand in the notch of her waist, though alluring as she is right now, it might take an act of God for me to get hard again.

  “To hear Brianna tell it, you and Larry are close, personal friends, and you’re over at their house for dinner practically every night.”

  “I’ve been to his house once.”

  “Then she talks about that one time a whole lot,” Marisol says, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  “This is the problem with being incredibly famous, wealthy, and good looking,” I say.

  “Please, tell me your problems,” she teases.

  “Everyone’s only interested in you until your star dims,” I say. “And then they’re onto the next hot young thing.”

  “I’ve already got the phone number of the lead singer from... that band that wore the matching suits to the awards,” she says. “Monkey Avenue Riot or something?”

  “I can tell you’re a huge fan.”

  “The second your next album doesn’t go palladium, I’m calling him.”

  I just grin at her.

  “What?”

  “Then you’d better call right now, given it’s platinum,” I tell her.

  She rolls off of me and lays on her back, her head still on my arm.

  “I started the new album,” I hear myself say.

  Then I shut my mouth in surprise. I’d decided not to tell anyone I was writing songs again, not until I’d gotten a few done I was happy with. I still believe in jinxes, after all.

  “When?” Marisol asks.

  I roll over toward her, the bed frame creaking, and put one hand on her belly, stroking the soft skin there. She puts a hand on top of mine.

  “A week or two ago,” I say. “I found a few demo tapes from the tour I’d recorded that I thought I’d lost, and they’re a bit rubbish, but they got me going again at least.”

  That’s not precisely the truth. I did find the tapes, and I have been writing again, but I don’t think the tapes were what did it. It’s not the only thing that happened a few weeks ago.

  “Did you tell Darcy and Trent?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I say. “They both think I’ve been hard at work on the album this whole time.”

  Marisol gives me a very skeptical look.

  “Or, rather, I’ve been telling them that and what they believe is up to them,” I correct myself. “But I can’t exactly go back now and say, hey, guess what I’ve got three tracks done already, I know I said I had more last week, would you like to hear them?”

  She goes quiet for a long moment, tracing the outline of my hand on her belly with one fingertip. It’s hypnotic and soothing, and even though it’s not yet ten at night, I catch myself starting to drift off.

  “I know I’m a pretty recent addition,” she says, suddenly. “But I think they’re so angry with you because they love you. You guys are practically family.”

  Practically, I think. Excepting Liam, the one who really is almost my brother. Him we just threw away like rubbish, and now he’s living in my guest bedroom because he’s got nowhere else.

  “I’ll tell them,” I say. “I just need a little while to work on the songs on my own.”

  I don’t say anything to Liam about her. I’ve not even told her that he’s living with me, and though I almost bring it up now, instead I go quiet and let her trace my fingers until I’m nearly asleep.

  I’ve failed. I’ve failed Liam by letting him spiral down again, and I’ve failed my own recovery plan by letting an addict stay with me. I don’t know that he’s shooting up again, but I’m neither blind nor stupid, and I can see the path he’s on.

  But I like this, lying peacefully in Marisol’s bed, in her tiny flat, her research books on addiction next to us. I need her to know that I’m trying, because I am trying, and admitting that Liam’s in my house right now feels like letting her down.

  I’ll boot him. I’ll figure out something to help him, send him back to rehab or something, and then I’ll boot him before she ever even asks.

  “You’re staying, right?” she says softly, and her voice filters through my nearly-asleep brain until I wake up.

  “If I’m allowed,” I say, murmuring into her hair.

  She doesn’t say anything but she turns her back to me and snuggles into my arms. I fall asleep feeling her breathe.

  28

  Marisol

  I’m awake at six, the sun just starting to nose through my curtains. Gavin’s still in my bed, still sound asleep, face down on his pillow with one arm thrown over me.

  I stretch. He rolls over in his sleep and pulls me toward him, one arm under my head and one across my torso until I’m half-wrapped in his hard, warm body. Carefully, I kiss him on his shoulder, a black-and-gray rose tattoo beneath my lips. He doesn’t move.

  We stay like that for a while, and even though I know I need to get up, make coffee, have breakfast, read over my notes one last time and then get on the bus for my 8 a.m. class, I let myself drift in and out of sleep for a while.

  At last, he makes a deep grumbling noise and rolls over onto his back.
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  His morning wood looks like a circus tent, and I get out of bed blushing furiously. I pee and make coffee, but my eyes keep coming back to it, because this is the first time I’ve really seen it in all its...

  ...Well, majesty. Let’s use the correct word here. Not that I’m all that experienced — two sex partners plus oral, remember? — but I’m fairly certain that Gavin’s dick is way at the upper end of the bell curve.

  And right now, standing in the designated kitchen area of my little apartment, I’m getting kind of wet looking at it. That and remembering last night and how ridiculously good that thing felt.

  He grunts again and rolls over, his erection under him now. It’s 6:45, and I need to leave by seven at the latest, so I turn back to making coffee, then drink it while flipping through my reading notes from yesterday.

  Though it’s pretty hard to concentrate with Gavin in my bed, even asleep. I’d much rather spend the day there, with him, than a seminar about tort law and then proofreading articles for the Los Angeles Law Review, where I’m the managing editor.

  Or reading the ten thousand emails and texts I have from Valerie and Nigel. I slide my phone into my bag, because I can read those on the bus.

  At seven, I’m packed up and ready to leave, so I sit next to him on the bed, lean over, and kiss him on the forehead. His eyes open slowly, and he just blinks at me for a few seconds before lifting his head off the pillow and looking around.

  “Hey,” he finally says.

  “I’ve gotta go to class,” I say. “Can you lock the knob when you leave?”

  He pushes one hand through his hair, then rubs my back lightly, frowning a little.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Where are you going?”

  “Class.”

  “Right.”

  He looks at the clock, then closes his eyes, opens them again like he’s trying to read hieroglyphs, and his hand settles on my lower back.

  “Have you got to leave right now?” he asks, his lips curving into a smile, his voice still rough and dusky with sleep. “I’ve got a legal briefing you could study.”

  I’ve never been more tempted by something, possibly ever, but I take a deep breath. I cannot start missing classes or showing up late just because of a guy, not even this guy, so close to finals and graduation.

  “I’ll study it later,” I promise, grinning.

  “Why not study now and later?” he asks, his accent thick and rough as he takes my hand and kisses the back of it.

  There’s the circus tent again, and my whole body pulses with desire this time even though I’m trying to ignore it. I can’t believe I’m turning into goo at the mere silhouette of a penis.

  Even though it’s a hell of a silhouette.

  “I’ll text you later,” I say, and kiss him on the lips.

  He winds his fingers into my hair and holds me down, against him, lazily curling his tongue into my mouth. My body thrills all the way to my toes, and I’m a hair’s breadth from tossing my bag to the floor and climbing on top of him, because I can be late once right?

  But Gavin ends the kiss.

  “Better get going,” he says. “I don’t want to be responsible for you failing out of law school.”

  He kisses my hand one more time, and then I leave. I hold my breath as I walk through the hall of my apartment building and down the stairs, trying to slow my heartbeat and calm my nerves, because I’ve got a whole day of law stuff before I can even think about seeing him again and finally—

  I open the exit of the staircase and stop in my tracks.

  My building has a glass front door, and outside on the steps, there’s five men with cameras, standing around and shooting the shit.

  No. Six. Shit.

  I duck back into the stairwell.

  Maybe it’s a coincidence and they’re here to photograph someone else, I think. There’s a ton of people living here, I can’t be the only one...

  Yeah, right.

  I shake my head, then peek around the door again to see what they’re doing. Still just standing around, talking to each other, not paying a ton of attention, so I cross my fingers and say a quick prayer to whichever saint is in charge of not getting stalked by paparazzi.

  Then I exit the staircase and turn left, away from the front door. I don’t look back, and I just pray they’re not interested or haven’t figured out who I am as I head through the laundry room and leave my building through an alley door.

  Thankfully, they’re not out back, and they’re not by the alley, so I walk a few extra blocks to a different bus stop, and I text Gavin on the way.

  Me: Photogs by the front door. If you head away from them you can leave through the laundry room out back.

  Gavin: Bugger.

  Gavin: Thanks.

  Gavin: I’ve an unpleasant sensation that we missed quite a lot of news yesterday.

  Waiting for the bus, I start going through my emails and texts. The articles that Valerie sent us yesterday — Drummer Dishes Dirt — was just the beginning. That post didn’t have the video.

  There’s a video now. My stomach curls around itself. I really, really don’t want to watch, but I put in my headphones and make myself do it.

  It’s blurry. It’s shaky. It’s shot on the front driveway of the house where the party was on Saturday, and then it focuses in on Eddie, holding a can of beer up to one eye.

  “Eddie! What happened?” a voice says.

  “That goddamn asshole punched me,” he says.

  “Gavin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d he punch you?”

  “Because he’s a fucking psychopath, man!”

  “He just punched you out of nowhere?”

  Eddie turns away from the camera and paces back toward the house, beer can still held to his face.

  “Eddie, why’d he punch you?” the disembodied voice says again.

  Eddie turns toward the camera.

  “Because he’s a fucking dick!” he shouts, waving one hand in the air. He’s pretty obviously drunk, even on this blurry, shaky video.

  “Is that all?”

  “No, he’s a fucking stuck up British asshole who thinks that just because he got clean he can just be a dick, like, to whoever he wants!” Eddie says, his voice rising. “Like, great fucking job, man, I’ve been off heroin for twenty-four years! I don’t even have a pay a girl to hang around me! The fuck are you punching me for, man? He’s the fucked up one.”

  I clench my jaw and take a deep breath, staring into the middle distance. He makes it sound like Gavin’s hiring prostitutes or something.

  Plus, he’s obviously leaving out the part where he left drugs disguised as candy just sitting around. I’m slowly getting furious, watching him act like Gavin just punched him for no reason.

  “What do you mean, he pays girls to hang around? Like prostitutes?”

  Eddie waves the arm that’s not holding the beer to his face again.

  “No, man, not prostitutes, but that chick he’s with?”

  “Marisol?”

  “Yeah, whatever her name is. He’s fuckin’ paying her so he looks like he’s got a regular girlfriend, but she’s just. Like. Getting paid. To be there.”

  “She’s an escort?”

  The voice behind the camera is clearly starting to get excited at this huge, juicy scoop.

  “No, I think she’s in law school, dude, but like. He paid her. To come tonight. They’re totally faking it.”

  There’s a commotion off the screen, and the camera turns, tracking a red blur marching toward Eddie. Darcy glares at the camera, holds one hand out toward the lens, and then pretty much drags him away.

  That’s the end.

  Shit.

  29

  Gavin

  Eddie’s a fucking unbelievable prick.

  I punched him because I’m the asshole? I finally got off heroin while he drugged someone without her knowledge or permission and I’m the psychopath?

  If he thinks that’s what I am he’s
not seen psychopath, though I’ll show it to him happily. This first punch was a little girl’s tea party argument compared to what I’ll—

  The phone rings. Darcy. I take a deep breath and answer, still lying naked in Marisol’s bed.

  “Glad you finally turned your phone on,” she says.

  I swing my legs over the edge and stand up.

  “That cock-headed prick virtually fucking poisoned—”

  “Yeah, I saw the video,” she interrupts me. “Eddie’s a dipshit who ran his mouth off without thinking. We’re in agreement.”

  “Is the goddamn imbecile trying to ruin everything?” I ask. My voice is rising and I’m pacing back and forth in Marisol’s apartment, in front of her tiny kitchen counter.

  “The goddamn imbecile was drunk, angry, and had just been punched,” Darcy says. Even though we’re on the phone, I can picture her perfectly: standing still, one hand on her hip, staring stonily into space. Her master of reconciliation pose. “You can’t tell me you would have reacted much better.”

  “But this is his fault to begin with,” I say, gesturing with one hand. “He’s the one—”

  “I’m not siding with him!” Darcy says. “And I’m not siding with you! I’m trying to keep this stupid gossip tabloid fake girlfriend shitshow from being a total goddamn clusterfuck. Because we were a band again for a few weeks there and it was pretty fucking nice!”

  She has a point and I know it, though I’m still mad. I don’t say anything, just pace back and forth, stewing silently.

  “Gavin,” she says.

  “He’s an absolute wanker,” I mutter.

  “Gav.”

  “And a fucking—”

  She just clears her throat loudly.

  “Fucking Christ woman, Jesus, I’m finished,” I say, but there’s no real force behind it. Talking to Darcy always makes me swear at least twice as much as I do normally.

  “Thanks,” Darcy says. “Have you or Marisol talked to anyone in the media?”