by Roxie Noir
I walk to the window, part the curtains slightly, and peer down. There are still a few men with cameras standing around, looking at their phones.
“No,” I say. “Though there’s paparazzi outside her apartment, so getting out may be a bit exciting.”
There’s dead silence on the other end of the phone as I peer through Marisol’s window, watching them below.
It takes me several seconds to realize what I’ve said.
“Are you at Marisol’s right now?”
Fuck.
“No?” I say. “I’m in my own house, obviously, only she just texted me and let me know that there are—”
“You’re at Marisol’s at eight in the morning.”
“I just said I’m not.”
“Is she there?”
I give up.
“No, she left for class already.”
Another long silence.
“I’m so fucking confused,” Darcy admits.
“It’s all a bit complicated,” I agree.
She sighs.
“Look, can you come to my place for lunch?” she asks. “Nigel’s developing two more ulcers and he’s called a meeting for this afternoon, but you and Eddie need to fucking figure it out before that. And then you can explain to me how you’re banging your fake girlfriend, and maybe also how I ended up living in an episode of Days of Our Lives.”
I lean against Marisol’s counter, still pissed at Eddie, but I know Darcy’s got a point. She usually does, even if she expresses it like a particularly blunt and foul-mouthed sailor.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
Darcy lives in a top floor loft of an old building down in Hollywood, so it’s got lots of features that I say are rubbish and she says add charm. Like the elevator with a wrought-iron cage that cranks shut, clicking and clacking all the way to the top.
Inside, her place is all flowing curtains, cushions, houseplants, and graffiti-style canvases on exposed brick walls. Trent is already there, sitting on a cushion in front of a low wooden table with a platter of tacos in the center, and Darcy comes out of the kitchen wearing torn jeans and a Joy Division shirt with two bottles of sparkling water.
“No Eddie yet?” I ask, sitting on a massive cushion at the table. It’s a bit uncomfortable — not my preferred position at all — but I keep my mouth shut and don’t say anything.
“He just texted that he’s running ten minutes late,” Trent says, his voice deep and stoic.
“So, fifteen minutes, minimum,” Darcy says.
“At least he’ll show up.”
I don’t say anything. Trent’s making a point about Liam, and he’s right, and I know it.
“We should just eat before the tacos get cold,” Darcy says, and heaves a couple onto her plate. “Speaking of which, a photographer paid the taco delivery guy to let him bring the tacos to my door, so expect a picture of me flipping off a camera to surface in the next few days.”
“I’ll put it in my scrapbook next to all the others,” Trent deadpans.
“You ought to change up your pose sometimes,” I join in. “Try something else. Both hands maybe.”
“Stick out your tongue,” Trent suggests.
Darcy rolls her eyes.
“Okay, I get it,” she says, and takes a huge bite of taco.
It takes Eddie twenty minutes to show up, and when he does, he’s wearing shorts, thong sandals, and a t-shirt with a cartoon on it. His eye is splotchy purple, the edges of the bruise already turning that ugly yellow color. It wasn’t my best punch, but right now I’m glad for that.
He looks around Darcy’s apartment like he’s already forgotten how he got there, and then finally kicks off his shoes and walks over to us.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sitting on a cushion. “But it’s kind of a madhouse downstairs, I had to run the gauntlet pretty much.”
The three of us are quiet for a moment. I’m tempted to remind him that he had to run the gauntlet precisely because he managed to make the news yesterday with his video, but I think Darcy might stab me with a plastic knife if I say that.
Besides, I’ve spent the morning reading completely moronic internet speculation about the “feud” that’s “heating up” between the two of us. According to the gossip mill, Darcy’s on Eddie’s side while Trent’s on mine, Eddie’s threatening to reveal lots of horrible secrets about the two of us, and Marisol is either a high-class hooker or an innocent victim in all this.
It’s a fucking mess, and even though it’s been a mere twenty-four hours, I’m tired of it.
“Next time go in through the car park,” I say. “They weren’t watching that entrance very well.”
Eddie looks at me. He clears his throat. He looks at his plate, then back at me.
“Sorry, man,” he says stiffly. “I shouldn’t have left the pot candy around.”
I know a canned, Darcy-coached response when I hear one. Eddie’s not looking at me, he’s looking at the table with a dark glare that says he’s not really very sorry at all, that he still thinks what I did is worse than what he did.
Darcy and Trent both look at me.
It’s up to you to not fuck this worse than it’s already been fucked.
“I’m sorry as well,” I say, my voice too formal. “I shouldn’t have punched you.”
There’s another long, awkward silence. It’s a shitty reconciliation, that’s for sure, but it’s better than nothing. It’s a first step.
Eddie clears his throat.
“Is Marisol okay?” he asks around a bite of taco.
“She’s fine. Slept it off.”
“Tell her I’m sorry,” he says. “She’s nice. Probably too nice to be your fake girlfriend.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Darcy shoot Eddie a glare.
Rise above it, I tell myself. Rise above it, rise above it.
“I’ll pass the message on,” I say.
“I like her too,” Darcy says. “And she’s cute.”
“Seems actually sane for once,” Trent agrees.
“Probably a secret freak, though,” says Darcy. “I bet she’s into something weird, like being—”
“Could we not?” I ask.
Eddie frowns, confused. Darcy laughs. Trent rolls his eyes at her.
“I’m just saying,” Darcy goes on. “She’s in law school.”
“Try calling her ‘counsel’ in bed,” Trent suggests.
Darcy’s told him already, of course. They tell each other everything, being best friends.
Eddie looks even more baffled. I stay perfectly and politely silent, because while I’ll admit that Trent and Darcy may know more than they ought to about my sex life in the past, there’s no reason that needs to continue.
“He’s less fun sober,” Darcy says. “We’ll never hear about her weird tattoos.”
“She hasn’t got any,” I say.
Then I sigh. Darcy grins.
“We’ll get there,” Trent says to Darcy.
Eddie seems to have given up entirely on the conversation, and for the rest of the meal, it’s just the two of them versus me. In short: almost like it used to be.
30
Marisol
When I finally finish my hours at the Law Review, it’s nearly six in the evening. The sun is lowering as I walk out of the law school building and onto the quad. Since the law school is on the same campus as the University of Los Angeles, and it’s a gorgeous day, it’s full of undergrads tossing frisbees back and forth, studying on blankets, and a few simply taking naps outside.
I lean against the brick building and stand there, watching. All day I’ve either been in class, trying to avoid my classmates’ eyes, or dealing with the slew of texts, emails, and messages from Valerie, Nigel, and Gavin.
Gavin’s texts I like getting, at least, and even though we’ve been texting for weeks now, my stomach still flutters a little when I see one from him. He’s had lunch with the band, where he and Eddie apologized to each other. It sounds like it coul
d have gone better, but at least it’s no longer a total disaster.
He also texted me that the band knows we’re actually dating and not fake-dating now. I’ve got no idea what this will affect, but I know I like it. Not that I’ve had time to really wonder how much I’m his girlfriend or how real this is or whether it was a secret.
At least, none of my classmates have said anything to me. Even though for the past few weeks it’s felt like the entire world was watching my every move, it turns out not very many law students follow the gossip press religiously. Small mercies, though I’ve got a feeling that’s going to change before too long.
But none of that’s really where my mind is. Even my classes aren’t where my mind is, because my mind is still stuck on last night and this morning, on Gavin in my bed with his arms around me. On getting to see him again tonight, which makes my toes curl in excitement like a teenager on her first date.
Even though we’re going to be in a meeting with his manager, his publicist, and the rest of his band. Not really romance material, but I don’t care.
I take a deep breath, my back against the warm brick, and exhale, trying to calm my nerves a little. I’m already late to the meeting in a hotel conference room near Valerie’s office, and even though I told them I’d be late, I have a feeling that information might not have stuck.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I take another deep breath, then look at it.
The information didn’t stick. Valerie’s wondering, in all caps, WHERE I AM.
The emails all said “The Orange Grove conference room at the Varnish Hotel,” but they didn’t communicate that it’s more like a bedroom-less suite than a conference room, complete with a kitchen, a lounge area, a huge TV, and a room with a giant wooden table.
The kitchen and lounge have snacks, so I grab a quick handful of cheese and crackers before I head in. I figure they’re almost definitely not full of pot.
“You need to regain the trust of the American people,” Valerie is saying.
I close the door behind me, trying to be quiet since the meeting’s already started.
“Glad you could make it, Marisol,” she says, picking up a folder. She holds it out toward me, magenta nails pointing like tiny arrows. I walk around the table and take it.
“She told you she got off work at six so she couldn’t be here right then,” Gavin points out.
Valerie doesn’t respond. I don’t get the sense that this meeting is going very smoothly, and I sit in an empty chair next to Gavin.
“You two are taking a break,” Valerie says, directly to me.
Under the table, Gavin puts one hand on my knee and rubs my kneecap with his thumb. I swallow as warmth prickles down through my body.
“I still think that’s a stupid mistake,” Gavin says. “The rags have just accused me of paying her to go on dates with me, it’ll just look as if we’ve been caught and we’ve given up the jig.”
Valerie sighs. It’s very dramatic.
“I understand why you think that,” she says, lacing her fingers together in front of her, acting as though she’s speaking to a child. “But the media these days is very, very savvy and they know when they’re being bullshitted. Frankly, I’m amazed they didn’t pick up on this before.”
Everyone else at the table, excepting Nigel, looks down all at once, like they’re trying not to smile. Poor Nigel, his windbreaker over the back of his chair, looks skyward.
“But this is just admitting that they’re right and it’s fake,” Gavin says.
“No, this is you requesting privacy at this difficult time,” Valerie says. “Public relations is three-dimensional chess, Gavin. You’ve got to out-maneuver and outfox your opponent.”
Somehow, I manage not to laugh.
“Can’t we just go on acting like a regular couple until they give up and find someone else to bother with?” he says. “Sooner or later they’re going to stop wanting to have all eyes on two adults enjoying one another’s company.”
He leans back in his chair, his hand leaving my knee, though the warm spot stays.
“Listen, Gavin, I get you,” Nigel says.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands out as he looks through his gold-rimmed glasses.
Poor Nigel, I think reflexively. I think that every time I see him.
“You just want to carry on until this all blows over, and that totally makes sense,” Nigel goes on. “But the thing is, with all these revelations, you’ll be under loads more scrutiny than you were before. If you think that on-camera kiss was bad—”
“It was,” Valerie interjects.
“—then just wait for the garden of hellish delights you two will be in for now. You’re a musician, not an actor, mate.”
I make a mental note to ask Gavin about the garden of hellish delights later, glancing sideways at him. I’m nearly positive he hasn’t told Nigel and Valerie about us yet, though I have no idea what that would change.
I do know I’m not interested in loads more scrutiny, though.
He opens his mouth, but I nudge his foot under the table.
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” I offer. “We won’t be seen together for a while, and then we could quietly start showing up to out-of-the-way places and act like we’re not trying to be seen.”
“She gets it,” Valerie says.
Gavin looks at me steadily. I nudge his foot with mine again, hoping that I can properly communicate we don’t have to really take a break, it’s just pretend with the motion.
After a moment, he turns to the table at large.
“Is everyone against me on this?” he asks.
“Yes,” Darcy says, wiggling a pen between two fingers.
“I think Valerie and Nigel have a good point,” Trent says.
Eddie’s not paying any attention at all.
“Fucking hell,” he says mildly, like he’s more surprised than anything. “All right then, I’m outvoted.”
I nudge his foot again, and he nudges me back with his knee.
“But no fucking around,” Valerie says, pointing a magenta-tipped finger at us. “That goes for both of you. You’re just staying out of the limelight for a little while, I don’t want this to be a damn disaster when we re-introduce you.”
Re-introduce. I think they do that with wildlife, when a species has gone extinct in a specific area.
“Got it,” Gavin says. His face is dead serious but he’s got the telltale crinkles around his eyes that mean he’s trying not to smile, and he’s still got his knee against mine.
“Sure,” I agree, trying not to turn pink because Gavin’s playing footsie with me.
“Good,” Valerie says. “Okay. On to the next thing. Eddie, you’ve got a shitload of interviews to do in the next few days, and you’d better be stone cold sober and you’d better bring up your cute dog every other sentence...”
Now that someone else is on the hook, Gavin looks over at me and winks. I wink back.
31
Gavin
“All right,” Valerie says, checking the time on her phone and lacing her fingers together. “I’ve got to go get dinner with a client at The Melrose, so unless anyone’s got anything else to discuss, I think we’re all done here.”
I force myself not to roll my eyes at her ridiculous name-dropping, but I’ve been here almost an hour and a half and I’m quite finished with this meeting. Even Marisol, who’s capable of focusing on something boring for an impressive amount of time, is doodling on her folder while playing footsie with me.
Valerie looks around. No one speaks up.
“Great!” she says, and rises from her chair. “Those champagne cocktails are calling my name.”
She bustles out of the conference room, through the lounge, and out the door.
“Right,” Nigel says, shrugging on his jacket. “We’ve all been given marching orders, yeah?”
Everyone who’s left nods. We all rise and walk for the door, and Nigel sighs dramatically.
“...C
ould use a bleeding cocktail myself...” he mutters, leaving. Eddie’s right behind him, and then the door shuts.
Trent and Darcy stop, then turn toward Marisol and me.
I put my arm around her, because even though they’re my bandmates, they did hate my last girlfriend. Though she was also an unpleasant junkie slag.
“So,” Darcy says. “Are you okay? You seem okay.”
“I’m fine,” Marisol says. “Is... Eddie okay?”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Trent says calmly. Darcy glances at him, but says nothing.
“Okay, question,” she says. “Are we not telling Valerie and Nigel that you two are...”
Don’t say ‘banging.’
“...banging?” she says.
Marisol pushes her hands into her pockets and looks up at me, mischief written on her face.
“Are we not telling Valerie and Nigel that we’re banging?” she asks.
Darcy and Trent both look much too pleased at this.
“We can if you’d like a press release about it,” I say.
“I think I’d like a press release about it,” Trent offers. “‘The members of Dirtshine are excited and honored to announce that frontman Gavin Lockwood has recently begun boning a law student...’”
“‘...who is thrilled and honored to be hopping on the D...’” Darcy adds.
“‘...and will be staying on through repeated upcoming releases.’”
“Okay,” I say, but both of them are already laughing at their own dumb joke.
Marisol’s pink, but she’s also laughing. I give in.
“You know how those two are,” I say. “Her first question would be whether we’d be willing to release a sex tape.”
“Are you?” Trent asks.
“The fuck do you think, mate?”
He just shrugs, still grinning.
“You should see the emails she’s sent us,” Marisol chimes in. “There were bullet-pointed ‘physical affection benchmarks.’”
“Holy shit,” Darcy breathes.
“Hand-holding was date one, but hand-holding on the table during dinner was date three,” Marisol goes on. “And she repeatedly demanded that we achieve ‘lip-on-lip.’”