by Roxie Noir
My parents don’t find a place. I’m on the phone with them every other day, with my sister, trying to figure out a plan. I can’t believe this is happening — there are so many apartments in Los Angeles, how can we not find one?
But we can’t. Not that they can afford. I start searching for apartments when Gavin’s not around, doubling down on my determination not to tell him. I don’t know why. Pride, probably.
The next Thursday I’ve got a test — cruel this close to finals, but not surprising — and then a paper due Friday, so I don’t see much of Gavin for a few days. I feel bad, but this is temporary, and besides, he’ll still be there this weekend.
Wednesday night at eight there’s a loud knock on my door, and I jump in my chair, tearing my headphones off. My brain runs through all the bad scenarios that could be happening — landlord didn’t get my rent check and is evicting me, police are here to tell me someone’s dead, burglars, rapists — but when I look through the peephole, I see Gavin’s grinning face.
He holds up a plastic bag.
I sigh and open the door, partly annoyed and partly thrilled that he’s here. It’s not that I didn’t want to see him. Not at all. He’s just a distraction, no matter how nice.
“You do need to eat,” he says. “You like Thai, right?”
He looks over my shoulder and his eyes land on the jar of peanut butter, spoon stuck inside, sitting on my desk.
The bag he’s holding smells amazing.
“All right, fine, you can come in,” I say, smiling.
“Twenty minutes and I’m gone,” he says, bending to kiss me. “I just wanted to see you and thought maybe I could barter for entry.”
His eyes crawl down my body, and instantly, I heat up, thinking about exactly which kind of entry I’d like to give him.
We eat on the couch, because I only have one chair and no table that isn’t my desk, currently strewn with notes, books, and my laptop. He explains why Led Zeppelin were geniuses and I go into the finer points of asylum law.
Before I know it, we’re finished, he’s throwing away empty containers and putting the leftovers in my fridge, and I’m sitting on my couch in pajama pants and an old t-shirt while a famous rock star is in my apartment.
I grab him and pull him back down to me.
“You going already?” I ask.
“It’s been twenty-five minutes,” he points out, even as he grabs my ass. “I did promise twenty and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
His lips taste like lemongrass, but mine probably do too. He’s already hard as a rock and just his presence in my apartment has me aching and wet, so before I know it we’re pulling each other’s clothes off, he’s grabbed a condom from my drawer, and I’m riding him hard and fast on my couch.
I come shouting.
When we finish, I stay half on his lap, leaning against him, and as pleasant and peaceful as the moment is, the test tomorrow starts creeping back into my brain.
“You can stay if you want, but I need to get back to work,” I say, tracing a tattoo on his chest.
Gavin just laughs.
“I honestly just meant to bring you dinner,” he says. “I had every intention of leaving afterward and just having a wank at home.”
I laugh.
“I didn’t mind that particular distraction,” I say. “I just have some more studying to do.”
He kisses me, then untangles himself and stands, picking his pants up off the floor.
“You study,” he says. “I’ll see you Friday. I’ve got a surprise.”
“What’s the surprise?” I ask, still naked on the couch.
He buttons his pants, then picks up his shirt. Even though I’m spent I can’t help but enjoy the view, the long, hard muscles in his body, the easy, confident way he moves.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, pulling the shirt on. “Pick you up at five. Pack an overnight bag.”
“An overnight—”
He kisses me.
“Surprise,” he says, grinning. “Friday.”
He lets himself out.
35
Gavin
I spend the day Friday alone and working on the album. I’ve got the phone off, Liam’s somewhere else and has been well-behaved for the past few days to boot.
More and more over the past few weeks, I’ve been fiddling around here and there, recording bits and pieces, melody and lyrics and bridges, but now I sit down in the spare room I’m using as shitty studio and work on putting things together.
It’s not easy. I still spend hours working on chords and melodies, and there’s the underlying sense that what I’m playing isn’t always what’s in my head and I don’t quite know how to get it there, but all that’s normal.
But I’m no longer stunted. I don’t just pick up a guitar and have my mind go blank, or worse, avoid instruments altogether as I did for months. By the time I leave to go pick up Marisol, I’ve got the demos of two songs written and recorded on the ancient tape recorder I still prefer to anything digital, another few tapes filled with snippets of nonsense, half-sung lyrics.
I’m relieved, more than anything, because what I’ve feared most all along isn’t true.
It wasn’t junkie Gavin writing the songs. It was just Gavin.
When I get to Marisol’s place she’s out on the front steps, wearing a dress, sandals, sunglasses, and waiting with an overnight bag. It still irks me that I can’t pick her up properly by knocking on her apartment door, but in nearly a month I’ve never once found a parking spot within a half mile of her building. If I’m coming over the spend the night I’ve started simply taking an Uber.
But I do double park, open her door for her, and give her arse a nice squeeze hello.
“How was your test?” I ask, putting the car into gear and listening to the engine growl.
“I think it went well,” she says, exhaling and leaning her head against the headrest. “There were no surprises, and that’s always good. I might have flubbed the essay a little, but I don’t think it was too bad.”
She turns toward me.
“How was your day?” she asks.
I tell her about finally working again, that I feel good about this album for the first time in a long time. I explain song structure and she tells me about how Disney more or less controls copyright law in the United States. Then we’re on the freeway, heading west, sun shades flipped down.
“So we’re not going to your house,” she says.
Lately she’s been ribbing me that I’m a celebrity with a beautiful house and yet we spend all our time in her tiny flat. It’s not exactly true — I’ve only been there a handful of times, and always because that’s just what made sense — but it makes me uneasy, because I know I’ve not got long before my reticence to bring her home gets suspicious.
I need to get Liam out, but he’s been all right the past few days and I’d hate to fuck him up again.
“You’ll like this much better than my house,” I say. “Besides which, you’re in for a massive disappointment when I do finally let you in because it’s not the Xanadu you’re picturing.”
“Is this your way of telling me you live in a basement apartment with four other guys or something?” she asks.
“I don’t any longer,” I say.
“Maybe you’re one of those weird rich people who lives in a van and hoards all his money.”
“Right,” I say. “It’s purple, has got a green dragon and a naked lady painted on it and in big letters on the back it says don’t come a-knockin if this van’s a-rockin.”
“But is the inside velvet?”
“The fuck do you take me for, Marisol? Of course the inside’s velvet, I’m not a philistine.”
She laughs, the sound filling my car, and my stress about Liam dissolves.
The surprise is The Dune, an oceanfront inn up in Malibu. All the rooms have balconies overlooking the ocean, and they’re known for actually being discreet.
Plus, it’s posh as fuck. Someone val
et parks my car for me, takes our bags and disappears with them. The lobby is all blue and white with furniture that I’m sure cost a ridiculous amount, and in the center is a large wood-burning fireplace with seating all around. As if anyone in Southern California has ever needed a fireplace.
While I check in, Marisol wanders out to the deck and leans against the glass railing, gazing out at the ocean. The sunset frames her body, and for a moment I just stare.
“Mr. Lockwood?” the man behind the counter says, and I realize he’s been saying it. “If you could please sign here...”
I finish, gather our keys, and join Marisol on the deck. She’s wearing a deep blue dress that’s perfectly tasteful but hugs her body in exactly the right way to make my mouth go dry every time I look at her, and she turns around as I walk out, leaning against the railing to face me.
“What now?” she asks, her eyes sparking.
I lean my elbows on the railing next to her, looking out over the beach and the ocean.
“There’s a few options,” I say. “We could take a long walk on the beach. We could head into town and see if anything exciting’s going on. I think I saw a sign for one of those art classes where you paint a landscape while you drink wine.”
She gives me an are-you-kidding-me look, and I grin at her.
“Though I don’t drink wine, so I’d just be painting a landscape,” I say.
“Those are the options?” she teases, inching closer to me. “Those are all the options?”
I slide one hand over her waist and pull her in toward me.
“I don’t think Malibu’s got a bowling alley or I’d say we should do that,” I say, playing it as straight as I can.
“Should we go check on the room?” she asks, like she’s trying to be subtle.
I grin.
“Why?”
Marisol turns faintly pink. I’m determined to make her say because I’d like to have sex with you, even though we both know what she’s getting at.
“To see if...”
She trails off. I raise my eyebrows.
“To see if there’s enough towels? I’m sure there’s plenty.”
Now she’s glaring at me, but trying not to laugh.
“You know,” she says, still pink as she picks up my hand and threads her fingers through mine. “Alone time?”
I lift our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Even if she’s not saying it, I’m getting hard as a rock from sheer anticipation
“We’re alone now,” I point out. It’s close to true. There are a few other people on this deck, but they’re fairly far away.
“Damn it,” she says, and now I laugh.
“I’ve no idea what you’re getting at so you’re just going to have to tell me,” I say.
“I’m getting at sex first and then bowling,” she says, rushing the words a little and turning slightly pinker.
“You should have said that,” I tease her, my voice lowering. “We don’t even have to bowl.”
I kiss her, sliding one hand around her hip. I know we’re in public, sort of, but I can’t help myself sometimes.
When we pull back she’s just looking at me, eyebrows raised.
“Well?” she teases.
It’s a miracle we make it down the hall and get into the room. I’ve got my hands up Marisol’s dress before the door to our room even closes, my fingers digging into her soft skin as she presses herself against me, her mouth on mine.
I push her against the wall of our room’s entryway, opposite an enormous mirror and hook my thumb underneath the band of her underwear, pulling it down.
“You should wear more skirts,” I say. “I like it when you wear skirts.”
“I like it too,” she murmurs, pulling at my shirt. I get it over my head and toss it away, my hand underneath her dress again as I kiss her on the lips, my tongue in her mouth. I slide my fingers between her legs, just barely grazing the slick edges of her lips, and she digs her fingers into my back and gasps.
“You’re going to shred me to ribbons one of these days,” I say, her fingernails pinpricks in my back.
“It’s your own fault,” she murmurs, pulling me down for another kiss.
I circle her clit slowly, lazily. She moans into my mouth and flattens one palm against my aching cock, grabbing me through the rough denim of my jeans, making me groan before she finally undoes them, reaches in, and gives me a long, hard stroke.
I want her now, right here, up against this wall. I don’t care that we’re still half-clothed and in the hotel room’s entry way, I’m goddamn pulsing with the desire to sink myself inside her as I watch the way her eyes darken with pleasure.
There’s a condom in my pocket. I pull it out, but before I can open the foil package Marisol’s already snatched it from me and has it in one fist.
Then she kisses my shoulder, a slow, lingering kiss. She kisses my collarbone, my chest, then she lets me go, whirls me around, pushes me back against the wall so I’m facing the mirror and she kneels.
I’m panting for breath, every muscle tight with anticipation. She strokes me again with her lips on my belly, my hip, and then she tilts her head, and runs her tongue up the underside of my cock, looking me straight in the eyes.
“Fuck, Marisol,” I whisper, my voice rough.
Then she takes me in her mouth and I nearly shout, her lips sliding down the shaft until I hit the back of her mouth and groan. She looks up at me again as she pulls back, swirls her tongue around the tip, takes me in again.
I watch her from two angles, from above and in the mirror, and she’s beautiful and intoxicating and Jesus, this feels good, so good it’s nearly impossible to stop her but I do, one hand in her hair as she pulls back.
“I’m gonna come if you don’t stop,” I say.
“And?”
I bend down, kiss her on the mouth, hand still in her hair. She tastes like me, faintly musky, and God help me it’s fucking sexy that she does.
“And, for days I’ve been thinking of how it feels when you come while I’m inside you,” I murmur, and she wraps her hand around the back of my head, pulling me down.
Before I know it I’m on the floor as well and we’re tangled, her half on top of me. My pants are still on and she’s still got the condom in one hand as I try to push her dress over her head, but there’s a belt or something.
“It unties,” she explains breathlessly, pulling back. She pulls the bow at one side and it loosens, a widening stripe of skin down the middle before she pulls the whole thing off, following it with her bra. I pull her forward, pressing my lips to her soft, warm skin in the valley right between her breasts, her belly, moving with every breath.
And then I spin her around so she’s facing the mirror, me on my knees behind her as I slide both hands over her breasts, pinching her nipples between my fingers, my cock hard as steel against her back. I kiss the side of her neck, still watching her in the mirror as her eyelids lower and she leans back against me, head against my shoulder.
“We can move,” I whisper, thinking of what she told me about mirrors on our first date. “But you’re sexy as fuck and God help me, I like watching you.”
She turns her head toward me and pulls my lips to hers.
“I like it here,” she says, and holds up the condom.
In a split second, I’ve got it open and I’m unrolling it onto my cock, kicking away my jeans. Marisol arches against me, watching herself in the mirror as I kiss her shoulder.
“I get the feeling you like watching as well,” I say, whispering into her ear.
“I don’t know yet,” she says, a smile in her voice. “Convince me.”
She grabs my cock. I wrap one arm around her chest, holding onto her tight, and my other hand around hers, sliding the tip between her lips, just to tease her, then circling her clit once. I wish for a moment that I could really feel her, bare, skin-to-skin.
But then I’m back at her entrance and I sink myself into her with a single stroke, burying myself to th
e hilt, and forget everything else. Marisol groans softly, the same noise she makes every time I enter her.
I fucking live for that noise.
I grab onto her shoulder tighter, pull her against me harder, get as deep as I possibly can. Marisol whimpers, grabbing the back of my neck with one hand as we start moving together.
I don’t take my eyes from the mirror. I can’t. Watching Marisol get fucked like this, back arching, toes curling, is intoxicating and seeing myself do it to her is almost unbelievable.
My hand on her shoulder slips, and she pushes it away, getting to her hands and knees, rocking back against me so hard I see stars and she shouts, tightening around me.
“Harder,” she gasps.
She’s never said that before. I drive myself into her and she falls to her elbows on the floor but moans.
“Sorry,” I gasp out.
“Don’t stop.”
There’s not a fucking chance of that. I grab my jeans and shove them under her hips without stopping, and in moments we’re collapsed onto the floor, her back arched and hips up as her hands claw the carpet and I fuck her as I’ve never fucked anyone before.
It’s fast and hard and deep and raw. Marisol sparks some sort of pure, primal, animal desire in me, something bone deep that I can’t even name but that I can sure as hell feel, like electricity through my veins. I grab her hip and her shoulder and simply drive myself as deep as I can and she moans explosively, so loud I’m certain they can hear her in the hall.
“Gavin,” she whimpers, and a thrill races through me at the way she says it, her head to one side, her eyelids fluttering.
“Say it again.”
“Gavin,” she breathes, her eyes unfocused. “This feels so fucking good.”
I’m on the brink, gritting my teeth together because it’s nearly impossible not to come in a hard rush when she says my name like that, but I can tell she is too.
“Again,” I tell her, because I fucking love how she says it, because I want to hear it as she comes.