Never Enough(10)

"It's been ages since I wanted to see someone again just to finish a conversation," I say. "And - Christ, this sounds tawdry - I chased after you on Friday because you were the first person who I didn't want to see leave."

She makes a face.

"Sorry about that," she says, her voice quiet and less angry now. "And thanks for the book. It really helped."

I sit opposite her in a pristine swivel chair and lean my elbows on my knees.

"That's all it is," I say, my voice quieter now. "I like talking to you and I need someone I can spend time with. It's not a sex thing, it's not some complicated way of getting you into bed. I need a friend is all."

We look at each other for a moment.

Of course I'd like it to be a sex thing. I've spent the past three nights thinking about Marisol's thighs around my ears while I had a wank.

But I'm not stupid. If I were to say oh and also let's shag she'd be out of here like a rocket.

"And I'll pay you a million dollars," I say. "Sorry, buried the lede again."

Marisol freezes.

"You're joking," she says.

"I'm not," I say. "Though I did get a bit carried away there and neglect to mention that quite important aspect of this transaction. It's not just for shits and giggles."



       
         
       
        

Marisol's slowly going pink, the color creeping up her neck, clashing with her light green blouse even in the dark.

"Is that legal?" she asks.

"You're honestly asking me?" I say, grinning. "I've not been too concerned with legality so far. That's more your department, love."

She stands suddenly, clearing her throat, glancing through the frosted glass wall.

"I have to think about this," she says, sounding almost apologetic.

Fucking unbelievable. I'm on the cover of the Rolling Stone in the lobby, I just offered her a million dollars, and she's got to think it over.

Any other girl would have said yes ages ago. Before I got a second sentence out. I wouldn't have even needed to take over some stranger's office.

But I don't want any other girl. I want Marisol to be the one pretending to like me, so thinking it over is what I get.

I did ask for this. Quite literally.

"Are you going to negotiate?" I tease. "You want a million dollars, posh dinners, diamonds, and a vacation to a private island, is that it?"

"Is that what I should hold out for?" she asks, her brown eyes sparkling. "You must be a terrible poker player."

"I am, but because I can never remember the rules and bugger it up," I say, standing as well.

I grab the door handle. She's standing in front of me, but I hesitate for a moment, long enough for her to look back.

"Marisol," I murmur, suddenly so close that I can smell her shampoo and all my nerves sing at once, suddenly alive. "Say yes."

I know she won't, not right now, so I pull the door open without giving her time to answer and we walk down the hall, to the receptionist's desk, in front of the elevators. She shifts her briefcase on her shoulder as the elevator doors open.

"I'll call you," she says, and walks into one. The doors close.

I turn back toward Larry's office, catching sight of myself on Rolling Stone.

Smug cocky bastard, I think at my photo.





10





Marisol





I take the elevator down in a daze, because I feel like someone's inserted a hand mixer into my ear and scrambled my brains, because all at once I'm angry, confused, and slightly offended, but a million dollars.

A million dollars.

I could buy my parents a house. Real estate prices in Los Angeles are completely insane, but a million dollars would get them something small but nice in a good neighborhood. Their rent would never go up again. They'd never get evicted again. They could actually save that money for retirement. 

I don't think they've ever actually considered retiring.

I could pay off my student loans, even the ones from law school. I could pay off my sister's student loans.

I could study for the bar exam and look for a job without worrying about stringing together enough work to pay for rent and food in the meantime. When I get a job, I can save my money instead of putting most of a paycheck toward my student loans.

That's what a million dollars would mean.

It would mean not worrying about money.

I have no idea what that feels like. Thinking about money, putting a cost on nearly everything I do, is second nature to me. I just assumed that I'd always worry about money, every day, for the rest of my life.

When I get to the plaza downstairs I sit on a bench for a moment and just stare into space, trying to think. It seems like it can't be real, but we were in Larry's office. I may not be crazy about the guy, but he's a real lawyer, and I don't think signing a contract to be a fake girlfriend is illegal.

And then despite myself, I think about the Rolling Stone cover again. I think about watching Gavin on stage Friday, the way Dirtshine made hundreds of people all lose their minds at once. The way he moves on stage, his deep raspy voice, his hands moving on the guitar.

At least I know I'm not alone in thinking that he's ridiculously hot, pure British sex. The mystery is why the hell he wants me.

I know he was just saying what he thought I wanted to hear, piling on the sort of flattery he thought someone in law school would like, but it worked. He's sweet. He's funny. He's a little broken - okay, he had a heroin problem, so a lot broken - but I wouldn't mind spending more time with him.

We seem to get along, after all, but this is still insane. No respectable person would do it, I know that much.

Except: a million dollars.

And the way he murmured say yes, just before I left.

I shake my head and stand. I've got a day or two to think this over, so no need to decide right now.

I heave my second-hand briefcase over my shoulder, adjust my sale-rack suit, and walk to the bus.



Million-dollar fake boyfriend aside, I make myself stick to my priorities. That means going over the notes I took on my reading for class tomorrow, studying for a possible quiz Friday, starting next week's reading, and editing the first ten pages of this terrible undergraduate essay.

Then, when all the things on my to-do list under "Tuesday Priorities" are finished, I put everything away, get another mug of tea, and tackle this Gavin problem in the best way I know how: with research.

It takes hours, because wow is there a lot on the internet about Gavin Lockwood.

Here's the short, sweet version: he grew up in a village in Northern England along with his close friend and future bandmate Liam Fenwick. Yes, that Liam. They formed a band in high school, went to college - sorry, university - for a short period, then dropped out and moved to London.

That band broke up. They formed another, and it broke up as well, but one fortuitous night they met Darcy Greene and Trent Ryder, both Americans, and Dirtshine was born.

Then came the usual struggle in obscurity, though after a while they managed to get signed to a label and release an album that did okay, so they released a second album, Lucid Dream.

Lucid Dream was huge. Triple platinum, world tour, TV shows and magazine covers and constant radio play, the whole nine yards.

It was around then that, according to his Wikipedia article, "Gavin's heroin addiction became more serious and problematic, and the Dirtshine frontman grew erratic."

Gavin's erratic behavior culminated in the night that he and Liam didn't show up at a gig, and they were found strung out in Liam's hotel room, along with a roadie named Allen Liddell. All three were transported to a hospital, where Allen died of an overdose, Liam was in a coma for two days, and Gavin came out of it the next morning.



       
         
       
        

Then: thirty days in rehab, possession charges reduced to misdemeanors, community service. Dirtshine is reportedly "hard at work on their next album," albeit with a new drummer, not Liam. Apparently Liam also went to rehab, but if I had to hazard a guess based on his behavior Friday night, I'd say it didn't stick.

I get up, make another cup of tea and a sandwich, and get back to it. This time it's endless articles about recovering from heroin addiction: the Mayo Clinic, Narcotics Anonymous, addiction.

I put books on hold at the school library. I use my law school login to read articles on the cutting edge of addiction science, and even though I don't entirely understand all the neurochemistry involved - okay, I don't understand it at all - I keep going until it's nearly one in the morning and I've still got no answer.

Everything I've read says that addicts recovering for the first time are pretty likely to relapse, and the scholarship suggests that it often takes more than one try for recovery to "stick." But at the same time, the people least likely to relapse have a support network of non-addicts. They "form social bonds outside the sphere of addiction," meaning they make non-junkie friends.

I fall asleep still not knowing what the right answer is. Yeah, I'd love to have a million dollars, but I don't know if I can take it from someone falling back under the drug's sway, and I don't exactly think I'll be the difference between him staying clean and relapsing.

But on the other hand, I am a social bond outside the sphere of addiction. And I like Gavin.