I laugh, and as I do I fight the urge to reach out to him, put a hand on his knee or something, lean my forehead against his. More and more, every time I'm near him - even alone, like this - the deep, instinctual part of my brain is whispering at me to touch him, make all those little gestures that couples do.
I don't, but for just a moment, I glance up, into his eyes.
The air sucks out of the room and suddenly the conference room doesn't exist, the fluorescent lighting doesn't exist, this high rise doesn't exist. It's just us, his deep brown eyes staring into mine, every inch of my skin charged and crackling with sheer electricity.
Gavin doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. His fingers curl around my shoulder and I lean toward him, just a little more, my heart beating so fast I think it might explode.
"Marisol," he murmurs, so close I can feel his voice vibrate. "What if this-"
The door opens so fast it practically explodes.
"-why it's called a juice cleanse, wow!" Valerie's saying as she marches in. "I'm still waiting for that clean, calm energy it says I'm supposed to have, though."
We both practically leap backwards, like teenagers afraid of getting caught. Even though we're adults who weren't doing anything.
Valerie doesn't seem to notice.
"All right, Marisol," she says, sitting at the head of the table and opening a folder. "There's a lot to do to prep you for Saturday, so here's your schedule and itinerary and by God, once you're on that red carpet you'll be buffed and shined and ready for the spotlight."
She slides a stapled bundle of papers over to me, across the perfectly polished table, and I catch them, looking at the first entry.
Saturday, 7:00 a.m., arrive at Dean LaMont salon to begin skin and hair prep.
Valerie's still talking, going over my incredibly-detailed itinerary, so I just interrupt her.
"I can't," I say.
She stops, mouth slightly open, and stares at me.
"Are you allergic to one of the treatments?" she asks. "We can change them, there are other things that'll fix your-"
"I'm busy most of Saturday," I say. "I'm volunteering at an immigration law clinic from nine until four. I mean, I can still make the awards at six, but I'm gonna have to skip the Miracle Clay Mud Wrap."
She looks down at the paper, then back up at me.
"I don't think you understand," she says. "This event is going to take all day, so you need to reschedule your volunteer thing."
"I volunteered months ago," I say, the butterflies in my chest starting to flutter. "I can't just back out now. People are depending on me to be there. I'm halfway through their green card applications."
"You're doing it for free, they can find someone else," she says.
My mouth is going dry, because I know that I'm getting paid a ton of money to be Gavin's girlfriend, and that means last-minute awards shows, but the volunteer gig is actually a big deal, and it's important to my career - the one I'm going to have once I'm not Gavin's fake girlfriend any longer, and the money has been spent on my parents' house and my student loans.
"I really don't want to ask them to do that," I say, trying to sound as reasonable as I can. "This is a big-"
"Val, Marisol's not coming to the awards show," Gavin interrupts. He's leaning back in his chair, one hand drumming on the table, restless.
Valerie rolls her eyes.
"This is why you're paying her, Gavin," she says. "She is getting a million dollars to come places with you, and I think that outweighs-"
"She said she's busy, so she's busy," he interrupts her. "She's got real work to do, not faffing about in a pretty dress watching the rich and famous pat each other on the back."
Valerie looks down at my carefully-scheduled itinerary for a long moment, quickly tapping a pen against the table, her face perfectly expressionless, smooth and blank in a studied way.
Then, finally, she looks up at me.
"Can you at least make the after party?" she asks, sounding annoyed.
"Yes," I say. We were supposed to have a date that night anyway.
"Good," she says. "Whirl magazine rented a mansion for their annual party, and you're both coming to that, at least you'll still be seen by plenty of people. Gavin, I'm going to put it around that the reporters should ask you about the rumor that you're dating someone, and you say yeah, she's out saving the world or whatever..."
Valerie is furiously scribbling on the packet of paper in front of her, slashing through line items, half muttering to herself and half to me and Gavin. I start taking notes, hoping that I look like I'm paying attention and being studious, because I am.
I want to do this right, be the best possible fake girlfriend that I can be. I just can't do two things at once.
Gavin, on the other hand, couldn't be paying less attention to Valerie. He glances over at me, sees me writing, and grins.
I stick my tongue out at him.
He puts one hand on my knee, holding it there for a long moment, and I feel the butterflies and tension drain out of me, only to replaced with that same electric feeling, a shiver passing over my whole body. Valerie doesn't notice a thing.
After a little while, Gavin takes his hand off.
I wonder what he was about to tell me earlier.
17
Gavin
"At least you don't have to worry about whether we win something or not this time," Eddie says brightly. He's looking out over his shoulder, through the window of the stretch limo, as we come up on the theater where the National Music Awards are being held.
"Right, we can just sit there and wonder if we should have had another dress rehearsal," Darcy says dryly.
"I'm sure all the pyrotechnics will go off without a hitch," Trent says. "Just don't miss your cue."
Darcy, Eddie, and I all snap our heads around to stare at him.
"Fireworks?" Eddie blurts, but Trent laughs.
"Kidding," he says. "Chill, you guys, you'll be fine."
"You'll be fine," Darcy says, tugging at her dress again. "You haven't got half a mile of duct tape holding up your tits right now."
"You don't know that," Trent says.
"Well, whatever's going on in there, they look great," Darcy teases.
"Thank you," Trent says. "And, for the record, you look nice as well."
"Thanks," Darcy says. "I somehow got talked into a glam makeover and I think I might live to regret it."
"Do you need one of us to walk on either side you just in case you topple suddenly?" I ask. "Perhaps there'll be a strong breeze or something, and those shoes look quite risky."
Darcy just laughs. I've only rarely seen her wear something besides combat boots or maybe flat sandals, so I have a feeling she's not accustomed to heels.
"You're joking, but it's not a bad idea," she says. "Though I might make headlines if I fall ass-over-tits and show the nightly news my snatch."
"I wouldn't mind having someone else take the heat for a bit," I say. "Maybe I'll push you."
The limo comes to a stop, and we all look through the windows at the red carpet, dotted with other celebrities swanning along slowly, row after row of cameras pointed at them.
"If you push me, I will kill you," Darcy says. "God, I hate this part."
"Just fucking get it over with," Trent says grimly.
Only Eddie looks kind of excited, but it's his first time at one of these events.
"Three, two, one," I say, taking the door handle, since I'm the closest. "Geronimo!"
I open it and step out to the sound of shutters clicking away, adjusting my jacket as I do.
"He's been in the U.S. too long," I hear Trent mutter behind me. I turn and offer Darcy my hand as she gets out. She bravely steps up on the curb, not wobbling more than a little.
"Fuck," she whispers to me, dropping my hand.
A handler, holding a clipboard and wearing a microphone, comes over and starts telling us how to stand, where to go, what to do, which cameras to look at. About a hundred of them ask Darcy who she's wearing, and I hear her make up four different designers, because of course she has no idea.
Earlier today, one of Valerie's minions tried to talk me into wearing a suit, and I had the thing on, nearly ready to go, but then I remembered something Liam said.
We used to be a rock and roll band.
Now I'm wearing jeans and a leather jacket.
We walk down the red carpet slowly. We smile big. And finally, we reach the end, where the video cameras are rolling, with pretty, polished reporters ready to ask questions.
A brunette practically leaps onto Darcy, whose smile is frozen in place, and asks her who she's wearing.
"Mister Camino," I hear Darcy answer.
The reporter's never heard of that designer, and I try not to laugh as someone pulls me in, practically yanking me in front of a camera, which she then faces.
"I'm here with Dirtshine lead singer Gavin Lockwood," she says, then turns to me. "How does it feel to be playing your first big show with your new drummer after you kicked out longtime member Liam Fenwick?"
I hate these questions. What am I supposed to say, it feels great that we booted my best friend? But I smile anyway.
"I'm quite excited," I say. "Eddie's a fantastic drummer and we're very lucky he's agreed to join."