She moves right on to the next question, like a shark onto the next kill.
"You've been seen around town with a mystery woman on your arm," she says. "But I don't see her anywhere here, have you already broken up?"
I smile at the thought of Marisol as a mystery woman, and also at the thought of how much she'd hate being here right now.
"Marisol's in her final year of law school," I say, giving the camera my most charming smile. "I'm afraid she's out fighting for truth and justice at the moment instead of being here, playing dress up with me."
The reporter laughs, a semi-forced laugh, showing me all of her teeth.
"Well, I think you dress up quite well," she says. "Thanks for talking to us, Gavin."
"My pleasure," I say.
That exact scene, more or less, gets repeated a good six or seven times before we finally make it inside, where we wait around more before we sit down in the theater to wait around for our performance.
By the time we head backstage to get ready, I feel like I might explode.
It's been ages since I played a show this size, even though it's not nearly as big as some of the shows we did last tour. But it's much larger than the Whiskey Room, and the crowd is completely different - rows and rows of seated people wearing suits and ball gowns, politely watching as you sing your heart out on stage.
Harder to get excited when that's what's staring back at you. Harder to feel in sync with your bandmates when the stage is the size of the house where I grew up and we all may as well be in different rooms.
I'm not nervous, not exactly. I've done this a thousand times, just not recently, and hardly ever stone cold sober. I didn't start shooting up before shows until near the end, but before the Whiskey Room it had been years since I went on stage without at least a drink and usually more.
The presenters are on stage, reading out the nominees for the night's final award. We're the last performance, closing out the show, and then everyone leaves and goes to whichever afterparty they're attending.
That means I get to see Marisol soon, and that thought makes me stupidly happy.
I keep catching myself wishing she were here. I keep imagining what she'd think of this whole thing, of sitting around watching people pat themselves on the back for being able to sing songs well, whether she'd find it wonderful or stupid or somewhere in between.
And more than anything, I wish she were here to see the show itself. I don't think I care if all these people in their shiny outfits with their carefully arranged faces like the songs we'll be playing, but I want to impress her, want to share something I love with her.
The audience bursts into applause, and backstage, I start paying attention again. Five young men wearing matching suits come up to the stage, take the shining statue, and start speaking into the microphone.
"We're next," Trent's voice says behind me.
I turn. The four of us are all here, and we're all back to the way we normally look: torn jeans and flannel shirts and combat boots and ripped fishnet, too much eyeliner on Darcy, messy hair.
It's us. Us minus Liam, but recognizably us.
"Okay, you fuckers," I say.
Darcy and Trent grin. Eddie looks nervous, and Darcy rubs his shoulder.
"Let's go play some fucking rock and roll, yeah?" I ask as the lights all dim.
"Fuck yeah," Darcy says.
"Right on," Trent says.
"Yes," Eddie says.
We walk out to our places on the pitch-black stage. The stagehands are busily rearranging all the set pieces, and I pick up my guitar in the dark, looking out at the audience. It's the only time all night I'll be able to see them: excited but sedate, sitting politely.
The rush of stagehands stops as they leave. Everything goes still for a moment. I take a deep breath, feeling the most sober I've ever felt, everything crystal clear and sharp, and in that second I'd give anything for some chemical assistance.
But there's nothing, of course, so here we go with the new version of Dirtshine, the new version of me.
Eddie counts off. Darcy's bass line dives and hums, going so low I can feel it in my bones before it climbs again. The crowd cheers just as Trent joins in, the two melodies intertwining, trading back and forth for a few bars.
The lights come up slowly, and I close my eyes. I pretend I'm at the Whiskey Room, where it's hot and stuffy, the lights are blinding, it smells like stale beer and I can barely hear myself think over the screaming.
The guitars squeal and fade. My heartbeat buzzes through my veins, and I imagine the Whiskey Room's balcony, a girl wearing a skirt and blouse in the very front, looking utterly out of place. She's watching me, not excited but intrigued.
We lock eyes. She smiles, just barely.
I take a deep breath, shut out everything else, and sing to her.
18
Marisol
The auditorium hushes, and suddenly the only sound is the click of my heels as I half-walk, half jog along the ugly backstage hallway.
Shit, they're starting, I think. Crap. CRAP.
After the immigration clinic, I got rushed to a salon, where there was an entire team of people waiting to do my hair, buff my skin, paint my face, polish my nails, tell me I should drink more water and probably do a juice cleanse as well, and finally stuff me into the little black cocktail dress that Valerie and I agreed on earlier this week.
When they were done, I barely even recognized myself in the mirror. In my regular life I wear lip gloss, mascara and maybe a little eyeliner at most, but now?
Hello Marisol, Rock and Roll Girlfriend.
I turn a corner in the backstage hall, and a guy in a black suit and an earpiece holds up one hand.
"Badge?" he asks.
Out on stage, the bass line starts, and a spike of urgency flashes through me because I'm missing it. I fight the urge to sprint past this guy, and instead I open my clutch and grab the very last-minute VIP pass Valerie got me.
As I hand it over, I see that she's texted me a few minutes ago: I NEED LIP-ON-LIP TONIGHT!!!
I switch my phone off. The guard looks at my pass skeptically. He looks at me.
"Please?" I say.
He squints at it again in the near-dark. The guitar part starts. I grit my teeth together, and tell myself I've still got time. Finally the guy looks over his shoulder, then shrugs.
"Don't cause any trouble," he says, and hands me my pass back.
"Thank you!" I whisper.
From there it's chaos, but I can see the curtains that make up the back of the stage. There are people running and talking into headsets everywhere, but I dodge around them as I make for the side of the stage, and they don't even seem to notice me.
I dart in front of someone pushing a light and then I'm there, standing in the wings of the stage between two dark velvet curtains, watching Dirtshine play.
It's different than the Whiskey Room. Different crowd, different song, I'm at a different angle, but the thrall feels the same. The music wraps itself around me like a snake, sensuous and dangerous but I'm totally transfixed.
I don't think I could leave unless someone dragged me away.
I stand there for their entire set without moving. I can't tear my eyes away from Gavin, the way he sings, the way he plays, the way his body moves with the music like he's a part of it. He's always hot, but when he plays? He's practically a god, all of us enthralled by him.
Now I get why girls throw their panties on stage. I'm half thinking about it myself, since I did wear a nice pair.
They finish with a final, sonic roar. The stage lights all shut off at once, throwing them into near-total darkness and the crowd goes insane, shouting and clapping and stomping their feet, even the well-dressed celebrities standing. I'm grinning and clapping too, swept away in the energy, giddy that my fake boyfriend's done so well.
Even so, there's a kernel of anxiety jammed deep inside my chest as the band walks off the stage toward me, because Gavin doesn't know I'm here.
Quit it, I tell myself. He'll be happy to see you and you know it.
Then the four of them are coming through, their faces hard to see in the dark, but Eddie and Trent just nod at me. Darcy glances at me, looks away, looks back, and narrows her eyes quizzically, like she recognizes me but can't quite place my face.
"Is that Marisol?" Gavin's voice says as he materializes.
He's grinning.
"Hey," I say, my heartbeat speeding up again. "I got done with stuff early so I wanted to come-"
He picks me up in a hug and before I know it I'm spinning around in a circle, Gavin laughing as I yelp, then dissolve into laughter myself.
Someone with a headset shushes us, and he puts me back down, grinning.
"I thought you weren't going to make it," he says. "Thanks."
Now I'm blushing, heat creeping up my cheeks. Everyone backstage is acting like they don't notice what's going on, but I can see sideways glances, eyes gazing up from clipboards.
"Of course," I say, smoothing down my hair, trying to compose myself after flying through the air. "I didn't want to miss it."
"Wait, is this the... you know, that girl?" someone whispers, and I realize that Darcy, Trent, and Eddie are all standing nearby, in a line, watching us.