Never Enough(27)

Gavin reaches over and takes my phone. This time, I don't argue.

"Fuck this," he says, dropping it into his cupholder and adding his. "We're going on a bloody date with no phones, no one else, and no bullshit."

He takes my hand and kisses it.

"And we're going to have a delightful goddamn time, though I do have a problem."

"Get in line," I tease. "Everyone's got a problem."

"I've got no idea where to take you that we'll not be recognized."

Now I laugh.

"It won't be hard," I say.

"I'm quite famous, you know."

"Turn left and trust me."

He grins, kisses my hand one more time, and then we drive off.



We slide into a half-circle vinyl booth, and a waitress hands us menus, then disappears. Gavin looks around curiously. No one looks back. He puts one arm around me.



       
         
       
        

"What's this place called again?" he asks.

"It's 'the Korean restaurant with the booths near 6th and Vermont,'" I tell him. "If that needs clarifying, it's the one with the random portraits of European royalty everywhere and the lamps shaped like weird Cupids."

He's quiet for a moment, looking at a huge painting of a woman with a huge dress and a neck ruff on the wall opposite us, over another couple in another booth. I have no idea why this Korean restaurant has these huge paintings everywhere, but they do.

"Is that our Queen Bess?" he finally asks.

I tilt my head.

"Bess?"

"You know, Bessie Tudor, the virgin queen?" he says. "Do American schools teach you nothing of proper history?"

"I know all about how we dumped your tea into a harbor and then kicked your asses," I say.

Gavin grins at me, rubbing my shoulder with his thumb.

"You colonials have always had quite the attitude."

"We earned it via that ass-kicking," I say, laughing.

"Can't even spell correctly," he goes on. "Call it soccer, make abominable tea."

"Do you even drink tea?"

"Not here I don't," he says.

"At least we don't have a dish called mushy peas," I point out, laughing. "I still remember the day that I found out it really was just peas mushed together."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Everything," I say.

"I bet you've not even had blood pudding or haggis," he says. "Then you'd know questionable food."

"Is haggis the sheep stomach?"

"It is. Technically it's Scottish, not that they're known for fine cuisine either, just bloody good alcohol."

"The drunker you are, the better haggis is?" I ask.

"Right," Gavin says.

The waitress comes back. I order the same thing I always get, spicy tofu soup, and Gavin says he'll have what I'm having. She looks skeptical of him but doesn't say anything.

"I told you my father was Scottish, right?" Gavin asks. "He made it a point of pride for us to have haggis at least once a year when I was growing up. It's actually not quite as bad as you'd imagine."

I settle back against his arm and lean into his shoulder. He's told me his father was Scottish at least twice already, but there's something oddly comforting about the re-telling. It feels intimate that I already know this about him, that we've talked so much he's forgotten what he's told me. 

"I refuse to believe that," I say.

"Hand to God, I swear he's Scottish. Talks like the fat bloke from Austin Powers."

I roll my eyes, because we both know what I meant.

"And he plays the bagpipes while climbing mountains in a kilt?" I tease.

"Now you're just parroting stereotypes," Gavin says, taking a long drink of water. "Though I did used to own a kilt. Might still be somewhere in my mum's house."

I narrow my eyes, looking at Gavin and trying to imagine him in a kilt, because I can't quite.

"And now you're thinking exactly the same thing all American birds think about men in kilts," he says, leaning back and grinning.

No underwear?

"No pockets?" I ask, doing my best to sound innocent.

"That we've got naught on underneath," he says, laughing. "I swear it's the only thing women know about Scotland."

My face gets warm. I try to act nonchalant, but suddenly all I can think about is Gavin's dick, huge and hard as steel in my hand. How I want him somewhere besides my hand.

"Is that even true?" I ask.

"Depends on the Scotsman, doesn't it?" he says, leaning in closer. "Unless you're asking me what I wear underneath. In which case I could give you a definitive answer."

"And if I'm not asking?"

I'm trying not to smile.

"Then you'll never know, will you?"

"I think I've got a pretty good idea," I say. "Unless you were going to bring all that up to confirm that, yes, you've got your Kermit the Frog underpants on whenever you're wearing the kilt."

Gavin just laughs.

"Would that at least be a letdown?" he asks. "If you're going to talk me in circles, the least you can do is admit you were thinking about what I've got underneath."

And now my face is on fire, because yes, I was thinking about his junk, of course I was thinking about it.

You just gave him a hand job in a closet, I remind myself. Shouldn't you be a bit beyond blushing at the thought of seeing Gavin's dick?

"It's quite all right," he goes on. "Think about it all you like, you're very pretty when you blush."

"I don't know why I'm blushing," I say. "I've only got one sock on right now because..."

I trail off, fumbling for words.

"The other's spunk-crusted and in a dumpster?" Gavin says, though he at least keeps his voice low.

I cover my face with my hands, trying not to laugh and praying that no one can hear us. When I finally look up he's still grinning.

"Sorry about that," I say. "It was very spur of the moment and I didn't quite, uh, consider the consequences."

"Don't be," he says, pulling me in and kissing the top of my head. "It was perfect."

"Was it?"

"No, but I wouldn't trade it."

The waitress appears, two bowls of soup on a tray, and sets them in front of us. They're both in stone bowls, both still boiling rapidly. I thank her and grab my chopsticks, while Gavin does the same.

"Not quite what I was expecting," he says, poking the chopsticks at the bubbling red broth.





25





Gavin





"You like Korean, right?" Marisol asks. "I didn't actually think to ask."

"And you don't think it's a bit late now I've got a bubbling cauldron in front of me?" I tease.




       
         
       
        
"I did think you'd speak up if you wanted something else."

"As far as I know I quite like it," I say. "We played in Seoul last year."

I swish the chopsticks through the broth and come up with a complete-but-small shrimp, head and all.

"Just eat it whole, it's so small the eyes aren't even squishy," Marisol says.

I shrug and pop it into my mouth. She's right. The eyes aren't squishy.

"What's Seoul like?" she asks.

I just stir my soup for a moment, trying to think of what to tell her because to be honest, I hardly recall Seoul. I hardly remember anywhere that we went on tour. I've been to incredible places around the world - Tokyo, Melbourne, Moscow, Rio de Janeiro - and they're not much better than a hazy smudge in my memory.

Strangely, one of the worst parts of being clean has been realizing everything I missed.

"I don't really remember," I say, finally. "I just know that every time I showed up in a new city there was inevitably someone waiting for us with some high-grade junk. It was one of the benefits of being quite famously strung out."

"Oh," she says. "That... sucks."

"It was quite convenient at the time," I say. "It meant I didn't do a lot of sight-seeing, but I also didn't wander the alleyways of a foreign city at three in the morning looking for a fix."

"Would you have?"

I almost laugh, because of course I would have.

"Yes," I say simply. "And I've done far stupider."

"Do I want to know?"

My heart clenches in my chest, because I know she doesn't really understand. If she has to ask whether I'd have gone to the worst parts of dangerous cities alone, late at night, to get a fix, she doesn't understand.

Because books can't explain that part of it, only ugly experience. I can't help but want to hide that part of myself from Marisol. I want her to think of me as this Gavin, clean and sober and charming, not the track-marked junkie mess who couldn't finish a sentence. Not the guy who once traded his girlfriend's shoes for a dime bag.

Even if that bloke is right below the surface, waiting for me to slip up. Even if I think he'll probably always be there and I'll always have to live with knowing it.

"If you do, I'll tell you," I say.

She swallows. I steel myself, because the mood between us has suddenly gotten somber and serious. As it does when you discuss heroin problems.

"I'm sorry, this got dark all of a sudden," she says, stirring her soup and not looking at me. "I didn't mean to be such a downer."