Never Enough(32)

Thankfully, they're not out back, and they're not by the alley, so I walk a few extra blocks to a different bus stop, and I text Gavin on the way.



Me: Photogs by the front door. If you head away from them you can leave through the laundry room out back.

Gavin: Bugger.

Gavin: Thanks.

Gavin: I've an unpleasant sensation that we missed quite a lot of news yesterday.



Waiting for the bus, I start going through my emails and texts. The articles that Valerie sent us yesterday - Drummer Dishes Dirt - was just the beginning. That post didn't have the video.

There's a video now. My stomach curls around itself. I really, really don't want to watch, but I put in my headphones and make myself do it.

It's blurry. It's shaky. It's shot on the front driveway of the house where the party was on Saturday, and then it focuses in on Eddie, holding a can of beer up to one eye.

"Eddie! What happened?" a voice says.

"That goddamn asshole punched me," he says.

"Gavin?"

"Yeah."

"Why'd he punch you?"

"Because he's a fucking psychopath, man!"

"He just punched you out of nowhere?"

Eddie turns away from the camera and paces back toward the house, beer can still held to his face.

"Eddie, why'd he punch you?" the disembodied voice says again.

Eddie turns toward the camera.

"Because he's a fucking dick!" he shouts, waving one hand in the air. He's pretty obviously drunk, even on this blurry, shaky video.

"Is that all?"

"No, he's a fucking stuck up British asshole who thinks that just because he got clean he can just be a dick, like, to whoever he wants!" Eddie says, his voice rising. "Like, great fucking job, man, I've been off heroin for twenty-four years! I don't even have a pay a girl to hang around me! The fuck are you punching me for, man? He's the fucked up one."

I clench my jaw and take a deep breath, staring into the middle distance. He makes it sound like Gavin's hiring prostitutes or something.

Plus, he's obviously leaving out the part where he left drugs disguised as candy just sitting around. I'm slowly getting furious, watching him act like Gavin just punched him for no reason.

"What do you mean, he pays girls to hang around? Like prostitutes?"

Eddie waves the arm that's not holding the beer to his face again.

"No, man, not prostitutes, but that chick he's with?"

"Marisol?"

"Yeah, whatever her name is. He's fuckin' paying her so he looks like he's got a regular girlfriend, but she's just. Like. Getting paid. To be there."

"She's an escort?"

The voice behind the camera is clearly starting to get excited at this huge, juicy scoop.

"No, I think she's in law school, dude, but like. He paid her. To come tonight. They're totally faking it."

There's a commotion off the screen, and the camera turns, tracking a red blur marching toward Eddie. Darcy glares at the camera, holds one hand out toward the lens, and then pretty much drags him away.

That's the end.

Shit.





29






       
         
       
        


Gavin





Eddie's a fucking unbelievable prick.

I punched him because I'm the asshole? I finally got off heroin while he drugged someone without her knowledge or permission and I'm the psychopath?

If he thinks that's what I am he's not seen psychopath, though I'll show it to him happily. This first punch was a little girl's tea party argument compared to what I'll-

The phone rings. Darcy. I take a deep breath and answer, still lying naked in Marisol's bed.

"Glad you finally turned your phone on," she says.

I swing my legs over the edge and stand up.

"That cock-headed prick virtually fucking poisoned-"

"Yeah, I saw the video," she interrupts me. "Eddie's a dipshit who ran his mouth off without thinking. We're in agreement."

"Is the goddamn imbecile trying to ruin everything?" I ask. My voice is rising and I'm pacing back and forth in Marisol's apartment, in front of her tiny kitchen counter.

"The goddamn imbecile was drunk, angry, and had just been punched," Darcy says. Even though we're on the phone, I can picture her perfectly: standing still, one hand on her hip, staring stonily into space. Her master of reconciliation pose. "You can't tell me you would have reacted much better."

"But this is his fault to begin with," I say, gesturing with one hand. "He's the one-"

"I'm not siding with him!" Darcy says. "And I'm not siding with you! I'm trying to keep this stupid gossip tabloid fake girlfriend shitshow from being a total goddamn clusterfuck. Because we were a band again for a few weeks there and it was pretty fucking nice!"

She has a point and I know it, though I'm still mad. I don't say anything, just pace back and forth, stewing silently.

"Gavin," she says.

"He's an absolute wanker," I mutter.

"Gav."

"And a fucking-"

She just clears her throat loudly.

"Fucking Christ woman, Jesus, I'm finished," I say, but there's no real force behind it. Talking to Darcy always makes me swear at least twice as much as I do normally.

"Thanks," Darcy says. "Have you or Marisol talked to anyone in the media?"

I walk to the window, part the curtains slightly, and peer down. There are still a few men with cameras standing around, looking at their phones.

"No," I say. "Though there's paparazzi outside her apartment, so getting out may be a bit exciting."

There's dead silence on the other end of the phone as I peer through Marisol's window, watching them below. 

It takes me several seconds to realize what I've said.

"Are you at Marisol's right now?"

Fuck.

"No?" I say. "I'm in my own house, obviously, only she just texted me and let me know that there are-"

"You're at Marisol's at eight in the morning."

"I just said I'm not."

"Is she there?"

I give up.

"No, she left for class already."

Another long silence.

"I'm so fucking confused," Darcy admits.

"It's all a bit complicated," I agree.

She sighs.

"Look, can you come to my place for lunch?" she asks. "Nigel's developing two more ulcers and he's called a meeting for this afternoon, but you and Eddie need to fucking figure it out before that. And then you can explain to me how you're banging your fake girlfriend, and maybe also how I ended up living in an episode of Days of Our Lives."

I lean against Marisol's counter, still pissed at Eddie, but I know Darcy's got a point. She usually does, even if she expresses it like a particularly blunt and foul-mouthed sailor.

"I'll be there," I say.



Darcy lives in a top floor loft of an old building down in Hollywood, so it's got lots of features that I say are rubbish and she says add charm. Like the elevator with a wrought-iron cage that cranks shut, clicking and clacking all the way to the top.

Inside, her place is all flowing curtains, cushions, houseplants, and graffiti-style canvases on exposed brick walls. Trent is already there, sitting on a cushion in front of a low wooden table with a platter of tacos in the center, and Darcy comes out of the kitchen wearing torn jeans and a Joy Division shirt with two bottles of sparkling water.

"No Eddie yet?" I ask, sitting on a massive cushion at the table. It's a bit uncomfortable - not my preferred position at all - but I keep my mouth shut and don't say anything.

"He just texted that he's running ten minutes late," Trent says, his voice deep and stoic.

"So, fifteen minutes, minimum," Darcy says.

"At least he'll show up."

I don't say anything. Trent's making a point about Liam, and he's right, and I know it.

"We should just eat before the tacos get cold," Darcy says, and heaves a couple onto her plate. "Speaking of which, a photographer paid the taco delivery guy to let him bring the tacos to my door, so expect a picture of me flipping off a camera to surface in the next few days."

"I'll put it in my scrapbook next to all the others," Trent deadpans.

"You ought to change up your pose sometimes," I join in. "Try something else. Both hands maybe."

"Stick out your tongue," Trent suggests.

Darcy rolls her eyes.

"Okay, I get it," she says, and takes a huge bite of taco.

It takes Eddie twenty minutes to show up, and when he does, he's wearing shorts, thong sandals, and a t-shirt with a cartoon on it. His eye is splotchy purple, the edges of the bruise already turning that ugly yellow color. It wasn't my best punch, but right now I'm glad for that.

He looks around Darcy's apartment like he's already forgotten how he got there, and then finally kicks off his shoes and walks over to us.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, sitting on a cushion. "But it's kind of a madhouse downstairs, I had to run the gauntlet pretty much."

The three of us are quiet for a moment. I'm tempted to remind him that he had to run the gauntlet precisely because he managed to make the news yesterday with his video, but I think Darcy might stab me with a plastic knife if I say that.