Never Enough(6)

He looks at me, eyebrows raised.

I'm a jerk. He's not even being a dick right now.

"Crap, I'm sorry, I've just had a really stupid day and now this," I say, putting one hand over my eyes. "I just really need this book and I'll be out of your hair."

I hear a low, throaty sound and look up. He's laughing.

"I've always been told that stupid questions get stupid answers," he says.

"It wasn't that stupid of a question," I say apologetically.

"What does this method of imparting information look like?" he asks, still laughing.

I describe Contemporary Issues in American Asylum Law, Second Edition as he leads me through the backstage area and then opens a door. It's the room where we were earlier, before the show.

"I should warn you, I've not seen it," he says, stepping inside and looking around. "And frankly, back here a book would stick out like a nun at a stag party."

My stomach is in knots and my face is hot, because as much as I need to find the book, I don't want to admit to him just how much I can't afford to lose it.

"It was in a plastic bag," I say. "And I put it down against that wall, next to my briefcase, and then didn't pick it back up..."

There's no book by the wall, but Gavin shrugs. Then he strides over to the couch and starts pulling cushions off, though one's already missing.

"I can look," I say quickly. "You looked like you were leaving, I don't want to keep you here if you've got somewhere else to be."

"Just my tea and my telly," he says, pulling off another cushion. No book.

I sigh, bending and looking under a table, moving aside a few boxes.

"Okay, I give up," I say. "What's that code for?"

"What, tea and telly?"

His voice is muffled as he peers down the side of the couch, his hand in the crevice.

"Right," I say, crawling under a table so I can turn everything upside down. "You said it earlier, too."



       
         
       
        

I go through a couple boxes: nothing, nothing, nothing. Panic is starting to give way to the dull, numb feeling of inevitability that I'm never going to see that book again.

Now I can't do the reading or get my money back, which is the worst of both worlds. Now my participation grade will be shit, I'll have to do spectacularly well on that final essay, and I'm going to be eating ramen, rice, and beans for a month.

I wish I'd never had the brilliant idea to buy it and return it.

"It just means tea and television," he says, straightening up. "There's no code."

I'm on the floor, and I lean on one hand, tucking my legs under me. Hopefully I'm not flashing the very hot rock star, but I don't even care any more. I'm sure he's seen panties before, and how much worse can tonight go?

"So, right now, you're going to go home, drink tea, and watch television," I say, my voice doubtful.

"You don't sound like you believe me," he says, collapsing onto the sofa, arms stretched wide, one cushion is still missing.

"Would you believe yourself?" I ask, still on the floor.

"Not likely," he says, half-smiling. "And with good reason."

"Okay," I say. I feel like I'm adrift in this conversation, because we've had it before and it went differently then. "Last time I said that, you got weird and started acting like I was Big Brother."

"I thought you were someone else," he says.

I wait in silence for him to finish explaining. There's still no book and I'm not in the mood for games. He sighs.

"I thought the record label had sent you in secret to keep tabs on me because you're dressed as if you're going to a job interview," he says. "They've not been too happy with me lately."

I stretch my legs out and lean against a table leg. I don't think I'm ever getting Contemporary Issues in American Asylum Law back, and I need to figure out a way to do the reading and come up with $200.

But right now, I'm going to sit here and talk to this famous, hot rock star for five minutes. Everything's already screwed up, so why not?

"What did you do?" I ask.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and rubs his hands together slowly.

"You can sit on the couch, you know," he says.

"I'd rather sit here than stand in these shoes again," I say. "Answer the question."

He grins at me instead.

"Law school, right?"

"I'm not going to forget I asked."

"You know you haven't told me your name?" 

"Marisol. Tell me."

"Marisol. Three syllables, tripping off the tongue..."

He stops, eyes narrowing, then looks at me and laughs.

"That's all I can remember."

It sounds familiar, but I can't place it.

"Is that..."

"Lolita," he says, leaning back onto the couch. "Not only do I know what a book is, I've read one before."

"That's an odd choice to read if you've only read one," I say.

"All right, more than one," he says. "And I read Lolita during my one year of college when it was assigned, I don't seek out books on pedophiles."

"So your record label must be pissed for some other reason," I say. I'm trying not to smile, but I can't help it. "What did you do?"

Gavin laughs again, and the sound makes me laugh, because it's warm and friendly and even if he's kind of a jerk who apparently behaves badly enough to piss off record labels, I kind of like him.

Also, he's hot and I'm tipsy.

"Where does one start?" he asks, putting his hands behind his head and looking at the ceiling. "I guess Crumble City first got angry a few years ago, when-"

There's a crash, somewhere far away, a crunchy, squealing crash. A shriek. Something slamming against a wall, yelling, footsteps running around.

Gavin's already to the door by the time I'm on my feet, briefcase in hand because I am not losing anything else, and I follow him as he rushes through the hall, between the wall and the curtain, to a huge double door that leads to the outside.

It's open, people rushing back and forth. As I get closer I can hear someone shouting at the top of his lungs with a British accent so thick I can barely understand it.

"Fassroit!" I think he says. "Got meunshoo nae."

Maybe it's not English.

"Jesus Christ," mutters Gavin. "Fuck me fucking bloody, that fucking twatheaded fuck."

He charges through the door. I'm not sure if I should follow him, so I slow down. Before I can see through the doors I can hear him.

"What the Christ?" Gavin shouts. "The shit have you done now, you fucking lunatic?"

I stop, back against the opposite wall, and peer through the big double doors onto the Whiskey Room's parking lot.

There's a large van, its nose crunched against a concrete post, steaming from under the hood. The driver's side door is wide open, the interior light on, one front tire flat.

Between the building and the van is a loose circle of people, all standing and staring, the drunken British shouting coming from the center. They give Gavin a wide berth as they let him through, still shouting.

"-Can't just come here and nearly run people over, you madman, you almost killed the valet you fucking idiot, and then what - JAYSUS what the fuck is that thing?"

Gavin practically leaps away as everyone in the circle takes a step back all at once, a quick flash of orange lighting up the parking lot. I keep lingering inside the building, curious, but not terribly interested in getting involved.

"Yoocin geh' ennufing 'ere," the drunk guy says. He laughs. There's another flash of orange.

I realize that there's a faint trail of smoke coming from the center of the circle, and I step to my left, then my right, trying to see around the people blocking me.

"Give me that," Gavin commands. "Goddamn it, Liam."

The drunk guy - Liam, I guess - just laughs again and holds something up in one hand. Six inches of flame shoot out of it, and I involuntarily step back, pressed against the wall.



       
         
       
        

I think the smoking thing on the ground is a pillow, not burning but smoldering. Liam says something back to Gavin and now they're arguing, both shouting, and I can't understand anything either of them is saying.

I should go before this gets too crazy, I think, though there's already a drunk man burning pillows in a parking lot.

Liam kicks the pillow. He picks up something from beneath it, still shouting back and forth with Gavin, backing away, shooting his mini-flamethrower or whatever the fuck that thing is, and laughing maniacally.

Then, just as I'm about to turn away, he holds something up.

A light blue, hardcover book.

"HEY!" I bellow, already through the door before I can think. "Put that DOWN!"

I shove past the people standing around, but I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, much too slow.

Liam holds the book up by the spine. The pages fan out. He turns on the tiny flamethrower.

"NO!" I shout.

He's holding the flames to the pages, and they go up like that.

"What the fuck?" I shout, and I lunge for it.

A strong hand grabs my arm and pulls me back before I can actually grab the flaming book.