I left it backstage in the first place, and yeah, Liam shouldn't have lit it on fire, but I'm almost positive he isn't the one who sent me another copy the very next morning. My only problem now is that my receipt was sandwiched inside that copy, so it's also a small pile of ashes in a club parking lot.
"Next," the lady says again.
I walk to the counter and hand over the book. She holds it up, examining it, and I hold my breath, even though I know it's in mint condition.
Finally she nods and sets it on the counter.
"Receipt?" she asks.
I clear my throat.
"I don't actually have it with me," I say, as apologetically as I can. "There was an accident and it got … destroyed."
She raises one eyebrow.
"We don't usually take returns without a receipt," she says.
I use the sincerest, most hopeful tone I've got.
"I know, and I'm so, so sorry," I say. "I've got my credit card with me, is there any way you could look up the transaction history instead? It's just that it's a two hundred dollar book and it turns out I don't even need it for class, and … that's a lot of money."
She sighs. I look down. At least I got the reading done and participated hard in class this afternoon.
I can always sell it some other way, I remind myself. I probably won't get the full price for it, but one-fifty is better than nothing.
"And I could really use the two hundred dollars," I say, my voice quieter now.
She taps her finger on the counter and looks at me for a long moment.
"All right," she says at last. "Don't tell my manager."
I thank her again and again, then practically dance my way out of the bookstore, mentally promising to never, ever try to cheat the system like this again.
As I walk across campus toward my bus stop, I'm almost giddy. Like the weight of the past week is finally off my shoulders and I can relax again, just a little.
Well, not that much. I've got to do my reading for my next class, write a paper for my Special Topics course, prep for next week's mock trial, review a few hundred pages of documents for my research assistant job, and edit a very bad twenty-page undergrad essay for my side gig, but at least I don't have two hundred dollars hanging over my head.
Plus, this weekend I told my parents I'd come out to Highland Park and spend Saturday helping them look for a new apartment.
So, yeah, I'm busy, but at least I'm not stressed. I've just gotta get it done.
I'm heading past the library, sun shining, birds singing, when my phone rings with a Los Angeles number I don't recognize. I answer.
"I'm calling from Diamant and Skeller on behalf of Lawrence Diamant," a polite female voice says.
I stop in my tracks instantly, back straight, holding my breath as if she can see me somehow.
"It's nice to hear from you," I say, the first polite phrase I can think of.
"I'm sorry for the short notice, but are you available to come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon?" she asks.
"Yes!" I say, nearly shouting. "Yes, of course, what time?"
Even though I'm standing on the side of a walkway, I drop my briefcase, kneel next to it, and dig out paper and pen, writing down meeting details like a crazy person while students swarm past me. Once I'm scheduled, the receptionist and I say our polite goodbyes and hang up.
Then I jump up and down, pumping one fist in the air. A couple people look at me weird, but I don't care.
Even though I'm friends with Larry's wife, I didn't seriously think they'd call me about this position. For starters, the posting says they prefer someone with 1-2 years of experience, and I'll be fresh out of law school when I start.
Plus, they're a huge, wealthy firm with one of the biggest and most respected immigration law practices in town. They're hired by Saudi oil barons and Japanese bankers, people with lots of money to drop on getting green cards and citizenship.
I almost can't believe my luck today. I feel like I should head to Vegas or something and try the roulette table or something.
You need to prepare, I think. For job interview questions, about law, about where you see yourself in five years, and you need to do laundry, make sure your shoes look good, put together your resume and CV and work samples, brush up on the names of everyone who works there...
My to-do list swirling through my brain, I practically run to the bus stop.
The following afternoon, I get there half an hour early, which means half an hour to anxiously walk around Century City, the part of Los Angeles where virtually every business big enough has its offices. While most of Los Angeles is low and flat, with buildings two or three stories at most, Century City is all shining high-rises, steel and glass, people in suits bustling back and forth.
There's hardly a flip-flop in sight, which is pretty strange for L.A.
Finally, five minutes before I'm due, I head up to the twenty-first floor of the Chaplin building, where Diamant & Skellar have their offices. Then I check in with the receptionist, sit down, and wait.
I try to sit still, but I'm as nervous as a box of bees after several cups of coffee, so I look around the small, expensive-but-tasteful waiting area, and try to find something to occupy my hands.
A magazine on a glass coffee table catches my eye, and I frown, tilting my head.
It's Rolling Stone, in the middle of a spread of Sunset, The New Yorker and The Atlantic, so it's already out of place. But that's not what catches my eye.
Gavin's on the cover. At least I'm ninety percent sure it's him, so I reach out and pick up the magazine.
Definitely him. And he is definitely not wearing a shirt, just ripped jeans, boots, lots of tattoos, and a glare that I feel inside my ribcage, even though it's only a picture.
Well, I think, trying not to let my eyes linger on the lines of his body even as I ogle this picture, he's both the hottest and the most famous person I've ever screamed profanities at.
Not to mention he sent a replacement copy the next day. I should send a thank you card.
I scan over the page. The rest of the band is there, too, all in various states of disarray, glaring at the camera under a headline that shouts:
Dirtshine: The Rebirth
The band on death, departure, and drummer drama.
Vaguely, I wonder who died, but it's probably someone's dog and they wrote a sad song about it.
Those abs, though, I think, giving Gavin's picture one last good look. Jeez, he's got that V where the muscles on his hipbones point straight down to-
"Marisol," Larry's voice booms. "Glad you could make it."
I practically throw the magazine at the coffee table, my face already heating up at getting caught staring at a half-naked man.
"Of course," I say, standing. "It's my pleasure."
We shake hands, and he leads me out of the reception area, down a hallway. The offices are modern and high-end - half-frosted glass walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, everything white and steel and pristine and uncluttered.
Larry's office is at the end, a corner office, the walls completely frosted so I can't see inside. He opens the door and gestures me through, my heart beating double-time, maybe triple-time.
I'm not even past the threshold when I stop short, because someone's already in here, sitting in an expensive white chair, facing Larry's desk.
"Cheers," Gavin says.
My mind goes perfectly blank with surprise. There's a long delay before I finally speak.
"Hi again," I say.
I glance at Larry, because I thought I had a handle on today, but suddenly Gavin's here at my job interview and I don't have a single solitary clue what's going on.
Am I going to be working his immigration case? I wonder.
Does he have an immigration case?
"Have a seat," Larry says, gesturing at the other chair in front of his desk. He sits heavily, unbuttoning his jacket while I perch on the edge of the white leather, my heart thumping in my ears.
"You've met Gavin already, and this is Valerie and Nigel," he goes on, waving at the back of the office.
There's two other people there, one in another chair and one sitting on a couch. I didn't even see them, but they both stand and we shake hands.
"I didn't know this was a group interview," I manage to say. At least my voice isn't shaking.
Larry laces his fingers together atop his desk, his mouth a straight line.
"This is a different kind of interview," he says.
No shit, I think.
"Is it still for the junior immigration attorney position?" I ask, trying to regain a handle on this situation.
"It's not only for that position," Larry says, starting to speak in his most convincing, cajoling Lawyer Voice. "Rest assured that Diamant and Skellar is, in fact, very interested in making you a part of our team, but today we have a slightly different proposal in addition to that one."
Oh, God, this is going to be some sort of weird sex thing.
My face instantly feels like the surface of the sun.
"Nothing salacious," Larry says quickly, though it doesn't help much. "But I'm afraid it's somewhat sensitive. My client Mr. Lockwood here is... in need of a suitable relationship partner for the media."
I stare at Larry, because I don't think I can even look at Gavin right now.