Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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”Don’t call me that.” But she was laughing, soft and young and hungry. ”So, like... what do I need to bring? Or is this one of those ’just bring yourself’ things? Because I can do that. I’m very good at showing up places. It’s basically my job.”

”Just bring yourself,” Marvin said. ”And maybe tell me how the acting lessons are going. Last I heard, you were spending three afternoons a week pretending to be someone else for Ivana Chubbuck’s minions.”

”Oh my God,” Paris groaned, and he could picture her flopping back against her headboard, all limbs and attitude and expensive conditioner. ”Don’t even start. Last week she made me do this exercise where I had to, like, scream at a chair? Like, full-on yell at it like it was my mother or whatever. And I couldn’t do it. I just kept laughing. Everyone in the class was staring at me like I was this total idiot.”

”But you went back.”

”Well, yeah,” she said, like it was obvious. ”I’m not a quitter. Plus, like, when I finally got it? When I actually screamed at that stupid chair until my throat hurt? It felt kind of... I don’t know. Good?”

”Violent.”

”Maybe.” He heard the smile in her voice, that slow, calculating thing she was still learning how to use. ”Is that weird? That I liked it?”

”Not at all,” Marvin said. ”Anger’s useful. Most people waste it on tantrums. You’re learning to aim it.”

”Yeah,” she breathed, and for a second she sounded her age, just young and trying to figure out where the performance ended and she began. ”I’m learning a lot, actually. Like, how to cry without messing up my mascara. How to look sad when I’m actually bored. How to look bored when I’m actually scared.”

”And what are you scared of?”

A pause. The soft click of her lighter again, another exhale. ”That I’ll be bad at it. That everyone was right and I’m just this, like, useless Hilton girl who can’t do anything except show up at parties.”

”You’re not useless.”

”You’re just saying that because you want to sleep with me.”

”Partially,” Marvin admitted, and she laughed, that high, delighted sound that wasn’t quite as dumb as she pretended. ”But mostly because I’ve seen you work a room, Paris. You already know how to perform. The classes are just giving you experience to go beyond than just playing yourself.”

”That’s...” She trailed off, and when she spoke again her voice had softened, lost the valley girl upspeak. ”That’s actually a really good way of putting it. God, why do you do that?”

”Do what?”

”Say things that make me feel like you actually see me. It’s annoying.”

”Get used to it.”

”Whatever,” she said, but she was smiling, he could hear it. ”So are you gonna, like, watch me sometime? My scenes? Or is that too weird?”

”I’ll watch you anytime,” Marvin said. ”On stage. Off. Doesn’t matter.”

”Okay, now you’re being gross.”

”I’m being honest.”

”Same thing with you, apparently.” She sighed, but it was theatrical, put-on, the kind of sigh she’d practiced. ”It’s, like, so intense? I’m here crying about my fake dead dog or whatever. But...” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice had shifted, losing some of the valley girl affect, revealing something sharper underneath. ”But I’m actually kind of good at it. The crying part. The making people believe things that aren’t true. Does that make me sound like a psycho?”

”It makes you sound talented.”

”Yeah?” She sounded young again, eager, the way only eighteen-year-olds can be eager about their own potential. ”Well. Maybe I’ll show you sometime. My range.”

”I’ll look forward to it.”

”Next weekend,” she said, firm now, like she was sealing a deal she didn’t fully understand. ”I’ll be there. And Marvin? Don’t tell anyone. Nicky would literally murder me if she knew I was ditching her thing for this.”

”Your secret’s safe.”

”Nothing’s safe with you,” she shot back, but she was smiling, he could hear it. ”That’s why I love you. Anyway next weekend. Bring your notes. I’ll bring the black dress and my new monologue about a girl who steals her sister’s boyfriend.”

”Method acting?”

”Research,” she purred, and he could hear the girl underneath the performance, desperate and brilliant and barely contained. ”See you then, bad boy.”

Their conversation continued long after that, drifting away from magazines and rumors and back into the familiar rhythm only the two of them shared.

...

Marvin hung up, the office still buzzing with the emotional residue of half a dozen different women. Pride. Jealousy. Desire. Lust. Love. The air practically crackled with it.

He smiled.

Managing them was one of easier things. Every possessive glance, every jealous thought, every whispered confession became mana. Every promise of a date, every thoughtful gift, every stolen hour of attention smoothed over whatever irritation he’d caused. By the end of each conversation, every one of them walked away convinced she held a place no one else did.

And that was exactly how Marvin intended to keep it.

As the list of supposed contenders for That Girl grew longer, the speculation only poured fuel onto the fire.

Every new magazine cover, every television segment, every fresh rumor sent another wave of curious listeners into record stores. Some wanted to solve the mystery. Others simply wanted to hear the song everyone seemed incapable of stopping talking about.

By the end of its first week, *That Girl* had sold an astonishing 887,000 physical singles worldwide, with retailers across North America, Europe, and parts of Asia repeatedly ordering emergency restocks. The record didn’t just perform well—it overwhelmed the supply chain.

The numbers translated directly onto the charts.

When the following week’s rankings were published, *That Girl* stormed onto the Billboard Hot 100, debuting at a staggering fourth place one of the highest debut entries of the year, confirming what the industry had already begun to suspect.

Marvin Meyers hadn’t simply released another hit.

He had become the center of the conversation.

The song dominated radio.

The mystery dominated the tabloids.

And the critics—many of whom normally treated teenage pop stars with polite skepticism—found themselves confronting something they hadn’t expected.

The latest issue of Rolling Stone devoted four full pages to That Girl, placing Marvin’s photograph prominently beside the headline: *THE BOY WHO WON’T STOP SURPRISING US.*

Senior editor David Wild called the single ”one of the year’s most emotionally complete pop records.”

>*”Strip away the headlines, the Robin Hood mythology, and the impossible résumé. What remains is a beautifully constructed record. ’*That Girl*’ succeeds because Marvin Meyers understands something many veteran songwriters never do: restraint. He doesn’t oversing. He doesn’t oversell the emotion. He trusts the melody—and, more importantly, he trusts the listener.”

The review praised the song’s understated production, Max Martin’s willingness to leave space in the arrangement, and Marvin’s vocal performance.

”*At an age when most young singers are still learning how to hit the notes, Meyers already knows which notes not to sing.*”

Even critics who questioned the growing mythology surrounding him admitted the record itself was difficult to fault.

Closer to home, the Los Angeles Times once again placed its hometown prodigy on the front page of the Sunday Calendar section.

The accompanying feature focused less on celebrity and more on the increasingly impossible breadth of Marvin’s accomplishments.

>”*Within the span of only a few years, Marvin Meyers has established himself as a bestselling novelist, an Academy Award-winning actor, songwriter, an emerging tabloids favourite, and now one of popular music’s most compelling young voices. Most artists spend a lifetime mastering one discipline. Meyers appears determined to challenge them all.”

The article also noted that the recent events in New Zealand had transformed him in the public imagination.

The praise wasn’t confined to music critics.

Entertainment Weekly dedicated its cover story to a question Hollywood had quietly begun asking itself.

*WHAT CAN’T MARVIN MEYERS DO?*

The feature traced the astonishing pace of his career, beginning with literature before moving through film and music, arguing that no modern entertainer had crossed so many creative fields so quickly.

>”*Four months ago, Marvin Meyers released a fantasy novel about a young wizard that many publishers privately expected to be another celebrity curiosity. Instead, it has become one of the publishing sensations of the decade. The novel has already sold more than six million copies worldwide, introducing a new generation of children to bookstores and reminding adults why they fell in love with fantasy in the first place.”

The article noted that Hollywood studios were already circling the film rights, while stores across America continued struggling to keep the novel and merchandise on their shelves.

It then turned to *That Girl*.

>”*Most artists would spend an entire career hoping for a bestselling novel or a platinum record or a Oscar. Meyers appears intent on collecting all before he’s old enough to drive.”

One editor summed up the industry’s mood in a single sentence.

”*At this point, the safest bet in entertainment is assuming Marvin Meyers’ next project will succeed before anyone knows what it is.”

He was no longer viewed simply as another gifted child actor.

To millions, he had become something rarer.

A young man whose reputation extended well beyond Hollywood.

As the days passed, That Girl became impossible to escape.

It no longer belonged only to the fans who had camped outside record stores or the girls trying to solve the mystery behind its lyrics.

It belonged to everyone.

On the second day of its second week, the impossible happened.

The single completed one of the fastest climbs the industry had seen in years, forcing its way to the top of the Billboard charts after barreling through a field of songs that had defined the summer of 1999. Jennifer Lopez’s *If You Had My Love*. Ricky Martin’s *Livin’ la Vida Loca*. TLC’s *No Scrubs*. Destiny’s Child’s rapidly rising *Bills, Bills, Bills*. Backstreet Boys’ *I Want It That Way*. Sixpence None the Richer’s *Kiss Me*. Maxwell’s *Fortunate*. Even Shania Twain’s *That Don’t Impress Me Much* found themselves looking up at the newcomer.

Industry veterans struggled to explain it. Most hit records climbed. Marvin’s seemed to spread.

Every day the song reached people who hadn’t intended to hear it. Someone caught it on the drive home from work. Another overheard it drifting out of a café. Teenagers taped it off the radio. Shopping malls piped it through their speakers. Restaurants played it over dinner.

Clothing stores looped it between advertisements. Taxi drivers left it on. Television countdown shows couldn’t stop talking about it.

Before long, it felt as though the entire country was unconsciously keeping the same rhythm.

The melody drifted through open car windows at red lights.

It spilled from college dormitories and suburban bedrooms.

It floated across crowded beaches, airport terminals, supermarkets, amusement parks, and late-night diners.

Wherever there was a radio...

...there was a good chance *That Girl* wasn’t far behind.

The song wasn’t simply dominating the charts anymore.

It had become part of the sound of the summer.

While the rest of the world argued over who That Girl was, counted his record sales, and tried to estimate the size of his bank balance, Marvin found himself returning to a far less glamorous reality.

School.

More specifically, the last days of junior high.

It was almost absurd.

One week he was watching newspapers dissect his private life, record executives celebrating another chart-topping single, and Hollywood studios competing for his attention.

The next...

...he was standing outside a school gymnasium waiting for a graduation ceremony to begin.

Life had an odd sense of humor.

Dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit, Marvin looked less like one of the graduates than a young executive who had wandered into the wrong building on his way to negotiate a corporate takeover.

Around him, classmates tugged nervously at unfamiliar ties, straightened borrowed jackets, smoothed wrinkled dresses, and laughed a little too loudly to hide their nerves. Parents hurried around with disposable cameras, trying to gather children who seemed determined to scatter in every direction before the ceremony began.

Marvin stepped through the crowd at an unhurried pace.

The Incubus aura was dialed back to a low hum, just enough that people instinctively shifted aside without realizing why. By the time anyone noticed he had passed, he was already several steps farther along, moving toward his place with the effortless certainty that had long since become second nature.

The moment he spotted Marvin across the courtyard, Mark Zuckerberg practically jogged over, his backpack bouncing against his shoulders.

”Marvin!” He stopped a little too abruptly, slightly out of breath. ”There you are.”

”I was starting to think you’d transferred schools or something.”

****

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