by Lauren Rowe
He’s right. I’ve been on Reed’s shit list for a while now, despite all the money my band makes him—powered in large part by me, personally. All because, years ago, I hit on his little sister, Violet, at my first Reed Rivers party, without having a clue who she was. This was long before Violet met her husband, Dax, the lead singer of 22 Goats. And, frankly, she seemed pretty receptive to my flirting, as I recall. And yet, Reed’s held it against me, ever since.
“I don’t get it,” Ruby interjects. “What’s the dare, Kendrick?”
Kendrick motions to me, like he’s inviting me to enlighten Ruby.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’m assuming he wants me to hit on the hot reporter in front of Reed.”
“Bingo,” Kendrick says. “Let’s test your theory that he’s been sleeping with her, or wants to. I want you to hit on her, really obviously in front of him. With enough fuckboy heat you’ll lure Reed out of his proverbial bush this time. But not with so much heat he lurches at you like a cheetah and smashes your face against a wall.”
I grimace, as everyone else laughs.
“Why on earth would you force me to walk this tightrope?” I say. “You were there when C-Bomb told us that crazy story about what Reed did to the dude who’d fucked his ex.”
“What did Reed do?” Ruby asks, her eyebrows shooting up.
But, unfortunately for Ruby, she’s asking her question as Kendrick is saying, “Reed would never beat the shit out of you, simply for flirting with his woman. Flirting is way less a crime than fucking. Plus, your face makes him way too much money to smash it into a wall, regardless.”
“What the hell did Reed do?” Ruby shouts, this time cutting through the din. She looks at her twin brother, Titus, who’s laughing along with Kendrick and Kai. “You know this story?”
Titus nods. “I heard it from C-Bomb.” He’s referring to the iconic drummer of Red Card Riot—Caleb Baumgarten—who’s a good friend to our band.
“Well, he didn’t tell me,” Ruby says.
“You weren’t there,” Titus replies to his sister.
“Well, tell me the damned story already!” Ruby blurts. “It sounds juicy.”
Without further ado, Kendrick launches into telling the tale, which, in summary, is that, in the earliest days of River Records, Reed went batshit crazy after discovering the lead singer of one of his earliest bands had fucked his unnamed ex. Apparently, upon discovering the news, Reed beelined to a party at C-Bomb’s house, where the lead singer was hanging out, and promptly smashed the guy’s face into a wall. Not content to stop there, however, Reed also dropped the guy’s band from his label the next day and permanently shelved their debut album, which, C-Bomb said, was due to release within weeks. “And Reed did all this,” Kendrick says, “despite the fact that he’d already invested tens of thousands of dollars into developing the band’s music and marketing.”
Ruby explodes with shocked comments and questions, which the guys answer with relish. But since I’ve already heard this story, I let my mind and attention wander. I check out the movie star, Isabel Randolph, for a bit, admittedly feeling star-struck. As a guy with some fame myself, albeit not at Isabel’s level, I understand the inner workings of the cult of celebrity and consciously try not to let it seduce me. But, still, I can’t deny it’s kind of cool to see such a world-famous face, in person.
After a bit, however, when my interest in Isabel flags, I continue surveying the packed, noisy room. I check out several friends as they laugh and chat in nearby groups, noting, in particular, that my buddy, Fish, seems particularly smitten with his cute date. And that she looks absolutely enthralled with him. Good for Fish. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
I keep scanning and people-watching. Sipping my drink. But when my gaze lands on Laila Fitzgerald, it stays put.
Laila Fitzgerald.
She’s another River Records artist. One I’ve been dying to meet for some time. And by “meet” I mean “meet, seduce, and, God willing, fuck.” When I first saw Laila’s most recent scorching-hot music video, that sucker immediately went into my spank bank, where it’s been in heavy rotation ever since—and, surprisingly, it hasn’t lost a bit of its effectiveness on me over time. In fact, repeat viewings have only made me more appreciative of Laila’s sex appeal.
At the moment, Laila is standing in a far corner of Reed’s palatial living room, chatting animatedly with two beautiful women. One of them, I know—fellow artist, Aloha Carmichael. The other one, I don’t. A Black woman with confidence and high cheekbones. Someone I’d probably consider hitting on, if I hadn’t spotted Laila. As it is, though, now that I know Laila is here, there’s no other woman in the room.
With her long, sandy hair, light eyes, and peaches-and-cream complexion, Laila isn’t my usual type. On paper, she’s far more Kendrick’s type than mine. Kendrick likes girls who look like they were cheerleaders in high school. Or maybe foreign exchange students from Sweden or Russia.
But, see, the thing about Laila that makes her so uniquely appealing to me, despite her “cheerleader” packaging, is her exquisite and undeniable “fuck you” charisma. Thanks to her full lips, which she wears in a perma-pout, and the persistently naughty look in her gorgeous blue eyes that practically screams “I’m a freak in the sheets!”, Laila comes off like a first-class sex kitten. A bombshell. A siren. Which means, when it comes to Laila Fitzgerald, the phrase “not my usual type” isn’t in my vocabulary.
As I’m staring at Laila from across the room, admiring every inch of her, she jolts me by glancing over her friend’s shoulder and looking straight at me. We’re nowhere close to each other in this huge room, so, in theory, she could be looking elsewhere. But I know she’s not. I know, without a doubt, she’s staring at me with lust in her eyes, the same way I’m staring at her.
When our gazes meet, I feel an instant electricity, coursing all the way down into my balls. And by the look on Laila’s face, she feels something similar on her end.
Ruby blurts, “Reed’s a psychopath! Are you sure you want to throw Savage to the wolf like that?”
But, still, I stare at Laila, biting my lower lip seductively.
Kendrick says, “Are you kidding? It’ll be the best birthday dare, ever.” He slides his arm around my shoulders, forcing me to end my staring contest with Laila. He says, “Are you ready to entertain me for my birthday, brother?”
I clear my throat and shift my weight, trying to ease the pressure on the hard-on that’s started gaining momentum in my pants. “If you’re hell-bent on making me do this, then, yeah, of course, I’m in. Your dare is my command, birthday boy.”
Kendrick is giddy. “Where’s Reed?” He drops his arm and excitedly peers around the party, like a meerkat on a prairie. “We have to make sure he can see everything.” Kendrick gasps. “Whoa! Laila Fitzgerald is here!” He flails his arms. “I call dibs! I hereby call dibs on Laila Fitzgerald!”
No.
I follow Kendrick’s gaze to Laila, just in time to see Reed walking up to her.
Kendrick sighs. “I’ve had the biggest crush on Laila Fitzgerald forever.” He looks at the group. “Do any of you know her? Can you introduce me?”
Please, God, no. This can’t be happening. Kendrick and I never set our sights on the same woman. Ever. I’d expect to run into this problem with Titus. We’re both attracted to women who look like they could commit murder without the slightest crisis of conscience. But not Kendrick. He likes his women sweet. He likes women who aren’t fucked up and toxic and crazy. Unlike me. I mean, yes, I realize Laila is exactly Kendrick’s physical type. But can’t he sniff the crazy, sassy little freak beneath her girl-next-door exterior? Because I sure can. And I’m digging it.
Everyone around me is saying they’ve never met Laila.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kendrick says, his resolve written all over his face. “With Reed over there, I can act like I need to talk to him about the tour.” He’s referring to the fact that we just got back from the eight-month-long i
nternational leg of our world tour and will be heading back out onto the road in a few weeks for the three-month-long domestic leg.
“Yeah, I don’t think . . .” I begin to say. But I’m saying it to Kendrick’s back. He’s already on the move. Walking directly toward Laila Fitzgerald. “Hey, KC!” I shout. “Wait up, Kendrick!”
But it’s no use. The music is too loud for my best friend to hear me. Or maybe he’s hearing me just fine and doesn’t give a shit. Something tells me it’s Door Number Two—that wild horses couldn’t stop Kendrick from heading over to meet Laila right now.
Shit.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like standing aside when a bandmate has called dibs. For the first time in my life, I feel like running after my friend, tackling him to the ground, and shouting, “I saw her first! I call dibs! She’s mine.”
But since Kendrick’s already halfway there, and it’s not my style to seem overeager, and since it is his birthday, after all, I force myself to stay put. I tell myself not to panic. Instead, I calmly throw back the rest of my drink and tell myself another gorgeous woman who interests me even more than Laila will cross my path, any minute now. Her friend, for instance. She’s hot as hell. The one with the dark skin, lush Afro, and banging body. But, no. Even as I try to talk myself into not giving a shit, I can feel my sights setting on Laila and nobody else.
A cocktail waitress walks by and I grab another drink. Ruby has started telling a story, so I try to focus firmly on that and try my damnedest not to obsess about what might be happening across the room. But it’s no use. I can’t think of anything else but my sincere desire and hope that my best friend in the world, the guy who’d throw himself in front of a bus for me, is, right at this moment, miserably striking out.
Unable to resist any longer, I sneak a peek across the party, just in time to witness Kendrick getting a huge hug from Laila. Reed is still there, but Aloha and the other woman are gone. And, damn, it looks like Laila is full-blown fangirling over Kendrick. Whoa. That’s not a normal introductory greeting! That’s the sort of hug fans give us during meet and greets. The kind women give their lovers when greeting them at the airport. Jesus Christ. Did I imagine that smoldering, come-hither look Laila flashed me a few minutes ago? Obviously, I did. Was she looking at Kendrick standing next to me the whole time?
I should be happy for my best friend, and I know it. But that’s not what I’m feeling. In fact, what I’m feeling is something quite the opposite of that. Something I never feel. Jealousy.
When Laila finally breaks free of Kendrick, animated conversation between Laila, Reed, and Kendrick ensues. As the trio talks, Laila’s eyes suddenly shift to me. And this time, when our eyes lock, when Laila discovers I’m already staring at her, again, she flashes me a wide, beaming smile that simultaneously takes my breath away and kind of pisses me off. She just hugged the crap out of Kendrick and now she’s trying to knock me onto my ass with that dazzling smile of hers? For fuck’s sake, Kendrick is standing right there, obviously still flirting his ass off with her, and she’s ignoring him to smile at me?
My brain feels like it’s toggling between primal desire, deep confusion, and downright anger, even as every fiber of my body yearns to return Laila’s beaming smile—to let her know I’m interested. Ready to go. Let’s do it, baby. Ultimately, however, my primary emotions seem to be protectiveness of Kendrick and annoyance at Laila for flirting with both of us. And so, ultimately, I do the thing Kendrick would surely do for me, if the situation were reversed: I clench my jaw, press my lips together, and look away, ceding the runway, free and clear, to my best friend. The birthday boy.
Two
Laila
When I enter the party, I’m blasted with blaring music combined with the loud din of laughter and chatter. I take in the grandeur sprawling before me, my lips parted in awe. Reed’s house is magnificent—a modern-day palace. Which makes sense, since Reed Rivers is the King of LA—a music mogul known in the industry as “The Man with the Midas Touch.”
I scan the expansive room, looking for any sign of my good friend, Aloha. A few minutes ago, she texted she’d find me near Reed’s front door when I arrived, but I don’t see any sign of her. What I do see, however, is wall-to-wall glamour and hotness. It’s silly for me to feel this way, given how much awesomeness has happened in relation to my debut album this past year and a half, but finally getting to attend one of Reed’s legendary parties makes me feel like I’ve really and truly arrived, every bit as much as attending the Grammys earlier this year.
My eyes drift as I await Aloha and stop short when I spot my celebrity crush across the large, crowded room. He’s Adrian Savage from Fugitive Summer. If you ask me, Savage is the hottest man alive. Dark hair and eyes. A jawline that could cut glass. A chiseled physique that looks like it was forged in tan marble. And all of it made especially panty melting by his omnipresent “big dick energy.” An attitude that apparently isn’t false advertising, based on those notoriously mouthwatering photos of him in the shower.
At present, Mr. Donkey Dick is throwing back shots with his bandmates, all of whom I recognize but haven’t met. And I must say, he’s every bit as gorgeous in person as in his leaked photos and music videos and promo. Even more so, actually. Because, in person, I can physically feel Savage’s undeniable charisma, even from across a crowded room.
“Laila!”
I wrench my eyes off Mr. Perfect and discover Aloha walking toward me with our mutual agent, Daria Brown. When Aloha and I returned from our tour last year, she generously introduced me to Daria, her hot-shot agent, one of the best in the business—and then proceeded to convince Daria she’d be a fool not to take me on as a client, despite the fact that I’m still a relative newbie in this industry. But that’s Aloha for you. From day one of our friendship, when I was nothing but an opener with a debut album to promote, she’s never once hesitated to help me out and cheer me on and show me the ropes.
After hugging me in greeting, Daria says, “I’ve got some exciting news for you, Little Miss Laila!” Her smile widens with excitement, revealing white teeth that gleam against her beautiful dark skin. “I sealed the deal! You’re going to be a mentor on the eighteenth season of Sing Your Heart Out!”
I gasp in disbelief, slapping my palm to my cheek. “I don’t believe it!”
“Believe it, girl. It’s official.”
I launch myself at Daria and wrap her in a grateful hug. “This is a dream come true!”
When we disengage from our hug, Daria tells me the basics of the deal. I’ll be assigned to Aloha’s team of contestants, thankfully. That’s exciting. Also, per usual for mentors, I’ll only appear in one episode, but Daria assures me even one episode on a juggernaut like Sing Your Heart Out will introduce me to millions of new fans. I ask a few questions and find out my shooting schedule won’t be set for several months yet, since the show is currently shooting the season prior to mine. “The pay is basically nothing,” Daria explains. “Union scale. But I promise the exposure will be well worth it.”
“Oh, I don’t care what they pay me,” I say. “I’d pay them to get to be on the show.”
Daria flags down a roving server and the three of us grab flutes of champagne. With a loud whoop, we clink and drink and talk excitedly about the amazing news. But when the topic of conversation shifts, and Aloha and Daria fall into a conversation about a career decision for Aloha, I can’t resist sneaking a peek at Mr. Perfect across the party again.
This time, when I peep Savage, I’m shocked and thrilled to discover he’s not focused on his friends, like last time. This time, he’s looking straight at me. My heart stops as Savage’s dark eyes fix on mine, but I try to play it off like I’m totally unfazed and only vaguely interested, if at all. I know full well what I’m dealing with here—the kind of guy who can get any woman at this party. Actually, in the world. So, of course, on pure instinct, I’m instantly hell-bent on making him think he can’t get me.
To my surpris
e, Savage doesn’t look away, but continues brazenly staring at me, his dark eyes smoldering and his jaw set. Until . . . Oh, no! Shit! I waited too long to look away and let him do it first. Stupid Laila. Talk about a rookie mistake.
Granted, Savage’s buddy—the drummer in the band, I think?—put his arm around Savage’s shoulders, diverting his attention. So, I don’t think Savage looked away from me out of a lack of interest. But, still, it was a dumb error by me, all the same. With players like Adrian Savage, a girl should always be the first to look away. Always. She needs to be the one who couldn’t care less. Now that Savage knows he’s got me hooked on his line—which is exactly the opposite of what I should let him think—who knows if I’ll be able to attract his attention again tonight. Damn.
“Laila?”
I return to Aloha and Daria to find it’s Daria who’s spoken my name.
Daria continues, “When does Reed plan to release your second album?”
I’m flustered. Still reeling from the exciting news about the show. Feeling aroused by that sexy smolder Savage flashed me. Also, pissed as hell I’ve stumbled so stupidly in my effort to ensnare him.
“Oh. Uh.” I take a deep breath, collecting myself. “We’re not finished recording, but close. We only have a few more minor things to add before sending it off to mixing and mastering. At that point, we’ll set the schedule for release, promo, and a tour.”
Aloha smirks. “Who were you looking at, babe?”
“Huh? Me? Nobody. When?”
“Just now.” Aloha flashes me a side-eye. “Who was it, honey? I know you. Somebody’s got you all worked up.”
I blush. On tour, Aloha teased me all the time for being attracted to players and fuckboys. The ones who are the most fun to bring to their knees—but the least likely to stay there for long. “Yeah, I was being true to form. Having a staring contest with Savage from Fugitive Summer.”