by Lauren Rowe
Aloha giggles. “Oh, God, Laila. You’re so predictable. Didn’t you learn your lesson with Shawn?” She’s talking about my last boyfriend—a rookie basketball player for the Clippers I dated about six months ago. Shawn pursued me relentlessly, at first, and said all the right things . . . before turning out to be the world’s biggest d-o-g when he finally felt certain he had me.
Aloha looks at Daria. “Poor Laila has the worst taste in men. They’re always gorgeous. The hottest guys in the room. But nice boys need not apply.”
“Ugh. I can relate,” Daria says. She winks at me. “It’s a sickness, isn’t it? Pure insanity, in the true sense of the word, to think, over and over again, we can be the ones to tame them.”
“Exactly,” I murmur, rolling my eyes at myself. “The problem is . . . it’s so damned fun bringing a cocky bastard to his knees. Truly, my favorite past-time, though I haven’t had the pleasure in a while.”
Daria laughs. “Girl, you’re my spirit animal. Oh, by the way, honey, don’t post about being on the show yet, okay? The deal is done and official. But they’re not promoting the next season until this one wraps up. I’m sure they’ll want to be the one to announce all new cast members for the next season.”
“Is it okay if I tell my mom and sister?”
“Only if you’re positive they won’t blab about it to anyone, even unintentionally. The producers are insane about controlling all promo.”
“I’ll wait, then. Better safe than sorry. My mom would never purposefully let the cat out of the bag, but who knows what she might say, unintentionally, while drinking wine with her best friends.” I sigh happily. “My mom will be so excited when she hears the news. We never missed Sing Your Heart Out in my house. Every week, my family watched and dreamed of me being on the show one day.”
It’s a true statement, although, technically, we dreamed of me being the winner of the singing competition. Or, better yet, a full-time judge on the show, like Aloha is now. But there’s no reason for me to say any of that to Daria, after she’s secured such an amazing windfall for me, this early in my career. The singing competition attracts icons to its ranks, even as mentors. The fact that Daria secured a spot for me at all is close to a miracle.
“I truly can’t thank you enough, Daria,” I say. “This is the chance of a lifetime.”
“It’s Aloha who deserves most of the credit,” Daria replies. “She joined me on the conference call with the producers and convinced them they’d be stupid not to hire you.”
I clutch my heart. “Aloha! You did not! Thank you!”
Aloha shrugs. “You were a tough sell, dude. They were convinced you’re a raving bitch who’d be a nightmare to work with, thanks to your face.”
I burst out laughing at the inside joke. During our tour together, Aloha and I teased each other constantly about our resting bitch faces. For both of us, unless we’re literally smiling from ear to ear, we look like we’re sulking or plotting murder. As a child star on the Disney channel for a decade, Aloha expertly learned to mask her resting bitch face with a perma-smile. But me? Not so much. On a daily basis, someone who doesn’t know me will undoubtedly ask, “Are you okay, Laila? Is something wrong?” Even when I’m feeling light as a feather and happy as a clam.
Aloha sips her drink. “No, actually, you were an easy sell, Laila. I told them you’re the perfect combination of sassy and sweet. The kind of person who’ll give the sweetest encouragement to the contestants while doling out unparalleled death glares to Hugh, whenever he acts like a jackass blowhard during the all-cast round table. Which, of course, he will. And, voila, the producers were sold.”
I giggle and raise my glass. “To aud-sassity!” It’s what Aloha and I have coined our special brand of badassery. Audacious sassiness. And Aloha and Daria clink my glass and whoop, just as the host of the party, Reed Rivers, walks up.
“Wow, looks like I’ve found the epicenter of the party,” he says. He greets everyone, and we quickly tell him the reason for our toast. Of course, Reed congratulates me on the amazing news and we chat about it for a bit. But when Aloha’s darling husband, Zander, the sweetest guy in the world, appears, Aloha excuses herself to meet some friends outside. And just like that, I’m alone with Daria and Reed, two of the biggest power brokers in the music industry, and neither of them is telling me to “scram, kid.” Seriously, how did I get here?
Reed says, “When it rains it pours, Laila. I’ve got some exciting news for you, too.” He pauses for effect, his dark eyebrow raised. “The opener for Fugitive Summer’s domestic leg had to bow out, unexpectedly, for personal reasons. So, I’ve decided to push up the release of your album and send you in their place.”
I gasp. “Are you serious?”
“Very serious,” Reed says, just as none other than the drummer of Fugitive Summer approaches the group.
“Hey, Reed,” he says. “Oh, Laila Fitzgerald!”
And before he says another word, I throw myself into his muscled arms and thank him, profusely, for the amazing opportunity. “I’m so excited!” I shriek. “I love Fugitive Summer!”
“Wow,” the drummer says, laughing. “Good to meet you, too.”
Reed says, “I just told Laila the exciting news that she’s joining your tour. You know, because Alexa Play Music had to bow out?”
“Aaah,” the drummer says, returning my hug. “That’s awesome. I’m so glad you told her the news, Reed. That’s actually what I was coming over to do.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
I pull away from the drummer, laughing. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all.” He smiles adorably and puts out his hand. “I’m Kendrick Cook, by the way.”
I shake his hand maniacally. “I know! I’m so glad to meet you. Thank you so much for coming over here to welcome me to the tour! That was incredibly sweet of you, Kendrick!”
Kendrick looks at Reed and smiles. “Of course, Laila. We’re all super excited to have you aboard.”
“You are? Oh my gosh! What an honor! Thank you!” My heart racing, I glance excitedly across the room toward Savage, all prior “I don’t give a shit” pretense impossible now. And once again, I’m ecstatic to find him already staring at me. Which makes perfect sense now. Obviously, the band has been sitting on this thrilling news, waiting to see my reaction when Reed finally let the cat out of the bag.
Practically bursting with excitement, I smile broadly at Savage, letting him know, yes, Reed and Kendrick have delivered the amazing, exciting, shocking, thrilling news to me—although, I’m sure Savage has already surmised that fact, given the way I hugged his drummer just now. But to my dismay and acute humiliation, Savage doesn’t return my goofy, no-holds-barred smile. Instead, on the contrary, he frowns in the face of my exuberance and immediately looks away like I’ve greatly offended him. Like he’s pissed about me joining the tour.
And suddenly, I know the heated staring contest we had a few moments ago wasn’t proof of our mutual attraction, like I thought. It was evidence of Savage’s disdain for me. His objection to me joining his band on tour. Clearly, Mr. Rockstar doesn’t think I’m worthy of the opportunity, but Reed is calling the shots, against his will. I’ve heard rumors that sometimes happens in the world of River Records—Reed calling the shots against an artist’s will. And now I know the rumors are true.
Shit.
I’m going to be stuck on tour with a guy who’s not happy I’m there. A guy who’s not only gorgeous and brooding and talented and hot . . . but also a flaming fucking dick.
Three
Savage
When Kendrick returns to our group, he’s got none other than The Prick in tow. We greet our lord and master, half-heartedly, before Reed says, “I’ve got some bad news, guys. Cooper went into rehab this morning, so Alexa Play Music won’t be able to finish the tour.”
Ruby looks distraught, which isn’t a surprise. During the international leg of our tour, Ruby became good friends with the talented but tortured lead singer
of the opening band. Reed assures everyone Cooper is safe and sound, but definitely out of commission for the foreseeable future, as he confronts his demons, head-on.
“The good news,” Reed says, “is that I’ve already found a new opener who’s thrilled to join the tour. Laila Fitzgerald. The timing is perfect. I can push up release of her sophomore album, pretty easily, and make it a win-win.”
Everyone but me reacts favorably. They say Laila is incredibly talented and that her debut album was fantastic. They mention the fact that Zeke, our producer, also produced Laila’s debut, which is kind of cool. And through it all, I feel like my cells are physically vibrating.
Reed says, “Laila wanted to come over here to meet everyone and thank you for the opportunity.” He rolls his eyes. “But I told her we had a few things to discuss and you’d find her later to say hello.”
“I was so relieved you said that,” Kendrick chimes in. “I didn’t want her coming over here and figuring out the band had no idea.”
Everyone laughs at the notion, but I clench my jaw, feeling annoyed. It irks me to no end that Reed has full discretion to slot our tours, without even asking our opinion, thanks to our shitty contract. Yes, Reed’s technically got full control in these matters, but, still, as a matter of professional courtesy, it’s my opinion he should have discussed this with our band before telling Laila. Especially since, if you ask me, Laila’s not even a good fit, musically, with our band and brand. Is Laila talented? Absolutely. But that doesn’t mean she should be opening for Fugitive Summer. Reed should put her with Aloha. Or maybe 2Real.
And yet, everyone around me continues reacting enthusiastically, like this is the best idea, ever. My aggravation ratcheting up with each passing second, I look across the room. And this time, when my eyes meet Laila’s, she’s got no beaming smile for me. No lustful stare. This time, the only thing on Laila’s face is a death glare. And I must admit, it’s a good look on her.
“She’s not a good fit,” I declare, turning away from Laila’s blue daggers. And everyone stops talking and looks at me like I’ve yelled the earth is flat. “You should put her with 2Real,” I suggest. “He’s going out soon, isn’t he?”
Reed’s face contorts into an expression of pure disdain, the likes of which I’ve seen many times from him. “Thanks so much for your opinion, Savage,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “The thing is . . .” He leans forward. “I don’t actually give a flying shit what you think about this decision. I wasn’t asking for permission to put Laila on the tour. I was merely informing you, as a courtesy, that I’ve already done it, so you won’t wonder what the hell she’s doing there when she shows up at her first soundcheck.” With that, he flashes me a nonverbal “fuck you” before smiling at Kendrick. “I hear it’s your birthday, KC?”
“Yep. The big two-five.”
“Wow. A quarter century. You can rent a car now.” He chuckles. “Feel free to take home any bottle you want from any of the bars. There’s some pretty expensive Scotch behind that one . . .” He points across the room, to a bar located near a set of French doors, and names the brand. “Tell the bartender I said you can have the whole bottle.”
“Thanks, Reed. I’ll take you up on that.”
“Please do.” He smiles at Ruby, his favorite in our band, by far, and wishes her a good time. And then, with a quick nod to Titus and Kai, he heads off without even a cursory glance at me.
“Fuck you, too,” I murmur to Reed’s departing frame.
“I’ll catch ya later, guys,” Kendrick says. “I’m gonna get that bottle of Scotch and ask Laila if she wants to—” He gasps. “No! Fuck my life. Nooo!”
“Well, that was fast,” Kai says to his younger brother. And when I follow their mutual gaze, I see Laila in conversation with a good friend of ours—a guy named Cash who plays guitar for another River Records band, Danger Doctor Jones. Cash is in profile to us and standing all the way on the other side of the party, but, even so, it’s clear he’s currently hitting on Laila with everything he’s got.
“Motherfucker,” Kendrick declares.
“You snooze, you lose, baby brother,” Kai says, whacking Kendrick’s broad shoulder.
“It’s probably for the best,” I say, surprising myself. “Now that Laila is our opener, I think we can all agree she’s off-limits.” I’m grasping at straws here. Being a manipulative dick. Because, even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’d fuck Laila raw, to within an inch of her life, whether during the tour or at this party tonight in the nearest bathroom, if given half a chance.
“No, I don’t agree to that,” Kendrick says.
“Come on,” I say, forging ahead with my bullshit. With my testosterone-driven gaslighting. “It’s a weird dynamic, KC. It’s like we’re her boss, sort of. Plus, don’t forget, you’re gonna be stuck with Laila for months. Once things go south between you, which they will, you’ll be stuck hanging around with her for however long. Sounds horrible to me.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Shit.
I glance at Laila again. She’s still talking to Cash across the room. But after a moment, her gaze flickers to mine, and this time, she flashes me an especially murderous glare that sends tingles shooting straight into my dick. In reply, I flash her a look of total impenetrability, letting her know her daggers have no effect on me. That in fact, they’ve bounced right off my steel chest, baby. And she reacts by turning to Cash and smiling at him like she wants to suck his dick. The little vixen. I gotta say, I’m digging it.
“Yo, birthday boy!” I shout to Kendrick, over the music in the room, my gaze finally leaving the bombshell who’s making my blood simmer inside my veins. “I think I’m ready to do that birthday dare now. Let’s do it, brother . . .” I peek at Laila again, making sure she’s still looking, before adding, “Let’s make Reed jealous as shit.”
Four
Savage
Why hasn’t Reed come over here yet? I feel like I’ve been hitting on Georgina pretty damned aggressively for the past five minutes, mere feet away from him. Giving it my best fuckboy effort. And yet, he’s still keeping his distance. Hiding behind his proverbial bush. Is Reed embarrassed to pursue Georgina in front of all these bigwigs, for some reason? Is it because of their age difference? What am I missing? The Reed Rivers I know stops at nothing to get whatever he wants. And there’s no doubt in my mind he wants Georgina.
“That’s so interesting, Savage,” Georgina says. “I’ll definitely want to explore that further during our actual interview. Do you find that songwriting is a cathartic process for you?”
I look at her with so much heat, I feel like a parody of my younger self. My eyes smoldering, I lean in and say, “Wow, that’s a great question, Georgina.” I’m trying to make it sound like I’ve never heard her question before, despite it being pretty standard fare. “Hmm. Yes. Now that you mention it, I think songwriting is a deeply cathartic process for me. I’m not the best at expressing myself, sometimes, in my daily life. Oftentimes, I don’t even know what I think or feel about something. But then, I start writing a song, and my true feelings pour out of me like a confession.”
Georgina gasps and holds up her arm. “Goosebumps!” Her beautiful face aglow, she grabs her phone. “Do you mind if I jot that down? I don’t want to risk you forgetting that wording when it’s time for your actual interview.”
Well, that’s adorable. I’ve said that exact thing at least ten million times in interviews over the past four years. But, obviously, a summer intern for Rock ‘n’ Roll wouldn’t know that. I sneak a peek at my buddies over Georgina’s shoulder to find them red-faced and holding back laughter. Which means Reed, who was standing behind me the last time I checked, must still be there. And not only that, he must look like a volcano about to blow.
I touch Georgina’s hand, signaling she doesn’t need her phone. “No need to write that down. I promise, I’ll remember it during the actual interview.” With the touch of my hand to Georgina’s, I sneak a peek at La
ila to my right, hoping she’s still rooted to her spot next to Cash, shooting me daggers. And to my sizzling delight, she is. In fact, if looks could kill, I’d be splattered all over the walls of Reed’s massive living room right now.
Holding back a smile, I return to Georgina, lick my lips like I’ve just devoured her pussy, and brush a lock of dark hair off her shoulder. “So, hey, Georgina, when do you think we should—"
And that’s it. Reed’s seen enough.
“I need to speak with you,” he barks out, appearing out of nowhere at my shoulder like The Flash.
“Can it wait?” I say. “Georgina and I—”
“It can’t wait,” Reed snaps. “Follow me.”
Without waiting for my reply, Reed grips my sleeve and physically drags me across the room and around a corner into a short hallway, leaving Georgina with her hazel eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.
“Reed, come on, man,” I say, smiling broadly at my friends as Reed drags me toward my certain doom. “You’re cock-blocking me.”
Reed’s entire body shudders at my words, but he continues dragging me until we’re away from the party. Once safely outside of Georgina’s sightline, Reed whirls around, his dark eyes aflame, and spits out, “Do not hit on the Rock ‘n’ Roll reporter!”
I shake my arm free of Reed’s vise-like grip. It’s a tragedy Kendrick isn’t here to witness this moment, but, by God, when I recount the story to him later, I want him to be duly impressed with me. Never let it be said I don’t give Birthday Truth or Dare my all.
Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I whine, “But, Reed, she’s hot as hell.”
Reed’s jaw pulses. “She’s hands-off.”
“Who says?”
Reed pauses, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyes on fire. And against all odds, I feel a tiny pang of compassion for the bastard. I don’t know why he’s been stalking Georgina from afar tonight. What dynamic, real or imagined, has kept him from making his intentions clear to the world? Whatever the hell is going on, Reed is clearly flustered in a way I’ve never seen him before.