Falling Out of Hate with You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (The Hate-Love Duet Book 1)

by Lauren Rowe

  She looks at me blankly.

  “Kendrick!” I shout, enraged at her lack of comprehension. “Don’t pretend you don’t know he’s totally into you.”

  Now it’s Laila’s turn to be enraged. “That’s what you want to say to me right now?” she yells. “The most pressing thing you want to tell me in this moment is that you’re pissed I haven’t given Kendrick a shot?” She pulls on her hair and screams at the top of her lungs. “God, I hate you! You’re so infuriating!”

  I blow smoke in her face and she coughs and sputters and waves at the air.

  “Put that thing out!” she screams. “Kill yourself, if you must. But leave me out of it!”

  I drop the cigarette onto the sidewalk and stub it out angrily with my shoe. “Your boyfriend is the one who attacked me, Laila. Not the other way around. He’s convinced you’ve been sleeping with me.”

  She looks genuinely concerned. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not at all, unless you count the fact that I’m pained you’ve got such bad taste in men.”

  Her chest heaves sharply. “Why do you care, Savage? You want me to break up with him, so you can pimp me out to Kendrick?” She waits a beat for my reply and when it doesn’t come, she turns into a goddamned demon before my eyes. “You’d sleep better at night knowing Kendrick was the one fucking me, instead of Malik? Huh? Is that what you want? Or is there someone else you’d prefer to do the fucking?”

  Oh, God, I want her. I want to pull her to me and press my lips to hers and claim her right here and now. I want to take her back to my hotel room and rip off her clothes and eat her pussy and do every filthy thing imaginable to her. But before I’ve figured out if I’m willing to betray Kendrick, without first speaking to him about it, a group that includes Kendrick emerges from the restaurant. Besides my best friend, there’s Ruby and Kai, Reed and Georgina, the guys from 22 Goats and their dates, and more.

  “Come with us, Laila,” Kendrick says. “We’re going to Times Square to see a billboard of Colin in his underwear.” He’s talking about Colin Beretta, the drummer of 22 Goats—a tatted badass who hates my guts because I fucked his on-again-off-again girlfriend last year while they were on a break.

  “I can’t make it,” Laila says curtly. “But, thanks.”

  Kendrick looks at me. “I didn’t bother asking you because I know you’ve got plans with the waitress. Have fun!” With that, he jogs to catch up to the group, and when I return to Laila, or at least, to the spot where she was standing a minute ago, she’s gone—angrily stomping toward the front door of the restaurant.

  “Laila!” I shout at the top of my lungs. And she turns around in front of the doorway, breathing hard.

  “Break up with him.”

  She swallows hard. “And then what, Savage? You’d fuck me like one of your groupies? Like that waitress inside? Wow, lucky me! Or would you pimp me out to Kendrick? Either way, no thanks.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches into the restaurant. And the minute she’s gone, some fans who’ve been standing on the sidelines of our screaming match descend on me, apparently unbothered by my obvious personal turmoil.

  The bodyguard assigned to me appears, out of nowhere, and helps me negotiate the onslaught. With his help, I briefly go through the motions, giving a few selfies, until Laila emerges from the restaurant with Malik in tow, both of them looking somber. Quickly, they dip into a dark SUV that’s been awaiting them at the curb. And just like that, they’re gone. Heading back to the hotel to fight or fuck or both.

  And I’m distraught.

  I mumble my goodbyes to the remaining fans and quickly take off down the street, with my bodyguard keeping pace behind me. A couple blocks into my journey, I dip into a liquor store and buy a large bottle of vodka, which I drink like Gatorade throughout the remainder of my journey.

  Not surprisingly, by the time I arrive at my hotel, I’m not only blitzed out of my mind, I’m also beside myself with rage and regret. By now, I’ve relived my fight with Laila a hundred times, each time wishing I’d played it differently. Let down my guard. Figured out my feelings in time to say them out loud to her. Whatever those feelings might be. Honestly, I’m still not entirely sure.

  I slide the keycard in my door and hurtle myself into my suite and immediately do the thing I’ve been aching to do all night: I punch a hole in the wall. Because that’s what rockstar clichés do, right? They have drunken temper tantrums and trash their hotel rooms.

  I can’t believe I’ve been jacking off, alone in my room, every night of this goddamned tour, foregoing every woman who’s slipped me her number, all because I’ve been waiting like a puppy for Laila to be single. For Kendrick to grow tired of waiting for Laila to be single. For Kendrick to do what he always does on every tour—slide into a tour “relationship” with some staffer or crew member—and thereby leave me to finally seduce Laila, boyfriend or not, without worrying that I’m betraying my best friend. The guy who believed in me, when nobody else did, changing my life forever.

  My knuckles throbbing from punching the wall, I grab my phone and swipe into my contacts, looking for that waitress’ number. But, quickly, I realize I don’t want her. If Laila hadn’t been sitting there tonight, watching me flirt, I never would have bothered to get that number at all. The waitress was too thirsty for my taste. Just like that model in Barcelona who fucked me and kissed me and said all the right things on a night when I was feeling particularly lonely . . . and then took off with my wallet and made my dick an internet star.

  I toss my phone onto the nightstand with a loud grunt, just before a wave of nausea seizes me. I stumble into the bathroom and wash my face with cold water, trying to stave off the inevitable. But it’s no use. Fuck.

  I drop to my knees at the toilet and lose my fancy dinner and drinks into the bowl. When I’m finally empty, I wash my face again, brush my teeth, strip off my clothes, and stagger, naked, into the bedroom. I flop onto the bed, groaning as the room spins around me. As visions of Laila getting fucked by Malik ravage my drunken brain.

  Ever since Philly, I’ve been busting my ass to be on time for Laila—to soundchecks and buses. As much as possible, anyway. Have I been perfect? No. Because, unfortunately, I get easily distracted sometimes. While, other times, I get hyper-fixated. Especially when writing a song, time ceases to exist for me. Which isn’t a great thing for time management. Plus, I try to say yes whenever Mimi wants to talk to me, even if the timing is terrible. So, yeah, I admit I’m not going to win any prizes for punctuality. But I have genuinely tried my best, and for only one reason: to make Laila like me.

  But now, I realize I never should have bothered. No matter what I do, she’s always going to hate me and think I’m a selfish rockstar cliché—an asshole who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. Well, fuck Laila Fitzgerald. If she thinks she’s already got plenty of reasons to hate me, then she ain’t seen nothing yet.

  Thirteen

  Laila

  “Cut!” Maddy, the director of the music video, calls out. “That was perfect, ladies! Great job.”

  I straighten up and let the baseball bat in my hand dangle at my side, as Reed’s girlfriend, Georgina, my co-star in this scene, does the same. We’re shooting on the street in front of the coffeehouse where we’ve been shooting throughout the day—a scene featuring Georgina and me bashing the hell out of an old sedan that’s supposedly owned by our two-timing boyfriend, played by hunky actor Keane Morgan.

  Throughout this particular scene, Keane’s been looking on, horrified and helpless, as Georgina and I have smashed his car to smithereens. It’s the climactic final scene of our “love triangle” storyline. And I must say, it’s been my favorite to shoot. Talk about cathartic! The perfect release after my two fights last night. First, the one I had with Savage in front of the restaurant. And, later, the one I had with Malik in the car, when I soundly told him to fuck right off and never, ever call me again.

  As it’s turned out, shooting this video was the perfect way to s
pend the day. The song is fantastic. The artist, Alessandra, sweet and talented. And the video concept is hilarious and adorable. Plus, it’s been fun seeing all the River Records artists who’ve dropped by to shoot their cameos. Surely, with everything this video has going for it, it’s going to become a viral sensation.

  Not surprisingly, Savage was too busy banging his waitress to keep his word and come down here today. But, luckily for Alessandra, everyone else who gave their word to Reed last night, kept it.

  Logically, I know I should have expected Savage to break his promise to Reed. And yet, somehow, my heart stupidly held onto hope he’d finally do something kind and selfless, for once in his life. If only for Fish, who’s a great and loyal friend to everyone. But I guess Savage is always gonna be Savage. A narcissist, through and through.

  “Okay, guys,” our director, Maddy, says. She looks at her watch. “With the remainder of our daylight, I’d like to shoot some close-ups and pickups. Shots of Laila and Georgina standing over the car, raising their bats and looking like badass bitches.”

  Georgina and I respond enthusiastically, of course. But as Maddy moves us into position, the unthinkable happens. A taxi pulls up a few feet away and Savage emerges, looking like a shit sandwich.

  He drags his sorry ass to the stunned group, runs his hand through his dark hair, and says, “Am I too late to shoot my cameo?”

  “No, not at all!” Maddy chirps. “We’re so glad you made it!” She turns to Georgina and me. “Why don’t you ladies take five while we shoot Savage inside for a couple minutes. This will be quick.”

  “That’s okay,” Savage says. “Finish what you’re shooting here, while you’ve still got good light. I’m not in any rush.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Maddy says. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” Savage walks over to stand with Fish and Reed, who are watching from a distance, while Maddy returns her attention to directing Georgina, Keane, and me.

  Maddy says, “Laila, stand over there, holding the baseball bat over your head, like you’re going to smash the car.”

  I comply with Maddy’s request, and she looks at a nearby monitor.

  “Great. Just move to your left a touch. Perfect. Now, give me your bitchiest face and stick out your chest.”

  I follow her directions and she hoots with laughter.

  “You’re so freaking gorgeous, Laila. And so photogenic. Okay, we’ve got what we need from you. Georgina, you’re up. Same thing.”

  As Maddy directs Georgina, I can’t help looking at Savage. And what I see there is molten lava. Which, frankly, pisses me off. He has the nerve to look at me with lust in his eyes, after spending the day in a marathon fuck session with that waitress?

  I saunter over to Savage and stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, watching Maddy finish up with Georgina.

  “Hello, Adrian,” I say.

  “Hello, Fitzy.”

  “You look like shit. You didn’t get much sleep last night, huh?”

  He says nothing.

  I shouldn’t do it. I know it. But letting sleeping dogs lie has never been my strong suit. My jaw tight, I say, “I hope you signed the waitress’ tits before you sent her on her merry way. That’d be an appropriate souvenir.”

  The slightest smirk curls Savage’s sensuous lips. “I did, actually. Signed her ass and pussy, too.”

  “Lovely. So glad you two had fun.”

  “We sure did. How about you and Malik?”

  “Oh, we had a blast. I can barely walk today.”

  “Lovely.”

  “It was. I’m so impressed you managed to get your ass down here, despite your marathon fuck session.”

  “What can I say? I’m a saint.”

  “That’s the word I always think of when I think of you. Adrian Savage. He’s a saint.”

  “Hey, fun fact. Did you know cheaters are the ones who are always the most paranoid about their girlfriends cheating on them?”

  “Is that so? How interesting.”

  “It’s a proven fact. Cheaters project what they do—aka cheating—onto their partner. And then, in some cases, attack innocent bystanders outside of restaurant bathrooms, usually because they’re insecure about their tiny dicks.”

  “Well, that’s not an issue for Malik.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Me, too,” I say, my eyes trained on the action in front of Maddy’s camera. “In fact, I had the best sex of my life with Malik last night. Wooh! Hot, hot, hot.”

  “What does the ‘best sex of your life’ mean to you, Laila? Stamina? Emotional connection?”

  “Both.”

  “Nice. I notice you didn’t mention multiple orgasms. Squirting orgasms . . .”

  “Oh, well, that, too. Of course. In fact, I’ve never had two squirting orgasms in a row the way I did last night. Woo! Man, oh man, Malik really got me going like a geyser.”

  His features contort with disdain. “You think squirting twice is ‘coming like a geyser’? Ha! You poor thing.” He pats my shoulder. “Thoughts and prayers.”

  Damn! I wanted my lie to sound believable, so I tried to pick a highly credible number. In truth, I haven’t had multiple orgasms before, let alone a squirting one—or two—so I thought what I said would sound super impressive. But is having two orgasms, in rapid-fire succession, let alone squirting ones—actually unimpressive, or is Savage messing with me?

  “We’re ready for you, Savage,” Maddy says, saving me from myself.

  Savage smiles at her. “You only need me to sit at a table and pretend I’m watching Alessandra performing, right?”

  “Yep. That’s it. Easy peasy.”

  “Okay, good. If you’d said you need me to walk on-camera, or dance around or something, that’d be a tough one for me. I’m super exhausted from screwing a waitress all night and day and making her squirt, five times, in rapid succession.”

  “Oh,” Maddy says. “Okay. Um. Yeah, no worries there. Just sit and nod your head a little.”

  “Cool.” Savage opens the door to the coffeehouse, cool as a cucumber, and motions for Maddy to pass through. She enters the building, followed by her camera operators and crew. Then, Reed, Georgina, Fish, and Alessandra. Until finally, everyone has entered the building through the door held by Savage, except for me. Smiling politely at me, his dark eyes burning like hot coals, Savage says, “After you, my dear.”

  “I think I’ll stay out here and get some fresh air,” I say. “Maybe call my boyfriend and thank him for all the amazing sex last night.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the call. Where is he, by the way? I would have expected him to come down here to cheer you on. Maybe even shoot a cameo himself. Why not?”

  “Oh, he desperately wanted to come, but something came up this morning—some big basketball thing.”

  “A basketball ‘thing’?”

  “A meeting.”

  “A basketball meeting?”

  “Mm-hmm. So, I told him to go to his thing to talk about basketball things and meet me back in our room tonight for another round of amazing sex.”

  “Cool. Well, here’s hoping Malik watches a few instructional videos on YouTube before tonight, right?” He holds up crossed fingers. “A girl can hope.” With that, he strides through the door, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk, feeling even more homicidal than I did last night when I kicked that bastard Malik out of the SUV—and out of my life—for good.

  Fourteen

  Laila

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The crowd cheers as I strike my final note of my final song. And when the music stops, the crowd breaks into a veritable roar. Their applause is mostly for me, I think. But I’m not stupid. I’m well aware they’re also thrilled to be that much closer to Fugitive Summer finally taking the stage.

  “Thank you, Atlanta!” I shout into my microphone, feeling practically drugged with euphoria. I can’t believe I get to do this for a living! And that, in each new city, audiences have increasingly star
ted singing along with every word to every song. Not just the big hit from my debut album. Not only the lead-off single from my sophomore one. And not just the catchy choruses. They’re singing the verses and choruses of songs that haven’t made a big splash on the charts, as of yet! When this tour began six weeks ago, I never would have dreamed that big.

  I know the phrase “this is a dream come true” is frequently overused in this world. But that’s the phrase that comes to mind whenever I’m performing. When I’m offstage, however? Not so much, thanks to the persistent tension between Savage and me, provoked by his constantly nightmarish behavior. I’ve said nothing. Held my tongue. But the tension between us could be cut with a knife. It’s all worth it, however, because that forty-five minutes onstage every other day makes up for the aggravation he causes me by a long mile.

  “Are you ready for Fugitive Summer?” I bellow to the crowd. And, as always, at the mention of the headliner, the crowd’s cheering and applause morphs into a tsunami of excitement. Chuckling, I add, “Well, you’re in luck, because they’re coming out really soon—and, trust me, they’re gonna blow you awaaaaaay!”

  As the crowd continues to go wild, I exit the stage, blowing kisses and waving as I go. Once offstage, I do what I always do in moments like this: I share a group hug with my amazing backing band, accept a large bottle of water from my assistant, and then head down the hallway toward my latest assigned dressing room. Always the smallest one in the building, which is perfectly fine with me.

  As usual, my post-show plan is this: I’ll immediately remove my makeup and slip into something soft and comfortable. I’ll enjoy a light snack and glass of white wine while listening to Fugitive Summer’s set from my couch. Sometimes, depending on my mood, I might sneak into the wings to watch the headliner’s show, taking care to stand where Savage can’t see me. Wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the truth is, no matter how horrible Savage has been offstage these past few weeks—ever since New York, he’s turned into a freaking monster!—he’s still one of the best performers in the business. To be honest, I not only feel enthralled watching him, every time, along with his fans, I also learn a lot about letting go onstage and leaving it all out there.