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

by Lauren Rowe

  But, unfortunately, I ran into our tour manager, Tracy, in the lobby, before making it to the casino. And that’s when she mentioned Fugitive Summer had just finished an interview and that all the members of the band were heading to their respective rooms to chill for a bit before soundcheck. In that moment, I felt possessed by a demon. Incapable of waiting a second longer to let Savage make good on his offer to eat me from every angle. I knew, whether I liked it or not, I was a goner.

  And now, here I am. Pounding on the call button at the elevator bank in the lobby like my very life depends on it. After only one time with Savage, I feel physically addicted to him. Like I don’t care what pride I need to swallow to have him.

  When one of the elevators opens, I lope over to it, lurch inside, and punch the button for the twentieth floor. But just before the doors close, two young women enter the small space, and immediately gasp.

  “You’re Laila Fitzgerald!” one of them says.

  “I am. Hello.”

  “We love you!”

  I thank them, and they ask for, and receive, a selfie.

  “Are you going to the show tonight?” I ask, intending to offer them tickets if they say they’re not already going.

  But it’s a moot point when they reply, “Hell yes, we’re going! Fugitive Summer is our favorite. And you, too!” They look at each other and at the same time, scream, “Savage!” And then quickly burst into gleeful, giddy laughter at their silliness.

  “He’s definitely one of a kind,” I say.

  One of them says, “Everyone says he’s your boyfriend . . . ?”

  “No!” I bark, involuntarily, unable to keep the panic out of my voice. I clear my throat and try again, this time more calmly. “No.”

  But the damage is done. I’ve obviously come off as a lunatic. The woman who doth protest way too quickly and loudly. The girls pause, apparently sensing, accurately, that I’m off my rocker. “Sorry if we assumed,” one of them says, slowly, like she’s talking a jumper off a bridge. “We saw that video of you and Savage shouting at each other and—”

  “That was a misunderstanding,” I reply, my heart thumping. “But there’s nothing going on between us, I assure you.” They’re referring to a video of Savage and me in New York, taken while we screamed at each other on the sidewalk in front of that restaurant. Thankfully, the street noise and other ambient sounds were too loud to capture our words with any clarity. But our body language was clear enough—fierce enough to instantly spark rampant rumors Savage and I were having a passionate lover’s spat.

  “Well, good, that just leaves him for us, then,” one of the young women says, making her friend giggle.

  The elevator stops on their floor, but one of them holds it open while asking me if I can get them backstage tonight. But now that I’ve revealed myself to be a total nut job, I’m too embarrassed to see them again.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not allowed to do that.”

  “Oh well. It was worth a try. Say hi to Fugitive Summer for us, okay? Especially Savage!”

  “I will!”

  After the doors close between us, I begin pounding on the button for Savage’s floor, despite it already being lit up. Now that I’m this close to Savage, I can feel his magnetic pull on me. Indeed, my mouth feels like it’s physically watering at the thought of what I’m going to do to that man, the minute I have him alone. Hopefully, he’ll be smart enough not to speak when I arrive. Or else, quite possibly, he’ll talk himself right out of the best blowjob he’s ever gotten.

  As the elevator glides the rest of the way to the twentieth floor, the horrible thought occurs to me that Savage might not even be in his room, despite what Tracy said about the members of the band heading to their rooms. Savage gets easily distracted, after all. It’s one of his defining characteristics. The thing is, if I don’t go to his room now, and throw myself at his mercy, if I wait until after the show tonight, as his text mentioned, I’m quite certain I’ll physically explode.

  The elevator pings and stops moving and the doors glide open. As I walk into the hallway on the twentieth floor, I glance at Savage’s text to remind myself of his room number, and quickly realize, based on the room numbers nearby, I’ve unwittingly used the least convenient elevator bank in this sprawling hotel to get here—one that put me all the way down on the farthest end of this long hallway from Savage’s suite. As I begin making the trek down the hallway, I feel electrified with anticipation. I hate giving Savage the satisfaction of showing up at his room, especially this quickly, but I can’t wait another—

  I stop walking abruptly.

  Savage has emerged from an elevator bank ahead of me in the hallway and is now walking toward his room at the far end of the hallway, with his back facing me. And he’s not alone. Besides his two usual bodyguards, one walking ahead of him, and one behind, Savage is accompanied by an attractive brunette. Savage’s left arm is draped casually over her slender shoulders while his right hand holds a large bottle of booze. Much to my dismay, the brunette is practically squealing with joy, the same way every one of those groupies sounded each and every time I walked in on Savage in my dressing room.

  I try to catch my breath, but I feel like I’m hyperventilating. I’m instantly sick to my stomach. Stupid, Laila. A half hour ago, Savage sent me a text, begging me to come to his room tonight. And now, he’s bringing some random woman to his room for a quickie before soundcheck?

  My desperate brain decides to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. You’re misreading the situation, I think, before speed-walking a few yards in order to get close enough to overhear Savage’s conversation.

  “I can’t believe I’m here!” the woman is gushing, pressing herself into Savage’s side.

  Savage pulls her into him, making her squeal again. “You’re my birthday present to myself.”

  My blood runs cold. When I was on top of Savage and fucking him passionately this morning, he looked at my body moving on top of his, grabbed my tits, and whispered, “Happy birthday to me.” And now he’s saying basically those same words to this woman? I feel so gullible. So played.

  “I feel a little tipsy,” she declares. “How’d you convince me to have a drink this early? I never day-drink!”

  “Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Savage says, laughing.

  The woman squeezes Savage with enthusiasm. “Happy birthday, Adrian. Now, let me get my hands on that famous body!” She laughs. “That’s your birthday present! I’m gonna make it extra good!”

  “Knock yourself out, Sasha.”

  Okay, that’s it. I’ve heard enough. Making an “eeww!” face, I turn around and start sprinting down the hallway, feeling physically ill. Where did he meet this one? At the interview he just finished? Was she the interviewer or maybe someone he spotted in the casino on his way to his room—and he simply couldn’t resist inviting her back to his room for a quickie before soundcheck, the same way he so deftly invited that waitress to spend the night with him in New York?

  I realize Savage never explicitly said his invitation to have sex with me for the rest of the tour would be an exclusive arrangement. But I don’t think it’s crazy that I assumed as much, given that he texted me his room number and begged me to come to him, mere hours after having sex with me. At the very least, I think it was fair for me to assume Savage wouldn’t have sex with someone else before we possibly reconvened for Round Two in his room in only a few hours.

  I pound the call button for the elevator, trembling with adrenaline. How did I let myself think I’d rocked Savage’s world on that lounge chair, the way he’d rocked mine? After this morning’s tryst with him, I couldn’t even sleep, despite my drunk exhaustion. I was too wound up. Already enslaved by what he’d done to my body. And I assumed, like a fool, he was lying awake in his room, too, also reliving the deliciousness in his head.

  Well, there’s only one conclusion to draw now. The dude is a stone-cold sex addict. A megalomaniac narcissist who literally needs fawning
validation every single minute of his life.

  Rejection.

  Humiliation.

  Hate.

  All of it is coursing through me, all at once.

  But, mostly, hate.

  An elevator going down finally opens and I step inside, physically shaking with rage.

  You know what? I don’t even care. Screw Savage. Screw Malik, too. And screw my cheating ex-boyfriend, Shawn, while I’m at it. I don’t need a man. Especially not one who’s going to make me forfeit my self-respect to be with him. Never again. Savage once told me to know my worth. Well, guess what? I’m going to follow his advice, from now on.

  As the elevator descends, I tap out a text to the personal trainer assigned to the tour—a buff guy named Charlie. He’s not on the tour for me, of course. He’s a perk for the headliner. But Tracy, our tour manager, told me I’m welcome to use Charlie’s services, whenever he’s not otherwise engaged. Up until now, I’ve met with Charlie only here and there, out of respect for my place in the hierarchy. But now, screw it. I’m going to throw myself, and all these negative emotions, into a whole new obsession. A positive one. Namely, getting healthy, once and for all, in my mind, body, and spirit.

  Me: Hey Charlie! By any chance, are you free to meet me in the hotel gym in fifteen for a session?

  Luckily, Charlie replies immediately:

  Charlie: I sure am. See you in 15.

  The elevator doors open on my floor and I march toward my room to change into my workout clothes. Fuck Savage. And fuck every man like him. I’m officially done with bad boys, for good. Before now, the history of my romantic entanglements could be summarized as follows:

  Laila: Is that a red flag? Nah. Couldn’t be, despite its red color and uncanny “flag” shape.

  Narrator: And then she fucked him. Only to find out later, yes, it was, indeed, a red flag.

  Well, no more. Starting now, and for the foreseeable future, but especially for the remaining month of the tour, I’m sending myself to bad boy rehab. I’m going cold turkey, bitches! Thanks for the unsolicited advice about knowing my self-worth, Savage. I promise I’m not going to forget it, ever again.

  Eighteen

  Laila

  Six weeks later

  Los Angeles, California

  “You clean up nice, yourself!” the woman onstage says brightly to her co-presenter. She’s a longtime country star who won this same award last year, and he’s a young buck with his first hit this year—an up-and-comer in tight jeans and a cowboy hat whose ass should be in a shadow box. And as the pair continues their scripted banter, aided by the teleprompter, I can’t help craning my neck around a nearby production assistant, searching the backstage area in vain for any sign of my co-presenter, Adrian Savage—who, true to form, is ridiculously late. This time, cutting it so close, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.

  It’s the Video Music Awards and I’m standing in the wings, as instructed, right on time, awaiting my turn to present the next award with my assigned co-presenter. After the current duo finishes their thing, there will be a commercial break, thank God, which gives us a tiny margin of error. But then, whether Savage has arrived or not, I’ll have to walk out there and present this damned award, one way or another. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll have to disregard all the scripted banter on the teleprompter, everything I practiced earlier today at the rehearsal Savage didn’t attend, and I’ll have to wing it. Which is something I hate doing, ever. But especially on live TV.

  I haven’t seen Savage since the tour ended two weeks ago, and barely saw him throughout the entire last month of the tour. I certainly didn’t ask to be paired with him today. Apparently, the producers, like the rest of the world, saw that viral video of Savage and me screaming at each other in front of that restaurant and decided we’d bring in the ratings as co-presenters. It’s fine, though. I got good at ignoring Savage for the final month of the tour, after seeing him for exactly who he is in Las Vegas. So, I can certainly summon my superpowers, once again, and ignore him while reading off a teleprompter.

  I’m told Savage didn’t make it to the quickie rehearsal earlier today, thanks to a flight delay out of Chicago. But now that he’s not here, and the seconds are ticking down, I’m wondering if his supposed “travel delay” earlier was a flat-out lie. Is he standing me up, on purpose, to get back at me for ignoring him for the last month of the tour?

  I look down at myself—at the dress I decided to wear tonight. If Savage doesn’t show up and see this gorgeous work of art on me, I’ll be so pissed. It’s basically form-fitting netting with well-placed swirls that artfully, but barely, hide my most scandalous lady bits. I wouldn’t have worn such a naughty dress for an awards show, typically. Even one as raucous as the Video Music Awards. But knowing I was going to see Savage for the first time since the tour ended spurred me on and made me want to remind him what he missed out on.

  That nearby PA suddenly exhales with relief, the same way I’ve seen so many others do before her while awaiting Savage. And that’s how I know Mr. Rockstar has arrived, approximately three minutes before we’re set to walk onstage on live TV.

  The air shifts and electrifies. And then, there he is. Rounding a corner.

  Casually, he sidles up to me, like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes wide, he looks me up and down and says, “Damn, Fitzy. That’s quite a dress. Fuck.”

  “Hello, Adrian,” I say curtly, pretending not to notice the way his eyes are popping out of his head. His cologne and charisma, the intensity of his gaze . . . all of it is hitting me like a ton of bricks. But I ignore it all.

  The superstar onstage says, “And the award goes to . . .” She opens the envelope and immediately stiffens at whatever she’s seeing inside. She looks out at the crowd and smiles thinly. “Hugh Delaney.”

  Savage, the production assistant, and I simultaneously snicker, as the audience in the theatre collectively does the same. There’s some scattered, half-hearted applause before the woman onstage finally chokes out, “I’m told Hugh can’t make it tonight, so Taggert and I accept this award on his behalf!”

  Savage leans into my ear, making my skin tingle at his proximity. I feel his warm breath as he says, “Yeah, no shit Hugh couldn’t make it tonight. Ha.”

  I can’t help snorting with him, totally contrary to my strategy of ignoring him. “Yeah, Hugh’s a little busy tonight . . . imploding spectacularly.”

  It’s an understatement. Four days ago, the world found out the fifty-three-year-old, iconic country star who’s been the elder statesman on Sing Your Heart Out since the beginning, has been cheating on his world-famous actress-wife with their kids’ Brazilian nanny—a twenty-year-old who claimed, once the sex tape of them leaked, she’d been “coerced” into having a long-running affair with Hugh.

  In response to the shocking allegations, Hugh went on an epic bender, drove his Range Rover into a tree, and promptly got arrested for DUI. Right after that, Hugh’s wife filed for divorce, while the nanny filed a civil lawsuit and sold her story to a gossip rag. The day after that, as in, two days ago, Sing Your Heart Out announced Hugh’s termination, two weeks before shooting on the new season is set to start, saying he’d breached his contract’s strict morality clause. And now, here we are, celebrating Hugh’s win for Best Country Music Video.

  The scandal has been catastrophic news for old Hugh, obviously, but fantastic news for whoever his last-minute replacement on the show will turn out to be. It’s a long shot, but my agent, Daria, is already hard at work, trying to make Hugh’s replacement me. I don’t expect her efforts to bear fruit. I’m barely famous enough to have snagged a spot as a mentor this season. But my profile has expanded significantly since the success of my second album. Not to mention, since that video of me fighting with Savage in New York caused Google searches of my name to spike by one thousand percent. So, my agent figured it was worth a shot.

  Daria’s pitch to the show’s producers has been: “You’ve already publicized Lail
a as a mentor this season and the response has been fantastic. So why not make a surprise announcement that you’ve expanded her role because you’ve realized she’ll bring a fresh energy to the judges’ table? Who better to replace Hugh at the last minute than his polar opposite—a young, enthusiastic woman?”

  Yeah, we don’t have high hopes that pitch will work. Almost certainly, they’ll replace Hugh with another big star, another man, who’ll appeal to Hugh’s same demographic. They’ve always had one woman and two men at the judges’ table, since the beginning—and Aloha is still under contract for the next four years of the show.

  The PA hands Savage the short script for our banter. “This is all cued up on the teleprompter,” she assures him. “But you’ll probably want to read this before walking out there, so you don’t stumble on anything.”

  “I’ll do that. Could you give us some space to rehearse in private?”

  “Sure. Let me know if you need me. I’ll come back and cue you, right before the announcer introduces you both.”

  As she walks away, Savage tosses the script onto a nearby speaker. “You’re stubborn as shit,” he says to me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I kept my word and told no one. For a full month, I pretended nothing happened between us, whenever anyone was around. I kept my word to you and showed you I’m trustworthy. So why didn’t you come to my room, even once? Why not answer a single one of my texts—either during the tour, or over the past two weeks? At the very least, you could have replied to one of my texts! But you just can’t help yourself, huh? You’re so used to being a bitch to me, it’s now your default mode.”

  I grit my teeth. “Yeah, interesting to note I’m only a bitch with you. I’m actually really nice with everyone else. And if you must know, I never received any of your texts, except the ones you sent in Vegas, because I blocked your number.”