by Lauren Rowe
I clench my jaw. “I’m not being greedy. This is business, and I’m letting my agent get me the best deal possible, which is exactly what your agent initially did for you, and what he’s also doing now. Don’t think, even for a minute, your donkey dick is some kind of dangling carrot for me.”
“Sure, bunny. You’re not any more believable now than you were on Sylvia.”
“If anyone is being greedy, it’s you. You’re the one who messed up, not me. So, you should be the one to have to sacrifice to fix your mess.”
Sexual heat washes over him. He leans forward sharply, sending his sexy cologne into my nostrils. “You wanna see me being greedy, sweetheart? Then let me eat your pussy. I’ll show you a kind of greed that’ll take your breath away.”
I inhale sharply, taken aback by the hungry look in his eyes.
“Laila!” Daria barks from across the room. “Stop talking to him right now!”
I lean back sharply, feeling like a kid who’s been caught saying a curse word. “He wasn’t convincing me of anything,” I blurt. But even I can hear the lie in my tone.
“Oh, jeez,” Daria mutters, throwing up her hands. “Seriously? The world is full of big dicks, Laila. He’s got nothing to offer that can’t be found elsewhere.” She leans into the speaker phone. “Nadine, we’re gonna have to call you back. Savage is trying to charm the pants off my client, literally.”
Nadine replies she’ll give our side fifteen minutes to reach a deal. “We’re running out of time here, folks,” she says sternly. “If you don’t call us back within fifteen minutes, saying you’ve reached a deal on your end, we’re going to cut bait and move forward with our Plan B—someone else we’ve already lined up to replace Savage, if needed.”
Well, that gets everyone’s attention, especially Savage’s.
Daria ends the call and rests half her bottom on the edge of her desk. “Okay, gentlemen. You heard Nadine. She’s already got someone else lined up. So, the question Savage needs to ask himself is this: ‘Do I want one hundred percent of nothing . . . or fifty percent of something?’”
“He’ll give her ten percent,” Eli says.
And Daria replies by launching into a long speech about why I’m not going to take anything less than half Savage’s salary, whatever it is. “This would have to be an equal partnership in all ways,” Daria says. “Because Savage needs Laila as much as she needs him.”
Eli protests. Daria gives as good as she gets. And through it all, I bite my lip to prevent myself from caving. Honestly, if left to my own devices, I’d take the offered ten percent and be done with this. At this point, if push came to shove, I’d do the damned show for free, for nothing but the exposure and that invaluable performance slot in the finale.
“Laaaailaaaaa,” Savage coos softly, like he’s camped between my legs and has just raised his head. “Sweetheart, call off your pit bull. Let’s do this. Ten percent.”
“Mr. Savage,” Daria says, “Laila hired me precisely because I’m a pit bull. Fifty-fifty, or she walks. Tick tock.” Daria glares at me, her dark eyes commanding me to keep my mouth shut. But I can’t help myself. The pressure is getting to me. Maybe I am being greedy here, like Savage said.
“Savage, I have family members I want to help out with—"
“No, Laila!” Daria commands, putting up her index finger. “You don’t need to justify getting yourself paid. Men negotiate massive paydays for themselves in every industry, and nobody ever holds it against them or wonders if they have family members to support.”
I look at Savage, suddenly remembering our conversation in that green room in Philadelphia, when I admitted I’d been hired as a mentor on Sing Your Heart Out. “Actually, that’s an excellent point, Daria. In the past, I’ve made the mistake of mixing business and emotion and not realizing what I’m worth. A really savvy businessman once told me not to do either. So, this time, I think I’ll follow his brilliant advice.”
Savage narrows his eyes and practically snarls.
“So, what’s it gonna be, gentlemen?” Daria says. “We’ve got four minutes before Nadine hires Savage’s replacement. We want fifty percent of Savage’s take, whatever that is. Final offer.”
Eli throws a Hail Mary. He says Savage has four bandmates, and a shitty deal with River Records, which means he nets far less from his music royalties than we probably think.
“Cry me a river,” Daria replies. “Fifty percent. Yes or no?”
The guys huddle up. And as they do, I clutch my sides and rock in place, feeling like I’m going to explode from anxiety. But, finally, Eli and Savage break free of their conversation and confirm we’ve got a deal.
“Hallelujah!” Daria shouts, springing out of her chair. She shakes Eli’s hand, and then Savage’s, before wrapping me in a warm hug. And when I nuzzle my face into my agent’s neck, a dam breaks inside me. As I cry into Daria’s neck, she whispers into my ear, “This is gonna change your life forever.”
After thanking her profusely, I disengage from Daria, expecting to find Savage awaiting me, the same way his agent is doing. But to my surprise, as I shake Eli’s hand, Savage is sulking in a corner of Daria’s office, gazing out the window.
“I’ll call Nadine and tell her the good news!” Daria chirps, ignoring the thick anger wafting off the rockstar in the corner. She picks up her phone, but pauses. “Real quick. Now that we’ve shaken on it, what’s Laila’s fifty percent worth?”
Eli addresses his sulking client. “You wanna tell her?”
Savage turns his burning eyes from the window to me, leveling me with a glower that takes my breath away. “Congratulations, Miss Fitzgerald,” he says, his jaw tight. “You just extorted me for two . . . million . . . bucks.”
Twenty-Five
Savage
With jackets draped over our heads, Laila and I are guided into the backseat of an SUV in Daria’s underground parking garage—the chariot sent by the show’s producers to whisk us off, discreetly, to whatever overnight “hideaway” they’ve arranged until our permanent digs can been finalized. I hear the click of the back door as I settle into the backseat next to Laila’s body heat. Then, the sound of the car’s front doors opening and closing, followed by the voice of one of our two handlers—a bodyguard and driver sent by the producers—announcing, “All clear. You can uncover your heads now.”
I remove the jacket from my head to find Laila, her sandy hair mussed and her face aglow, sitting next to me in the large SUV. Without delay, the driver starts the engine, prompting Daria and Eli to wave goodbye to us through the windshield like proud parents, and off we go, under cover of dark tinted windows, out the garage and into the midday sun on Wilshire Boulevard.
“This is wild,” Laila says, sounding giddy. “I feel like ‘the package’ in a spy thriller!” She touches her ear, like she’s talking into an earpiece. “The Package . . . is on . . . its way.”
She giggles, but I’m still too pissed about the money to join her. I was more than happy to help Laila secure a seat at the judges’ table, if doing so didn’t impact me and my bottom line. But I never would have lifted a finger to help her if I’d thought, even for a minute, it would pave the way for her to fleece me out of half my salary. I need every dime of that salary, and then some, to comfortably pay for my grandmother’s house. I’m sure I can make the deal work somehow, probably with a loan. But a loan wasn’t part of my plan when I decided to buy that house.
The giddy expression on Laila’s face evaporates when she sees my sour one. “Oh, come on,” she says, shoving my shoulder. “You’re still grouchy about the money? Let it go!”
“Yes, I’m still grouchy. It’s been less than an hour since we signed our contracts, through which you extorted me for two million bucks.”
“Extorted,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You made a willing and informed decision, based on expert guidance from your agent. Now, get up, dust off your knees, and get over it.”
“Get over it? Laila, I’m rightfully going to be p
issed about two million bucks until the day I die.”
She holds up her water bottle, like she’s toasting me. “Well, here’s hoping that day comes sooner, rather than later, for both our sakes.”
“I never even wanted to do the stupid show!” I blurt. “When they first offered it to me, I said no. They offered me two mill, and then three, before I finally, begrudgingly, said yes for four. I never would have done it for two mill!”
“Well, lesson learned,” she says. “Maybe next time you won’t take a two-million-dollar naked swan dive into a swimming pool where anyone could see you, huh?”
“It was a dare.”
“No,” she says. “It was Drunk Savage’s way of self-sabotaging—of getting himself out of a contract he wishes he’d never signed in the first place.”
I open and close my mouth. Is she right about that? It rings true. I’ve definitely had a problem with self-sabotage throughout my life. Case in point, the way I pushed Laila away, so vigorously, during the tour. I lean toward her. “Tell the truth, Laila. Now that the contracts are signed and your agent isn’t here to get you all fired up about the gender pay gap, you know you let Daria commit highway robbery on your behalf today, right?”
She scoffs. “Absolutely not. Am I elated about the way things worked out? Hell yes, I am! Whoop! This is one of the best days of my life.” She narrows her eyes. “But I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re already making more money in a year than most people make in a lifetime. Way more than me, I’m sure, despite what your agent said about you having four bandmates and a shitty deal at the label.”
“I’m not nearly as flush as you probably think. I’ve made some big purchases recently.”
“Oh, waah, waah. You’re blessed to be doing the thing you love most as your actual job, for some amount of money that would make anyone else feel like they won the lottery. So, suck it up. Your agent advised you to give me half your already-inflated ‘salary’ so you wouldn’t get fired, due to your own screw-up. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at yourself for being a self-sabotaging idiot.”
Well, damn. I look out the window, so she won’t see me smile. I don’t like getting bitch-slapped by most people in this world. But when Laila does it, I can’t deny that it turns me on.
Laila continues speaking to the back of my head. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need you to stop complaining about the money, so I can try to get into character, which I can’t do when you’re acting like a whiny little bitch.”
I return my gaze to hers. “Get into character?”
She nods. “Somehow, against all odds, I need to convince myself I’m not in deep hate with you, but in deep and abiding love.” At that last word, she sticks out her tongue, like a cat getting rid of a fur ball. And, once again, I look out the window to hide my grin. A lot of things suck about this situation. But being stuck with Laila for the next three months ain’t one of them.
For the millionth time, I find myself wondering how she resisted coming to my room in Vegas and beyond. I would have bet anything she’d have caved at some point. In fact, I was so positive she’d relent and come to me in Vegas, I stayed up all night after that show, alone in my bed, waiting for her. Thinking every sound outside my door was her. I must have opened my hotel room door or peeked out my peephole ten times that night. Each time, feeling more and more deflated when she wasn’t there.
“So, that’s it?” Laila says, filling the silence. “You’re going to look out your window and sulk and not speak to me?”
I take a deep breath and return my gaze to hers. “I’m not not speaking to you. I’m processing everything that’s happened. It’s been a crazy day and I’ve still got a hangover.”
“Speaking of which, you think you’ll be able to handle not drinking for the next three months?”
“Starting tomorrow, mind you. And yes, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll do it with you, if you’d like.”
“They didn’t require that of you.”
“True, but what self-respecting fake girlfriend would make her fake boyfriend resist temptation for three months, all by himself?”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
“Sure thing,” she says. “You want to get shitfaced with me tonight, as a last hurrah?”
“I’m down.”
“Fair warning: I’ll probably be a lightweight tonight,” she says. “I haven’t been drunk for a while. I’ve been on a health kick lately. Eating clean.”
“Yeah, you look really good.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
Heat passes between us. Or, at least, I feel it. And, again, I find myself wondering how the hell she resisted me for a full month—after knowing, for a fact, we’re a five-alarm fire together. Was Charlie that amazing in bed?
My phone buzzes in my lap and I look down to find a text from Kendrick, asking me what happened at today’s meeting with Laila. I motion to my phone. “Kendrick is wondering what happened at the meeting today. Do you think it’d be a breach of my contract to tell him the truth about the situation? You know, about you and me?” As Laila knows, the producers were adamant that the truth about our fake relationship is “top secret.” To be divulged only on a “need to know” basis.
Laila purses her lips and shifts her position on the car seat. “I think it’s fine. The producers said not to tell anyone not directly related to the show, remember? But Kendrick is directly related to the show, since he’s going to be your mentor this season. Even if you didn’t trust him like a brother, I’m sure his contract contains a confidentiality clause, the same as ours.”
“Excellent point, counselor.”
“But don’t worry, if I’m technically wrong and you aren’t allowed to tell him, I promise on our fake love not to rat you out to the producers for spilling the beans.”
Warmth pools in my chest at the adorable look on her face. “Thanks. If you want to text your mom and sister and tell them the situation, I also promise on our fake love not to rat you out. I know how close you are with them.”
Laila’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “How do you know that?”
My chest tightens. “You talked about them during the tour.”
“Not to you. I’m sure I never told you anything about my mom and sister.”
I feel my cheeks turning red. “You told Ruby or Kendrick when I was sitting nearby, I think . . .”
She looks floored but says nothing.
My cheeks burning hot, I say, “You mentioned your mom a couple times during your hideously exploitative Sylvia interview. You know, the one where you used me as click-bait? So, maybe that’s what I’m remembering.”
Laila rolls her eyes.
“So, are you going to tell your family or not?” I ask, desperate to deflect.
“No. I think I’ll keep things to myself for a while. My sister is trustworthy, but give my mom some wine and a few of her best friends, and she’d likely babble the whole damned story, without meaning to do it.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, it’s probably best to keep things tight as a drum for now, and stick with only telling people directly involved with the show.”
“Agreed. Better safe than sorry.”
“So, are you gonna tell Aloha, then?” I ask.
“Yeah. She’s going to laugh her ass off.” Chuckling, she grabs her phone while I grab mine.
“Tell Aloha I say hi,” I say.
“The same to Kendrick. Oh, hey . . .” She pushes on my thigh, and her touch sends a blast of arousal streaking through me. “Ask Kendrick to send me the scoop on babysitting Adrian Savage, since keeping you from self-destructing is apparently my actual job now.”
“I can already tell you what he’s going to say: ‘You’re fucked. There’s no owner’s manual. Every day with every one of Savage’s many personalities is a new adventure.’”
She snorts. “More like a nude adventure.”
I can’t help laughing. “Are you complaining about that? Because if so, you’re the only one.”
“Oh, God. I’ve got to endure three months of this?” With that, she looks down and starts tapping away. I watch her for a moment, admiring her profile. And, finally, grab my phone and tap out a reply to Kendrick.
Me: Crisis averted. The meeting was IN-FUCKING-SANE, but, in the end, I’m still a judge, by the skin of my teeth, and you’re still my team’s mentor. But in a shocking twist, Laila is now the show’s first-ever fourth judge and my live-in fake girlfriend for the entire season.
Kendrick: WHAAAAT?!?!?!
Me: It’s reality TV, baby! LOL. They think a “romance storyline” will bring in record ratings. They’re getting us a cool pad with lots of amenities so we can do tons of behind the scenes social media stuff. You know, like a real couple.
Kendrick: I’m shook. I got a text from the producers a few minutes ago, telling me to pack an overnight bag, clear my schedule for the rest of today and tomorrow, and stay tuned for further info. What’s that about?
Me: They’re pulling together a last minute promo shoot with the full cast this afternoon. They want to have everything ready to go right after tomorrow’s press conference.
Kendrick: Where are you right now?
Me: In a car with Laila, being driven to some secret hideout for tonight.
Kendrick: I’m surprised you agreed to go along with this. But I’m SHOCKED she agreed.
Me: It took half my salary to get her to do it. And by that, I mean I’m literally paying her half my salary out of my own pocket.
Kendrick: WHAT?!?!?!?! WHY?!?!?!?!
Me: Long story. I’ll tell you in person. Trust me, I’m not happy about it. But, in the end, it’ll be worth it.
Kendrick: Yeah, regardless, you’re still getting paid a shit-ton of EASY money, dude. And the show will sell a lot of records for us.
Me: Exactly.
Kendrick: Yo! I just got a text from the show. They’re sending a car for me in an hour.
Me: Then I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.