Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet Book 2)

by Lauren Rowe

Suddenly, I feel like I’m standing in that hallway in Las Vegas, all over again. An acute sensation of rejection washes over me. I feel pathetic. Foolish. Embarrassed. Why do I still want Savage to want me, more than anyone else—but especially more than some random groupie he just met? Why does he still have this ridiculous hold over me?

  Aloha says, “Aw, Laila. I could be wrong. After the night of the hot tub, was there any indication Savage was feeling ‘something’ he didn’t want to feel toward you? Think back.”

  Images flood me. Savage’s arm slung over that groupie’s shoulders. A booze bottle dangling in his free hand. The woman’s obvious excitement that Savage had deigned to choose her. I hear her voice saying, “Let me at that famous body!” And every molecule in my body recoils and shudders at the memory. “No,” I reply, my spirit heavy. “On the contrary, the only indication was that Savage felt the same thing men always feel for me: nothing but lust.” I take a deep breath to regulate the pang of embarrassment twisting my core. How on earth did I hear “Hate Sex High” and turn it into a confessional about Savage catching feelings for me, when the truth is so damned obvious?

  Aloha juts her lower lip in sympathy. “Aw, honey. Who cares what I think? I wasn’t there, and you were. Trust your gut.”

  “I do. And my gut is telling me you’re right. It’s telling me I heard what I wanted to hear in the song, not what was actually there.”

  Sighing, Aloha gets up from her chair and hugs me. “Oh, sweet Laila. You and your horrible taste in men.” She kisses my hair. “Why can’t you ever fall for guys who aren’t players and heartbreakers, girlie?”

  I nuzzle into Aloha’s dark hair and exhale. “It’s my fatal flaw. I see a guy with multiple red flags sticking out of his hair and ears and asshole, and I run towards him, at full speed, rather than away.”

  Aloha chuckles, while I groan in misery.

  “I don’t even like Savage, as a person,” I say softly. “He’s an arrogant jerk. It’s like he’s cast a spell on me. Like I’m a drug addict and he’s my drug. I know he’s bad for me, but I can’t stop wanting him.”

  Aloha pulls back from our embrace to level me with her green eyes. “Do you really want him—or do you want him to want you?”

  “I want him to want me!” I shout, without hesitation. “Why doesn’t he want me, Aloha?”

  Aloha chuckles. “Well, it seems pretty clear, from what I heard coming out of Savage’s room last night, you both want each other—physically, anyway.” She smooths my hair, presses a kiss to my forehead, and resumes her chair. “Buckle up, Buttercup. It sounds like the next three months are going to be a wild ride for you. You’re going to be living and working with Savage, and probably having amazing sex with him every night, too, if those sounds I heard last night were any indication. So, do yourself a favor and make sure you’re not projecting feelings onto him that might not be there. Or else, the next three months could really mess with your heart.”

  I sigh. “Don’t worry. I’ve got my head on straight now. Savage has no idea Malik was nothing to me. I made him think I was with Malik for weeks after I’d already kicked him to the curb in New York. Obviously, it drove Savage crazy to think there was one woman on planet earth who was resistant to his charms. That’s what the song is about.”

  The makeup artist sticks her head inside the door. “Ready for me?”

  Aloha raises her eyebrows, asking me if I’m good.

  “Yeah, come in,” I reply, flashing a wistful smile at Aloha. “We’re done here.”

  “I’m always here for you,” Aloha says softly.

  “Thank you. I’m good. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hide out here for a bit. I promised Kendrick I’d listen to the whole album, and I don’t want to go out there and bump into You Know Who while I’m doing that.”

  “Stay as long as you like—provided you let me know if there’s another song about you.”

  “God help me,” I mutter, before leaning back and shoving my earbuds in again. But, thankfully, as I listen to the rest of the album, I don’t hear another song that contains my name buried in the mix or a single lyric that feels even remotely like it was inspired by me.

  Two

  Savage

  As I exit Reed’s guest house following my conversation with Laila about “Hate Sex High,” the makeup artist I’d asked to step outside on my way in is standing outside the door, looking stressed. Clearly, the poor woman has a tight schedule before the press conference and the last thing she needed was some asshole rock star showing up and asking her to step outside.

  “Sorry about that,” I mutter. “You can go back in now.”

  “No worries. Have a good one.”

  “You, too.”

  As the woman heads inside to return to Laila, I begin traipsing up the pathway toward Reed’s gigantic main house, physically shaking with adrenaline. I think I persuaded Laila, pretty convincingly, not to put too much stock in my lyrics. In fact, by the time I left the guest house, I think I had Laila pretty well convinced “Hate Sex High” is mostly fiction, other than the obvious references in the verses. Obviously, there’s no getting around the fact that Laila was the one who chased a hate sex high with me, all the way to three orgasms. But, thankfully, I think I persuaded Laila not to freak out about the chorus—specifically, the one lyric I didn’t want her to hear the most.

  If I’d had the balls to tell Laila the truth about that particular lyric a moment ago, the one in which I confessed I was feeling something I didn’t want to feel for her, I would have had to tell her I was flat-out obsessed with her by the time I stumbled upon her in that hot tub. I would have had to tell her I became even more obsessed with her after finding out sex with her was hotter than my hottest fantasy. I would have had to tell her my obsession with her morphed into downright madness, once she’d started ignoring me and all my texts, in city after city, beginning in Las Vegas. And that my madness only amplified when she started showing up everywhere with motherfucking Charlie the Fitness Trainer, looking like she’d just finished sucking his dick. But I couldn’t tell Laila any of that. Not yet, anyway. Not now.

  After rounding a corner, I come upon Kendrick, sitting in the same spot on Reed’s patio where I left him earlier, his MacBook open and his headphones on.

  When my best friend sees me approaching, he rips off his headphones. “Well?”

  I come to a stop in front of Kendrick and exhale. “When I walked in, Laila was in the middle of listening to ‘Hate Sex High’—a fact I knew, instantly, because of the look on her face.” I mimic Laila’s expression, making the same sort of look people make during a jump-scare in a horror movie.

  Kendrick grimaces. “What’d she say about the song?”

  I take a chair and tell Kendrick the whole story, in great detail, concluding with, “Thankfully, by the time I left, I think I had her pretty well convinced the song is just, you know, inspired by her, but with lots of artistic license taken, especially in relation to the chorus. The part that matters the most.”

  Kendrick sighs. “Well, it’s a relief you were able to talk to her right away, so the situation didn’t spiral out of control on you.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, simply because, the minute Kendrick says the word relief, I realize that’s not the predominant emotion I’m feeling. That, in fact, I’m feeling mostly disappointment that Laila believed my bullshit about the song not being completely true. Did I secretly hope Laila would see right through my lies and force me to come clean and confess everything to her? No. That’s a ludicrous thought, especially since I don’t even know what “coming clean” and “confessing everything” would mean in this situation. What do I honestly feel for Laila? I know Laila blasted her way into my sexual fantasies when I saw her music video during the international leg of our tour, and that she cast one hell of a spell on me when I laid eyes on her at Reed’s party. But like Kendrick’s said to me in the past, I think it’s highly possible I’ve only wanted what I can’t have. Is Laila nothing but a sex kitten
fantasy for me, and the real Laila, if I got to know her, wouldn’t interest me at all? Honestly, I don’t know. And until I do, I’m sticking to my story that “Hate Sex High” is only based on the truth.

  “No, Savage,” Kendrick says, out of nowhere, apparently, reacting to my facial expression. “We talked about this last night.”

  “What?”

  Kendrick’s jaw tightens. “Feel free to mind fuck anyone else, if that’s what gets you off. Make anyone else fall for you, right before you toss them aside because they’ve become ‘boring’ to you when the chase is over. But don’t you dare pull any of your usual shit with Laila, or I swear, I’ll take it personally, like you’ve pulled that shit on me. You understand?”

  I exhale. “You already said all this to me last night.”

  “But not when you were sober. I’m just making sure we’re clear.”

  All of a sudden, it hits me like a ton of bricks: Kendrick is in love with Laila. Or, at least, he thinks he is. Surely, his head knows by now he can’t have her, but his heart still hasn’t gotten the memo. “We’re clear,” I reply softly. “I promise I won’t pull my usual bullshit with her.”

  Kendrick’s Adam’s apple bobs. He nods, but before he’s said a word, a female voice sings out, “Hey, boys!” And when we turn to look, it’s Aloha, coming up the path from Reed’s guest house alongside Laila, both women looking made-up and camera-ready.

  “Hey, girls,” Kendrick replies brightly, while I look down at my toes, feeling awkward about my earlier conversation with Laila.

  The women reach Kendrick and me and Laila announces she’s listened to our entire album and loves it. Kendrick thanks her, so I look up and thank her, too. But the minute our eyes meet, Laila quickly looks away.

  “I had a couple notes on the mixes,” Laila says to Kendrick. She itemizes them and I’m impressed by her observations.

  “Awesome notes, Laila,” Kendrick says, giving voice to my thoughts. “I’ll send your thoughts along to Zeke and the band. I’m sure we’ll make a few adjustments.”

  Laila responds to Kendrick, and as she talks, I can’t stop staring at her, willing her look at me. But no dice. She only has eyes for Kendrick. My gaze drifts to Aloha’s green eyes to find her staring at me. And the second our eyes meet, Aloha flashes me a look that reinforces everything Kendrick said to me a moment ago: Don’t fuck with my friend.

  I look away from Aloha’s scowl, feeling exposed. Embarrassed. And, mostly, annoyed. It’s one thing for my best friend to bitch-slap me. He has that right. But I’m not going to cower to anyone else. Least of all a Disney princess who’s obviously passed judgment on me, based on something she knows nothing about. Aloha is good friends with both Colin’s ex and Dax’s wife. So I’m sure she’s heard plenty of stories from both women about me being a player. Come to think of it, I think I might have ghosted Colin’s ex after we hooked up. Maybe? So, I guess Aloha has good reason to dislike me. But, still, there’s no reason for Aloha to send me that big a nonverbal “fuck you.” I didn’t kill anyone, for fuck’s sake. I just didn’t return a few texts!

  I look at the ground, since that’s the only safe place for me to look right now, and a moment later, a production assistant arrives to let us know we’re minutes away from the press conference. “We need the full cast to get dressed and head into Reed’s game room,” she says.

  Aloha and Kendrick head to their respective rooms to get dressed, but I touch Laila’s arm and ask her if we can talk alone for a second.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” Laila says.

  “This will only take a minute.” I clear my throat. “I just want to make sure we’re good.”

  Laila crosses her arms. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “Because of what we talked about in the guest house. The song?”

  “Oh, that,” Laila says. But it’s horseshit—yet another over-the-top performance by Miss Fitzgerald. She shrugs nonchalantly. “Honestly, I’d already forgotten all about that.”

  My stomach flip-flops. This should be great news. I should be feeling relieved Laila is ready to move on. But that’s not how I’m feeling. “I just want to be sure you’re not mad or maybe confused about some of the lyrics . . .?” I clear my throat again. “I mean, coming on the heels of that Instagrammer’s video, I have to think you’re pretty confused about what the hell I’m—”

  “I’m not confused at all,” she says flatly. “I don’t believe a word that Instagrammer said, Adrian. I only said I believed her to torture you.” She pats my arm. “Don’t worry. I’m well aware ‘Hate Sex High’ was about you taunting Malik—letting him know you’d fucked me, and done it well—rather than you confessing you’d caught feelings for me.” She scoffs. “I know you were pissed Malik physically attacked you in New York, and you wanted to mess with him. That’s all that song is about. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

  Shit. That’s what I’m thinking, even though I should be thinking, “Thank God.”

  “Hey, you know what?” Laila says, her blue eyes blazing. “I know I said earlier it wouldn’t be necessary to rerecord those ‘la la’ parts, but I’ve changed my mind. On second thought, I don’t want the whole world to know, for a fact, I’m the woman who came three times.”

  “Okay. No problem. Should be an easy fix.”

  “Sorry to ask you to change your art, but—"

  “I’m the one who offered, remember? I think maybe I’ll replace those last ‘la las’ with ‘whoa-ohs,’ so there won’t be any chance of confusion.”

  “Perfect,” she says. She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s expecting me to say more. And when I don’t, she says, “Well, if that’s all you wanted to talk to me about, then I think we’d better get dressed and head to Reed’s game room.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t be late, Adrian,” she warns, her index finger wagging. “I’m your babysitter now. If you’re late, that’s on me.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  “I know you had a great ol’ time messing with me during the tour,” she continues. “But I’m begging you not to pull that shit on me again. Being on this show is a dream come true for me and I want to do a good job.”

  I feel a pang of guilt for all the times I messed with Laila during the tour. Why’d I do that, again? “I promise I’ll be a good boy for you, Laila,” I say. And when her face plainly says, I’ll believe it when I see it, I add, “Laila, when I give my word about something, you can take it to the bank.” I shift my weight under her scornful stare. “Okay, maybe you can’t take it to the bank, every time. But you can count on my promise this time.”

  Again, she looks unconvinced.

  “Also, as a rule of thumb going forward,” I continue, “I’d say you can count on my word being my bond . . .” I smile. “A solid eight times out of ten.”

  Three

  Laila

  Exactly nine minutes after my conversation with Savage on Reed’s patio, I walk into Reed’s game room to await Savage’s imminent arrival. Or, rather, Savage’s imminent non-arrival, so I can ask a PA to march up to his room and drag his infuriating ass down here. But to my surprise, when I enter the spacious room, Savage is already here, chatting with Kendrick. In fact, I’m the last cast member to arrive.

  I head over to Savage and Kendrick, noting that Savage looks especially gorgeous. Savage often rocks edgy designer duds onstage, also when he’s on-camera for an interview or awards show, so I’m used to seeing him looking like a runway model. But Savage looks especially yummy right now, like he leaped off the pages of Gentlemen’s World.

  “Hey, Fitzy,” Savage says when I reach him.

  “Hey, Fitzy,” Kendrick echoes.

  “No. Just me,” Savage says sharply to Kendrick, wagging his finger to emphasize his point. Savage pauses, making sure Kendrick got the message, and then returns to me with a smile. “What took you so long, Fitzy? I’ve been waiting on you for five minutes.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sure, Jan.”


  “It’s true,” Savage says. “Ask Kendrick.”

  Kendrick nods. “It’s true.”

  Savage looks me up and down, taking in my minidress and thigh-high boots. “I have to say, you were worth the wait. Damn, girl.”

  “Yeah, you look great, Laila,” Kendrick concurs, his tone pointedly platonic, unlike the one used by Savage.

  “Thank you. You both look very handsome, too.” I address Savage. “Thank you for not making me hunt you down on Day One of my babysitting gig.” I look at Kendrick. “I assume I have you to thank for that.”

  “Nope. Savage was already here when I arrived.”

  My eyebrows ride up in surprise.

  Savage says, “I promised I’d be on time, so I was. Remember when I promised Reed I’d show up for Alessandra’s music video shoot? My word is my bond, baby. Mostly. Sometimes. On occasion.”

  I can’t help chuckling, along with Kendrick and Savage. Even when he’s annoying, Adrian Savage is incredibly charming. There’s no denying that.

  “Yeah, so I guess that VIP meet and greet you barely made it to was one of the two in ten times your promise is worth nothing, huh?” I say. “If you ask me, being an hour late for a professional obligation is the same thing as breaking a promise.”

  I’ve intended to razz Savage, lightheartedly, with my comment. But Savage looks like I’ve slapped him across his chiseled face. And that’s all it takes for me to realize there’s been a shift between us, without me realizing it until now—a shift that’s made me seem like a petty bitch for bringing up that VIP event, yet again. Did the shift between us happen last night, when we shared our electrifying first kiss? Or did it happen while I was sitting on Savage’s face, screaming in ecstasy? Did it happen when Savage held my hair to keep it from falling into the toilet? Or when Savage said yes to every stupid, ridiculous thing the producers asked of him yesterday, and then agreed to pay two million bucks out of his own pocket to seal the deal?