by Lauren Rowe
I shrug. “I wanted you to hit on me, and you weren’t. All’s fair in love and war.”
“Hell yeah, it is. Too-fucking-shay, Fitzy.”
I bite my lip. “Speaking of ‘Birthday Truth or Dare’ . . . Will you let me play tonight at my birthday party?”
Savage shakes his head. “Only Kendrick, Kai, and I are allowed to play. We’ve never even let Ruby and Titus play on their birthday—and trust me, Ruby’s held a grudge about it for a long time.”
“Well, that’s a simple fix. Let me play tonight and let the twins play on their next birthday. The more the merrier, right?”
Savage pauses. And for a second, it’s like his hard drive is rebooting. Like, he’s truly never considered it could be just that simple to change a longstanding tradition.
“I mean, no worries,” I add quickly. “I’m cool with not playing. I’m just saying you could let me play, if that’s what you want to do. The past is the past. The future is whatever you want it to be.”
Savage stares at me, dumbfounded, making me laugh.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” I say, patting his hand. “It was just an off-handed remark. You don’t have to change a thing.”
Savage’s face is flushed. I don’t know what just happened inside his brain, but I know him well enough to know he’s having some deep thoughts. “You know . . .” he begins. “You don’t need to be playing ‘Birthday Truth or Dare’ to get me to do something for you—or to you. Whatever you want, your wish is my command, every day of the year. You know that, right?”
I grin. “Yes, I do. I’m not sure it works that way when it comes to getting you to tell me the truth, but, yes, I know I don’t need a birthday dare to get you to do something for or to me.”
“Well, if ‘Truth’ is what you want, then you wouldn’t get that, even if we let you play. There’s no ‘Truth’ option in our game.”
“But it’s called ‘Birthday Truth or Dare.’”
“That’s a misnomer. We deleted the ‘Truth’ option years ago, when we realized truth is boring as hell.”
“I don’t think it’s boring. In fact, if you ask the right question, then ‘Truth’ is far more interesting—and scary—than any dare could possibly be.”
Savage considers that. “Huh.” He looks at me blankly for a long moment. And then, “Well, either way, you don’t need the game because I always tell you the truth.”
I snort. “No, you tell me whatever truth you’re ready to share. I’m not calling you a liar, babe, just saying I think I could get a whole lot more out of you if you knew you had no choice but to tell me the whole, unvarnished truth, so help you God, about a particular topic.” I raise an eyebrow. “You want to try it now—play a private little game of ‘Birthday Truth or Truth,’ just you and me?”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like to do . . . less.” He laughs. “But you know what I would like to do, as a private little game for your birthday? Can you guess?”
“Eat the Birthday Girl’s Pussy?” I ask coyly. Because I know that gleam in my man’s eyes. The swipe of his tongue over his lower lip. It’s what Savage always does when he’s got a boner and his tongue is craving the pleasure of a pussy well eaten.
“Ding, ding, ding!” Savage shouts. “We’ve got a winner!”
With that, my hot boyfriend stands, guides me onto my back on the piano bench, pulls off my panties, and with dark, burning eyes, proceeds to kick off my twenty-fifth birthday in the most delightful, toe-curling way imaginable. Happy birthday to me.
[Click here if you’re curious to hear 22 Goats’ original version of “Fireflies.”]
Thirty-Two
Laila
“What do you mean you’re not drinking?” Rhoda, the junior producer from Sing Your Heart Out who’s become my friend—the one who gave Savage and me a tour of our love nest on day one—gasps out. She’s just arrived at my birthday party and found out I’m drinking club soda tonight. I’m standing with Rhoda in the already-crowded living room of the reality TV mansion I share with Savage—and Rhoda is beside herself with exasperation to find out I’m not drinking tonight in solidarity with Savage. Rhoda yells above the din, “But it’s your own damned birthday party! You at least need to sip a glass of champagne on your own freaking birthday!”
I shake my head and hold up my glass. “I promised Savage I wouldn’t drink while he’s contractually not allowed to drink.”
Rhoda looks surprised.
“You don’t know that’s one of the terms of Savage’s employment?” I ask. “That he can’t drink during the season?”
“I had no idea.”
“Nadine doesn’t want to see Savage’s dick trending on Twitter again.”
Rhoda snorts. “It’s nothing the world hasn’t already seen.”
“Tell that to your boss.”
“I will.” Rhoda pulls out her phone. “With the ratings you two have been pulling in, Nadine should at least give Savage a one-night dispensation to get drunk off his ass, at his own fake house, to celebrate his very real girlfriend’s quarter-century.”
“Make it happen, Rhoda!” I shout. “I believe in you!”
“I’m going in!”
As Rhoda begins tapping on her phone, I look around the crowded party and notice a group coming through the front door: Fish and Alessandra, Dax and his wife, Violet, and Colin with a pretty date. I race over to the group and exchange greetings with everyone. I meet Colin’s date, who seems sweet. And, of course, everyone wishes me a happy birthday.
For a few minutes, I stay and chat with the group, glancing occasionally at Savage across the room. At present, he’s doing that thing I love the most: belly laughing with Kendrick and Kai. All of a sudden, a feeling of delicious déjà vu washes over me. I can’t believe my celebrity crush, whom I watched laughing with those very same bandmates across Reed’s crowded party months ago, has now become the great love of my life.
“Okay, Laila, I made it happen,” Rhoda, the producer, says, diverting my attention from Savage across the room. She says, “Nadine said Savage can have a one-night dispensation to get shitfaced for your birthday, as long as you personally guarantee his dick won’t make a single new appearance on Twitter.”
“Woohoo! Tell Nadine thank you and I accept her terms.” I turn and shout into my party, to no one in particular. “Somebody get Savage and me some booze! Savage!” Someone taps his shoulder and says something to him, and he looks at me from across the party, just as Rhoda is handing me a champagne glass. I hold it up and point, since the party is noisy, and then motion to him and me, him and me—and then to Rhoda. For her part, Rhoda holds up her phone by way of explanation and nods, and that’s all Savage needs. With a loud whoop, my boyfriend grabs a full drink right out of Kendrick’s hand, throws it back in one fell swoop, and shouts something I can’t make out above the loud music.
Someone turns the music up, even louder, drinks are poured, and less than an hour later, I’m buzzed to perfection and dancing like a fool in the middle of my living room with Savage and a rowdy group of our best friends—Savage’s bandmates, some of my musician friends, and, of course, Aloha and her entire crew: her husband, Zander, and the guys from 22 Goats with their dates.
I can’t help noticing there’s been a complete lack of tension between Colin and Savage tonight, and I’m glad about it. In fact, I’ve caught the men sharing a laugh here and there. Perhaps, Colin showing up to my party with a date has put Savage at ease. Or maybe the therapist Savage started seeing last week, with plans to see her once a week, has already rubbed off on him. Or maybe Savage finally feels secure enough in our relationship to trust our love for what it is: rock solid.
When the current song on Alessandra’s party playlist ends, none other than “Hate Sex High” begins blaring. And of course, the entire party goes ballistic. When Fugitive Summer’s album released a few weeks ago, this particular song, which was released as its leadoff single, went straight to number one. And not just in the United States�
��in countries all over the world.
It was a first for Fugitive Summer to have a leadoff song capture that much global success, and Savage and his fellow band members have been thrilled about it. And not just for the pure accomplishment of it, but because of . . . the money. Oh my God, the money. Savage isn’t a particularly money-driven person, but, still, money means freedom, and it’s now clear Savage will be free as a bird for the rest of his life, along with his bandmates, provided nobody does anything too stupid. The one-two punch of “Hate Sex High,” along with Savage’s high profile on the show, has caused interest in Fugitive Summer and its entire catalog to skyrocket, which, in turn, has launched Fugitive Summer to a whole new level of success.
As “Hate Sex High” hits its first verse, the members of Fugitive Summer find each other on the dance floor and sing the song together loudly, throwing their heads back and jumping around like lunatics, while the entire party sings and laughs along with them. There are a whole lot of musicians and music industry types here tonight, so we all know the success Fugitive Summer is currently having is lightning in a bottle—quite possibly, never to be repeated, no matter how successful they might be in the future—and we’re all thrilled to celebrate this amazing time with them. Nobody more than me. The muse for the song. La La La Laila. The woman who came three times while chasing a “hate sex high.”
Fugitive Summer has never confirmed or denied the widespread belief that the song is about me. But it’s awfully hard to miss my name at the end of those “la la” lines, no matter what Savage has always stupidly insisted. And so, when the song blaring in the party gets to that part in the song, everyone in the room screams my name at the tops of their lungs, making Savage pick me up and spin me around, while singing along with his own blaring voice. “Laila, Laila.”
Even if someone hearing this song for the first time had never heard of Laila Fitzgerald, or had never seen that viral video of Savage and me fighting on a sidewalk or watched my interview on Sylvia, they’d know this song is about some chick named Laila. Some chick named Laila who wanted to “ride” Savage, and did. Some chick named Laila who came three times in hot pursuit of her “hate sex high.” And now, finally, by singing along with the recording at the top of his lungs along with all of our friends, Savage is finally tacitly admitting what the world already knows: yep, he’s most definitely singing “Laila” and not “la la” on those parts.
Of course, when the line “You came three times” comes up in the song, the party sings it even louder than anything else, and then goes ballistic around me. When Savage speaks that same line in the middle of the song in a smug, sardonic tone—“You came three times”—the entire party shouts it along with him, while looking straight at me, every single person playfully chastising me along with Savage’s snarky voice for claiming sex with Savage had meant “nothing to me.”
If my party guests think they’re going to make me blush by serenading me on that line, however, they’re dead wrong. I’m too drunk to be embarrassed about my sexual appetites at this point. Too in love. In fact, I’m so in love with the man dancing with me right now, the man who threw me this party and earlier today agreed to live with me at my condo when the show is over, I can’t do anything but raise my arms in victory and celebrate joyfully. Fuck yeah, I came three times with my hot boyfriend, bitches! And since then, I’ve come a whole lot more! What, you don’t come three times, or more, with your man? Well, that’s a pity, sis. I guess my boyfriend is a whole lot hotter, and a whole lot better at putting his fingers, tongue, and dick to use than yours. Ha!
When the song reaches its last, spoken lines: “Did he make you come three times? Yeah, didn’t think so,” the party yells the line, yet again. And as they do, my drunk boyfriend bends down and motorboats my rack on the outside of my dress, claiming his prize. Making it clear he made me come three times, and nobody else. In response, I throw my head back and laugh hysterically, reveling in the fact that Savage feels every bit as unleashed and in love in this moment as I do. I’m in love with Adrian Savage. Riding a true love high. And I’m positive, even when the booze that’s coursing through my bloodstream is gone, I’ll never ever come down.
[Click here if you’d like to listen to Fugitive Summer’s number one hit, “Hate Sex High” again.]
When “Hate Sex High” ends, and Savage is done motorboating me, he lays a deep kiss on me, making the party cheer and whoop. As his tongue slides into my mouth, I slide my arms around him and devour him, the whiskey on his tongue reminding me of our first kiss at Reed’s house.
“I have a birthday present for you,” Savage says, grabbing my hand. “Come on.”
I hold my breath as he leads me through the crowd. Is he going to propose? I can’t believe it, but that’s the first thing that’s popped into my head. That’s a crazy thought, right? An unthinkable one. But I’ve thought it, distinctly, and now, as Savage leads me through the crowded room to parts unknown, I can’t stop thinking it . . . and hoping for it.
When Savage stops, we’re standing in front of Kendrick and Kai. He says, “Guys, I demand we let Laila play ‘Birthday Truth or Dare’ tonight. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Oh.
Well.
That’s incredibly sweet. And I should be thrilled. It’s a romantic gesture, considering our conversation this morning while seated at the piano. But I can’t help feeling vaguely disappointed, even though there’s no logical reason for me to feel that way. Savage once told me he’s not boyfriend material. So, come on, Laila, give the guy credit for how far he’s come and leave it at that.
In response to Savage’s “demand,” Kendrick and Kai look at each other like, “What the fuck?”
Kai says, “If we say yes to Laila, then Ruby and Titus will never forgive us. Especially Ruby.” He looks at me. “It’s nothing personal, Laila, but we’ve never let anyone but the three of us play the game.”
“Oh, I understand,” I reply.
But Savage is determined. A dog with a bone. “You have to admit we’ve been running out of good ideas for a while now,” he says. “The best Kai could come up with for me last time was a naked swan dive into a swimming pool? I mean, come on! The whole world had already seen my dong by then. And yet that’s what he thought would humiliate me? Please. I vote we invite not only Laila, but Ruby and Titus into our game, too, from now on. But if you can’t handle that much change, all at once, then at least let the three of them in for one year, as a test-run, to see if it makes the game more fun. If not, they’re out again. We’ll make that clear to them up front so there are no hard feelings if we wind up booting them.”
Kendrick and Kai consult briefly, before declaring their verdict.
“Okay, but only this year on a probationary basis,” Kai says. He looks sternly at me, “You understand the terms? This is a one-shot deal, for now.”
“So you’d better make it good,” Kendrick adds with a wink.
“I understand. Thank you!” I whoop and do a happy dance. “Are there any rules or limitations?”
“Hold up,” Kai says. “Let’s get Ruby and Titus over here to give them the good news. Ruby’s been demanding to be included for years.”
Kendrick retrieves the twins and brings them to our group. And when Ruby hears the good news, she loses her ever-loving mind, like she’s just found out Fugitive Summer has been nominated for a Grammy—which, by the way, is something I predict is in Fugitive Summer’s near future. When she finishes hugging all three of her benefactors, Ruby hugs me and we laugh and squeal together, while Titus looks at us like we’re lunatics. Obviously, Ruby and I are overreacting here. But what I’ve learned in life is this: overreacting to good news is a whole lot more fun than underreacting to it. Plus, we’re drunk and happy and surrounded by a whole lot of happy people, so why not wring every drop of fun out of the situation?
“Okay, Laila, let me tell you the rules,” Kai says. “Ruby, Titus, listen up. You won’t be performing dares tonight. You’ll be admitted in
to the game, officially, on your birthday.”
“You think we don’t know the rules by now?” Ruby mumbles, but when Kai nonverbally chastises her, she mimes zipping her lips.
“Rule number one,” Kai says. “Your dare can’t be something that would maim, kill, or send any of us to prison.”
“Shoot,” Ruby says, snorting, while I think to myself, “You’re assuming I won’t pick Truth?”
“Two,” Kai says, counting off on his fingers. “The dare has to be something the person can do, right here and now. You can’t demand we perform some complicated prank that would take hours or days to perform. We have to be able to do it, spur of the moment.”
“Dang it!” Ruby says. “There goes my idea of making all of you bitches get a Brazilian wax.”
Rolling his eyes, Kai addresses me again. “As long as you follow those two rules, Laila, then the third rule of the game is that your minions have no choice but to do whatever you say. We’re your loyal subjects, Birthday Queen. Powerless to say no.”
Ruby raises her arms to the ceiling. “My prayers have been answered!”
“Dude,” Titus says to his sister. “Why are you so excited? Only Laila is doling out dares this time.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Ruby replies to her brother. “I’m vicariously excited for Laila. For what this means for womankind.” She turns and massages my shoulders, like she’s my cornerman in a prizefight, about to send me into the ring in a title bout. “Okay, Laila. You gotta represent, girl. Make womankind proud.”
“I’ll give it my all, coach!” I say, dancing from foot to foot like a boxer. And when Aloha happens to walk by, an idea pops into my head. Kai Cook is a “too cool for school” type. The last person in the world who’d ever “fanboy” over anyone, least of all a Disney-star-turned-pop-princess. I remember Kendrick once telling me about the time he made his big brother “fanboy” over Keane Morgan, the actor from Alessandra’s video shoot, during a game of “Birthday Truth or Dare,” so, I decide to follow Kendrick’s expert lead for my first foray into the game.