by Rowe, Lauren
“So, I saw a photo of you at a basketball game recently,” Kendrick ventures. “It was a Lakers game in LA, but you were cheering on Malik Wallace?”
And there it is. The look in his eyes that confirms he’s interested in me romantically. No doubt about it. “Yeah, Malik invited me to the game. You were there when I met him at Reed’s party, right? You met Malik, too?”
Kendrick nods. “Strangely, Malik didn’t invite me to sit courtside at a Lakers game.”
I chuckle, not knowing what else to do. “It was a last minute thing. He slid into my DMs, and asked me, so . . .”
“Are you guys dating, or . . .?” Kendrick asks tentatively.
I don’t know why I do it, but I reply, yes, I’m dating Malik. In fact, I use the word “boyfriend.” Even though, in reality, that’s a massive overstatement. In truth, Malik is nothing to me, really. He’s been pursuing me, and I went on a date with him, but we’ve made no promises, to put it mildly. For all I know, he’s screwing someone else right now, and that’s perfectly fine with me. But the thing is, I don’t want to have to tell Kendrick, point blank, I’m simply not interested in him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings or make things weird, especially not on day one of the tour. So, I take the easy way out, when it’s offered to me.
“Cool,” Kendrick says. “He’s a . . .” He sighs. “Cool.”
“I barely saw him this past month,” I add quickly, not wanting Kendrick to get the impression Malik is the great love of my life or something. “I was so busy expediting the album, and rehearsing for the tour, I barely had time to eat or sleep, let alone see him.”
Kendrick tries to smile. “Yeah, well, your hard work really paid off. Seriously, Laila, the album is incredible.”
“Thank you so much, Kendrick. You’re a great friend.”
At that last word, Kendrick looks like he wants to scream. There’s an awkward pause as he bites the inside of his cheek before finally puffing out his cheeks in resignation and whispering, “Cool.”
I look at Ruby and she’s grimacing compassionately, not even trying to hide her awareness of what just happened.
“Hey, asshole,” Kai says, appearing out of nowhere and, thankfully, filling the awkward silence. Kai flops into a seat next to his brother and demands Kendrick watch the next episode in some series they’ve been binge-watching together.
“As long as you ply me with alcohol,” Kendrick says.
“You don’t need to ask me twice.” Kai flags down a flight attendant and we all place orders. As we’re doing that, Titus comes over and joins the party. And soon, our whole group is drinking and talking, laughing and swapping stories. Even Kendrick, much to my relief, seems like he’s back to himself.
A few times during the conversation, Savage’s name comes up, organically, and I feel myself perk up every time his name is mentioned—every time I get a new scrap of insider information about him. I hate that I’m constantly drawn to Savage, considering his obviously oversized ego, but I can’t help myself. Not only is he gorgeous and talented, by all accounts he’s closed off and prickly, too. Which, unfortunately, I must admit, makes him exactly my type.
Seven
Savage
Chicago, Illinois
Me: Yo, KC. I decided to fly into Philly tomorrow morning, instead of tonight. Mimi asked me to come to her treatment this afternoon, and I couldn’t say no. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in plenty of time for soundcheck tomorrow.
Kendrick: Does Tracy know?
Me: Yeah. She’s pissed. Says I’m cutting it too close. I told her not to stress. It’ll work out just fine.
Kendrick: How is Mimi doing?
I look at my grandmother sitting next to me on the couch, looking like a little hummingbird. She’s flanked by me on one side and my cousin, Sasha, on the other, as we watch the season finale of Mimi’s favorite show, Sing Your Heart Out.
Me: She’s good. Feisty and funny, as always. Just really tired. Today’s treatment kicked her tiny ass pretty hard.
Kendrick: Give her a big hug for me.
Me: Will do. How’s tricks on your end?
Kendrick: Good. We’re at the hotel, chilling before tomorrow.
Me: Chilling how?
Kendrick: The usual. Watching Netflix with Kai and Titus. Smoking a blunt. Eating way too much pizza. Be jealous.
I sigh with relief. Call me paranoid, but all day long I’ve been imagining Kendrick and Laila hitting it off on the plane by day, and then fucking like rabbits in Kendrick’s hotel room by night. Thanks to Kendrick’s response, I’m highly relieved and cautiously optimistic. But, still, I can’t help probing a bit more. This time, I get straight to the point.
Me: How’d it go with Laila today?
Kendrick: FUCK MY LIFE, DUDE! SHE’S GOT A BOYFRIEND AND HE’S MALIK FUCKING WALLACE!!!!
No.
My heart is sinking. But not for Kendrick. For myself. But why do I even care? I don’t know Laila. She’s nothing to me but a sexpot in a music video. A pair of blue eyes shooting daggers at me from across a crowded party. A pair of perfect tits. Plush lips I’d do anything to kiss . . .
Fuck!
What’s wrong with me? Why do I feel this primal desire to fuck the living hell out of that woman, above all others? It’s insane. I know I’m having a classic “celebrity crush,” like a teenager with a wall full of posters. Which is so unlike me, it’s ridiculous. And yet, I can’t help it. From the moment I saw her in that music video, I wanted to fuck her. And not in a fantasy. I wanted to hunt her down, maybe through Reed, or her agent, and meet, seduce, and fuck her. Unfortunately, I was on tour at the time, so it wasn’t in the cards . . . and now, she’s magically the opener on the rest of our tour, and I’m supposed to hang back and do nothing while Kendrick pines for her and she has FaceTime sex with Malik Wallace, of all people?
Me: I think I saw Laila with Malik at Reed’s party.
Kendrick: Yeah, that’s where they met. Can you believe it? I missed my chance by minutes. If I’d walked onto that basketball court five minutes earlier and invited Laila to get a drink, she never even would have met Malik.
And if I’d disregarded Kendrick calling dibs an hour before that, and beelined over to Laila when I first saw her across the party, I’d already have banged her a hundred times by now.
Me: It’s probably for the best, KC. Like I said before, messing with an opener is a bad idea.
Okay, it’s now official. I’m going to hell. Because even as I press send on my latest text, I know I’d fuck Laila, whether she’s our opener or not, if only Kendrick wouldn’t hate me for it. And maybe even if he would.
Kendrick: You’re probably right. I’ve heard horror stories about guys messing around with openers and living to regret it.
Me: Exactly. It would have gone all kinds of bad in the end.
Kendrick: I’m sure the middle part would have made the bad ending well worth it, though.
I exhale a long breath, not knowing what to reply to that. As I ponder my response, my eyes drift to the TV as Hugh Delaney, the crusty old country star who’s been a judge on Sing Your Heart Out since its inception, tells a wide-eyed contestant what he thought of her second of three performances in the finale show. Shaking his head, Hugh says, “Honestly, Deanna, I was expecting more from you tonight. This is the finale! And yet, I didn’t see your usual sparkle. Hopefully, you’ll pull a rabbit out of your hat for your final song.”
The audience boos, as Aloha leans into her microphone. “I couldn’t disagree with you more, Hugh,” she says, eliciting rousing applause from the crowd. “Deanna’s performance was far more subtle than her prior ones. But that’s what made it so moving to me. Sometimes, less is more, Hugh.” Aloha looks straight at him. “Try it sometime.”
The audience roars its approval of Aloha’s assessment—and, even more, her zinger to Hugh. The man everyone loves to hate.
My cousin, Sasha, yells from her end of the couch, “You tell him, Aloha! Boom!”
Chuckl
ing, I look at our grandmother between us to see her reaction to Aloha’s zinger, as well as Sasha’s effusive support of it, and discover our little hummingbird is fast asleep, her tiny body looking peaceful and painless in repose.
“Aw, Mimi,” I murmur. “Sweetheart.” With a little wink to Sasha, I get up and scoop our grandmother into my arms, bring her into her bedroom, and carefully lay her down. I tuck her in and head to the kitchen, where her regular nighttime caregiver, Stuart, is sitting at the table, eating a bowl of soup. I tell him Mimi is down for the count, and Stuart says he’ll take it from here.
I head back into the family room and sit back down next to Sasha, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s another text from Kendrick.
Kendrick: JESUS CHRIST!!!! I just researched Malik Wallace. He’s total trash to women, dude. Look him up. Reddit is full of women who say he’s a DOG. Which means I’m back in the hunt with Laila, baby! I’m gonna build the friendship during the tour. Become her bestie. Her confidante. Her soulmate. And when her asshole boyfriend fucks it up—which he WILL, mark my words—and she’s looking for a broad shoulder to cry on, I’ll be the one she turns to. Genius, right?
Seriously? Goddammit. I tap out my reply:
Me: I’d think Ruby would be her shoulder to cry on, don’t you? Ruby’s great at that.
Kendrick: FUCK RUBY!!!! LOL. Laila’s all mine. Ha!
Well, there’s no way out. I can’t keep this up. Obviously, Kendrick wants Laila and he’s willing to play the long game to get her. It’s time for me to step aside and forget this stupid fantasy. Because that’s all it is. A stupid fantasy. When I actually meet the woman, I bet she’ll quickly bore me to tears.
Me: You’re a genius, KC. Go get her, tiger. See you tomorrow.
Kendrick: Try really hard not to be late, okay? Opening shows are always extra crazy. First soundchecks always take twice as long to get everything dialed in.
Me: I’m insulted. When am I not on time? Haha! Gotta go. Sleep tight.
“Who are you rooting for?” Sasha says.
I look up from my phone.
Sasha points to the TV. “Are you rooting for the woman or the man to win tomorrow night?”
“I’m rooting for an asteroid to crash into the studio and kill everyone associated with the show, except Aloha.”
“Lovely.”
Sasha picks up the remote and turns off the TV. “Well, I’m rooting for Deanna. She’s improved, week after week, and she’s sweet as can be.”
“Good luck to her. I don’t care. You wanna smoke a joint on the porch?”
“Hell yeah.”
I sit on the porch with my cousin, smoking and shooting the shit. Sasha’s a massage therapist, so she tells me a couple stories about her recent interactions with clients at the spa where she works, including a recent story of a guy who wrongly assumed he’d be getting a happy ending from my cousin. We’re having a normal, amusing conversation. Nothing earth-shattering. But comfortable and calm. And that’s exactly what I want. I know I’m about to re-enter the Twilight Zone for three months, beginning tomorrow—a world where I’m a god among men and nobody but my band ever treats me like a normal human. So, I sit and listen and smoke and enjoy the peaceful moment with someone I trust completely.
After a bit, Sasha does what she always does at times like this. She stands and says, with a gleam in her eye, “Now, let me at that famous body.”
It’s an inside joke. She’s mocking the fact that my body is now a hot commodity around the world. That I’ve become a product, as much as the music. A piece of meat half the world would die, cheat, or kill to get with. I’m not complaining about it, by the way. This strategy has served me and my band well. But, still, it’s a weird thing to think about, and particularly hilarious to Sasha, who still thinks of me as the dorky and angry twelve-year-old who, out of the blue one day about thirteen years ago, showed up on our grandma’s doorstep, needing a place to live.
And, of course, as a massage therapist, Sasha is always bizarrely excited to get to work on the ever-present knots clustered stubbornly in my shoulders and neck. Sasha’s weird like that. Her favorite thing in the world, literally, is massaging muscles that are especially knotted and stubborn, and to get to experience the satisfaction of coaxing them into a state of smoothness and relaxation, however temporary. Apparently, from what my cousin has told me, my knotted muscles are among her favorites to knead and coax into serenity, because they’re almost always in a state of extreme tightness.
It’s funny. The world thinks I’m a rockstar with zero fucks to give at all times. A guy who floats through life, carefree and light as a feather. And I think that way about myself, too, in certain situations. And yet, at least according to Sasha, my muscles tell a very different tale about what’s hiding underneath my apparently relaxed exterior.
“Knock yourself out, Sasha,” I say. It’s the same thing I always say to my cousin when she gets that crazy gleam in her eyes about unleashing her magic hands on me.
Gleefully, Sasha comes around to the back of my chair and gets to work on the mountains of knots and clusters in my shoulders and neck. And as she works miracles on my body, we talk about nothing particularly important for another fifteen minutes or so. But with the weed in my system, that’s all the time I can handle of Sasha’s magic hands before I’m too relaxed to remain upright in my chair.
“I gotta get to bed,” I say. “Big day tomorrow.”
“I can give you a full-body massage while you’re lying down, if you need some help drifting off to sleep,” she offers. “You’re pretty tense, Adrian.”
“Nah. I’m good. Go finish your book. I’m just gonna knot right back up again on the plane tomorrow, anyway.”
I thank my cousin for everything she does for me and Mimi, kiss her on the cheek, and head off to my room. First off, I hop into a hot shower and jack off, thinking, yet again, about Laila. It’s the last time I’m going to fantasize about Laila, I decide. Starting tomorrow, she’s off-limits to me, even in my mind. Kendrick is obviously really into her. And he’s the one, unlike me, who actually knows the woman. I’ve never even said two words to her, for fuck’s sake! So, that’s it. I’m moving on.
When I’m done with my shower, I slide on a pair of sweats, set my alarm, and reply to a text from my assistant about my travel schedule for tomorrow.
“Back to the grind,” I murmur softly, closing my eyes.
But, unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come to me, despite the weed in my system.
Finally, I give up. I grab my phone and google “Malik Wallace” and “cheater” and “Reddit,” and quickly discern Kendrick was absolutely right. The dude is trash. I guess it’s possible some of these stories about his assholery aren’t true. There are definitely lots of stories online about me that are pure fiction. But, come on, not all of these stories can possibly be fake. Obviously, Malik’s not a guy who keeps his word when it comes to women. Which means Laila won’t put up with him for long. I don’t know the woman, granted. But I know enough to know a firecracker like her, the woman who wanted to murder me for seemingly flirting with Georgina, and then Zasu, at Reed’s party, doesn’t put up with a guy’s shit for very long.
I can’t help smiling to myself at the realization that Laila will almost certainly wind up kicking Malik to the curb during the tour. Will she be looking to have a little revenge sex after Malik fucks around on her? Because, if so, I’ll be right there to volunteer as tribute.
No.
Stop it, man.
That’s Kendrick’s plan. You can’t steal it.
I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly.
Actually, I think it’s good Laila has a boyfriend. This way, I won’t immediately succumb to temptation and betray Kendrick, or otherwise cockblock him. Because a woman having a boyfriend is a boundary I can respect.
Sort of.
Okay, not at all.
But, at least, I can tell myself I respect it. I can tell myself there’s double the reason t
o stay away from Laila. This way, I don’t have to resist her, based solely on Kendrick calling dibs. Which, admittedly, is a tall order for me. This way, with Laila dating a guy with as much clout as me, probably even more, I’ve got double the chances of not betraying my very best friend.
Eight
Laila
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“They haven’t even started yet?” I say, feeling flabbergasted. According to today’s itinerary, Fugitive Summer should have finished their soundcheck a half hour ago. Which is why I prematurely wrapped up an interview in my dressing room to race down here to the stage area, right on time, to begin my soundcheck. And now I find out Fugitive Summer hasn’t even begun? I know the headliner always soundchecks first, and takes as long as needed. And delays can happen. But would it have killed our tour manager, Tracy, to let me know the itinerary is no longer accurate, so I didn’t miss out on the rest of my interview?
Tracy says, “Savage took a later flight from Chicago than originally planned. But no worries, he’s on his way from the airport now and should be here any minute.”
She’s calm and cool. Which I can’t fathom. Savage isn’t even in the building yet? Because he didn’t fly last night, as planned—as any sane and responsible person would do, when literally thousands of people are depending on him? What the ever-loving rockstar cliché is wrong with that man? Who else but him, in his shoes, would travel on the day of any show—let alone the tour opener? It’s not like Savage’s fans would be perfectly fine to watch a replacement singer tonight, the way audiences accept understudies on Broadway. People pay a lot of money to watch Savage, and only Savage, sing, play his guitar, and shake his famous ass! And yet, Savage felt it was a perfectly reasonable thing to risk letting thousands of people wait tonight—or maybe even risk letting them down completely? All I can say is that boy had better have a damned good reason for cutting it this close.