by Rowe, Lauren
For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, my eyes drift to Savage across the crowded suite to find him already looking at me like he wants to murder me. Or fuck me. Or fuck my face. With him, I’m never sure which is which.
I should look away, I think. But the second I think it, Savage looks away first. Dammit! The only reason I held Savage’s gaze in the first place was so I could look away first!
It’s par for the course between us. The way it’s been since Philadelphia, two weeks ago. We stare and glare and have lengthy nonverbal conversations. But we don’t talk. Ever. So, tonight, I’ve decided to reset the game clock, meaning I’m never going to speak to Adrian Savage again, ever, unless he speaks to me first. Is he still pissed about the little bitchfest I had with my assistant about his lateness on day one? Or has he simply decided he doesn’t like me because I pushed back on his unsolicited career advice? Either way, he can kiss my ass.
Oh, God. I wish Savage would kiss my ass. And then, the rest of me.
Stop, Laila.
Ha.
I take a long swig from my bottle of whiskey and lean my back against a wall in a corner of the crowded hotel suite. I’m acting like an antisocial weirdo at this party, which is totally unlike me. But I’ve reached my breaking point with Savage and his constant brooding and glaring. I don’t expect him to treat me with the kind of warmth Ruby and Kendrick always do, obviously. Those two are sunshine in human form. But I can’t stand this constant tension between us. Something’s gotta give. Somehow, I’ve got to shake things up and force Savage to make the first move. But how?
My phone buzzes in my free hand, and when I look at the screen it’s a text from Malik, asking me if I’m available to FaceTime.
Me: Sorry, no. At a noisy bday party. What’s up?
Tall_Man: I’m coming to your show in NYC!
Me: Which one? Friday night regular show at Radio City or Sat night charity concert with lots of bands at The Garden?
Tall_Man: Sat night at The Garden. I’d come to both but I’ve got a game on Friday. I’ll come backstage to say hi and take you out for late dinner afterwards. Yes?
Me: Gotta do a dinner thing after the show with Reed and all the other artists on the bill. You can come as my guest, if you want. We’re allowed a plus one.
Tall_Man: Hell yeah. See you then, beautiful.
Me: See ya then, dude. Good luck in your game(s)!
I smile wickedly to myself and take a long slug of my whiskey. Well, damn, if I’m looking to shake things up, I think that might very well do the trick.
After putting my phone away, I look across the crowded suite at Savage again. This time, he’s looking at something on Kai’s phone. So, I scan the party again, this time landing on darling Kendrick, who’s already looking at me. When my eyes meet Kendrick’s, the smile he beams at me would light up the darkest night.
Aw, Kendrick. I think he’s still got a crush on me. In fact, I know he does. If I gave him the green light, he’d throw away our budding friendship in a heartbeat for something more. But, unfortunately, I’m just not feeling that way for him. I wish I were. What sane, functional, self-respecting woman wouldn’t want a guy like Kendrick Cook? Ergo, I’m a nut job.
I take another long slug from my bottle, just as Savage and Kai approach Kendrick and divert his attention from me. Kendrick says something to Savage that makes him throw his head back and laugh from the depths of his soul. And my jaw practically clanks to the floor. I’ve never seen that before. Savage can laugh? And like that? Holy shit.
All of a sudden, I’m flooded with a weird cocktail of emotions. A thumping attraction to Savage that physically takes my breath away. And, weirdly, jealousy because I wasn’t the one who elicited that laugh from Mr. Pouty Face.
When Savage comes down from laughing, he pulls out a box of cigarettes and holds it up to his two besties. And then, off he goes, straight out the door of Titus’ suite, obviously intending to smoke a cigarette outside.
I don’t hesitate. My chest heaving, I march toward the door, eager to seize this unique opportunity to talk to Savage alone. We’ve never had a private conversation before. Never been in a room alone. And I must admit I’m dying to have his full attention. To get to know him. Maybe even find out what kinds of things make him belly laugh, against all odds. But, mostly, I want to find out why the hell he hates me so much, and has since day one.
When I get outside, the night air is brisk but not uncomfortable. I wander around, briefly, before locating Savage around a corner. He’s sitting on the ground in the dark with his back against a building, looking out at the dark ocean below while smoking a cigarette.
As I approach, Savage blows out a long plume of smoke into the night. And I can’t help thinking the moment feels like a painting that’d hang in a contemporary art museum: “Moody Demi-God in Contemplation.”
“Mind if I join you?” I ask, coming to a stop over him.
Savage pats the ground. “I saved you a seat.”
I get settled next to him and he holds up his box of cigarettes, offering me one.
I shake my head. “I don’t smoke. I hate the taste, actually.” I offer him my bottle of whiskey and he takes a long, greedy sip.
“I don’t think I knew you smoked,” I say.
He returns the bottle to me. “I only smoke when I’m drunk, which doesn’t happen very often.” He licks his lips, slowly. Suggestively. “I’ve got a big-time oral fixation. When I get drunk, it becomes overpowering to me . . .” He licks his lips again. “And I feel like I have to put something in my mouth.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. The boy just flash-melted my panties.
I clear my throat, pretending I didn’t understand the sexual innuendo dripping from his comment. “I noticed you doing shots at Reed’s party. I assumed you get drunk regularly, like the Rockstar Manual requires.”
“Actually, that was the last time I got shitfaced. It was Kendrick’s birthday. In my band, we always get shitfaced on each other’s birthdays. It’s not optional.”
“That was the last time you drank?”
“No. I’ll have a beer or whatever. But I won’t get drunk. I’ve got a rule I never ‘drown my sorrows.’ Drinking has to be about having fun for me. Otherwise, if I drink when I’m angry or upset in any way, I wind up being a huge asshole.” He shrugs. “Plus, I have to eat and drink fairly clean most of the time to keep myself in shape . . .” He lifts his shirt, haphazardly, momentarily revealing the jaw-dropping grooves in his abs. “Looking like this is a big part of the job. And I can’t do it, unless I stay disciplined and committed.”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “Huh. I think ‘Rockstar Cliché Bingo’ requires you to drink like a fish, especially to drown your sorrows. The last time I checked, there were no bingo squares labeled ‘eat clean and stay disciplined and committed to maintain abs of steel.’”
Savage chuckles and takes the bottle from me. “Meh. I already check plenty of boxes in ‘Rockstar Cliché Bingo.’ No need to check them all off, right?”
“You think you’re a rockstar cliché?” I ask.
He looks at me, as if to say, Well, obviously. But he says, “If I’m not already, then I’m well on my way.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Honestly, one of my biggest fears is that I’ll become so beholden to the money and fame and all the . . . expectation, I’ll forget who I am and why I do this. I’ll become exactly that—a cliché. A parody of myself.” He looks out at the dark ocean. “I mean, come on, I’ve got to think ‘dick pic trending on Twitter’ is at the center square on every ‘Rockstar Cliché Bingo’ card, right? So, I’m probably already fucked.”
I stare at his exquisite profile for a long moment, overcome by my attraction to him, and finally say, “I heard a rumor you posted that shot yourself—for publicity or whatever. True?”
He scoffs. “Not true.” He flicks some ash from his cigarette onto the ground. “I had nothing to do with it, other than I was stupid enough to take a shower after sex with som
eone I barely knew, without locking the door.”
I contemplate that response for a moment, while, again, admiring his gorgeous profile. His lips as he sucks on his cigarette. I hate cigarettes and don’t find them sexy. But I must admit the way Savage is sucking on that thing, and licking his lips in between, makes me wonder what it would be like to kiss him. To have him perform oral sex on me. Sex, sex, sex. Suddenly, that’s all I’m thinking about. Sex with Adrian Savage.
I clear my throat and motion to the cigarette between his lips. “Aren’t you worried you’re gonna get addicted? Nicotine is supposedly more addictive than cocaine.”
Savage shrugs. “Like I said, I only smoke when I’m drunk and feel the overwhelming urge to put something in my mouth.” He licks his lips again, this time even more suggestively than before. And, right on cue, I’m feeling the beginning stirrings of arousal again.
I shift my position on the ground, trying to alleviate the faint pulsing between my legs. “My dad was a heavy smoker and my sister and I once stole one of his cigarettes, when we were, like, nine and twelve. And the minute I inhaled, I thought I was going to die. I thought it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever tasted in my life.”
“And you’ve never tried it again?”
I shake my head. “Why would I, when I know how bad it is for me? Plus, I associate smoking with my father, and he’s not a good memory.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. Just out of my life. And good riddance.”
He holds up the bottle. “Cheers to that.” He takes a swig and hands it to me.
“Cheers to that,” I echo, before taking a long guzzle. “Uh oh,” I say. “Does this qualify as me drowning my sorrows, now that I’ve mentioned my asshole father?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Probably.”
“You seriously never drown your sorrows?”
He shrugs. “You associate cigarettes with your asshole father. I associate being an angry, pissed off drunk with mine. Good riddance.”
“Cheers to that.” I take a swig and hand him the bottle.
“Cheers to that,” he echoes, before taking a long sip.
My heart is thundering at this unexpectedly amazing conversation. I don’t know how I thought this “confrontation” was going to go when I marched out here . . . but never in a million years did I think it would go like this. Savage seems almost normal. Likeable and friendly. And insanely, irresistibly hot.
“So, what do you do whenever you feel like drowning your sorrows, if you don’t drink?” I ask.
Savage blows a stream of smoke into the air, but this time, pointedly, away from me. “Various things. I work out. Write a song. Jack off. Or, if convenient, I fuck.”
A soft whimper escapes my lips, so I press them together and look out at the ocean to gather myself. Well, that was a fascinating answer.
“You still dating the basketball player?” he asks, out of nowhere. And I’m shocked he knows that false fact about me. Kendrick told him about that? Now, why would he do that?
I pause, not sure how to play this. Should I come clean and admit I lied to Kendrick, because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings? Or should I lean into the lie?
Before I’ve decided, Savage says, “I overheard Tracy putting Malik’s name onto the VIP list for the New York charity show.”
There’s jealousy glinting in his dark eyes, as plain as day. He’s trying to hide it, but it’s there. The same way it was there when I flirted with Cash in front of him at Reed’s party. And, suddenly, I know exactly how to play this. Lean into the lie.
“Yeah, he’s coming,” I reply casually. “He wanted to come to both nights, but he’s playing a game on Friday night.”
A scornful puff of air escapes Savage’s nose. “Have you never googled him, for fuck’s sake? Look at the Reddit boards about him, Laila! I wouldn’t call him ‘boyfriend material.’”
I’m flabbergasted. What an unexpected burst of passion from Mr. I Don’t Give a Fuck! “Of course, I’ve googled him,” I retort. “And it ain’t pretty. But guess who else I’ve googled? You. And that shit ain’t any prettier, Mr. Dick Pic. So, I’d advise you not to throw stones from your glass house.”
“The difference is I don’t pretend to be boyfriend material.”
“People change and grow. They learn from their mistakes. Malik swears he’s learned from his mistakes, and I believe him.”
The first part of my statement is true. Malik has, indeed, sworn up and down he’s a changed man who’s now looking for a committed relationship. The second part, however—that I’m stupid enough to actually believe what Malik told me—is a bald-face lie. In fact, it’s my firm belief Malik only said he’s looking for a committed relationship because I told him that’s what I’d need to sleep with him. I actually only said that to Malik to torture him. I’ve certainly had sex outside of a committed relationship in my life. But I won’t do that with Malik Wallace. Hell no. There’s no way I’m going to be nothing but another notch on that bad boy’s belt.
Shaking his head, Savage takes a long slug from the bottle before saying, “Chris Rock once famously said men are only as faithful as their options. Looks like you’re going to be putting that theory to the test with your ‘boyfriend,’ especially in a long distance relationship. Open your eyes, Fitzy. Basketball isn’t that guy’s only game.”
Fitzy? I’ve never heard that before. It sounds to me like the name of a very tiny dog in a very fluffy tutu. I’m not sure I like it. But I decide, rather than mention this new, surprising nickname he’s concocted for me, to call him something I’ve never called him, in return. “I find it perplexing you’ve gone to the trouble of googling Malik and his track record with women, Adrian. What a strange thing for you to be wasting your time doing.”
Savage scowls when I call him Adrian, and then says, “I didn’t google him, Fitzy. Kendrick did and then wouldn’t shut the fuck up about what he’d found.”
I feel my shoulders droop with disappointment. But why? I should have known. Savage had the chance to hit on me at Reed’s party, every bit as much as Malik did. And Savage chose to hit on everyone else but me, and then leave early with whoever he’d settled on, while I was performing onstage. “Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but Malik and I have had some detailed conversations about his past behavior and I’ve told him I won’t put up with that kind of shit.” True. “He’s assured me he’s a new man.” Also, true. “I believe in second chances.” Again, true, although I’m not sure Malik Wallace is deserving of one. “So, I’ve decided to believe what Malik has told me, unless and until he proves me wrong.” Lies, lies, lies. I’m stupid when it comes to men, but I’m not a damned fool.
Savage rolls his eyes, looking remarkably, exquisitely pissed off. “A leopard doesn’t change his spots, Laila. Don’t be stupid.”
“You think maybe you’re projecting, Adrian? I’ve googled you, remember? And it looks to me like you’re the one who’s only as faithful as your options.”
“That’s false. I’m one hundred percent faithful, if I’ve made a commitment.” He winks. “Which is why I rarely make one.”
I scoff. “You want a medal for that?”
“No. I’m just defending myself. I’m a man of my word, if I’ve given it.”
“So, obviously, you don’t give your word regarding punctuality, huh?”
Savage’s face ignites. “I knew it!” he shouts gleefully. “I knew you’ve been secretly losing your mind whenever I’m late and biting your tongue about it until it bleeds.”
He’s right. He’s driven me bonkers these past two weeks with his perpetual lateness. Since that first time in Philadelphia, Savage was late for two additional soundchecks, as well as one early-morning departure on the buses. But all three times, I kept my mouth shut and my face neutral, even though I was annoyed as hell to witness him behaving so unprofessionally. I bat my eyelashes at him. “You’ve been late for something since Philly? I hadn’t noticed.”
Savage�
�s nostrils flare as he hands the bottle back to me. But he says nothing.
For a long moment, we sit in silence, both of us biting back smiles. Until finally, Savage sighs and says, “Seriously, Fitzy. Dump the basketball player. If your kink is trying to be the one woman a cheater doesn’t cheat on, then I’ve got news for you, baby. You need to find a new kink.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, guess what, Adrian? If your kink is doling out unsolicited advice to me, then I’ve got news for you, baby. You need to shut the fuck up, motherfucker.”
He bursts out laughing. I mean, the dude belly laughs. And I can’t help feeling like I’ve accomplished something amazing.
His laughter subsiding, Savage brings the bottle to his lips and mutters, “Touché, Fitzy. Too-fucking-shay.” I watch him sip and swallow, once again imagining his sensuous lips performing oral sex on me. It’s impossible not to imagine it. Everything about his song “Come with Me” suggests he’s an enthusiastic fan of that particular sex act. And the way he’s moving his mouth right now is insanely sexy.
Suddenly, I find myself wondering how the groupie thing works with him. On the one hand, I know his reputation. When I said I’ve googled him, it was the truth. Not that I needed to google him. Everything about him screams “manwhore.” Plus, I saw his reputation in action at Reed’s party, firsthand, so I know the dude’s got no qualms about hitting on women, one after another, until he gets what he wants.
On the other hand, I haven’t actually seen Savage with a single woman during this tour. Do his handlers quietly bring groupies to his room in every new city? I’ve noticed he doesn’t hang out and party nearly as much as his bandmates. Is that because he’s typically otherwise engaged in his room?
“Call me Savage, by the way,” he says, out of nowhere. “Only my family calls me Adrian.”
“Only if you agree not to call me ‘Fitzy’ again.”
“You don’t like Fitzy?”
“It sounds like the name of a white fluffy dog wearing a tutu.”