by Rowe, Lauren
Savage chuckles. “Well, shit, now I’ve got no choice. You’re Fitzy for life.”
“Okay, then you’re Adrian.”
He pauses like he’s weighing his options, and finally says, “Yeah, it’s totally worth it.”
I roll my eyes. “So, anyway, Adrian, the whole reason I came out here was to clear the air with you. I think maybe you’ve been pissed about me trash-talking you in Philly for being late, and I—”
“I’m not pissed about that.”
“No?”
He pulls a face like that’s a ridiculous notion. “Why would I give a flying fuck what you think?”
My lips part and my brow furrows. Did this motherfucker just insult me while forgiving me for insulting him? But before I’ve responded, the sound of sharp laughter and familiar voices cuts through the darkness and causes both of us to jolt and lean back like we’ve been doing something wrong over here.
The voices belong to Ruby, a couple people from my band, and Kendrick. And the minute Kendrick’s voice becomes identifiable, Savage’s entire body stiffens. He hastily stubs out his cigarette, clears his throat, and pops up, looking very much like a kid who’s just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar.
“I think I’m gonna crash in my room now,” he murmurs. And for a split-second, I think he’s inviting me to join him. But, no. He quickly adds, “Do me a favor and tell Ruby and Titus I left the party and said happy birthday, okay?”
“Uh, sure,” I reply, feeling vaguely disappointed. But I’m speaking to Savage’s back. He’s already on the move. High-tailing it out of here like a bank robber on the run. “Don’t be late for the buses tomorrow!” I call out. And then add, pointedly, “Adrian.”
Just before his frame disappears into the dark night, Savage turns around, so that he’s walking backward. Facing me now, he flashes me an impish grin and says, “I’m never late, Fitzy. Everyone else is just . . . early.”
Eleven
Savage
New York, New York
My band and everyone else who played at tonight’s charity concert at Madison Square Garden are seated at a long table in a swanky restaurant in Midtown, courtesy of our host, Reed Rivers. And I’m shitfaced. Breaking my hard and fast rule about never drinking to drown my sorrows. Because . . . Malik Wallace.
To anyone watching me drinking like a fish tonight, I’m sure I look like I’m merely celebrating tonight’s amazing show, along with everyone else at this table. But I’m not. In reality, I’m fixated on that bastard’s every movement. His every flirtatious smile, aimed directly at Laila. Basically, I’ve been drinking while trying to figure out how I can murder that motherfucker and get away with it.
“You called it at Reed’s party,” Kendrick says next to me, jutting his chin at Reed and his date on the far end of the table. Who’s Reed’s date tonight? Well, none other than Georgina, the sultry reporter I hit on as Kendrick’s birthday present. The fact that Georgina is at Reed’s side at all, a full two months later, is shocking enough. But factor in that Reed’s brought her as his date to a work event, which isn’t Reed’s style, and that he’s been packing on the PDA with her throughout the entire dinner, and I’m thinking this woman has cast a spell on The Prick, the likes of which I never would have believed.
But, whatever. I don’t have the bandwidth to focus on Reed and his love life for very long. I’m too fixated on Laila and hers. Fucking Malik! When he walked into the greenroom at The Garden earlier tonight, I felt an almost primal desire to pummel his face. And the impulse has only grown as the evening, and my alcohol consumption, has worn on.
Unfortunately, the happy couple—Laila and her handsy MVP—is sitting immediately across from Kendrick and me at this long, crowded table, so I can’t avoid constantly staring at them. And guess what? The fucker never stops touching Laila with his huge hands. Ever. At any given moment, Mr. Basketball’s got his arm around Laila’s shoulders, or a hand covering hers. Or maybe he’s got his hand under the table, doing God knows what to her under there. Or if not any of that, he’s touching her hair or leaning in to whisper into her ear—oftentimes, immediately after glowering at me.
Actually, I don’t know if I’m imagining that last part. The glowering. Is Malik Wallace a mind reader? Or is the booze making my face a whole lot more readable than usual? Either way, the man clearly wants me, and everyone in this restaurant, to know the magnificent, sultry, talented Laila Fitzgerald is his.
The crazy thing is I don’t get jealous, except when it comes to Laila. Why should I, when there are unlimited fish in the sea? And yet, here I am, contemplating physically attacking a professional athlete, despite my brain knowing, logically, he’d almost certainly beat my ass. Also, logically speaking, I know Malik’s got every right to drape himself over his own girlfriend. I’m nobody to Laila, after all. If Malik were out of the picture, she’d be in Kendrick’s arms. Not mine. And yet, I can’t stop staring and plotting Malik’s untimely demise.
I think the part that burns me the most is knowing Laila hooked up with Malik after meeting him at Reed’s party. If I hadn’t left when I did that night, if I’d sucked it up and walked over to her to welcome her to the tour the way my bandmates did, would everything be different now? I thought I was stepping aside for my best friend, which is something I can stomach, though not happily. But it turns out, I was stepping aside for Malik Wallace. And realizing that feels like a special kind of torture.
Kendrick leans into me, just as Malik whispers something to Laila that makes her giggle. “Fuck my life,” Kendrick mutters. “Sitting across from them is my personal version of hell.”
“Sorry, brother. That sucks. Let’s drink another round.”
I flag a server—a young woman I’d guess is an aspiring actress or model or dancer, given that this is Manhattan and she’s lithe and stunning. And she immediately strides over to me with a big smile on her face.
“Another round,” I say, motioning to my empty glass and Kendrick’s. “Make ‘em both doubles this time.”
“Triples,” Kendrick says.
“You got it, boys,” she says with a wink. She bites her lower lip and leans into me. “If this is inappropriate, I’m sorry. But would you and Kendrick mind taking a selfie with me? I’m a huge fan.”
Kendrick agrees, of course, because he’s much nicer than me, and she pokes her head between us and snaps the photo. But when that task is done, she doesn’t leave. Rather, she turns her attention on me, specifically, in a way I’ve seen many times, and whispers, “I’m a huge fan, Savage.”
Well, that’s not subtle. If history has taught me anything, she’s telling me she’s down to sleep with me tonight. If I’m right about that, I’m not interested. However, I couldn’t help noticing, as we took that selfie, Laila was watching the interaction with blazing eyes. So, I decide, interested or not, to let Laila think she’s not the only one who’ll be getting laid tonight.
“Come here,” I say to the waitress. I motion to her to lean closer, like I’m going to tell her a secret, and she follows my command with obvious excitement. I lean in, my body language shifting into fuckboy mode, the same way it did when I hit on Georgina at Reed’s party. “What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Desiree,” she replies breathlessly. And I can almost see her heart pounding against her sternum.
“That’s a sexy name. What’s your favorite Fugitive Summer song?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “‘Come with Me.’”
It’s not a surprise. I don’t know if that song is genuinely a top favorite for all the women who’ve claimed as much. All I know is that song has gotten me laid more times than I can count. Whenever they say they love that one, in particular—my band’s most brazenly sexual song—and then look at me the way this waitress is looking at me now—I can pretty much count on the next thing the woman says making it clear she’s down to fuck.
The waitress licks her lips and adds, “I listen to that song a lot, Savage. A lot, a lot.”
&nbs
p; It’s been a while since I’ve had this particular conversation, simply because I grew tired of leading women down this predictable path. But I guess it’s like riding a bike. You never truly forget how to ride, no matter how long it’s been. Especially when you’re trying to make a certain pop star with blazing blue eyes and sensual lips feel the same thing you’ve been feeling all night. Seething jealousy.
I glance at Laila to make sure she’s still watching the show. She is. So, I decide to turn up the heat. Raising my voice a bit, for Laila’s benefit, of course, I ask the waitress, “What are you doing later tonight, Desiree?”
“Nothing at all. I get off at midnight and don’t work again until four tomorrow.”
“That’s convenient,” I say. “As luck would have it, we’ve got a free day tomorrow. No travel. No show. I was planning to chill in my hotel room tomorrow.”
Her ample chest heaves with excitement. “If you’d like some company, I could give you my number . . .”
“Sounds good.” I glance at Laila again as I pull out my phone, and her face is a forest fire. At my prompting, the waitress tells me her number, and I make a big show of making sure I’ve entered it correctly.
“Yep, that’s it,” the waitress says. “I hope you call me tonight.”
“I will,” I say, although I’m not sure that’s true. As long as I get her to sign an NDA, like Eli keeps telling me to do these days, then there’s no reason for me not to call her. Fucking this waitress for ten hours straight would be a whole lot better than tossing and turning all night, imagining Malik fucking Laila. And yet, for some reason, I don’t feel enthusiastic about the idea. In fact, the thought only makes me want to drink some more.
The waitress straightens up. “Crap. My manager is mad at me. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll get those drinks for you, gentlemen.”
“Tequila shots, too!” Kendrick shouts.
“Got it!”
As the waitress strides away, I return my attention to Laila, eager to flash her a smug smile, but to my extreme disappointment, Laila isn’t watching me any longer. She’s standing and engaged in conversation with Reed.
“Thanks so much, Laila,” Reed is saying. “I really appreciate this.”
“I’m happy to do it,” Laila replies. “Alessandra is adorable, and you know I adore Fish.”
Reed says something I don’t catch, due to some laughter at the far end of our table, and they wrap up their conversation.
Laila sits back down and immediately fields some seriously angry energy from Malik. I can’t hear what he says to her, but, clearly, he’s not happy with her.
“Seriously?” Laila replies sharply to Malik. She whisper-shouts, “I couldn’t say no. Reed’s the head of my label! And Alessandra is a brand-new artist who’s really sweet. And her boyfriend, Fish, is a good friend of mine. You think, despite all that, I should have said no, so we could ‘hang out’ tomorrow?”
Malik snaps, “Don’t get all pissy with me. You should be happy I wanted you to spend your free day with me.”
“Keep your voice down,” Laila says, before leaning in and whisper-shouting something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, Malik doesn’t like it.
“Thank you, Baby Jesus, there’s finally trouble in paradise,” Kendrick whispers to me.
“Sure looks like it,” I say. “What did Reed ask Laila to do tomorrow? I couldn’t hear.”
“You know Fish’s girlfriend, Alessandra?”
He motions to the end of the table, but I nod without looking. Everyone here knows Fish’s girlfriend, Alessandra, at this point. Not only is she the same girl who looked so smitten with Fish at Reed’s party two months ago, not only is she sitting next to Fish at the table now, Fish gave that girl a whopper of a kiss in the middle of the greenroom earlier, in front of everyone, and then proceeded to sing to her onstage during the concert. So, yeah, to put it mildly, I know Fish’s girlfriend, Alessandra. In fact, so does everyone in the world by now.
Kendrick continues, “Alessandra has a one-song deal with River Records and her music video is shooting tomorrow in Brooklyn. From what I’ve gathered, it sounds like Reed and the director down there . . . That woman there.” He points to a cute brunette who’s sitting next to Reed. “Reed and the director came up with some complicated new storyline for the music video, just now, and Reed asked Laila to play a big part in it. Which means she’ll be busy shooting all day tomorrow.” Kendrick smiles wickedly. “Rather than hanging out with Malik.”
I snicker. “What a cry baby.”
Kendrick nods. “Hopefully, he’ll keep crying until she’s pissed enough to dump his ass tonight.” He smiles. “And when she needs a shoulder to cry on tomorrow night, I’ll be Johnny on the Spot.”
Our server, Desiree, arrives with our new drinks and shots—plus, a flirtatious smile for me—and we dig in. We watch Reed making his way around the table, talking to every band, one by one, until, finally, reaching our band. After greeting all five of us, Reed tell us everything Kendrick has already told me about Alessandra’s video shoot tomorrow. Except Reed doesn’t ask us to come down for the whole day, as he asked Laila to do. He requests we drop by, at any convenient time, to shoot quick cameos. “I know it’s your free day tomorrow,” Reed says. “But I’ll owe you guys a favor if you stop by. The cameos will take no more than fifteen minutes to shoot. You’d sit at a table in a coffeehouse and pretend to watch Alessandra playing her guitar onstage. We’ll stitch it all together later in post-production.”
Everyone in my band, other than me, says they’ll try but can’t promise anything. They’re not trying to be jerks. It’s just that everyone looks forward to those rare days off on the schedule, when we can crash and burn and not have a single obligation.
Reed looks at me, clearly most interested in securing my face, above all others, for the video. “I’d consider it a personal favor to me if you’d come tomorrow, Savage,” he says. “It’s important to me, for personal reasons, to make this song a huge hit for Alessandra. As big as I can make it.” He pauses and it’s clear it’s going to pain him to say whatever’s on his tongue. But he says it, anyway. “Please.”
Whoa. That was as close to groveling as I’ve ever heard from Reed. Even so, I don’t care about making Reed happy, or having him owe me a favor. What I do care about, however, is that Laila has already committed to being there tomorrow, all day—and, apparently, without Malik. Also, that she’s looking at me right now, awaiting my response with bated breath.
“Yeah, I’m down,” I say. “As long as I don’t need to get there until the afternoon.” I look at Laila and smirk. “It sounds like I’m gonna be pretty busy tonight and into the first part of the morning.”
Laila snarls before looking away and I can’t help smiling broadly at her reaction. God, she’s fun. Wind her up and watch her go.
Reed claps my shoulder and thanks me effusively, before moving along to the next band at the table, the guys from Watch Party.
Biting back my smile, I return my attention to Laila across the table and discover she’s gotten up and is talking to Fish and Alessandra and Georgina. But guess who’s looking straight at me right now? Malik. With eyes like laser beams.
I rise, flip him off, and stride to the bathroom on the far side of the restaurant. After taking a piss, I wash my hands and face and stare at myself in the mirror for a moment. “Pull yourself together,” I whisper. “If you had her, you wouldn’t even want her. You only want what you can’t have.” Satisfied with my pep talk, I open the door to the bathroom and enter the short hallway, and immediately get slammed, rather forcefully, into a wall.
“Are you fucking her?” Malik whisper-shouts, his large body pinning mine into the wall.
“Fuck off,” I say, pushing against his hulking frame. But it’s no use. As fit as I am, his body is a brick wall.
He grabs my shirt. “Are you the reason she never answers my calls?”
“Let go of me unless you want to hear from my lawyers, Malik.”
>
He exhales a warm breath on my face and lets me go. Which is a damned good thing because, now that I’m here, I’m realizing my fantasy about strangling him was a pipe dream.
I lean into Malik’s angry face. “If I were fucking Laila, trust me, you wouldn’t be here tonight to ask me about it. One taste of me, and she’d ditch your ass in a heartbeat.”
Without warning, he shoves me again, crashing my back into the wall—although, thankfully, I’m way too drunk to feel it. Immediately, a nearby waiter appears in the hallway and frantically orders Malik to leave the area.
As Malik walks back to the table, I yell to his back, “If you can’t keep your woman satisfied, don’t blame me!”
“Mr. Savage, please,” the waiter says. “Cool off outside. Please.”
“Gladly.”
My veins flooded with adrenaline and my breathing ragged and hot, I stalk across the restaurant and straight outside into the crisp night, mustering every drop of willpower along the way not to punch a hole in a fucking wall.
Twelve
Savage
Once outside in front of the restaurant, I bum a cigarette off one of the valet parkers and then pace back and forth, inhaling on it like a lifeline, until, a moment later, Laila bursts outside and marches up to me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouts. “Malik said you attacked him outside the bathrooms?”
I roll my eyes. “Wow, you’ve got yourself a real gem there, Laila. What are you doing with a psychopath like him?”
Her nostrils flare. “What’s it to you?”
My body feels alive with adrenaline and booze—jealousy and lust. “You can get any man you want and you know it. You’ve got the nicest guy in the world, practically throwing himself at you—which, by the way, he never does for anyone—and you’d rather be with an asshole like Malik?”