by Rowe, Lauren
Cheese on a cracker. The woman is relentless. “Yes, we were—for three months. But, to be honest, our personalities didn’t really mesh.”
Sylvia’s face ignites. “Oooooh. Now, we’re really getting some exclusive dirt!”
I shrug. “Not really. You’ve all seen the video. It certainly wasn’t a secret during the tour that we didn’t get along. If Savage were here, I’m sure he’d say I was as infuriating to him as he was to me.”
Sylvia’s face is positively on fire now. “Infuriating? My, my. Such a passionate word.”
“Annoying,” I correct, quickly, feeling my cheeks redden. “I’m just saying we got under each other’s skin.”
“Under each other’s skin. Oh, Laila. Freud would have a field day with you.”
Fuck! How did I lose my grip on this tiger’s tail so quickly?
Sylvia smirks. “Speaking of that video . . . Hey, Tom, can we put that up now? Thanks.”
And there it is. The famous video of Savage and me that’s been making the rounds—the one where we’re screaming at each other in front of that restaurant in New York.
“You’ve seen this, right?” Sylvia asks.
“I have.”
“It’s impossible to hear what you two are saying, unfortunately. Can you fill us in?”
“I don’t remember. It wasn’t anything important. We constantly annoyed each other, so . . .”
“Constantly? Does that mean you two had more fights than this one during the tour?”
Crap. Does she have a spy who’s already told her about our knock-down, drag-out screaming match backstage in Atlanta? Or is she simply fishing? “No, that argument was the only one,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Adrian and I mostly stayed out of each other’s way during the tour.”
“Adrian? You’re on a first-name basis with him, huh? I don’t think I realized that’s his first name. What a sexy name.”
“I . . . I used to call him that to annoy him, while he called me Fitzy to annoy me. See? There were no fireworks between us. More like grade-school teasing, combined with total and complete indifference.”
“Huh,” Sylvia says, conveying an ocean of disbelief with that one syllable. She addresses the guy with the headset again. “Can we bring up the meme now? Thanks.”
Holy hell. The meme, too? I feel like I’m being waterboarded.
Poof.
Like magic, the meme that’s been flooding social media this past week, ever since the Video Music Awards, appears on the screen behind us. It’s a photo of Savage and me, taken as we walked onstage together, our eyes locked in fiery anger. In the shot, Savage is smoldering at me like a volcano about to blow, while I’m glaring at him like I’m plotting his slow and painful dismemberment, starting with the piecemeal removal of his cock and balls. And, of course, since this is a meme, there’s a caption across the top and bottom that reads: “I hate you so much . . . I want to fuck you to death.” Although for Sylvia’s daytime audience, the f-bomb in the caption has been blurred out.
“Have you seen this one?” Sylvia asks innocently.
“I have.”
Sylvia addresses her audience. “Have y’all seen this one?”
The audience applauds, confirming they’ve seen it, too.
“I don’t know, Laila,” Sylvia says. “Looking at this photo, I can see why those pesky rumors about you and Savage simply won’t die. I mean, look at the chemistry between you two! Those are some serious sparks!”
The audience expresses its agreement, while I find myself wondering how the heck I managed to walk straight into this landmine. Did Daria set this up with Sylvia, to make sure this clip went viral? I bet she did.
“Those aren’t sparks,” I say. “They’re daggers. Right before Savage and I walked onstage, we had a little disagreement. Surprise, surprise. So, what you’re seeing there isn’t me wanting to jump his bones, as the meme would have you believe. It’s me wanting to murder him.”
Sylvia smirks. “I think you’re missing the whole point of the meme, darling. The point is that—and this is something I think we can all relate to—a woman can simultaneously want to murder a man and jump his bones. It’s called hate sex, honey. And from my experience, it can be awfully fun.”
The audience roars with laughter. Oh, Sylvia. She’s a gem.
Sylvia continues, “I’d think that’d be especially true when you’re having hate sex with a specimen who looks like that.” She motions to the screen behind us while I gape like a fish on a line, fruitlessly racking my brain for a witty retort. Finally, before I’ve managed to find adequate words, Sylvia looks directly into one of the cameras and says, “Big thanks to the lovely and talented Laila Fitzgerald for joining us today! Buy her album and watch her on Sing Your Heart Out this season! When we come back, we’ll be joined by Chef Claude, who’s going to teach us how to make the perfect French croissant!”
The audience applauds. The red lights on the various cameras turn off. A producer announces, “We’re clear.” And Sylvia throws her head back and lets loose with a belly laugh.
When she straightens up, she grips my forearm. “That was solid gold, Laila. Absolute perfection!”
I exhale what feels like my entire lung capacity. “It was?”
“It was brilliant.” She mimes a chef’s kiss. “I don’t know if you just lied to my face about Savage, little girl. Or if you’re silly enough not to have taken a big ol’ bite of that apple during your tour. But, God help you, if you were stupid enough to resist him when you had the chance, then take some advice from a woman twice your age.” She leans forward. “Fuck that man, Laila. Call him now and tell him to meet you in a hotel, and fuck . . . that . . . man.” She guffaws at my flabbergasted expression. “Honey, when you get to be my age, you’ll realize the only regrets in life are the things you didn’t do. The mistakes you didn’t make.” She smirks. “Trust me, honey, having hate sex with a man who looks like that delicious specimen is one mistake you’ll never regret.”
Twenty
Savage
The air is electric. The stage, flooded with lights. The packed audience in this massive arena is singing along with me to “Hate Sex High” . . . which makes no sense, now that I think about it, since the album with that song on it is currently being mixed and mastered. Did someone at the label leak the rough cut of the album?
A warm breeze wafts over my body, caressing every inch of my skin . . . including my dick and balls. And when I look down, perplexed, I realize I’ve been prancing around onstage . . . completely in the nude.
I look behind me, at the gigantic Jumbotron projecting my every movement, and, yup, there’s my naked dick, blasting out into the arena, as big as a barn. My eyes drift to Kendrick behind me at the drum kit and he guffaws at my stupidity, while not missing a beat in the song.
I turn around again, toward the audience, and discover everyone is holding up their phones, trained on me. Or, rather, trained, with sniper-like precision, on my dick. Which means, here we go again—my dong is once again about to become an internet star.
I suddenly hear Eli’s voice, screaming my name. Shit. My manager already knows about this latest fuck-up? Panicking, I look toward the wing of the stage, assuming that’s where I’ll find Eli. But the person I behold in the wings is a whole lot hotter than Eli. It’s Little Miss Laila.
Well, well, well. I knew she’d finally come crawling back to me, eventually, begging me for another ride on my pony. She’s standing in the wings, wearing that eye-popping dress from the awards show—the one that left only the tiniest sliver of flesh to the imagination. Not that I need my imagination to fill in the gaps when it comes to Laila’s gorgeous body, since I’ve already seen every glorious inch of it on the best night of my life. Every inch, that is, except her glorious pussy, up close and personal.
What did Kendrick say last week while showing me Laila’s interview on Sylvia? He said, “I think you’ve got a fish on your line, brother.” And now, hallelujah, it turns out Kendrick was
right.
Laila’s blue eyes burning with sexual desire, she begins banging her fist against a nearby wall, commanding me to stop gawking at her and get my ass over to her in the wings.
“Patience,” I coo, enjoying her little tantrum. After everything Laila has put me through, I must admit I’m enjoying her obvious desperation. Taking my sweet time, I stroll languidly toward her, like I’ve got all the time in the world, like I haven’t been dying for this moment to arrive for half my life. And when I finally come to a stop mere inches from Laila, when the tip of my naked cock brushes against the sheer fabric on her belly, I physically spasm with pent-up arousal and anticipation.
I lick my lips, poised to say, “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me forever.”
But she shuts me up by gripping my cock, the same way she did the night of the hot tub.
“Don’t speak,” she cautions. “And don’t kiss me, either. Just fuck me. Fuck me, hard, like you did in Phoenix.”
Exhaling a stilted breath, I wordlessly unzip her dress and peel it off her, until it’s in a crumpled heap at her feet. With my cock dripping, I pick her up by her glorious ass, push her back against the wall, press my aching tip against her wet entrance, and—
“Savage!”
No.
It’s my manager, Eli, again.
“Savage!” he shouts. “Open up. It’s an emergency!”
No, no, no!
All of a sudden, Laila disappears from my arms in a puff of sensuous smoke. There’s another banging sound. And then Eli’s voice rips me from my dream and into stark consciousness. I open my eyes and discover I’m not backstage in an arena, on the cusp of finally fucking Laila again. I’m in a hotel room. Naked and alone in bed, in the late morning light. Also, damn, I’m nursing one hell of a hangover.
Groaning, I rub my pained forehead—and as I do, Eli’s yelling and banging on the door persists and becomes even louder. I glance at my phone on the nightstand and curse at the time: 10:18. That’s way too early for anyone to wake me when I’m not on tour, especially the morning after Kai’s birthday party. Whatever brought Eli here, it’d better be damned important.
At the thought, goosebumps erupt on my skin. And not the good kind.
Mimi.
Quickly, I swipe into my texts, making sure I don’t have something from Sasha. And, thank God, I don’t. Exhaling with relief, I throw on a pair of underwear and shuffle to the door. And the minute I see my manager’s facial expression, I know whatever “emergency” he’s come to tell me about this morning, he’s not here to tell me the worst possible news. The news I’ve been dreading since Mimi took a turn for the worse. Which means, whatever it is, I really don’t give a fuck.
Scratching my belly, I lean against the doorjamb and yawn so wide, I’m sure Eli can glimpse the inside-bottoms of my ball sacs through my mouth. “Whatever this ‘emergency’ is,” I drawl, “it’d better be damned important. I was in the middle of an amazing dream.”
Eli motions to the hard-on bulging from behind my briefs. “So I’ve gathered. Put that thing away before you poke someone’s eye out.” He barges past me into the room and scowls at my briefs again. “Jesus, Savage. Seriously. Think about drowning puppies or something.” He strides toward the bathroom. “Are you alone in here, Player?”
“Yeah.”
Ignoring my reply, he peeks into the bathroom to see for himself.
“Why ask me, then?” I mutter, flopping into an armchair. I’m not surprised Eli wants independent corroboration of my answer. As Eli has said many times, he doesn’t consider me a “reliable narrator” on my best day, let alone after a night of hard partying with my best friends.
When he returns to me from the bathroom, he looks furious with me.
“What’s wrong with you?” he yells. “You signed the contract on Thursday morning and turned around and breached it on Friday night?”
“I didn’t breach it,” I assure him. “All I did last night was—"
“I know exactly what you did! And so do the producers! Savage, you know how paranoid they are about avoiding scandals with their judges this season, big or small, thanks to The Hugh Debacle. They told you, repeatedly, in writing and verbally, they want you to be a Boy Scout for the entire season.”
“And I will be. Shooting begins on Monday. Don’t worry. I didn’t do anything bad. It was all in good fun."
“I know everything you did!” he shouts. “And you wanna know how? Because you stupidly threw Kai’s birthday party in the pool area of a busy hotel—where any guest of the party, and any guest of the hotel, or any employee of the hotel, could see your antics—and by that I mean your naked swan dive into the swimming pool!—and snap as many photos and videos of you in action as they pleased. Which is exactly what a whole lot of them did!”
I chuckle. “It’s fine. It’s nothing the world hasn’t already seen. I’ve told you about ‘Birthday Truth or Dare,’ right? It’s harmless fun.”
“Not harmless!” he shouts, practically pulling out his dark hair with frustration. “You signed a multi-million-dollar contract that included a strict morality clause. And a day and a half later, a screen shot of your dick is, yet again, trending on Twitter!”
I put my palms together in prayer. “At number one?”
“Fucking hell, Savage!” he shouts, his dark eyes bugging out. “This isn’t funny! The producers called me an hour ago, wanting to terminate your contract.”
Well, that gets my attention. “Because of a little full-frontal nudity?”
“That, and the fact that they don’t trust you as far as they can throw you. You made promises that you’ve totally disregarded. It’s a family show! And Hugh has sullied their brand. They need to know they can trust you—that they can control you. What was one of the most important rules they impressed upon you at the meeting? No more going viral for all the wrong reasons!”
My pulse is racing now. “Shit. I didn’t think they’d care if I added a couple more shots to my internet dick pic collection. It’s part of my branding by now, don’t you think? Might even help the show, I’d think.”
He shakes his head, looking like he wants to slap me. “I hate you right now. You made a promise—a four-million-dollar promise—and now they think you’ve broken it. It’s as simple as that.”
I take a deep breath and rub my forehead. “Okay. I get where they’re coming from, I guess. How about we give them a call and I apologize? I’ll tell them I’m sorry and it won’t happen again.”
“Oh, we’re way past that now, fuckwit. You have no idea how much shucking and jiving I had to do this morning to keep them from immediately announcing your termination.” He takes a deep breath. “Thankfully, I think I’ve got them sold on an idea to make lemonade out of last night’s lemons. They’ve given me until five today to deliver on my idea, or else you’re toast.”
My chest suddenly feels tight. “Whatever you have to do, you need to fix this for me, Eli.”
“I’m trying, Savage. But you’re gonna need to work with me.”
“I will. I promise.”
“Don’t you dare use that word with me. It’s meaningless.”
“No, it’s not. Yes, I was stupid last night. But I totally get it now. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you should.” I sigh. “I didn’t want to tell you this yet, but . . . I signed a contract to buy that house yesterday.”
Eli looks flabbergasted. “The house for Mimi?”
I nod.
“Savage, no. I told you no!”
“I know. But I had to do it. Who knows when or if it’ll ever come on the market again? I wanted Mimi to have it. You know we’re running out of time.”
Eli looks sympathetic. “Please, tell me you haven’t told Mimi about the house yet, so you can back out, if I can’t fix things with the show.”
“I’ve told her. She cried tears of joy.”
Eli flops into a chair. “Savage.”
“How much did you agree to pay? Please, tell me you at least got a smoking good deal?”
I pause. It seemed like a no-brainer at the time when I knocked on the door of that house last week and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. The house wasn’t even on the market, actually. And they insisted it wasn’t for sale, at any price. So, I offered to pay them a king’s ransom to change their mind. I figured, Why not? The tour was massively successful, which means I can afford to burn my entire salary, and then some, from Sing Your Heart Out on a gift for Mimi. But now, I’m thinking maybe it was a wee bit extravagant to blow every penny of my salary, and more, on that one purchase. “Okay, actually, I told you a little white lie,” I admit. “The house wasn’t actually on the market . . .”
“Oh, God. No. How much, Savage?”
I grimace. “Five million.”
“No!”
“I had to offer that much, or else—"
“Savage, no!”
“It’s okay. For what it’s worth, the house is going to be in my name, so, one day . . .” I trail off, not wanting to think of the ending to that sentence—the obvious implication that Mimi won’t be around to enjoy her fancy new house on a hill forever.
“Your salary from the show won’t cover that,” Eli says, like I don’t know basic math. “Not to mention, you won’t even get paid, all at once, by the show—assuming I can fix this for you. Plus, even if you do wind up staying on the show, if I can save your stupid ass today, then half your salary will go to taxes and commissions.”
“Half?” I blurt. “Well, shit.”
Eli looks genuinely distraught on my behalf. He fidgets in his armchair for a moment. “Savage, even if I can get the show to keep you on, that was the most irresponsible purchase, ever. You already bought Sasha a house last year—and you don’t even have one for yourself!”
My stomach flip-flops. “Look, I’m not gonna apologize. I had to do this for Mimi. She’s the first person in the world who ever truly believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. The first person who told me I actually mattered.” I swallow hard, keeping my emotions at bay. “There’s no way to know how much time she has left, Eli. But things aren’t looking good. So, whatever time she’s got, I want her to get to lie in a huge bed fit for a queen in the master bedroom of that particular house, while watching me sit at the judges’ table—in Hugh Delaney’s fucking chair—on her all-time favorite show.”