by Rowe, Lauren
Kendrick: LOL. Okay, Player. You do you.
And then, hopefully, Laila, I think. But, of course, I don’t say that to Kendrick. He’s been cool about me getting with her in Phoenix, but there’s no need for me to rub salt in my best friend’s wound.
“Did Kendrick have any good babysitting tips for me?” Laila asks, when I put my phone in my lap.
“I forgot to ask him. But, like I said, there’s no point. His reply would be, basically, ‘You’re fucked.’”
“You never know. Ask him, anyway. I’ve never babysat a full-grown man-child before, and I need all the help I can get.”
I tap out the message and read Kendrick’s immediate reply. “Kendrick says, ‘Babysitting Savage is all about giving him positive reinforcement when he’s a good boy, redirecting or gently scolding when he’s a bad boy (but only if you catch him in the act). And, most importantly, always give him lots of chew toys so he doesn’t destroy your couch or slippers because he’s got a major oral fixation.’”
Laila giggles. “Tell him thanks. That’s actually very helpful.”
Damn. The look she just shot me was pure fire.
She motions to my phone. “Aren’t you gonna tell him thanks?”
My eyes drift to her lips, briefly. “Uh. Yeah.” I tap out the message and then plop my phone onto the car seat between us. I ask, “So, you want to start hashing out the backstory of our ‘romance’ before tomorrow’s press conference?” It’s what the producers told us to do, so our answers sound credible and consistent.
“There’s no time like the present,” she says. “What’s the story of how we first got together, my darling? Let’s start there.”
“Hmm,” I say. But before I’ve said more, our SUV hangs a right onto a quiet residential street, and, suddenly, I know exactly where we are—and where we’re headed. I gesture toward the distinctive iron gate coming into view at the end of the long street—the one I recognize as the gate in front of Reed Rivers’ hilltop mansion. “Looks like we’re staying at Reed’s tonight.”
“Oh, wow . . .” she says, peering through the windshield. “That’s his gate?”
“It sure is,” I mumble. “Shit.”
“You don’t like Reed?”
“I like him fine,” I lie. But, really, me not liking Reed isn’t the problem. The truth is, I was looking forward to spending the evening alone with Laila. She already mentioned she’s down to get shitfaced with me. And the last time we were both shitfaced, I practically fucked her off a lounge chair. But it’s fine. Whether we’re alone or staying at Reed’s tonight, the plan is the same. It’s now my mission from God to eat this woman while making her eat those fateful words that have plagued me since the night of the hot tub: This will never happen again.
Twenty-Six
Savage
After our SUV passes through Reed’s iron gate and comes to a stop in his large, circular driveway, there’s a flurry of activity already in progress in front of the large house. Several vans and cars are parked there, and an army of workers are coming in and out. One of our bodyguards advises Laila and me to stay put in the backseat for a moment while he “inspects” the area for paparazzi, and when he’s satisfied we’re all clear, he swiftly escorts us from the SUV into Reed’s house, as Laila giggles and makes another crack about the imaginary “spy thriller” we’re starring in.
Upon entering the mansion, we’re greeted by the executive producer of Sing Your Heart Out, Nadine Collins, who explains the workers are busy creating a studio in Reed’s game room, where Laila and I, and the entire cast—all four judges and their assigned mentors—will shoot some promo videos and photos to be released after tomorrow’s press conference—which, Nadine explains, will also take place at Reed’s house, to minimize the potential for leaks.
“I’ve sent production assistants to collect some personal items for your stay tonight, as well as at the permanent location,” Nadine says. “We should have the new place lined up by tomorrow night.”
We thank her and she asks if we have any questions.
“Have you been able to confirm my mentor yet?” Laila asks. As was discussed today during one of our phone calls with the producers, now that Laila has been unexpectedly promoted to judge, both Laila and Aloha will need mentors, both of which will be selected by the producers with an eye toward maximizing ratings.
“We’ve got several mentor candidates we’re in talks with,” Nadine replies. “I’ve got a scheduled call to finalize our decision in . . . ” She looks at her watch. “Damn. I’m late for my call. Reed is out back having a get-together with some friends. He said for you to come outside and join him.” She calls to an elegant older woman who looks to be Latina, and when she arrives, the woman introduces herself as Reed’s longtime housekeeper, Amalia. Nadine tasks Amalia with escorting us outside and getting us fed before scurrying off for her call like a chicken with her head cut off.
“Would you prefer to see your rooms before joining Reed outside?” Amalia asks. “Or room, if that’s what you prefer?”
“We’ll definitely need separate rooms,” Laila replies. “Is there food outside?”
“Yes, lots of it.”
“Then I’d prefer to go outside now and see our rooms later, please. If that’s okay. I’m starving.”
“Of course, dear. As you wish. I’ll be here all night.”
We follow the elegant housekeeper toward a set of double doors. And I can’t help feeling an illogical pang of disappointment Laila said we’ll need separate rooms.
Outside, we find Reed partying with a small group of friends. We’re introduced to the only people we haven’t met before—a couple Reed introduces as Henn and Hannah. From there, we greet the rest, all of whom we know. When Laila greets everyone, she gives them hugs like they’re her lifelong besties, while I dispense a series of simple hellos. I’m especially standoffish with the wife of Dax Morgan, the lead singer of 22 Goats. Dax’s wife, Violet, is also Reed’s little sister. The one I flirted with a few years ago at a party, long before Violet had met Dax, without me realizing her connection to Reed. I don’t know if Dax knows the story, but I wouldn’t put it past Reed to tell him, and I feel a bit awkward about it.
Besides Dax and Violet, I’m relieved to see Fish, the bass player of 22 Goats, and his cute girlfriend, Alessandra, the artist from the music video in New York, are also here. Those two are as nice as humans come from the factory. So, at least, until Kendrick gets here, I won’t feel like the entire party hates me.
As conversation continues, I hang back and watch my fake girlfriend flit around Reed’s patio like the social butterfly she is, easily engaging with everyone, the same way she did during our tour. Staff, crew, musicians. It didn’t matter during our tour. There was nobody Laila Fitzgerald couldn’t charm and easily befriend. Unlike me. I mean, I can charm people. That’s easy. But genuinely befriending them comes a whole lot harder for me.
As Laila and I are talking to Fish and Alessandra, Reed pointedly brings his date over to say hello to Laila and me. And, once again, like in New York, his date is none other than Georgina. The sultry reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll. How Reed still hasn’t gotten bored with her and moved along to the next yet, or, conversely, hasn’t royally messed things up with her, I have no idea. But, plainly, by the couple’s body language, they’re still going strong.
As Laila hugs Georgina in greeting, Reed trains his steely gaze on me. “You remember my fiancée, Georgina, don’t you, Savage?”
Reflexively, my eyes dart to Georgina’s left hand. And, I’ll be damned, she’s wearing a glittering golf ball on her ring finger.
Laila expresses effusive congratulations to her friend—apparently the women bonded quite a bit during the music video shoot—while I say, “Yeah, of course, I remember Georgina. Congratulations, Reed. You’re a lucky man.”
“Yes, I am,” Reed replies. And there’s no doubt in my mind he means it. Also, that he’s still holding a grudge from months ago, when I had the audacity
to hit on Georgina when she appeared to be a single reporter at a party. It’s so on-brand for Reed to be holding a grudge for something so stupid, I can’t help chuckling to myself.
“What’s funny?” Reed asks.
“Nothing. I’m so happy for you, I’m bursting with joy.”
Reed glares at me like he wants to punch the smile off my face. So, I smile even more broadly at him. Why does Reed always have to make it so damned hard to like him? For the love of fuck, I didn’t know Violet was his little sister when I hit on her a thousand years ago! And I didn’t know Georgina was destined to become his future wife when I hit on her! Which, by the way, I only did for Kendrick’s birthday amusement, in the first place.
Feeling thoroughly annoyed, not to mention kind of peopled out, I wander away from the group to fill a plate at a nearby food table. Once I’ve got my meal in hand, I wander to a quiet corner and gratefully take a load off.
After a while, Laila appears, holding her own plate and a glass of wine. “Is this seat taken, fake boyfriend?” she asks.
“I was saving it especially for you, fake girlfriend.”
She sits. “Crazy day, huh?”
“It definitely took an unexpected turn.”
“Are you still mad about the money?”
“Nah. I’m over it. It’s only money. I can always make more.”
“Now, that’s the spirit.” She peers at me. “You still look grumpy.”
I shrug. “That’s just my face.”
She laughs. “I’m the same way. Unless I’m smiling, everyone thinks I’m pissed or angry. The irony is, when I’m smiling, it’s far more likely I’m plotting murder. So never judge my emotions by my face.”
“I think you’ve plotted my murder a time or two.”
“Or a thousand.”
“At least.”
We eat in silence for a bit, until Laila says, “You don’t like parties very much, huh?”
I pick up a chicken wing. “I like parties, as long as I’m not required to speak to anyone I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that during the tour. You never once came to a single game night with the crew and staff.”
“They had game nights?”
“Every Thursday night. It was fun.”
“Nobody ever invited me.”
“Would you have come, if they did?”
“No. But it would have been nice to be invited.”
We’re silent again for a while, eating and drinking. Looking at the spectacular view.
After a while, I say, “I don’t think it’s weird to prefer hanging out with my best friends, rather than strangers. Doesn’t everyone prefer that?”
“Yes and no. Sometimes, it’s nice to meet new people. Get to know them. Hear their stories.”
I shudder and she laughs.
“You really hate to mingle, don’t you?”
“I hate it. We have to do it so much in our line of work, so when I’m not ‘on,’ I’d much rather be totally ‘off.’”
“I get that.”
“But it’s not the way you’re wired.”
“Not really. I love being alone to recharge, for sure. But I also love being around people, too.” She takes a long sip of her wine, and I watch the movement of her lips as the fluid passes them, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the desire to taste them. I remember them wrapped around my cock. The way they were swollen and red when I pulled myself out of her mouth.
“What about Fish?” she asks, pulling me from my reverie.
“What about him?”
“He’s a friend of yours, right?”
“He’s a friend of everyone’s. He’s like Kendrick. Why?”
“I was surprised you seemed kind of standoffish around him, earlier.”
“I wasn’t being standoffish. I was just . . . standing.”
“It seemed like you were upset.”
“Laila, that’s just my face.”
Laila laughs. “Okay.”
“Honestly, I’d probably hang out with Fish a lot more, if he wasn’t always hanging out with his bandmates.”
She furrows her brow. “You don’t like Dax and Colin? How is that possible?”
“I like them. They don’t like me.”
Laila scoffs. “That’s impossible. Dax and Colin like everyone.”
“C-Bomb is a good buddy of mine.” I don’t need to say anything further. Everyone at River Records, and probably in the world, knows the 22 Goats’ smash hit, “Judas,” penned by Dax, is about Dax’s beef with the drummer of Red Card Riot.
Laila nods, apparently buying my explanation. I don’t think it’s the whole truth, though. But there’s no way I’m going to mention I once hit on Dax’s wife and also had a fling with Colin’s ex-girlfriend to the woman I’m hell-bent on sleeping with.
“So, should we talk about our backstory now?” she asks.
Reflexively, my eyes drift to her mouth again. “Yeah.”
“If we go by Nadine’s suggested timeline,” she says, “we got together around the end of the tour.”
“Mm-hmm.” My eyes are on her tits now. I haven’t spent this much time in Laila’s presence in a long time. I’d forgotten how intoxicating her simple presence is to me.
She takes a bite of food before saying, “The only bummer about that timeline is that it makes me out to be a bald-faced liar on Sylvia. Two weeks ago, I swore on national TV there was no truth to the rumors about us. And now, suddenly, it turns out we’re in love and living together? So embarrassing.”
“It serves you right,” I say. “You were a bald-faced liar on Sylvia.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Laila, I made you come three times, and during your last orgasm, you saw God. So, saying there was no truth to the rumors was, to put it mildly, not a true statement.”
She pushes a lock of her sandy hair off her face. “Having meaningless sex with you once doesn’t equate to me having an actual relationship with you—which is what Sylvia asked me about.”
“You implied we’d never so much as kissed,” I say. “Which was a lie.”
She drops a chicken wing onto her plate in protest. “Sylvia specifically asked me if I’d ever had the pleasure of kissing your lips, and I truthfully said no.”
When she mentions my lips, my eyes flicker to hers, ever so briefly, and when my gaze returns to her ice-blue eyes, she’s smirking.
“So, what are you suggesting we do?” I say. “If you’re suggesting we should say we got together after your interview on Sylvia, just so you can avoid looking like a liar, then no dice. I’d need way more time than that to fall in love with you. More than a month, actually. But I’m willing to say that to avoid the mess of our relationship overlapping with the tour.”
“You’d need longer than a whole month to know you want me?”
“No. I’d need half a second to know that. I’m saying I’d need longer than a month to know I loved you. To want to live with you. Or, so I’d imagine. I’ve never fallen in love or lived with anyone before. But I think a month would be lightning quick for me to do either.”
“Well, it’s not like we met only a month ago. We’ve known each other for a long time now. Oh! I know! We could say you were secretly in love with me throughout the tour. That’d give you plenty of time to develop feelings of love, wouldn’t it?”
For some reason, my breathing has become a bit difficult. “I’m not gonna be the simp who sat around, pining for you, while you fucked Malik, and then Charlie, during the tour. Fuck that.”
She pauses. Opens and closes her mouth. And finally says, “It was only an idea.”
“Yeah, and a terrible one. I’m not gonna be your puppy, Laila, even in a fake romance. You’re gonna have to suck it up and admit you lied on Sylvia. We’ll say we wanted our privacy and people will understand.”
“Fine. But in exchange for me being outed as a liar, then you have to admit you were the one who caught feelings first. You’re the one who pursued me.”
She giggles. “How did you finally make your move?”
I pause to consider. “When the tour was over, I realized I missed seeing your face every day. Your bitchy, evil little face.”
She laughs again.
“So, I called you—from Kendrick’s phone, of course, since you’d blocked my number—and I asked you to come over to my hotel room for pizza and fucking, minus the pizza.”
She snorts. “Wow, how romantic.”
“How would you prefer I did it?”
She twists her sultry lips. “You invited me to your house for dinner. But not pizza. Wine and dine me, dude!”
“I’d have to come to your place if that’s the story. I’ve been living in a hotel since we got back from the tour.”
She gasps. “Why?”
“Because I don’t own a place.”
“You mean you rent?”
“I mean I don’t have a permanent residence. There’s no point. I’m on the road so much.”
“Ugh. I’d hate that. I love my condo.”
I shrug.
“Okay, so you called me and apologized profusely. So, I suggested—”
“Apologized for what?”
“You know for what. Let’s not go down this road again.”
I pause. “Okay, fine. I apologized. But only after you did, for reaming me in front of everyone on the tour.”
“Hell no! You apologized first.”
“That’s not believable,” I say. “Anyone who knows me knows I never apologize first.”
“Well, neither do I.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, at an impasse.
She exhales with frustration. “Why would you call me after the tour to take your shot and not apologize first? That makes no sense. The way it went down is you called me and apologized for being a dick during the tour, and then I apologized, too, and invited you to my condo for pizza. And you said, ‘Pizza? Hell no! Let me cook for you, baby.’ And then, you came to my house and made me an amazing meal that melted my panties and made me invite you to stay the night. And you never left. Which makes perfect sense, since you don’t have anywhere else to live.”