Falling out of Hate with You: Hate - Love Duet Book One

by Rowe, Lauren

  And, suddenly, thanks to the way she’s contorting her sensuous lips, I’m flooded with the urge to kiss her. I clear my throat. “I know you’re pissed when I bring up the money, Laila, but have mercy on me. I’m paying you two million bucks. The least you can do is deliver an Academy-award-worthy performance.”

  She licks her lips, drawing my gaze to her mouth again. And when my eyes return to hers, I feel a shift between us. Heat crackling in the gap between our bodies.

  “Okay,” she says softly, her gaze drifting to my lips. “I promise I’ll do my very best.”

  My chest is tight. My skin hot. “Thank you. That’s all we can both do.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” she says, her gaze drifting, yet again, to my lips.

  I step forward, deciding this is it. The moment, at last. I’m going to kiss Laila and then bend her over that washing machine and fuck the living hell out of her. But when I step forward again, she steps back. So, I freeze. She takes a deep breath, clears her throat, and says, “I’m really glad we talked. Thanks for setting me straight.” And then, after licking her lips and taking a shuddering breath, she turns on her heel and literally sprints out of the small room.

  Twenty-Eight

  Savage

  After my conversation with Laila in the laundry room, she played a few rounds of Beer Pong with her friends, while I sat at the fire feature, watching her while pretending to listen to Jon Stapleton, my co-judge, give me advice about being on the show. But when Laila left her post at Beer Pong to play Team Jenga—during which she was paired with Alessandra, thankfully, while Fish was paired with Colin—I excused myself from Jon, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from behind Reed’s bar, and slithered my shitfaced ass into a dark corner to watch her.

  The good news? As promised in the laundry room, Laila’s been noticeably ignoring Colin’s flirtations during their entire game. The bad news? Based on Colin’s body language, it seems clear he’s the sort of sick fuck, like me, who gets off when a hot woman ignores him.

  A large whoop rises up from the game as Aloha’s husband, Zander, makes a move for his two-person team—Aloha and himself. And in response, everyone but Zander and his popstar wife throws back another shot, at which point Colin leans into Laila and says something that makes her throw her head back and laugh.

  It’s worst-case scenario, actually, because I can tell Laila wasn’t trying to flirt with Colin. She didn’t laugh to mess with me. He genuinely made her involuntarily guffaw. I’ve got to think that’s a very bad sign for me.

  My inebriated blood flash-boiling, I jerk to standing, every fiber of my body telling me to march over there and mark my territory. To kiss her in front of Colin. And then throw Colin into the fire.

  “No, Savage,” a voice says sharply. And when I look, it’s my boy, Kendrick, standing before me and physically blocking my movement with his muscular body. “Sit down, brother,” he says. “Don’t do it.”

  The devil on my shoulder is whispering, “Do it.” But, somehow, I manage to reply casually to my friend, “Don’t do what?”

  “Whatever you drunkenly decided to do to Colin.” He points at my chair. “Sit back down and listen to me for a minute.”

  Reluctantly, I sit. Kendrick rarely orders me around. So, when he does, I listen. “I wasn’t gonna do anything bad,” I murmur. “I was just . . .” I trail off. There’s no point. Kendrick’s staring at me like he can read my mind. Which he probably can. He’s known me for almost half my life now. He, better than anyone, knows how my mind works.

  Kendrick takes the chair next to me and leans his forearms on his knees. “It’s time for you to put that bottle down, walk inside the house, and go to bed.”

  “I’m not ready for bed yet.”

  “Nothing good will come of you sitting here, alone in a dark corner, drinking whiskey from a bottle, watching Laila get hit on by Colin.”

  “Aha! So, you admit he’s been hitting on her! I told you so.”

  Kendrick leans back. “I think he’s doing it to piss you off, more than anything else. So, don’t give him the satisfaction. Play it cool, brother.”

  I take another long sip of whiskey and mutter, “Tonight was supposed to be a fun last hurrah before I’m not allowed to drink anymore. I thought Laila and I would party together. I never intended to sit here, alone, marinating in whiskey and jealousy.”

  “Then get up and join the party. You always do this, Savage.”

  “I don’t want to join the party. I want to sit here, alone.”

  “Then, that’s your problem.”

  “But when I pulled Laila into the laundry room, she said she’d stay in character, from now on. And yet, she’s been playing games with her friends, and Colin, ever since.”

  Kendrick blinks slowly. “When you pulled Laila into the laundry room . . .?”

  I immediately realize my mistake. “To talk to her . . . about the importance of keeping up the charade at all times. So the truth doesn’t get out.”

  He’s onto me. “You told her you’re jealous of Colin.”

  “Of course not. I simply told her she can’t flirt with Colin, or anyone else, because someone could see that and post about it.”

  “You dragged Laila into a laundry room and chewed her out about Colin, didn’t you? And now you’re sitting here, drinking from a bottle in a dark corner, watching her with him like a stalker. Like Reed behind that bush, however many months ago. Does that summarize the situation accurately?”

  I pause, weighing my options. And quickly decide lying to Kendrick isn’t in my DNA. I speak on an exhale, “Yeah. That’s pretty much it. I’ve become Reed fucking Rivers, standing behind a bush.”

  Kendrick leans back and rubs his face. “When will you learn?” He takes a second to collect himself before letting out a long exhale and sitting forward again. “Okay, buddy. Listen to me. I know this chick better than you do. Do you want her?”

  I groan. “So much.”

  “Then, it’s simple. You have to remember she’s exactly like you. I love you both, okay, so this is said with love. But you’re both the same kind of sick fuck. You both always want what you can’t have. The truth is, if you knew Laila like I do, I don’t even think you’d even want her. Not the real her. She’s actually super nice. A sweetheart.”

  “Yeccch.”

  “Exactly. You’d hate her, if you knew her.”

  “She sounds awful.”

  “She is. Awfully sweet and cool and funny and surprisingly goofy. None of which you know about her, I’m sure, because you’re always on the outside, looking in. Provoking her. Savage, I’m not trying to piss you off here. I’m saying I think you want her because you can’t have her. Because she’s the one woman who doesn’t fall at your feet. So maybe recognize that’s what’s happening and try to get some perspective here.”

  I say nothing.

  Concede nothing.

  But, instead, take a long pull from my bottle and watch the Jenga game for a long moment, where Laila is just now throwing back yet another shot with her partner, Fish. After a moment, the tower collapses, and it’s clear the current game has ended. In short order, the game gets rebuilt and the teams reshuffled . . . and this time, Laila gets assigned to her new partner, Colin, through no fault of her own.

  “Oh, hell no,” I mutter, standing. “I don’t care why I want her. The end result is that I do.”

  Kendrick rises and grabs my shoulder. “Sit down. I’m not finished talking to you.”

  “No, Kendrick. I need to pull her away and—”

  “No. That’s the last thing you should do. Not when you’re drunk and jealous and the press conference is tomorrow. No.” He points at the chair. “Sit down.”

  I pause, breathing hard. But sit.

  With a sigh, Kendrick resumes his seat. “If you want to sit her down and tell her how obsessed you’ve been since the tour, then do it. But not tonight. Not now. Do it after you get to know her a bit and figure out if she’s who you really want. Because, I sw
ear to God, if you give her that speech and then turn around and dump her, I’ll fucking kill you for hurting her.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Plus, I doubt your speech would move the needle with her right now, anyway. Because she doesn’t know you any better than you know her. Not really. She still thinks you’re this asshole fuckboy who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. Because that’s all you’ve ever shown her because you’re scared to death to show her anything else.”

  Again, I say nothing. I can’t remember the last time Kendrick bitch-slapped me like this. It’s blowing me away.

  He exhales a big breath. “You really want her?”

  I nod.

  “Then don’t let her know how much you want her. Not yet. And, for fuck’s sake, don’t let her know her attempts at pushing your buttons are working. I know her way better than you do. Like I said, she’s the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet. But when it comes to men she actually wants to sleep with—a group that clearly doesn’t include me—she craves a challenge, the same way you do. You can get any woman you want. Well, Laila can get any man she wants. And she knows it. She’s you, in female form.” He sighs. “It’s actually crazy how much you two are similar. So, think, dumbass. If she’s exactly like you, then what will make her want you?”

  I pause. “Me not wanting her.”

  He touches his nose. “I once overheard Laila talking to Ruby about her exes. And, dude, I’m telling you, she gets off on bringing a player to his knees. But guess what happens when she gets him there? Can you guess, Savage?”

  “She . . . loses interest?”

  He touches his nose again. “She gets bored and moves on. It’s all about the thrill of the chase for her. Sound familiar?”

  “So, what’s your point? Laila and I are gonna be living together for the next three months. You want me to ignore her, while living under the same roof with her?”

  “No, but you need to keep your cards close to your vest for a bit. Keep her guessing. For instance, she doesn’t need to know you’re jealous of Colin. Why give her that? Play it cool. Let her chase you a bit. Let her get frustrated that her usual tactics aren’t working. And in the meantime, get to know her over the next few months. Figure out if the attraction you think you’ve been feeling has more to do with Laila, as she really is, or conquering some fantasy girl who doesn’t fall at your feet.”

  I take a long chug from my bottle but say nothing.

  “Now, go to bed. The longer you stay down here, watching her and drinking from that bottle, the higher the chance some kind of shit will hit the fan. And you don’t want that. Nadine is still here. She’s inside, talking to Reed. Do you want her to hear some drunken screaming match between you and Laila, after you go over there and pick a fight with Colin? Because if you stay down here, that’s where this is headed.”

  He’s right. As usual. I look across the patio, where Laila is happily doing yet another round of shots with her friends. “Thanks, brother.”

  “I’ve got your back, Savage. I’ll always have your back.”

  “I know. I have yours, too. For what it’s worth.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Will you make sure Laila gets to her room tonight—alone?”

  “I will. Now, go on. Walk into the house without so much as a glance at her. I promise, it’ll drive her crazy.”

  I resist the urge to look at Laila. “Okay. Goodnight.” I stand. “Thanks again.”

  “Don’t you dare go knocking on Laila’s door tonight, looking for a booty call.”

  I scoff. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “True. But I don’t know which room is hers.”

  He laughs. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, brother.” With that, I fist-bump Kendrick and do as I’m told: I head toward the house, without even a passing glance at my fake girlfriend.

  Twenty-Nine

  Savage

  When I enter Reed’s house, I glimpse his housekeeper, Amalia, slipping into the kitchen, so I follow her in there, like a drunk driver following tail lights. When I enter the kitchen, I find her dressed in a sleek robe and slippers, quietly filling a kettle with water.

  “Oh, hello there,” she says when she notices me filling the doorway.

  “Hi. Amalia, right?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Savage. I’m making myself tea. Would you like a cup?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I take a seat at the large kitchen table and watch her putter for a long moment. As she approaches with two steaming mugs, I say, “You remind me of my grandma. She loves tea.”

  Amalia takes a seat after placing a steaming mug in front of me. “Are you close with your grandma?”

  I nod. “She’s the one who raised me.”

  “And look at you now. She did a fine job.” She blows on her steaming tea. “Is your grandmother still alive?”

  I nod. “She’s really sick, though.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she recovers.”

  “The chances are low. But she’s a fighter. We still have hope.”

  Amalia puts a hand on mine. “I’ll pray for her. What’s your grandmother’s name?”

  “Maria. But I’ve always called her Mimi, rather than grandma.”

  “I’ll keep Mimi in my prayers, Mr. Savage.”

  “Thank you. Call me Adrian.”

  She smiles warmly. “Are you able to see your grandmother very often?”

  “As much as I can. She lives in Chicago. I visit about once a month, whenever I’m not on tour. But I FaceTime her almost every day. I sing to her or tell her a story. She likes seeing my face. The medicine she takes gives her weird nightmares.”

  She touches her chest. “Oh, bless her heart.”

  I bring my mug to my lips, but the tea is too hot to drink. “I offered to take the year off to hang out with Mimi while she’s in treatment,” I say, “but she was adamant she didn’t want that. She insisted on getting to watch me ‘being a rockstar.’ She loves that I’ve been touring the world. Performing for huge audiences. She collects every interview and magazine cover.”

  “She must be so very proud of you.”

  “It’s all because of her. She bought me my first guitar when I was twelve. Our first Christmas together. She thought making music would help calm me down. Help me work out my anger issues. I was a handful back then.”

  “All the more reason for her to be proud of you now.”

  “Honestly, she’d trade all my success with the band to watch me settle down, get married, and give her a great-grandkid.” I chuckle. “I told her, ‘Sorry, Mimi, that’s not gonna happen. At least, not any time soon. A kid can’t raise a kid.’”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six. But, see, when you’re in a band, that’s like being eighteen or nineteen.”

  “Like dog years, only in reverse?”

  “Exactly. Dog years make a dog older than their chronological age, and ‘musician years’ make a guy younger, in terms of emotional maturity. Especially if he’s the lead singer or guitarist. Double points if he’s both, like me.”

  She chuckles. “Why is that, you think?”

  I shrug. “Lead singers, at least the ones like me, always get the most attention. Everyone tells us we’re gods among men, so we start believing the hype. In my case, it’s especially hardcore because my face and body are a big part of our branding. We shamelessly sell me as much as we sell the music.”

  “That sounds exhausting to me.”

  “It’s fine. I was born with this face, so might as well make money off it. And I’d work out, anyway, because I like being fit. I’m sure I’d drink more and eat more crap if I didn’t feel like my looks were a big part of the job. I’m actually glad I have good reason to stay healthy and take care of myself.” I lean in. “I’ve got some self-destructive tendencies, Amalia.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, I’m glad you know that.”

  I blow on my tea. “Honestl
y, I’m always one tick shy of becoming a train wreck.”

  “Why is that, Adrian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If things are happy, you don’t trust them?”

  “I think that’s a fair statement.”

  “If things are happy, you start testing them? Poking at them, trying to test your theory they’re not as happy as you think. And then, by poking at them, you ruin them?”

  I waggle my finger at her. “Hey now. Get outta my head, woman.”

  She laughs.

  “That’s probably why I don’t even have a permanent place to live. I feel like I can’t sit still. Whenever I’m not touring, I live in a hotel or in my best friend’s spare room.”

  “Oh, dear. I’d go crazy if I didn’t have a place to call home. I love staying in hotels for vacation, but in my real life, I need security and consistency.”

  “I don’t care where I live. When I was little, I slept in a closet, literally. And when I moved in with Mimi, we lived in her tiny, shitty apartment in Chicago. The place was the size of a shoebox! Want to hear something amazing? When I moved in with Mimi, she didn’t even know I existed before then. My ‘father,’ her son, hadn’t even told her about me because he was too ashamed he’d gotten some random chick, my mother, knocked up. But Mimi took me in, anyway, even though she barely had two nickels to rub together and certainly wasn’t planning on raising a wild little asshole at that point in her life.”

  “Ah. Interesting. So now, you don’t let yourself get too settled, huh? ”

  I shrug. “I just don’t like the feeling of being tied down too much. I like being able to live out of a duffel bag, and not need much. I like feeling like a hotel room is more than enough.”

  Amalia sips her tea, looking like her mind is turning. “You never dream of living in a house like this one?”

  I scoff. “No way. I’d get lost. Literally.”

  She chuckles. “Reed throws a lot of parties here. The house serves him well. Although, I admit, now that Georgina lives here, it feels much less like a ‘venue’ and more like an actual home.”