by Rowe, Lauren
“I didn’t realize Georgina lives here. Wow. That was fast.”
Amalia nods. “It was. But I have no doubt it’s a wonderful thing for them both.”
“How fast did she move in?”
“That’s personal, I think, Adrian.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay, dear.” She pats my hand and smiles.
“Just tell me one thing. Was it faster than a month?”
Amalia’s dark eyes sparkle. “Yes, it was.”
“Whoa.”
Amalia lifts a brow and sips her tea, almost like she’s acknowledging she just “spilled the tea” about Reed and Georgina. Or maybe my drunken brain is imagining that little sass in Amalia’s expression.
I ask, “Do you live here with Reed and Georgina?”
“During the week, yes, unless there’s a big party or event on the weekend, like today. I have a place of my own, where my children and grandchildren come for dinner on Sundays.”
“I bet you’re an amazing grandma. What do your grandchildren call you?”
“Abuelita. Or Abu, for short.”
“I love Abu. It’s like the monkey in Aladdin. Can I call you that, too?”
She flashes me a smile that makes me blush. “I would love that, Adrian.”
“Cool.” I sip my tea again. “Hey, Abu. If you ever get sick of Reed—because, come on, there’s a lot to get sick of there—then will you come work for me? Don’t let anyone else hire you away from me, okay? Once you kick Reed to the curb, you’re mine.”
She flashes me a chastising look. “Don’t speak ill of my Reed, Adrian. I love him from the depths of my soul.”
“Yeah, but you have to know he’s a prickly motherfucker.”
“Adrian.”
I flash my most charming smile and by the look on her face, I know she can’t resist me.
“Where would I work for you, anyway? I’m a housekeeper, remember? And you just got finished telling me you don’t even have a house.”
“I’d buy one, so you could keep it for me, my beautiful Abu.”
“Oh, my. What an honor. But, like I said, I love Reed with all my heart. He’s like a son to me and I’ll never work for anyone else.”
“Aw, come on, dude. Never say never. Even if you love Reed, you never know what might happen in life. And I’ve got lots to offer you.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like I said, I have the maturity of an eighteen-year-old. What grandma could resist taking care of someone like that?”
She giggles. “You’re quite the salesman.”
“Also, I’m amazing at singing grandmas to sleep. Has Reed ever done that for you?”
“No, I can’t say he has.”
“Ha! Also, I’ll happily play gin rummy with you, or any other boring card game. And I’ll even suffer through watching Sing Your Heart Out with you, if that’s your jam.”
“No wonder Mimi adores you, with all that to offer. And no wonder Sing Your Heart Out hired you to replace Hugh. I can tell you’re quite the charmer, my dear.”
“Yeah, I can turn it on like a light switch when I want to impress someone.” I wink.
“Clearly. Do the powers that be at Sing Your Heart Out know they’ve hired a judge who has to ‘suffer through’ watching their show?”
“They sure do. It’s why they wanted me so badly. ‘Cause I’m too cool for school.”
“I see.”
“A little secret, Abu? Everyone wants what they can’t have.”
“Ah. Well, aren’t you smart.”
I tap my temple.
“Is your grandmother excited about you being on the show?”
“She’s ecstatic. It’s her all-time favorite show. She even watches reruns, for reasons that escape me.”
“I watch them, too. They’re on every night after Jeopardy.”
I laugh. “But why watch reruns of a singing competition, when you already know who won that season?”
“I like already knowing the outcome and seeing how my favorite contestants blossomed throughout the season. And in later seasons, I absolutely love watching Aloha being her sassy little self. She’s my all-time favorite judge.”
“You mean besides me.”
“You haven’t been on the show yet. Once you’ve appeared on the show, then, yes, you’ll become my new favorite.”
“Thanks, Abu. Unless, of course, my girlfriend edges me out. Something tells me Laila’s gonna give me a run for my money this season. She has a way of making people fall hard for her.”
Amalia puts down her mug, her face contorting with affection for me. “You two make a beautiful couple. In a way, you remind me of Reed and Georgina. You’re both so attractive together. Two obviously strong-willed individuals who seem so sweet together.”
“Well, I’m sweet. But make no mistake about it: Laila’s a holy terror.”
Amalia giggles.
“Lucky for me, I don’t like my girlfriends to be sweet.”
“No?”
“Well, I mean, I like ‘em sweet, down deep, as long as it takes a whole lot of effort to get to the sweet stuff. Like going on a treasure hunt or getting to the tootsie roll inside a Tootsie Pop.”
“That sounds like a lot of work to me, Adrian.”
“Nah. I like a good challenge or else I get bored. Ever seen the movie Mean Girls?”
“It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It’s a comedy, set in high school. The lead girl is the ‘new girl’ in school. That’s the one we’re supposed to be rooting for. But I don’t even remember her name. The villain, on the other hand, that’s Regina George. She’s the leader of the popular girls known as The Plastics. We’re not supposed to like Regina. We’re supposed to hate her because she’s so ‘mean.’ But guess who I’ve always wanted to bang, Abu?”
“Adrian.”
“Have sex with.”
Her nostrils flare. She truly can’t resist me. “Regina?”
I nod. “Reginaaaaa. My biggest childhood crush.”
Amalia giggles. “Do you talk this way with Mimi?”
“Of course. She loves it. She says I’m a . . .” I scratch my head and mutter, “What does Mimi always call me? A hoe? No . . . a ‘rake’!”
Amalia loses it. She laughs and laughs, so I join her, enjoying my best laugh of the night. When we quiet down, we take long sips of our tea, now that it’s finally at a perfect temperature.
Amalia asks, “Why do you think you prefer the mean villain over the nice new girl?”
“I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” She sips her tea again, and her body language suggests she’s holding her tongue.
“Well, spit it out, woman. If I’m going to be completely myself around you, then you’ve got to return the favor.”
“I don’t want to overstep.”
“You couldn’t possibly. Come on. Spit some knowledge at me, Abu.”
She replaces her mug on the table. “Well . . . you said your grandmother raised you?”
I nod. “From age twelve.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, is that because your mother passed away, or because your mother needed to work long hours, or . . .?”
“It was because my mom didn’t give a shit about me and didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.”
Amalia nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It worked out for the best. Mimi was the shit. Why did you ask the question?”
“Well, this is nothing but amateur pop psychology, of course, but I think you prefer Regina in the movie, and also in your love life, because you feel abandoned by your mother. You prefer women who present a challenge to you, women who are hard to win over, because that way, when you finally do win them over, you experience the pleasure you never got to experience as a child. Namely, the joy of winning over a woman the same way you always wished you could have won over your mother.”
I’m speechless for a long moment. But, finally, I whisper, “And they call me Savage.”<
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Amalia winces. “Did I overstep?”
“Not at all. You just blew my mind! Tell me more, Abu Dabu. What else do you see in your magic crystal ball? Can you see my future?”
Amalia winks. “The only thing I see in your future, my dearest Adrian, is that you’ve got a big day tomorrow and you’re very drunk and you should probably get some sleep now.” She motions to my mug. “Finish your tea, dear, and let’s get you to bed.”
I do as I’m told, drinking the rest of my tepid tea down in one long gulp, and stand. “It’s been amazing talking to you, Amalia. Thanks for the psychoanalysis.”
“You’re very welcome. Goodnight, dear. Best of luck to you.”
I stop walking. “Does that mean you’re not planning to see me again?”
She chuckles. “No, not at all. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.”
I exhale with relief. “Cool.”
I resume shuffling toward the exit of the kitchen, feeling worlds lighter than when I entered the room, but stop and turn around in the doorway. “Amalia? Sorry, but I just remembered why I came in here.” I grimace. “I have no idea which room is mine.”
Amalia bites back a smile. “No worries. It’s a big house. I’ll show you again.”
She leads me out of the kitchen toward a dramatic staircase with wrought iron railings, saying, “Do you get drunk like this often, dear?”
“No, not at all. The last time I was drunk was . . . Oh. Last night. But before that, it’d been well over a month.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have a rule I don’t drink to drown my sorrows. I wasn’t intending to break my rule tonight. Tonight was supposed to be a happy occasion. A ‘last hurrah’ before I’m not allowed to drink for the whole season.”
“Oh?”
“The producers made it part of my contract. They think I make ‘bad choices’ when I ‘drink to excess.’”
“Are they right about that?”
I snicker. “I’ll put it this way. My dick is still trending on Twitter, a full twenty-four hours after I got drunk at a birthday party last night.”
She can’t resist giggling. “Oh dear.”
“I wouldn’t normally drink two nights in a row, either. But, like I said, tonight was supposed to be my last hurrah, so . . . Fuck it.”
“Well, I’m glad you had fun tonight.”
“I didn’t. I hated tonight, actually. Except for talking to you. You’re the best part of my night.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed talking to you, too.” She stops in front of a doorway at the end of a long hallway and motions. “Here we are. Nighty night.”
I enter the room—a guest room decorated in elegant hues of white—and Amalia follows me inside, telling me where I can find additional blankets and towels. She points out this and that amenity, and, lastly, asks if I need anything further or have any questions.
“I have one question,” I reply.
Kendrick would tell me I’m an idiot for what I’m about to ask. But I don’t care. I can’t lie in bed under the same roof as Laila Fitzgerald and not at least try to finally get to eat that woman’s pussy.
I smile at Amalia. “Could you tell me which room is Laila’s? I think I’ll shower and get ready for bed, and then check in on her to make sure she got to her room, safe and sound.”
Thirty
Laila
I tiptoe out of my bedroom, wearing nothing but a midriff-baring T-shirt and undies, and creep down the dark, quiet hallway, headed to parts unknown. And that’s where the “brilliant strategy” portion of my quest ends and the “winging it” portion begins.
Crap! Why didn’t I ask Amalia which room Savage is staying in tonight? Stupid Laila! This house is as big as the hotel in The Shining, and I literally have no idea which door is hiding Mr. Smoldering Pouty Pants.
Unfortunately, I was stupid and/or naïve enough to think I could resist him. Not only tonight. But for the entire season of the show. What I didn’t count on, however, is how horny I get when I drink. And how freaking hot Savage is when he’s jealous. Good lord, put the two together, and the boy is like crack to me.
As Savage sat in that dark corner of Reed’s patio earlier tonight, watching me getting hit on by Colin, I felt so turned on, I could barely keep myself from sprinting over to Savage and launching myself at him like a missile. Despite all the reasons not to do it, I decided, right then and there, I’d invite Savage to my room whenever he finally approached me again. I imagined myself leaning in and whispering to him, “Come to my room later, so you can finally eat my pussy ‘from every angle.’” I imagined myself saying it to him in a sultry, breathy kind of whisper—the kind that would have made Savage pop a boner, right on the spot.
But then, the jerk never approached me again at the party! On the contrary, he got up and marched into Reed’s house, without even glancing at me! Which royally pissed me off, I must say. Savage is the one who screamed at me in that laundry room that we needed to remain in character at all times, whenever anyone else is around. And then, what did that hypocrite do? He sat in a dark corner, all night long, looking like a crazy person, not interacting with his supposed girlfriend, at all, and then waltzed out of the party, without even saying goodnight to me—the supposed love of his life! What kind of dickheaded boyfriend would leave a party without even saying goodbye to his girlfriend? Not mine, that’s for sure. Or if he did, he wouldn’t be my boyfriend for long. So now, I’ve decided to find Savage, wherever he is in this massive house, and give him a piece of my mind.
I stop in the middle of the hallway and look around. Which of these doors is hiding Mr. Sexy Pants Crazy Man? None of them look on the cusp of singeing, due to Savage’s proximity. For all I know, Savage’s room is in an entirely different hallway. Or maybe even on the first floor.
Not knowing what else to do, I pick a random door and press my ear against it, hoping that, miraculously, I’ll hear Savage’s voice behind it, or maybe detect some kind of supernatural Savage-infused vibration humming from inside the room. But, no, the room is silent and the air doesn’t feel super-charged with rockstar electrons in the slightest.
“Savage?” I whisper, ever so softly, my lips brushing the wood of the door, my voice as soft as flapping butterfly wings. But, sadly, perfect silence answers me.
I tiptoe to the next door in the hallway and repeat the same exercise. But again, I’m met with the same result. When I move away from the door this time, however, I notice a frozen figure at the far end of the long hallway, watching me.
I inhale sharply. It’s Savage. Wearing nothing but dark briefs. His chiseled, gorgeous chest is heaving visibly. His nipples are two perfect dimes. His abs cut and taut. And, hot damn, his dark eyes are two lustful laser beams taking in the sight of my barely clothed body.
For a half second, we both stand, silently drinking each other in from opposite ends of the long hallway, our chests rising and falling in synchronicity. Finally, Savage wordlessly points toward a doorway to his right, nonverbally inviting me to enter. Or was that a command? Either way, I don’t hesitate. My pulse thumping and my skin hot and alive with tingles, I glide down the length of the endless hallway, and finally walk straight past him into the room with both my head and chest held high.
Savage follows me into the room—a bedroom decorated in hues of white—and quietly shuts the door with a soft click. After turning from the door, he glides up to me, slides a palm to my cheek, leans in, and, without hesitation, presses his mouth to mine—instantly provoking a long and shuddering exhale of excitement from us both.
Savage kisses me tenderly at first. Like he’s savoring a first mouthful of expensive wine. But after initial entreaties, when I realize he doesn’t taste the least bit like cigarettes, but, instead, like toothpaste and lust and the remnants of whiskey, when I open my mouth and enthusiastically invite him to take me in earnest, Savage’s warm tongue breaches my lips and begins leading mine in swirling, sensuous st
rokes, an increasingly voracious dance of our tongues and lips that quickly sets off a breathtaking barrage of fireworks inside my core.
As a torrent of arousal slams into me, I slide my arms around Savage’s neck and begin devouring him enthusiastically. In response, he slides his arms around my torso and deepens his kiss, until, soon, I’m jerking and jolting in his arms, gasping for air as shockwaves of pleasure and arousal throttle my every nerve ending, but especially that pulsing bundle of nerves between my legs. If there were surveillance footage of this white-hot kiss, I’m positive there’d be visible sparks flying off our bodies in this moment.
As our kiss deepens and intensifies, I inhale him, savoring the taste and scent of him. In addition to the delicious scents I’ve previously detected, I smell soap and shampoo now, too. And, still, not even a trace of cigarettes. Savage smells nothing but clean and delicious and sexy. Perfect.
“You didn’t smoke tonight,” I gasp out into his lips.
Savage nuzzles his nose against mine and smiles wickedly, brushing his bulge against me down below. “I knew my fake girlfriend wouldn’t kiss me if I did—and I was going to get this kiss tonight, if it killed me.”
I inhale sharply at the implication—that Savage consciously decided, hours ago, to forego smoking a cigarette, solely to kiss me later in the night. And at my obvious excitement, Savage kisses me, even more passionately than before, this time grabbing my ass cheeks firmly in both palms and pushing me into his hard bulge. When I moan with pleasure, he leans his body away from mine, slightly, enough to be able to slide his hand into my underwear. He reaches between my legs and moans when he discovers how wet I am, how swollen and aroused, and immediately begins fingering me in a way that elicits a loud growl.
As he massages my hard, swollen clit while finger-fucking me, I’m absolutely at his mercy. I begin buckling and growling like I’ve put my finger into a light socket, immediately hurtling toward an orgasm that’s sure to make my knees give out.
“I have to lie down,” I gasp out. “I can’t . . . keep going standing up.”