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

by Rowe, Lauren

  I scoff. “I’m not the one we need to worry about, sweetheart. I’m not the one who went on Sylvia and couldn’t stop talking about me.”

  “And I’m not the one who couldn’t stop talking about me to that Instagrammer.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t believe her stupid story. Not for a second.”

  “I believe every word of it.”

  “No way. You’re messing with me. You know I said I needed to ‘lay low’ because of the show.”

  “No. I believe, with all my heart, you said you didn’t want her because of Laila.”

  “Why would I turn her down because of you?”

  “Exactly. Why would you do that, Savage? Tell me.”

  I pause, my heart racing. “I didn’t. You didn’t even cross my mind in that moment. When you’re not physically in front of me, I literally forget you exist. Hell, I barely remember you exist when you’re right in front of my face.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Seriously, Laila. If you’re worried I’ll ‘catch feelings’ from having sex with you while I’m stuck with you anyway, then don’t. I’m perfectly capable of separating fact from fiction. The real question is can you?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Even if you’re living with, and sleeping with, and working with, your fake boyfriend who’s an irresistible god-among-men rockstar who’s hung like a jury?”

  She scoffs. “I won’t catch feelings, Savage. Under any circumstances. Honestly, I don’t even like you.”

  “Perfect, because I don’t like you. We’re a match made in heaven, if you ask me.”

  She bites her lip and I know I’ve got her. Finally.

  “So, we’re doing this then?” I say.

  Laila pauses. “We’d be fuck buddies only. No strings. And nobody catches feelings.”

  “Of course. It’ll be nothing but fun and a whole lot of orgasms.”

  She puts out her hand. “Deal.”

  I feel like jumping for joy but manage to maintain a neutral face while shaking her hand. “Now give me our first sober kiss to seal the deal.” With that, I pull her toward me. And when our lips meet, the kiss hits totally differently than our drunken, animalistic kisses from last night. This time, as my lips open hers, and my tongue slides into her mouth and begins slowly tangling with hers, I feel every nuanced sensation. Every shudder of arousal. Every inhale and exhale that tells me her temperature is slowly rising, the same as mine.

  As our sensuous kiss deepens, I pull her out of her chair and guide her to straddle me in my chair, and, soon, she’s grinding against me as her tongue goads me on. I begin caressing her breasts over her tank top, pinching her stiff nipples, and burying my hands into her thick hair, every fiber of my body aching and yearning to get inside her.

  “We’ve got time,” I murmur into her lips. “Come to my room. Let me fuck you.”

  “Yes,” she breathes.

  But she’s no sooner said the word than a voice in the doorway says her name. When we break apart, breathing hard, there’s a production assistant in the doorframe.

  The PA says, “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She clears her throat. “Nadine sent me to fetch Laila and bring her to hair and makeup. She said we’re on a tight schedule.”

  Laila smiles and kisses my cheek. “Rain check?” She slides off my lap and points at the noticeable bulge behind my sweatpants. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

  I slap her ass as she turns to go. “Count on it, girlfriend.”

  “Don’t miss me while I’m gone, boyfriend.”

  “I can’t miss someone who ceases to exist when she’s not in my presence.”

  “Sure, Jan.”

  With that, she swishes her hips with extra flair, and disappears through the doorway with the PA. When she’s gone, and I know she can’t possibly hear me, I sit back in my chair, smiling from ear to ear, my hard cock throbbing and my heart racing, and whisper to myself, “Hallelujah.”

  Thirty-Two

  Laila

  I follow the staffer outside and across Reed’s patio, heading toward Reed’s guest house in the back of Reed’s huge estate. Apparently, the hair and makeup woman has set up camp there. As we walk, we come upon Kendrick. He’s sitting on a patio chair with a laptop on his lap and headphones over his ears.

  When he sees me, Kendrick pulls down one side of his headphones and greets me. “I just got the final mixes for our album!” he says effusively.

  “Ooooh!” I say. “When can I listen? I seem to recall someone saying, on day one of our tour, I’d get to be one of your early listeners.”

  “Absolutely. We’d love to get your feedback on the mixes. Give it a listen as soon as you can and let me know if you hear anything that sounds wonky to you—anything at all you think is too low or high in the mix.”

  “It’d be my honor. I can’t wait.”

  Kendrick clicks on his keyboard for a moment. “I just sent you a download link.”

  I look at my phone. “Got it! Woohoo! I’ll listen now, while I’m getting my hair and makeup done!”

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  “No, thank you.”

  I say my goodbyes to Kendrick and resume following the PA to Reed’s casita, where I’m immediately greeted by the hair and makeup woman. After the woman gets me settled in her chair, we talk briefly about the look we’re going for today—sexpot, of course—and once we’re both on the same page, I settle back, put a pair of earbuds in, and press play on the first song of Fugitive Summer’s highly anticipated album.

  Right away, it’s obvious the first song is going to be a massive hit, although I’d personally make the bass line a touch louder in the mix. Next up, the second song begins and I quickly fall equally in love with it. How does this band do it, album after album? Every song of theirs is like crack to me. And Savage’s voice and delivery is always mesmerizing. From what I understand, he writes the lion’s share of the band’s lyrics, which is probably why he always delivers them so believably. Say what you will about Savage, the man, being deeply flawed and mercurial, but as an artist, that boy is a true genius.

  The third song begins as the makeup artist finishes applying foundation and moves on to my eyes. And, once again, even before Savage begins singing, based on nothing but the sexual, dirty beat and groove and flashes of Savage’s phallic electric guitar, I already know I’m going to love this one. It’s got a vibe that’s reminiscent of “Come with Me,” the band’s most sexual song, without it feeling like a copycat or redux. Indeed, the sexual vibe of the song is reinforced, even before the first verse begins, as Savage growls out a few sensual “yeahs” to kick things off, his strained voice sounding remarkably like he’s getting a blowjob in the recording booth.

  Finally, as the bass-heavy beat gains momentum, Savage counts off—“One, two, three, let’s go!”—and away he goes, launching into the lyrics of the first verse.

  Almost immediately, as Savage sings, I open my eyes, recognizing myself in the song. Is this a coincidence . . . or is Savage singing this song about me?

  No way.

  Why would Savage write a song about me?

  “Close, please,” the makeup artist says, referring to my eyes.

  “Hold on a second,” I say. I quickly look down at my phone, curious about the title of this one. And when I see it, I gasp. Hate Sex High. That’s what the song is called. Which definitely makes me think I’m not crazy to think the song could be about me. Maybe? But I’ve no sooner had that last thought than the song barrels into its chorus . . . and the lyrics there make my jaw practically clank to the floor.

  Thirty-Three

  Savage

  I wander out of the house with a cup of coffee and take in the view for a moment, scratching my bare belly. I feel light as a feather right now. Like everything is clicking into place. I gotta hand it to Kendrick. The man is a genius. Speaking of Kendrick, I notice him sitting in a chair with his laptop and decide to head over there to tell him he’s the man—that, thanks to h
is advice, I’ve now got Laila eating out the palm of my hand.

  When I reach Kendrick, he’s got headphones on, and he’s nodding his head to a beat only he can hear.

  When he notices me, he pulls off one side of his headphones and blurts excitedly, “Did you see Zeke sent the final mixes?”

  My heart lurches. “No. When? I left my phone in my room.”

  “Twenty minutes ago. I’m listening now and everything sounds amazing!”

  “Oh, my God. Let me hear something!”

  Kendrick hands me his headphones and I slip them on, while Kendrick presses play on the first song—“Shockwave”—a banger that’s one of my favorites on the album.

  “Oh my God. ‘Shockwave’ sounds so good,” I say excitedly. “Although I’d add a touch more bass to the mix. Ask Kai what he thinks, obviously, but that’s my opinion.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll ask him.”

  I listen for a long moment again, before saying, “Zeke sent the link to Reed, too?”

  “Yeah. I saw Reed a few minutes ago. He was super stoked. He headed straight to his office to listen now.”

  “Cool. So excited.”

  “Same. Reed said he’ll send it to some people with really good ears.”

  “Awesome. Is he sending it to Dax Morgan and Dean Masterson, you think?”

  “Yeah, he mentioned both. Fish, too.”

  “Perfect. Fish’s ears are impeccable.”

  “I know. If Reed didn’t send it to him already, I would have done it myself. I sent it to C-Bomb, too. He said he’ll take a listen today. Oh, and Laila, too. Just now. She’s got amazing ears.”

  My heart stops. “Laila? You already sent it to her or you’re planning to send it to her?”

  “I already did. She said she’d listen right away, while she gets her hair and makeup done.”

  “Kendrick, no.” I can barely breathe. “How long ago was that?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “When was that?”

  “Just now. Like, ten minutes ago. Fifteen, tops. Why?”

  “Where is she? Did she say where she was going?”

  “Hair and makeup.”

  “Yes, but where?” I’m shouting now, as panic rises sharply inside me. “Where is hair and makeup, Kendrick?”

  “I don’t know. She went that way.” He points. “What’s wrong? Laila is totally trustworthy.”

  My heart is crashing. My breathing shallow. I point maniacally at Kendrick’s laptop. “Quick, look to see if she’s already downloaded it! If not, cancel her access. Now, Kendrick!”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  “I’m doing it. Calm down.” He starts clicking on his keyboard, looking frantic. “What’s the problem?”

  “’Hate Sex High,’ Kendrick! I don’t want Laila listening to that one right now. Not yet.”

  “Oooh.” He taps on some keys before looking up from his screen, his features contorted in apology. And even before he’s said a word, I know what he’s going to say. But he says it, anyway. “She already downloaded it, dude. It’s too late.”

  I take a deep breath. “Maybe not. It’s only been a few minutes. Maybe Laila isn’t listening to the album yet. Or if she is, maybe she hasn’t gotten to that song. Where is it in the order?”

  Kendrick checks the screen and grimaces again. “Third, like you requested.”

  “Fuck! She went that way?”

  “Yeah. I think there’s a guest house over there. Maybe that’s—"

  But I’m not listening. Without further ado, I sprint away in the direction Kendrick indicated, cursing a blue streak as I go . . . feeling uncannily like I’m running toward a ticking time bomb.

  Thirty-Four

  Laila

  As the third song on the album—“Hate Sex High”—reaches the end of its first chorus and barrels into a sort of sing-along post-chorus section that causes my head to explode, there’s a commotion at the door. A sudden movement attracts my attention, and when I look toward the doorframe, none other than Savage is standing there, his chest heaving and his eyes bugged out.

  I look at him, rendered speechless, as Savage’s voice continues singing in my ears . . . about me. And whatever Savage sees on my face in this moment prompts him to say, quite obviously, the word “Fuck.” I can’t hear him saying the word, but I can sure as hell read his lips, as Savage’s voice launches into the second chorus of “Hate Sex High” in my earbuds:

  You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me

  I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel . . .

  Savage begins walking toward me, and when he mouths the word “Laila” before me, it’s coincidentally at the exact same time he sings my name in the song, in the post-chorus section where Savage sings, repeatedly: “La la la la la la la la la Laila Laila.”

  I rip out my earbuds, just in time to hear Savage asking the hair and makeup artist to leave. As the woman scurries out the front door of the casita, the song continues wafting from the earbuds in my hand, now sounding compressed and tinny, but otherwise clear as a bell.

  Savage’s voice in the earbuds sings: “And I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling . . . something I don’t want to feel.” And Savage before me inhales sharply and jolts in response.

  “It’s not about you!” Savage blurts, his face flushed. “I know how it must seem, but it’s, you know, creative license. Pure fiction. Not about you.”

  Pure fiction? That seems highly unlikely. Partial fiction, maybe. But there’s just too much obvious truth, too much coincidence in the verses, for the entire song to be pure fiction.

  I say, “Pure fiction?”

  “I mean, there might be kernels of truth in the verses,” he acknowledges. “Here and there. Tiny kernels, which I then spun into popcorn lies in the chorus.”

  “I get it,” I say, my heart crashing in my chest. But I’m not sure I get it. It’s interesting he felt the need to single out the chorus, without me mentioning it. The part where someone is falling into hate with Savage and he’s feeling something he doesn’t want to feel for someone.

  “When I wrote the chorus,” Savage says, his features tight, “I chose words that went together well. I liked the way ‘falling’ and ‘feeling’ sound together, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, that was a cool word choice. When I write, I like putting words together that sound good, too. I’m often motivated by the sounds of words more than their meanings.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “The meaning is secondary. Not even important.”

  There’s a long, awkward pause between us, during which he looks remarkably flustered.

  Savage shifts his weight. “Maybe, subliminally, the night of the hot tub played a small part in inspiring the song. I think I remember writing that song shortly after we got together. So, I’m sure it’d be fair to say that night gave me the initial spark of an idea for the song, but then I ran with it and it became something totally fictitious.”

  Totally fictitious? That’s what I’m thinking. But what I say is, “I totally get it.”

  “By the time I got done writing it, it was almost pure fiction.”

  “I write the same way sometimes. Something real gives me an idea, and I run with it.”

  “I know you get it. You’re a fantastic songwriter, by the way.”

  “Thanks. So are you.” My heart feels like a jackhammer. “I love the songs I’ve heard so far. I’ve only heard the first three, but they’re all amazing.” I swallow hard. My mouth is dry. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’d personally make the bassline a bit higher in the mix on the first song. Just the tiniest bit.”

  “I thought the same thing. Great feedback. Thanks.”

  “Sure. I’ll keep listening carefully to the rest, if—”

  “Yeah, please do. Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  He shifts his weight again. “Cool.”

  The song ends in my earbuds and a
new one begins. So I grab my phone and press pause. “I’m honored to get to hear the album early, by the way. Thanks for that.”

  “We like having trusted people—people with good ears . . . ” He trails off and takes a deep breath. “I only ran down here to talk to you because I didn’t want you thinking—”

  “I don’t. I understand the writing process.”

  “The song isn’t some kind of . . . confessional or anything. Don’t read too much into it.”

  “I don’t. I get it.” But, still, I’m not sure I get it.

  Savage breathes a huge sigh of relief and his shoulders soften. “Cool.”

  I bite the tip of my finger. “I mean, why on earth would I think you were ‘feeling’ something you ‘didn’t want to feel’ . . . for me?”

  His shoulders stiffen again.

  “Especially back then,” I add. “I know you’ve discovered I’m a tasty treat nowadays, and kind of fun to hang out with, if you’ve got no other option, but back then, we hated each other’s guts. Right?”

  “We still do, as far as I’m concerned,” he says.

  “Good. Me, too.”

  “Good.”

  My eyes are locked with his as I try to discern if this feeling in my belly is delusional or not. “I mean, back then, you were way too busy mowing through groupies in every city of the tour to be feeling ‘something’ you ‘didn’t want to feel’ about me. Right?”

  He pauses, briefly, before saying, “Right. Absolutely.”

  We stare at each other for a long beat, the only sound the crashing of my heart in my ears.

  “Okay, well . . .” Savage finally says. “I’m glad we talked about this. It’s a good thing you’re so familiar with songwriting and the creative process, or this could have created a huge misunderstanding. Especially going into our . . . arrangement.”

  I press my lips together. “It’s a good thing, indeed.”

  He motions toward the door. “So . . . should I tell the makeup artist to—”