by Lauren Rowe
We sit without speaking for a long moment, listening to the loud music in the car. The song, by chance, is “Fireflies,” by our friends 22 Goats. Finally, Laila sits up and breaks the silence. “What if you told them you’re planning to propose to me in the finale? Maybe that would make them want to keep me around!”
My heart explodes. “I . . . I don’t think I could do that convincingly, Laila.”
She pauses. “You couldn’t tell them convincingly . . . or fake-propose to me convincingly?”
“I couldn’t fake-propose convincingly. I’ve never once imagined myself proposing to someone. Never once imagined myself even wanting to get married. I think I’d stumble through it, red-faced and stammering, and wind up doing more harm than good.”
Laila’s chest heaves. “You don’t think you could do it convincingly for a quarter million bucks? That’s a lot of money, especially when you’re already paying half your salary to me.”
“We’ve agreed not to talk about the money anymore, remember?”
“No, you asked me not to talk about it. But I never said I wouldn’t.”
“I’m over it, Laila. You negotiated for an equal partnership, fair and square. And that’s exactly what we are.”
Boom.
For some reason, saying those words out loud—acknowledging the now-obvious fact that Laila and I truly are an equal partnership—makes me think maybe I could convincingly perform a fake proposal in the finale, after all. Not for the money, as Laila’s suggested. But because Mimi would be thrilled to see it. That’s all she’s ever wanted for me—to see me settle down with a woman who loves me for me. So, why not give my grandmother all the bells and whistles, and also save Laila’s job on the show while I’m at it? I think, up until now, I’ve been dismissing the idea of ambushing Laila with an on-air proposal, partly because I was scared she’d turn me down on national TV. Talk about public humiliation. And by the same token, I didn’t want to risk ambushing Laila and having her say yes to me on national TV . . . only to find out afterwards the proposal wasn’t real—that it was made by me, solely in exchange for a quarter-million bucks.
As if reading my mind, Laila says, “Now that you’ve told me about the bonus provision in your contract, I don’t see why you wouldn’t do it. Why not take their money? I promise I’ll act totally surprised when you kneel down and ask me. I’ll make this face.” She gasps, widens her eyes, and brings a shaky hand to her mouth, like she’s a newly minted beauty queen who’s just heard the good news. In a heartbeat, she drops the beauty queen act, and flashes a mischievous smile. “Pretty convincing, huh?”
“Masterful,” I concede.
“So . . .? I’d be thrilled for you to get a little extra money out of this gig, after I’ve taken half your salary. All I ask is that you give me a heads up the day before you ‘propose,’ to confirm you’re going ahead with it, so I can warn my mom and sister it’s coming. If they saw you pop the question on TV, without me telling them the real deal beforehand, they’d crap their panties with excitement, and I wouldn’t want to do that to them. Telling them after the fact it was all a money grab would break their poor little hearts.”
Fuck. My heart squeezes. In a flash, I have the preposterous impulse to propose to Laila for real. It’s a stupid thought and I chastise myself for having it the moment I do. I’m not husband material, any more than I’m boyfriend material. But, man, it would be fun to give the Fitzgerald women that kind of thrill. A happily ever after, after all the shit they’ve been through with Laila’s father.
“It’s okay,” Laila says, apparently reacting to my facial expression. “I’m sure the idea of fake-proposing to me gives you hives. It was just an idea to make some money for you and give me an insurance policy. But don’t give it another thought.”
I don’t know what Laila saw on my face to make her say that. Yes, I’m feeling conflicted and confused about the idea of fake-proposing to Laila. But in the end, the thing that doesn’t feel confusing at all is the notion that Mimi would love to see that.
“You know what?” I say. “Now that I’ve told you about the bonus provision in my contract, I think the proposal is probably doable.”
Laila’s blue eyes ignite.
“For Mimi,” I clarify quickly. “Not for the money. More than anything, Mimi wants to see me settle down with the great love of my life, the way she did with her husband, Jasper. If, incidentally, me doing this silly thing for Mimi would also help you, then why wouldn’t I do it?”
Laila’s face is glowing with excitement. “Are you sure?”
My heart is racing. “Pretty sure. Can I have a little time to think about it? My contract says I don’t have to give them advance warning to earn the bonus. The clause states I can decide, right up until the last possible moment. So, maybe, let’s see how things shake down tomorrow with our newfound commitment to being dicks to each other again. If things look like they’re going well for you after that, it’ll be a moot point. But if it looks like you’re still on the chopping block, then I can always swoop in and make it known that I’m planning to propose in the finale.”
“Fantastic plan. Thank you so much.”
“Of course.”
I kiss her, and as I do, our phones buzz in unison with an incoming text. We break apart and pick them up to find we’ve both got the same message from Reed Rivers:
Reed: Due to time constraints, I’ve asked Fish and Alessandra to help you write the duet. I know you’re both heading out of town for the holidays on Saturday, so I’ve asked them to meet at your house tomorrow night at 7. I’ll take the lead on getting the song produced during the holidays, and you can add your vocals to the track in the new year. RR
“What do you think?” Laila says, putting down her phone.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. The all-powerful Oz has spoken. Reed always does whatever he wants, no matter what I, or anyone else, wants.”
“Yes, I know, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have an opinion. What do you think of Fish and Alessandra helping us get the song written? That’s two more people earning royalties, at the end of the day.”
“True, but what’s the alternative? We’ve tried, many times, and we can’t write this damned song to save our lives. Honestly, I think Reed is a genius for putting Fish and Alessandra on the project. Fish let me hear some of the rough cuts from the album he’s co-writing with Alessandra, and every song they’ve written for her is the sweetest, purest, most classic little love song you’ve ever heard. I’m confident whatever they help us write will be perfect for what we’re trying to accomplish here.”
Laila nods. “Okay, so this is good news, then. Once again, Mr. Rivers knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Yeah, I’m no fan of Reed’s. But I have to admit this is a good call, even if it means you and I will get a smaller percentage of royalties. If you ask me, it’s better to have a smash hit, with four co-writers, than to have only two writers on a shitty attempt at a love song that doesn’t even make the charts.”
“Great point. So, I’ll tell Reed we’re in agreement, then?”
“Not that he’d care. But, sure.”
Laila taps on her phone and sets it down, and then looks out her side of the car like she’s in deep thought again. And, suddenly, I know what I need to do. I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text, and then pull Laila to me after pressing send.
I kiss the side of Laila’s head. “Stop worrying, baby. Everything is going to work out fine.”
“I hope so.”
“When we get home, we’re going to open a contraband bottle of wine. And you’re going to drink a glass or two or three.”
“I promised I wouldn’t drink, while you’re not allowed to drink.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. You’re going to drink some wine and relax. You’re going to get nice and horny and loose, while we eat whatever the chef left for us. And when you’re feeling really good, and really naughty, I’m going to take you upstairs an
d fuck you like I hate you.”
She giggles. “Oooh. You’re going to help me ‘get into character’ for tomorrow, are you?”
“You’ve already figured me out. Yep, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’ll remember what it feels like to want to fuck me to death. And tomorrow, when it’s time for you to tap into your inner bitch, all you’ll need to do is remember the way I fucked you like a dirty little whore the night before, and you’ll be off to the races.”
Sixteen
Laila
With “Hate Sex High” blaring—which is creating a kinky kind of “life imitating art imitating life” energy between Savage and me—Savage is fucking me hard, doggie style, in our bed. So damned hard, I feel like the tip of his cock is going to poke out my mouth with the next beastly thrust. I grip the sheet beneath me, as the top of my head bangs against the headboard, and do everything in my power not to come. Throughout this entire, raucous session of sex with Savage, which has involved multiple positions thus far and a whole lot of groaning and screaming by me, Savage has repeatedly forbidden me from coming. “Not unless I’ve given you permission,” he keeps saying. And, holy hell, it’s been a tall order, thanks not only to the wine I had earlier with our meal, but the way Savage has been fucking and eating and fingering me, masterfully, for the past hour. Time after time, he’s gotten me right to the edge. And then, he backs off and switches things up. Time after time, I’ve cried out with pleasure, and begged him to say the word. But each time, he’s pulled out, or stopped whatever he was doing and told me to shut up and do as I’m told.
“Please,” I beg, feeling myself, yet again, on the bitter cusp of release.
“Not yet,” he barks, making me moan. Without warning, he pulls my head back by my hair and growls into my ear. “Now put your vibrator against your clit again on low. And don’t come.”
We’ve been playing with my toy, now and again, all night. I packed it in my suitcase in the first place, thinking I might need it, occasionally. But this is the first time I’ve used it since moving in. And what a way to reconnect with my loyal and efficient “ex-boyfriend”—by having a threesome with it and the best lover I’ve ever had, by a long mile.
“I’m gonna come,” I announce. “Oh, God.”
“Nope.”
Savage pulls me upright, onto my knees. His frontside pressed against my backside, he roughly spreads my thighs apart and orders me to return the vibrator to my tip. “On low again. Now.”
Trembling, I press the vibrator between my legs, as instructed, while Savage runs his palms greedily over my torso. He gropes my breasts and nipples. Bites and licks and kisses my neck. I feel his dick against my ass and feel the quiver of his body as he holds back his own release.
I let out a garbled sound. “I’m gonna come,” I choke out.
“Not yet.”
With a loud growl, he flips me over, throws my legs up, and enters me. He rolls his hips as he thrusts, making my eyes roll back into my head so hard, I feel like they’re rubbing against my brain.
“You’re mine, Laila,” Savage says, as his body plunges into mine, over and over again. As his large dick impales me. “I own this body,” he says. “It’s all mine.”
“Savage.”
“Not yet.”
I feel my inside walls clench. My eyelids flutter. I make an inhuman sound.
“You can come now, baby,” he coos, almost inaudibly. And that’s it. I immediately come undone. With a loud scream, I come harder than I ever have in my life. As I writhe and moan in ecstasy, Savage pulls out of me . . . and a second later, I feel the sensation of warm wetness splattering across my face.
As I lie there, processing the fact that Savage just shot his load into my face, he crawls between my legs and does the same thing he always does after I’ve had a gushing orgasm. He licks up every drop of his trophy.
“You’re delicious,” he murmurs, after finishing his work. With a wink, he leaps off the bed and pads into the bathroom, leaving me cum-streaked and exhausted and staring at his hot backside in retreat. When Savage returns to the bed, he’s not only got a towel in his hand, but a huge smile on his face. In fact, the boy is grinning as big and wide as a Cheshire cat. He slides his fingertip through the warm streak on my face and offers it to my lips, so I take his finger into my mouth and suck.
“Good girl,” Savage says softly, like he’s talking to a baby bird. With another wide smile, he wipes my face with the towel. “Are you feeling ready for tomorrow now?”
“You can’t possibly think what we just did has helped me remember how to hate you. It was incredible.”
Savage’s smile broadens, even more. “Aw, come on. It had to have helped you get into character for tomorrow a little.” He sits on the edge of the bed and counts off his supposed sins on his fingers. “I wouldn’t let you come. I bossed you around and pulled your hair. And then, I topped it all off with a sperm facial.” He smirks. “How rude of me. How degrading. How infuriating.” His expression is pure snarkiness. He knows full well what he did to me was hot as hell, top to bottom, and that I loved every minute of it.
“This is so classic you,” I say. “The same thing as when you sang my name in ‘Hate Sex High,’ but buried it slightly in the mix, just enough to preserve yourself some deniability. You wanted to have dirty sex and come in my face. Period. But you said you were doing it to help me ‘get into character,’ so you could hide behind your suit of armor, if it turned out I didn’t like it. Classic Savage.”
Savage smiles wickedly. “Well,” he says. “Even if I haven’t made you remember to hate me, at least we had a damned good time.”
“We sure did.” I peck his cheek and then hop out of bed and head into the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth, and soon, Savage joins me for his usual bedtime routine.
“Don’t worry too much about tomorrow,” he says, his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth and his naked, massive dong hanging low. “I have faith you’ll figure out a way to convince yourself you’re highly annoyed with me tomorrow—if not downright infuriated.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s a tall order these days. Look at you. You’re perfect. Gorgeous. Talented. Sweet. How could I possibly remember what it feels like to be annoyed with you—let alone infuriated?”
Savage lifts an eyebrow, his expression practically screaming, I’ve got a secret.
“What?” I ask.
“What what?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“You just did it again. It’s full of mischief. Like you know something I don’t.”
Savage spits his mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and grins adorably. “You’re a drunken, paranoid lunatic. Now, come on, baby. It’s time for bed. You need to sleep off all that contraband wine, so you can wake up tomorrow and, against all odds, remember how to tap into your inner bitch with me.”
Seventeen
Savage
“Wake up, Fitzy,” I say. As I say the words, I tap Laila’s forehead repeatedly, like a woodpecker pecking holes into a dead pine tree. Today’s mission? Operation Annoy Laila, with the higher goal of helping her recall, vividly, the sensation of hating my guts, so she can take the lead on delivering the combativeness Nadine has demanded. Obviously, I don’t want to push Laila so hard as to make her genuinely hate me again. The very thought of regressing to those dark days with this gorgeous woman makes me physically recoil. But, for the greater good, I’m more than willing to aggravate the crap out of Laila today, in ways big and small, if it will help her get into character for today’s long shooting day.
Tap, tap, tap. “Wake up!” I bellow into Laila’s beautiful, sleeping face. “Up and at ‘em, baby!”
All things considered, this ought to annoy her pretty well, right out of the gate. Laila isn’t a morning person on a good day, the same as me, and I’m waking her up a full two hours before her alarm. Plus, Laila drank three goblets of wine last night, before we headed upstairs to screw, so I’m betting
she’s feeling a particular need for some extra sleep this morning.
Without opening her eyes, Laila bats at my hand as it continues tapping her forehead. “Stop it,” she murmurs.
Tap, tap, tap. “There shall be no stopping!” I boom. “I’ve got a big surprise for you! Wake up!”
Laila squints at me. “My alarm hasn’t gone off, has it?”
Tap, tap, tap. “No. It. Has. Not! It’s only six!”
“Six? What the fuck!”
“Six is the time for my big surprise!” Tap, tap, tap.
Laila swats at my hand again. “What’s wrong with you?”
Tap, tap, tap. “Nothing’s wrong with me, baby! I’m all kinds of right. We’re going to work out this morning before heading into work.”
“Have fun with that. Bye now.”
I laugh with glee. “Get dressed and meet me in the gym in five, or I’ll physically drag you.” Tap, tap, tap.
Laila’s fully awake now. Scowling, she pulls the covers to her chin and rolls onto her side. “I’ll work out tonight after work. I drank too much last night.”
“Fish and Alessandra are coming over tonight, remember? It’s now or never.”
“Never, then.”
Without warning, I yank the covers off Laila’s near-naked body, subjecting her to the brisk early-morning air in the room, and she shrieks and curls into the fetal position. I pull out my phone and aim it at her. “Say good morning to everyone, babe. We’re live.”
Laila shrieks and covers her face with her hands. “Please, tell me you’re joking.”
I don’t blame her for second-guessing me. In all the time we’ve been posting daily “happy couple at home” videos, it’s always been Laila, not me, who’s initiated our videos. And only when Laila is good and ready and has checked her makeup in the mirror.
