by Lauren Rowe
He shakes head. “I did that. When the show called to ask me to present an award, I said I’d only do it if they paired me with you.”
I bite my lip, feeling turned on by this latest revelation.
“I was desperate. You weren’t answering my texts and I had to see you again. By then, I’d convinced myself you were in love with Charlie. It was the only thing that made sense. And I had to know.”
“The chorus in ‘Hate Sex High’?” I ask, breathlessly. “Was the ‘something’ you didn’t want to feel a kernel of truth or a popcorn lie?”
“You already know the answer to that, Laila. The ‘something’ I was feeling was straight-up obsession, which wasn’t something I wanted to feel—and definitely not something I wanted to admit to you.”
I kiss him fervently, but abruptly break free of his lips, my breathing ragged. “I already know the truth about this next thing, but I want to hear you say it. You’re singing ‘Laila’ at the end of those ‘la la’s.’ Admit it.”
Savage chuckles. “Of course, I am. As a matter of fact, I was hard as a rock the whole time I was recording the vocals to that song. I closed my eyes and thought about you and practically came in the recording booth.”
“That’s so hot.” I kiss him again. And when my clit begins pounding too insistently to ignore, I stroke Savage’s cock to hardness, and then slide myself down on it. I fuck him, slowly, while kissing his gorgeous lips. And as our bodies move together, I whisper that I love him. That I’ll always love him. I’ve never used that word before with him. Never confessed the endlessness of my love for him. Never been brave enough to pledge my forever in words. But I do it now, as my body moves with his. And to my thrill and joy and relief, Savage whispers that he’ll love me “forever,” right before coming beneath me.
Thirty-Four
Laila
Two weeks later
“How’s that?” my makeup artist, Susanna, says.
I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror. “Gorgeous. Love it.”
“I added a little extra glitter to your lids this time, so your eyes will sparkle like crazy as you look lovingly into Savage’s eyes during your duet.”
“Brilliant. The glitter gives off a ‘fairytale princess’ vibe.”
“Along with a little splash of ‘He’s all mine, bitches!’”
I giggle. “Well, with this face, that’s unavoidable.”
We’ve made it to the last episode of the season—the “live taping” of the finale, during which this season’s winner will be crowned. I’m in my dressing room with Susanna, awaiting my cue to perform with Savage in about fifteen minutes. Currently, the top ten contestants of the season, other than the two finalists vying for the crown—my quirky, blue-haired crooner, Addison, and Savage’s powerhouse belter, Glory—are onstage with Aloha, performing a cheesy group rendition of Aloha’s latest hit.
I look at a large clock on the wall of my dressing room and realize I’ve got a solid ten minutes before I’ll need to hit my mark. “I think I’ll watch the show from the wings,” I say. “I’m too amped to sit still.” For more reasons than one, if I’m being honest.
Yes, I’m nervous to perform the duet for the first time. But Savage and I have rehearsed relentlessly, so I’m pretty confident our performance will go off without a hitch. Plus, the song is fantastic—catchy and swoonworthy—a textbook hit, even if it’s far more about Fish and Alessandra’s uncomplicated love story than mine and Savage’s. No, I think the true source of my nerves is the fact that, since Chicago, Savage has never again mentioned that bonus the show offered him. The one where he’d earn a cool two hundred fifty thousand bucks, merely for faux-proposing to me after our performance. And I can’t help thinking maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t mentioned it because he’s decided to do it . . . and maybe even for real.
I know I’m crazy to think it. To hope it. But I can’t help myself. Even if the odds are low, I think there’s a small chance he’ll get down on bended knee the minute we stop singing, and the very thought makes every cell in my body electrify with giddiness.
When I arrive at the wing of the stage, I look around for a PA, or someone with a headset, to make sure the production staff knows where I am. These “live taping” shows are an intense juggling act for the crew, since they’re shot precisely as the show will air, with no editing or re-dos. So, given my upcoming performance, it’s critical everyone knows where to find me at all times.
As I’m looking around for someone in a headset, I spot Nadine, the executive producer, standing with her back to me alongside Rhoda, the junior producer who’s become a good friend. Given that Rhoda and Nadine are both wearing headsets, I head over to the duo, intending to tap one of them on the shoulder and wave, as if to say, “Here I am.” But when I get close enough to overhear the women’s conversation, I stop short and listen in.
“Who knows if Savage will do it?” Nadine is saying as I come to a stop behind her. “Unfortunately, his contract states he can decide, yes or no, if he wants to earn that bonus, right up to the last moment. So now, all we can do is wait and cross our fingers.”
“I’m betting he’ll do it,” Rhoda says confidently. “And not for the bonus—but for real.”
Nadine snorts. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that, Rhoda.”
“You didn’t see him at Laila’s birthday party. He’s head over heels in love with her, Nadine, for real. Anyone could see it. But, hey, if his love for her doesn’t convince him to propose to her on national TV, then maybe a quarter-million bucks will tip the scales for him.”
“Try a million bucks.”
“What?” Rhoda gasps out, as I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep my own gasp from becoming audible.
“I made a secret side deal with Savage,” Nadine says. “But don’t worry, I’m not stupid enough to have agreed to paying him a million bucks out of pocket. He let me keep his full salary, two million, in exchange for me promising never to terminate Laila and to leave them alone to be ‘happy’ without any meddling. If he proposes tonight, like a good little boy, then he’ll get a million bucks of the money we’ve withheld from him.”
I clamp my palm over my mouth again, this time to keep myself from screaming.
“Did you give him the ring?” Rhoda says.
“Yeah, a few minutes ago,” Nadine replies. “I told him to put it in his pocket, so he’d have it, just in case. And I’ll be damned, he took it. So who knows? I’m hoping that’s a good sign.” Nadine scoffs. “Or maybe he’s just fucking with me.”
“No. I’d bet anything he’s going to give her that ring. A million bucks, a free ring, and the chance to propose to the woman he loves on national TV? What rational man wouldn’t leap at a deal like that?”
“I think we both know Adrian Savage is anything but rational.”
I’ve heard enough. Plus, now that the group song onstage is wrapping up, I’m scared to death these two women will turn around and catch me crouching behind them in the dark. I turn on my heel and sprint away on my tiptoes, as Sunshine Vaughn announces a commercial break.
When I reach my dressing room, I shut the door behind me and lean against it, my eyes wide and my chest heaving. There’s so much to unpack here, my brain feels like it’s exploding. Out of every shocking thing Nadine just said, however, the thing that’s rising to the top of the heap is the part where Nadine said Savage forfeited his entire salary in exchange for Nadine’s promise not to fire me. When the hell did that happen?
I pace circles in my dressing room, too freaked out to sit. I’m insanely grateful Savage swooped in to protect me like that, but I wish he hadn’t. I already felt bad enough that he had to give up two million bucks to get me onto the show, in the first place. And now I find out he gave up two million more to keep me on the show?
All I can hope and pray is that Savage realizes his best bet is to get down on his knee after our performance is done, and fake-propose. Obviously, I’d love to hear those amazing words out of Savage’s mouth
one day, for real. And, selfishly, I’d love to hear them tonight, even if it’s only for pretend, solely to have a beautiful, false, fairytale moment with Savage, however fleeting and fake. Laila, will you marry me? Just imagining those words coming out of Adrian’s mouth gives me goosebumps, even if it’s only for show. But, truly, the main thing here is that I want Savage to get himself paid.
I stride toward the exit of my dressing room, determination flooding me. I’m going to hunt Savage down and tell him I know everything. I’m going to demand he fake-propose to me in a few minutes to earn that bonus, and also tell him I’ve decided to return every penny he’s paid me this season. I’ve felt guilty about taking half Savage’s salary for a while now, and what I overheard from Nadine was the last straw. It’s not like I don’t have the ability to make an incredible living on my own now. Thanks to my exposure on the show, I’ve become a household name, which my agent, Daria, has already started leveraging for all sorts of new projects and ventures. Regardless, though, even if I’d be penniless after returning Savage’s two million bucks, I’d do it, anyway, simply to get this elephant off my chest, once and for all.
Before I get to the door of my dressing room, however, someone knocks on it. “Laila?” a voice I recognize as belonging to a PA shouts. “Time to take your mark for the duet!”
“Coming!”
As I follow the production assistant through the backstage area to the spot where I’ll await my cue to walk onstage, I look around frantically for Savage, so I can tell him everything that needs to be said. But he’s nowhere to be found.
Finally, when the PA and I arrive in the wings, I see Savage standing across from me in the wings on the other side of the large stage. Crap. I forgot the director decided at the last minute he wants Savage and me to start singing from opposite ends of the large stage, and then walk toward each other during the first verse. I’m sure that blocking will make for a delightfully dramatic performance and all, but, unfortunately, it means I won’t have a chance to talk to Savage before we start singing.
“Okay, Laila, stand by,” the PA whispers, a hand on her headset. “Three, two . . .” She gestures toward the outer edge of the stage, and I take my mark in the dark, my heart thrumming. I accept a live mic handed to me by a crew member and inhale deeply, just as Sunshine Vaughn bellows, “And now, it’s Savage and Laila, performing the world premiere of their duet, ‘Perfect for Me’!”
The audience applauds wildly, the lights come on, the band kicks off, and Savage and I begin walking slowly toward each other across the large stage, as planned. I sing first in the song—a line about Savage being imperfectly perfect. Blah, blah. And he replies that I’m a “Picasso”—a bit of a mess, with my colors bleeding outside the lines, yet always a “work of art” to him. Blah, blah. And by the time we sing in unison in the chorus about being imperfectly perfect for each other, we’ve both reached the middle of the stage.
I’m giving the song my all, which thankfully quiets the raging storm in my head. And I can tell Savage is giving it his all, too, even though he’s been clear he thinks the song is a “gigantic cheese-fest.” And by the time we reach our final, soaring notes, there’s no doubt the audience is transfixed.
After we sing our last note together, the band plays the song’s melodic outro, and, just like that, everything I was thinking before the music started playing crashes into me, all over again. I lean forward, intending to say, “Get the bonus, Savage!” . . . but freeze when Savage touches his pocket like he’s about to slide his hand inside and grab something.
I wait. Hold my breath. And as the music ends, Savage touches his pocket again . . . and then unceremoniously drops his empty hand to his side.
Fuck!
I lean in and whisper to him through my smile, like I’m a ventriloquist who’s speaking through a dummy, “Bonus. Now.” But Savage remains frozen and smiling at me as the audience applauds wildly.
I lean forward, intending to repeat my command, but when I do, Savage goes in for a kiss, making the audience applaud even more wildly. Flustered, I break away from his lips and whisper into his ear, “Get the bonus!” And in reply, Savage grabs my hand and raises it with his, like we’re actors executing a Broadway curtain call.
When the audience roars again, Savage puts his arm around me and pulls me close, making it pretty damned clear he’s not about to kneel before me.
I’m shocked at how long the lights and cameras have remained trained on us, without turning off or the show cutting to commercial. The director is letting this post-performance moment go on for much longer than usual, isn’t he? But finally, the bright lights in our faces fade to black. The little red light on the camera directly in front of us turns off. And the director yells, “And we’re clear!”
So, that’s it.
In the end, Savage decided not to propose. Not even for pretend. Not even to recoup a million bucks out of the four million he forfeited because of me. Not even when he was offered a free freaking ring from some fancy jeweler. I have no doubt Savage loves me with all his heart. For crying out loud, the man secretly paid two million bucks to keep me on the show, netting him literally nothing in salary for three months of hard work. But the fact remains, no matter how much Savage loves me, proposing to me—even if only for pretend—was a bridge too far for him.
I shouldn’t feel disappointed about that. But if I’m being honest, I do. I desperately wanted Savage to earn that bonus. But even more so, I want Savage to want to marry me! Yes! My feelings are so clear now. More than any amount of money or fame or success in my career, I want to marry Adrian—and I want him to feel the same way.
When the lights turn off, a PA immediately escorts Savage and me offstage, before I’ve had a chance to say a word to him. She compliments our performance and instructs us to wait with her in the wings while Sunshine announces this season’s winner. “Once Sunshine makes the announcement,” the PA explains, “the winning judge will run onstage to congratulate their contestant for a moment, before the remainder of the cast joins the winning judge and contestant onstage for the ‘big celebration.’”
“It’s gonna be Addison,” Savage whispers to me, referring to the blue-haired cutie who’s amassed an unprecedented army of fans since the first audition episode aired.
I take a deep breath. That’s what he wants to talk about, after what he just decided not to do out there—who’s going to be crowned this season’s winner on the show? “It’d better be,” I whisper, even though there are a thousand other things I want to say, if we were alone. Or maybe, if only I had the courage.
“And the winner this season is . . .” Sunshine, says onstage, as the two finalists—mine and Savage’s—huddle together next to the host, both contestants looking like they’re going to barf. Sunshine looks up from the opened envelope in her hands and shrieks, “Addison Swain!”
As streamers and glitter burst from the ceiling above the stage, I feel swept away in my excitement for Addison and forget about my own concerns for a moment. I hug Savage standing next to me, crying tears of joy for my blue-haired favorite, and a moment later, the PA nudges me and says, “Go congratulate Addison now, Laila! Go, go, go!”
As the house band begins playing an upbeat, celebratory dance song, I stride gleefully onto the stage to my darling pixie and take her into my arms. For a long moment, we cry together. I don’t know about Addison, but this feels like the finish line of a legit marathon to me.
Out of nowhere, Sunshine shoves a microphone in Addison’s face, and she breaks from our hug to thank me profusely for making her win possible. She goes on to thank the audience at home for voting for her, week after week. And her family for their support, too. She thanks the writer of every song she’s ever performed, and Sunshine and the producers of the show, and I laugh and cry with her, through it all.
When it’s my turn to take Sunshine’s microphone, I tell Addison she was already a star the minute she walked onstage that very first time and blew me away. “Your victory
today has nothing to do with me, honey,” I say, and I mean it with all my heart.
Once I’ve made my little speech, the whole cast descends onto the stage—the other three judges and all four mentors—and we commence a not-so spontaneous dance party in celebration of Addison’s win, as well as yet another successful season of the show. The most successful season yet, as a matter of fact, in terms of ratings and popularity. In fact, from what Daria has told me, Nadine has already indicated her fervent desire to have Savage and me return next season. And not only that, to sign both of us to a multi-year deal.
As music and dancing and laughter continue swirling around me onstage, I glance at Savage across the crowd to find him laughing with genuine abandon with Kendrick, Fish, and Colin, and my heart skips a beat at his easygoing demeanor. It’s especially gratifying to catch him, once again, looking comfortable and friendly with Colin. After my birthday party, I asked Savage if he’d said something to Colin to bury the hatchet, and Savage confirmed he had, and that Colin had been extremely receptive and appreciative.
While I’m still looking at my boyfriend, his gaze finds mine. For a moment, time stops as we smile at each other from across the crowded stage, both of us basking in not only our love, but also our newfound freedom from the pressure-cooker of the show. The constant social media posts we’ve been required to make. The fishbowl nature of it all. On the one hand, it’s been the happiest three months of my life, living and working with Savage. And I know Savage feels the exact same way. But I’m also more than relieved to move onto the next phase of our relationship, a much more private one that’s not for show, but only for us. I can’t wait to find out who we are when we’re living together in my tiny condo, rather than a sprawling reality TV mansion. I can’t wait to find out who Savage and Laila are when nobody is watching.
The director yells, “We’re clear!” and a loud cheer rises up onstage.
