by Rowe, Lauren
Falling out of Hate with You
Hate - Love Duet Book One
Lauren Rowe
Contents
Books by Lauren Rowe
1. Savage
2. Laila
3. Savage
4. Savage
5. Savage
6. Laila
7. Savage
8. Laila
9. Laila
10. Laila
11. Savage
12. Savage
13. Laila
14. Laila
15. Savage
16. Savage
17. Laila
18. Laila
19. Laila
20. Savage
21. Savage
22. Laila
23. Savage
24. Laila
25. Savage
26. Savage
27. Savage
28. Savage
29. Savage
30. Laila
31. Savage
32. Laila
33. Savage
34. Laila
Books by Lauren Rowe
Author Biography
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Rowe
Published by SoCoRo Publishing
Cover design © Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Books by Lauren Rowe
Standalone Novels
Smitten
The Reed Rivers Trilogy (to be read in order)
Bad Liar
Beautiful Liar
Beloved Liar
The Club Trilogy (to be read in order)
The Club: Obsession
The Club: Reclamation
The Club: Redemption
The Club: Culmination (A Full-Length Epilogue Book)
The Josh and Kat Trilogy (to be read in order)
Infatuation
Revelation
Consummation
The Morgan Brothers (a series of related standalones):
Hero
Captain
Ball Peen Hammer
Mister Bodyguard
ROCKSTAR
The Misadventures Series (a series of unrelated standalones):
Misadventures on the Night Shift
Misadventures of a College Girl
Misadventures on the Rebound
Standalone Psychological Thriller/Dark Comedy
Countdown to Killing Kurtis
Short Stories
The Secret Note
One
Savage
Hollywood Hills, California
Music is blaring around me as I wade through the packed party, precariously balancing six shot glasses filled to their brims. I come to a stop when I reach my four bandmates—Kendrick, Kai, Ruby, and Titus—plus, our manager, Eli.
“Grab ‘em, quick!” I call out over the loud music, and, thankfully, my friends immediately relieve me of the tequila-laden Jenga tower in my palms. Once all glasses have been distributed, I raise mine to our band’s drummer and beat-maker, my best friend in the world, Kendrick Cook. “Happy twenty-fifth!” I shout. And, of course, everyone joins me in wishing Kendrick a great one.
According to Reed Rivers’ party invitation, we’re at his hilltop mansion tonight to celebrate an upcoming issue of Rock ‘n’ Roll magazine—a special issue that’s going to feature nothing but the top artists from his record label, an elite group that thankfully includes our band, Fugitive Summer. But since nobody throws a better bash than our label owner—or, as my band has dubbed Reed Rivers, “The Prick”—and since most of the people we would have invited to a separate birthday party for Kendrick are here, anyway—we decided to hijack Reed’s fancy shindig to celebrate our boy’s birth.
“Do I have drool on my chin?” Kai Cook, our bass player and Kendrick’s older brother, shouts above the music, as one of the most head-turning women at the party, a reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll named Georgina, walks by and waves as she goes.
Our other guitarist, Titus, nudges my shoulder. “The reporter winked at you, Savage! Go get her, Player!”
I roll my eyes. I hate that my bandmates still call me “Player,” the same way they’ve been doing since the beginning, when I was admittedly drunk on all the attention our band—and especially me—had started getting. But these days, the nickname isn’t nearly as accurate as it once was, not since an “influencer” in Barcelona made my dick the top trending topic on Twitter last year.
Immediately after sex with that spicy little Spaniard, I hopped into the shower in my hotel room, thinking she’d fallen asleep. And that’s when she snagged my wallet, snapped some surreptitious photos of me cluelessly washing up, and then promptly posted the shots, along with a detailed play-by-play of our night together. And off she went, into the Spanish night, while I continued singing a happy tune, literally, in the shower. And I swear, I haven’t been the same “player,” ever since.
It wasn’t that I was upset about the wallet. While on tour, I barely ever have anything in it. Condoms, a credit card that was easy to cancel, and my ID. Also, I wasn’t all that bent out of shape about the world seeing my naked dong or finding out, through the Spaniard’s posted commentary, that I’m a rabid fan of oral sex.
No, as cliché as it sounds, the thing that threw me for a loop was the shocking breach of trust. The realization that nobody out there is trustworthy, no matter how much it feels like they might be, in the moment. It was the realization that anything I might say or do in private, no matter how intimate it might feel in the moment, could end up as a meme on the internet.
In that moment, I knew whatever genuine connection I’d thought the woman and I had shared that night was an illusion. Or worse, if it had been real, she was willing to sacrifice it on the altar of snagging my wallet and her fifteen minutes of fame.
It was the first time I truly understood the downside of this crazy life. The loneliness and eternal separation from normalcy that’s inherent in the gig. And it changed me. I’ve never been a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, anyway. I don’t trust easily and never have. But after that experience, I felt even more closed off and determined to keep myself under wraps.
Kai grabs my arm, like he thinks he’s keeping me from chasing after the hot reporter, Georgina. But I’m not even tempted to run after her. Kai yells above the blasting music, “I call dibs on the reporter! And you know I never do that, dude! So, you’d better respect The Dibs!”
I’m offended. Why does Kai feel the need to say that to me? I always respect The Dibs, more than anyone else in the band, other than Kendrick. Kai should know by now I don’t give a fuck which gorgeous woman I wind up with, if any. There are far too many of them in this world, and, certainly, at this party, and I’m far too good at getting whoever I want, to chase after someone who’s caught the eye of one of my best friends. Especially when I barely know the woman in question.
I’d call my general mindset in this regard “bros before hoes” or “dicks before chicks,” if our bandmate, Ruby, not to mention, my cousin, Sasha, hadn’t both made a thing about the words “ho” and “chick” being derogatory. So, maybe “brovaries before ovaries” would be the better bet? The point is that I always respect The Dibs. Although, in this instance, Kai probably shouldn’t pursue the reporter, anyway. Not because I want her. But because I’ve surmised there are extenuating circumstances.
I reply to Kai, “You n
ever need to ‘call dibs’ with me. Just tell me you’re in hot pursuit and that’s that. But I think you’re gonna need to set your sights on someone else this time, brother. When I played ping pong with Georgina earlier to talk about my interview, I got the solid vibe she’s already with Reed. Or if not, she’s definitely at the top of his To Do List.”
“Reed?” Kai bellows, like that’s a preposterous notion. Like every woman at this party wouldn’t give her left tit to get with Reed. The guy with the big house, the fit body, the garage full of sports cars, and a bank account that puts every band member here to shame. But, whatever. My bandmates and I are drinking and having fun tonight, and roasting the bastard who takes way too big a cut of our royalties, thanks to the shitty contract we signed as puppies, before Eli started repping us, is one of our favorite drinking games.
Titus and Kai continue roasting Reed for a bit. And as they banter, I reach for my phone when it buzzes in my pocket. I wouldn’t normally check my phone at a party. But only my inner circle has this particular number, and almost all of them are here tonight.
When I check my screen, it’s a text from my cousin, Sasha, as suspected, regarding our grandma.
Sasha: Are you available to FaceTime, by any chance? Mimi had a nightmare you died in a plane crash. She wants to see your face.
Me: Can’t FT. I’m at a noisy party and kinda drunk. How about a quick video?
Sasha: Awesome.
I shoot a brief selfie video in which I smile, make silly faces, and blow kisses to my grandma amid the noisy throng around me. And after I press send, Sasha quickly replies in all caps.
Sasha: IS THAT ISABEL RANDOLPH BEHIND YOU?!?
I turn around, and, I’ll be damned, one of the most famous movie stars on the planet is standing directly behind me, chatting with a group of suits I don’t recognize.
Me: It is, indeed.
Sasha: HOLY SHIT. Do you know her?
Me: Nope.
Sasha: Go meet her and send me a photo for my birffday! Pleeeeease!
Me: Your birthday isn’t for two months. But more importantly, doing that for you would require me to speak to a new person, which, as you know, I try to avoid at all costs.
Sasha: Why do you go to so many parties, if you hate talking to new people so much?
Me: Because I like talking to MY people while surrounded by new people I can gawk at but NOT talk to. Especially tonight, when we’re celebrating KC’s bday.
Sasha: Aw, wish KC happy birthday for me! Have you performed a birthday dare for him yet?
Me: Not yet. He’s still deciding what brand of humiliation to inflict upon me.
Sasha: LOL. Don’t do anything dangerous.
Me: It’s always all in good fun. Give Mimi a hug for me.
Sasha: Already did. She loves the video. Says she loves you and stay safe.
Me: Love her, too, and you. Tell her I’m fine and mostly traveling by bus on the next leg of the tour.
Sasha: Will do. Goodnight. Have a blast.
My cousin is being sincere when she tells me to have fun. But I can’t help feeling guilty she’s there on a Saturday night, hanging out with our grandma and one of the nighttime caregivers I’ve bankrolled, while I’m at a star-studded party in LA. Not to mention that Sasha works hard at a real job in Chicago—she’s a massage therapist—while I traipse around the world and swoop into town for occasional visits, whenever convenient, like I’m Weekend Daddy after a divorce.
Sasha always says she wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s ten years my senior and always says she’s gotten her partying out of her system. Plus, she always reminds me, she’s a homebody by nature, anyway. “I’m happiest when I’m hanging out with Mimi, reading or knitting,” she always says. “I like sitting still and watching TV.” And so, I bought my beloved homebody her own home last year, where she now takes care of our beloved grandma, along with the caregivers, and mostly believe my cousin when she says she’s truly not the least bit angry with me for continuing to play rockstar.
I send a quick goodnight text to my cousin, stuff my phone into my pocket, and tune back into my bandmates’ conversation, just in time to hear Titus saying, “I think it’s bullshit. I mean, yes, if you’d already gotten to know the reporter, and had done more than spot her across a crowded room, then, okay, calling dibs on her makes sense. But I certainly wouldn’t back off a woman, simply because you spotted her. And I sure as hell wouldn’t back off just because Reed might be interested. Would he extend the same courtesy to any of us? Fuck no!”
“Reed’s more than ‘possibly’ interested,” I interject. “During my ping pong game with Georgina, I noticed Reed spying on her the whole time from behind a bush.”
Everyone laughs at the imagery, except for Titus, who’s shaking his head.
“No way,” Titus says. “Reed must have been standing near a bush, looking at his phone or talking to someone you couldn’t see. I love roasting The Prick as much as anyone, but there’s no way Reed Rivers would hide behind a bush, at his own party, while surrounded by some of the world’s hottest women, in order to keep tabs on a summer intern at Rock ‘n’ Roll.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Georgina’s an intern at the magazine?”
Titus gestures to his pink-haired twin sister, Ruby, our keyboardist, who’s standing nearby talking to our manager, Eli. “When Ruby and I played cornhole with the reporter, she said she’d just graduated from UCLA and that her ‘internship’ with Rock ‘n’ Roll is her first professional gig.”
“I never would have guessed that,” I say.
Titus nods. “Georgina is just a baby. She said she’s turning twenty-two next month.”
I’m floored. I glance at her across the packed room, where Georgina is presently talking to the bass player of 22 Goats—a sweetheart of a guy named Fish. “I never would have guessed she’s that green,” I say. “With all that swagger, I would have thought she’s large and in charge at Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I chuckle. “Well, either way, I know what I saw. Reed was definitely spying on Georgina, from behind a bush, like a goddamned stalker.”
Titus nudges Kai’s shoulder. “Did Reed spy on you when you talked to Georgina?”
“No. Not that I noticed.”
“And he didn’t spy on Ruby and me playing cornhole with her, either. Huh. I wonder why Reed felt the need to spy on her with you, Player.”
I wink. “I guess he’s only worried about the good lookin’ ones, eh?”
Titus flips me off as Kai flags down a cocktail server who’s walking by with a slew of margaritas, and we quickly relieve her of her entire burden. His new drink in hand, our trusty manager, Eli, bids the group farewell, saying he’s going to “schmooze” for a bit. Ruby joins our conversation, and we continue bantering and people-watching as a full band.
“So, have you decided on Savage’s birthday dare yet?” Kai asks his younger brother, Kendrick. Earlier tonight, Kendrick made Kai fanboy all over some blonde actor on a Netflix show I’ve never heard of. And ever since, Kai has been dying to watch me get equally humiliated.
For the past ten years, on each of our respective birthdays, Kendrick, Kai, and I have played a shitfaced game of “Birthday Truth or Dare.” Although calling it that is a misnomer by now, since we’ve long since taken the “truth” option off the table in our game. Why waste the chance to inflict humiliation in order to ask some stupid question we probably already know the answer to? Kai and Kendrick are brothers, after all, and I’ve known them both for well over ten years.
“Not yet,” Kendrick says, answering his brother’s question about my dare. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“Oh my gosh!” Ruby blurts. “Savage was right about Reed and the reporter! Look at Reed now, guys! He’s totally spying on her from across the room!” We look to where Ruby is indicating and discover Reed covertly staring at Georgina while she chats with the guys from Watch Party. Almost certainly, it’s Zach Rosendo—their frontman whom everyone calls Endo—who’s attracted Reed’s
eagle eye this time. That dude’s definitely got a reputation as a lady killer.
“I just decided on my dare,” Kendrick declares, his mischievous gaze trained on Reed. He looks at me, smiling wickedly and rubbing his palms together. And, instantly, I know what’s coming.
“Aw, fuck. No,” I mutter.
“You’re not allowed to say no,” Kendrick reminds me.
“I know the rules, motherfucker. Do you?” I’m referring to rule number one of our game. Namely, that the birthday boy can’t pick a dare that’s likely to maim, kill, or send his victim to prison. Rule number two is that the birthday boy is king—a deity whose dare can’t be refused, as long as it complies with rule number one. And, finally, rule number three is that the dare has to be something that can be performed on the spot. In other words, birthday dares can’t be some elaborate prank or hoax that would require weeks of planning.
Kendrick smiles. “Yeah, I know the rules. And I promise no bodily harm will come to you. The only thing that could possibly happen to you, in theory, is that you’d get onto Reed’s shit list. But you’re already there. So, really, there’s no downside.”
