by Rowe, Lauren
Reed opens and closes his mouth, searching for his response, before finally blurting—and not convincingly, I might add, “She’s here to do a job, not to get hit on.” When I raise my eyebrows, conveying my skepticism, Reed adds, “I promised her boss nobody would hit on her.”
Well, that’s ludicrous. Since when does Reed let anything or anyone get in the way of something, or someone, he wants? Could it be Reed promised Georgina’s boss he wouldn’t hit on her, for some reason? Which I suppose is possible, given her age and inexperience and his position of power and reputation as a womanizer. But even then, I can’t imagine Reed would uphold a promise like that for long, if he really wanted Georgina.
I languidly pull a box of cigarettes out of my pocket. I only smoke when I’ve been drinking. And I couldn’t be happier to have a box with me now, given how much Reed notoriously despises cigarettes. Casually, I stick an unlit cigarette between my lips and say, “I think we should let her decide if she wants to get hit on or not.”
Well, that does it. Reed can’t keep it together another minute. His dark eyes blazing, he points toward the end of the hallway, like he’s commanding a misbehaving dog into a doghouse. He shouts, “Go find the other writer! Her name is Zasu. She’s been assigned to do your interview.”
I can’t believe my ears. Reed is going to make poor Georgina, a summer intern with stars in her eyes, give up a solo interview with me—one of the hottest commodities on the planet right now—solely because, waah, waah, Reed doesn’t want to risk me seducing her?
I say, “Georgie and I have great chemistry.” I heard Fish’s date call Georgina that nickname earlier tonight, during our ping pong game, so I’m assuming it’ll piss Reed off if I use it, too. I add, “We already have the whole thing figured out.”
“You’re doing an interview with Zasu,” Reed commands vehemently. “It’s not a request.”
I remove my unlit cigarette from my lips, unable to locate my lighter. “You want Georgina for yourself, don’t you?”
Bingo. From Reed’s facial expression, it’s clear I’ve hit the nail on the head.
His voice tight, Reed grits out, “My motivations don’t matter. The only thing you need to know is the owner of your label is telling you she’s off-limits. Now, go find Zasu.”
I slip the cigarette back between my lips. “Got a light?”
“No!” Reed booms. He points again, nonverbally ordering me away, and I know I’ve reached the finish line—the point where there’s nothing more I can say or do in this passion play. I pull the unlit cigarette out of my mouth again, wink at Reed, and saunter away, but not before tossing over my shoulder, “You’re too old for her, anyway, man. She’s only twenty-one.”
Ha. That ought to sting.
When I re-enter the main room of the party, I discover my friends buckled over with laughter at my performance. I walk toward them, my arms outstretched like, “Did you expect anything less from the master?” and then, instinctively, glance toward Laila. But, damn, she’s not there. As I look around, I don’t see her anywhere. Did she storm out, too disgusted by my fuckboy display to stick around? Or, worse, did my aggressive flirting with Georgina prompt her to go into a dark corner . . . with Cash?
My heart strumming against my sternum, I look around the large room again, to no avail, suddenly regretting my decision to try to piss her off. Why do I always do shit like this? Why do I always self-sabotage? I thought we were playing a sexy game of “fuck you” with each other. A game of “I’m not jealous, you’re jealous!” You know, lobbing fastballs at each other and daring the other to try to hit it out of the park. But now I’m thinking I miscalculated and totally turned her off.
When I reach my friends, they demand a play-by-play. Which, of course, I give them, eliciting even more raucous laughter, especially from the birthday boy. After a while, Reed comes by and berates me for not following his direct orders and finding Zasu. And so, reluctantly, I leave my friends and take a lap of the massive downstairs area, looking for this Zasu chick—even though I wouldn’t put it past Reed to send me on a wild goose chase, solely to get me away from Georgina. But, whatever. Whether Zasu actually exists or not, I’m more than happy to take a lap of the party to pretend to look for her, if only to give me a believable excuse to look high and low for the woman I’m actually interested in finding: Little Miss Death Daggers Laila Fitzgerald.
Five
Savage
Would it have killed Reed to describe this mythical Zasu person to me, if it was so damned important to him that I find her? Fucking prick. As I’ve rambled around the packed party, I’ve asked a couple people, half-heartedly, if they know someone named “Zasu,” who’s supposedly a reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll, and each and every one of them describes Georgina.
“No, no. Not her,” I keep saying.
To which they reply, “Oh. Then . . . I dunno.”
Of course, throughout my quest, I’ve kept my eyes peeled for Laila the whole time. So far, no luck. Not knowing what else to do, I head outside to continue my search in Reed’s expansive backyard. If Laila is outside with Cash, or, worse, if she’s already left the party with him, I’ll be so pissed at myself. It’s one thing for me to have refrained from hitting on Laila for my best friend in the world—the guy who’s more responsible than anyone else for my current lot in life. But as friendly as I am with Cash, I’d never in a million years step aside from hitting on Laila for him. No fucking way.
Becoming increasingly frustrated, I wander into the pool area and immediately stop dead in my tracks, and then sigh with relief, when I spot Laila in the far distance, bopping around happily on Reed’s basketball court, looking like a kid on a playground during recess. There’s a large group on the court along with Laila that includes Aloha Carmichael and the guys from 22 Goats and their dates. But no Cash.
I smile to myself. Did Naughty Little Laila ditch Cash’s ass the minute he was no longer useful to her—the minute she no longer needed him to make me jealous? I bet she did. Which means I’m still in the hunt, baby. That is, if Kendrick strikes out with her, of course. Obviously. I owe him at least that much.
I watch Laila and her friends for a moment, and quickly discern the group is playing HORSE, based on the way everyone keeps taking the same shots in rotation. And the minute I realize the game, I feel oddly invested in standing here long enough to find out if Laila makes her shot. I make a bet with myself: “If Laila makes her shot, I’ll head over there and welcome her to the tour. If she doesn’t, I’ll head inside and make her come to me.”
Fish from 22 Goats takes his shot and makes it and his cute date jumps for joy like he’s won a Grammy. Next up, Fish’s girlfriend takes her shot and whiffs so badly, I laugh out loud. Immediately, Fish and Laila console her and the girlfriend slinks into Fish’s waiting arms.
Finally, after a few other players take their shots, it’s Laila’s turn. She gets the ball from Aloha’s husband, Zander, a buff Black dude I’ve met here and there, and then heads to the designated spot on the court—a location a few feet behind the three-point line. After taking a ridiculously long time to gather herself, as if the fate of the world depends on her making the shot, Laila bends her knees, exhales, and flings her arms upward, releasing the ball into the air.
And . . . it’s a brick. A clunker that thuds to the ground a few feet from the rim.
Confronted with her abject failure, Laila shrieks before peeling off a glorious streak of laughter I can hear all the way over here. Finally, she drops to the ground, dramatically, and writhes around like she’s been shot, making her friends guffaw.
As Laila is writhing on the ground, a couple of tall, muscular guys reach the court. They high-five Aloha’s husband, Zander, before standing over Laila and laughing along with everyone else. And that’s when I realize one of the guys is the pro basketball player, Malik Wallace of The Knicks. The NBA’s Rookie of the Year last year, who led his team, singlehandedly, to win the Eastern Conference Finals. Jesus Christ. Reed’s
contact list really is the coolest in LA.
As a fan of The Bulls, I should probably hate Malik Wallace, given how much he bitch-slapped my team last season. But it’s impossible not to respect such rarified talent and skill.
Heeeey, I think. Malik would be a perfect cover for me! I suddenly realize I could walk over there to the court and act like I came to meet Malik, thereby giving Laila the chance to introduce herself to me and thank me for letting her join the tour. Laila doesn’t know I had nothing to do with her getting the gig, after all. So why not walk over there to “meet Malik” and let Laila kiss my ass while I’m there, as any grateful opener would do? It’s pure genius.
I start walking, feeling pretty damned good about my strategy. It’s critical with a woman like Laila Fitzgerald—the kind who can get any man she wants—not to let her know how much I’m drooling over her. I can’t let her think she has the upper hand. Otherwise, she’ll surely ditch me as fast as she ditched Cash. And maybe Kendrick, too? That remains to be seen.
Fuck.
No.
I stop walking, the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
Of all the people on that court right now, the last one I’d want to be talking to Laila is Malik Wallace. But he’s doing just that. And not only talking to her, but brazenly flirting with her. She’s off the ground now and the pair has drifted off to the side to talk one-on-one.
Crap.
She’s laughing now. Swatting flirtatiously at Malik’s muscular arm.
Fuck.
Laila calls for the ball from one of her friends, and when she gets it, she hands it to Malik, clearly being sassy with him. She points. And he laughingly steps to the spot where she just airballed her latest attempt. Gracefully, Malik releases the ball and sinks it with nothing but net. And when he’s done making his shot—and, presumably, his point—he beelines back to Laila . . . and she gives him an exuberant high-five.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They’re obviously bonding over there—in record speed.
The pair continues talking as the game continues around them. But, soon, their conversation is interrupted when Dax Morgan, the lead singer of 22 Goats, says something to the group that makes his bandmates—Fish and Colin—huddle up. My guess, based on the way the night has been going, is that Dax just received word that it’s 22 Goats’ turn to take the large stage in the main room of the party, along with whatever combination of musician-friends they want to invite. My band already played earlier in the night with our selected group of friends, so it makes sense to me that’s what I’m seeing.
“Hey, Savage!” a female voice says to my right. And when I turn my head, there’s a beautiful Asian woman standing before me. She extends her hand with a bright smile. “I’m Zasu, one of the writers for Rock ‘n’ Roll. Reed sent me to find you to talk about your upcoming interview.”
Well, I’ll be damned. By now, I’d convinced myself Zasu didn’t actually exist.
I shake her hand and say it’s good to meet her and she flushes visibly at my touch.
“I’m a huge fan,” she gushes. “I was elated to find out you’d been assigned to me for the special issue.”
“Thanks.” I glance at the basketball court again. And fuck my life, Laila is still talking to Malik.
Zasu says something, forcing me to return my attention to her. She’s flustered. Blushing. Fanning herself like I’ve seen many, many fans do over the past few years. And so, I wait, feeling vaguely annoyed. Women react like this upon meeting me all the time. Which is fine, but weird. I mean, I’m the same guy I’ve always been, yet nobody reacted like this when I worked at a supermarket in Chicago. But, okay. I get it. I’m famous now. And this is part of the gig when I meet fans. But when I meet a reporter? Come on.
Zasu laughs at herself and sighs. “Forgive me. This never happens to me. I’m being so unprofessional.” She shakes it off, pulls herself together, and starts explaining the general game plan for the one-on-one interviews. Specifically, she says they’re going to be different, and more fun, than the typical sit-down.
But since I’ve already heard this exact spiel from Georgina earlier, I tune her out. By the end of my ping pong game with Georgina, she’d convinced me to go ATVing with her on the day of my interview, since it’s something I’ve never done. Something I’ve never wanted to do, honestly, but I wasn’t going to say no to Georgina. There are worse things than spending the day with a gorgeous woman, watching her ride a fast machine.
As Zasu continues talking, I gaze toward the basketball court again, just in time to see Kendrick and Kai arrive. There are some hugs and handshakes. Some introductions. Kendrick and Kai both visibly recognize Malik Wallace. And, not surprisingly, they stride up to him and Laila and strike up an animated conversation.
Finally, Dax and his bandmates break from their huddle. Dax announces something that wrangles the cats around him, and the entire group begins walking toward the house, with Laila falling into step between Malik and Kendrick.
“So, do you have any ideas about an activity you might like to do?” the reporter, Zasu, asks me. “Maybe something you’ve never done before?”
The group is even with Zasu and me now, about thirty yards away behind Zasu’s back. Kendrick hasn’t noticed me because his head is turned toward Laila. But Laila, who’s looking at Kendrick as he speaks sure as hell sees me standing over here in a dark corner with Zasu. How do I know that? Because she’s rolling her eyes at me, as if to say, Again? And I can’t help winking at her in reply. Dude, she’s the one who was flirting with Cash earlier, and is now the cream filling between Malik and Kendrick. If Laila’s annoyed that I’ve bounced from one hot woman to the next at this party, then maybe she should look in the mirror and be pissed at herself.
“Savage?” the reporter says.
But my eyes are tracking Laila’s movement like a hawk tracking a mouse in a field. With a death glare to me, Laila turns her head and says something to Malik before finally walking far enough forward that I’m now looking at her back. I crane my neck, still watching, as Laila, and everyone she’s with, including Malik and Kendrick, disappear through a set of double doors into the house.
“Um. Savage?”
My heart racing, I look at the reporter but say nothing.
“I was asking if you have any ideas for an activity we could do on the day of your interview?”
“No. I have no idea.”
“Oh. Okay. Well . . . I can send you a list of ideas, maybe?”
“You know what? I’d rather do the interview by phone. My band will be heading out on tour soon and I’d like to have as few obligations between now and then as possible.”
Zasu’s shoulders sink with disappointment. “Oh.”
A collective roar of excitement blasts from inside the house, followed by the amplified sounds of an electric guitar and Dax Morgan’s voice, greeting the crowd.
“Oooh!” Zasu shouts. “It’s 22 Goats!”
“Go on,” I say, gesturing toward the house. “You don’t want to miss this.”
“That’s okay. I can listen from out here, so we can finish our conversation.”
“I’m not really up for this right now, actually,” I reply, just as the band begins playing one of 22 Goats’ biggest hits—a mid-tempo love song called "Fireflies.”
“Okay. No worries. Thanks for your time, Savage. I’ll be in touch.” Zasu pauses, apparently expecting me to respond. And when I don’t, she sprints toward the house.
For a long moment, I stand alone in the shadows, trying to decide what to do.
Dax is singing the lyrics to his famous song. But, suddenly, a female voice takes over. It’s Aloha. Followed immediately by another female voice taking the next line. Laila. The sound of her distinctive voice makes me close my eyes. Damn, she’s good.
I run my hand through my hair, feeling a rush of adrenaline and yearning. Knowing Laila is in there, dazzling the crowd with her talent and beauty and sultry stage presence is almost too much for m
e to bear. I want to head in there and watch, more than I want to breathe. But not when I know Kendrick is in there, watching and wanting her. Probably Malik Wallace, too.
Jealousy floods me again. Which makes no sense, given that I’ve never even spoken to the girl. She’s just another hot woman at a party. Another vixen in a music video. A gorgeous artist with astounding talent, yes. But, still, someone I’ve never even met. So, why should I care if she’s off-limits to me, when another woman, just as alluring and desirable, will surely cross my path in a matter of minutes? I need to let Kendrick have her. And that’s that.
Several voices launch into singing the famous sing-along chorus of “Fireflies.” Yet, the only voice my brain can hear is Laila’s. And, suddenly, I feel the urgent need to get the hell out of here. If I don’t, I’m going to do something I’ll regret. I’ll fuck over Kendrick. Or I’ll pick a fight with Malik Wallace, of all people. Or, God help me, I’ll pick a fight with Laila herself, just to prove to myself I don’t want her.
Exhaling loudly, I grab my phone and tap out a message to Kendrick:
Me: Yo, KC. I’m gonna dip. Not feeling great. Happy 25th. I love you, brother. Have a blast tonight. Good luck with Laila.
After pressing send, I shove my phone into my pocket, grab a cigarette and light it—and then stride with purpose toward a faraway set of French doors. They’re a different set than the ones Laila and her group walked through several minutes ago. I don’t know where they lead, exactly, but I’m thinking the odds are high they won’t take me directly through the main room of the party, where Laila is currently onstage, gracing the world with her insane talent and sex appeal.
Happy Birthday, Kendrick, I think. For the love of fuck, don’t let her leave with Malik Wallace.
Six
