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

by Rowe, Lauren

  I look at my assistant, Katrina, my aggravation probably written all over my face. But I don’t care if our tour manager knows I’m pissed. In fact, I want her to know. Now that my soundcheck has been delayed by at least an hour and a half, my assistant will need to reschedule a ton of stuff for me. My hair and makeup. Another interview. Plus, call me crazy, but I was hoping to have a moment to eat and relax before showtime. To call my mom and sister before going onstage. But now, thanks to Savage, I won’t be able to do all of it.

  “Why don’t you take a seat and relax, rather than going back to your dressing room?” Tracy says, emphasizing the word relax in a way that tells me she already thinks I’m a raving bitch. She motions toward the front row of seats. “This way, you’ll be ready to hop onstage the moment they’re done.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I say, trying to sound super chill and easygoing. But I don’t think I’m fooling her.

  Both of us smiling serenely, my assistant and I take our seats . . . and then proceed to quietly gripe about the situation between ourselves for the next several minutes. In the middle of our bitch-fest, however, a male voice behind us takes us by surprise.

  “Yeah, I vote we kill him. He’s such a dick.”

  I turn around to find Kendrick sitting behind us, looking highly amused.

  “Hello, ladies,” he says. “Sorry we’re running late. Savage was visiting his family and got delayed.”

  “Oh no,” I say. “I hope everything is okay.”

  “It’s fine. He’s on his way now.”

  “Great,” I say brightly, my cheeks turning red. “How long have you been sitting back there, Kendrick?”

  His smile broadens. “Long enough to know you’ve been plotting Savage’s murder. But don’t worry. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”

  My shoulders soften under his warm smile. Clearly, he’s not holding whatever he heard against me. But it’s a good lesson for me. From now on, I need to keep my nose down and my big mouth shut.

  For the next few minutes, Kendrick and I chat breezily as we await Mr. Rockstar’s arrival.

  And finally it happens. Adrian Savage enters the building. Which I know even before I’ve seen him, thanks to the sudden shift in the air. The electricity instantly coursing through the building. All at once, crew members who’ve been working calmly suddenly spaz out. And Kendrick rises from his chair.

  “Talk to you later, Laila,” he says. “Come eat with us after your soundcheck. We’ll be in Greenroom 2 with a full spread. Plenty for you and your band.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  Kendrick heads toward a far door, just as Savage’s striking face comes into view. He strides into the large venue and toward the stage, and Kendrick greets him warmly and then falls into step with him. At the same time, the rest of the band converges on the stage and gets settled with their instruments in a way that suggests they’ve all done this before. Many, many times—and on a very tight schedule. When Savage and Kendrick walk onstage to join the rest of their band, everyone waves curtly at Savage. But they don’t scold him or otherwise freak out. They just get down to business.

  Savage slides the strap of his guitar over his shoulder. “Has this been tuned?”

  “Yes,” a nearby roadie confirms. “All three are ready to go.”

  “Thanks.” Savage steps up to his mic and taps on it, quickly discerning it’s not live. He waves his arm and the soundman at the back of the venue flips a switch. “Hello, Philadelphia,” Savage booms when the mic is live. “1-2, 1-2.” Boom. Savage’s eyes land on me. And there it is, again. That same crazy electricity I felt every time my eyes met his at Reed’s party. A kind of double-ovarian explosion I’ve never felt before. “Hello, Laila,” Savage says calmly into his microphone, a smirk on his handsome face.

  But that’s all I get. Without even waiting for me to mouth “hello” in reply, Savage looks down and rips off the opening guitar riff from one of Fugitive Summer’s biggest hits—the sexiest song in their catalog, by far—a song filled with double entendres about orgasms and oral sex called “Come with Me.”

  Did Savage just now dedicate this song to me, by saying my name before launching into it? Or am I connecting dots that simply aren’t there?

  Of course, the full band expertly follows Savage’s lead, right on cue, and, soon, he leans into his microphone and begins to sing. And just like that, even during a soundcheck, Savage transforms from a mere mortal into a god before my eyes. Even when there’s no audience cheering him on, no collective hysteria to elevate him to superhuman status, Savage nonetheless looks supernatural in this moment. The perfect representation of a man doing what he was divinely created to do. And whether I want to think it or not, despite me actively not wanting to think it, as I watch Savage performing onstage, I find myself thinking, on a running loop: I. Want. That.

  Nine

  Laila

  “All I’m saying is it’s a lucky thing you’ve got bodyguards,” Kendrick is saying to Savage as I enter the greenroom with my musicians after our soundcheck. “Or else Laila would have murdered you in there.”

  Crap.

  Fugitive Summer is sitting at a large table, eating a meal. And based on what Kendrick just said, it seems Kendrick has been telling his band the story of my earlier bitchfest, the one in which I complained to my assistant about Savage traveling on the day of the opening show.

  At the sound of my band entering the room, Fugitive Summer collectively turns their heads toward the door.

  “Hey, guys,” I say awkwardly, my cheeks blooming. “Have you met my band?”

  My heart racing, I introduce everyone—two guys and two women—trying to sound light and bright. And through it all, I steadfastly avoid Savage’s gaze.

  Kendrick enthusiastically invites us to fill our plates from a buffet at a nearby table. So, we all head over there and begin doing just that, exchanging small talk with Fugitive Summer as we do. We talk about the venue. The acoustics. The amazing sound crew. My musicians compliment Fugitive Summer on their soundcheck, and several of them compliment my band in return, saying they heard our two songs from in here and we sounded great.

  As I walk to the dining table with my meal in hand, I feel eyes on me. And when I finally muster the courage to look up, I discover I’m right. But the eyes don’t belong to Savage. They belong to Kendrick. He’s looking at me apologetically. Like he feels bad he just ratted me out to his friends.

  I shoot him a warm smile to let him know I’m not offended in the least. That in fact, I’m well aware I deserved it. Actually, although I’d never admit this to Kendrick or anyone else, I’m kind of glad Savage knows my thoughts about his lateness, albeit not directly from me. Someone needs to tell that boy the truth—that the entire world doesn’t revolve around him. It might as well be me.

  As conversation at the table between the two bands becomes easier and gains momentum, I muster the courage to peek at Savage, and find him already staring at me. Or, more accurately, glaring at me. Glowering, like he wants to beat the hell out of me.

  Oh, dear. Is Mister Rockstar pissed about what Kendrick just now revealed? Because, if so, I’m not sorry. The man made me have to reschedule half the stuff on my calendar and cancel the rest. So, I think I’m allowed to be a tiny bit annoyed. Lesson learned, though. Annoyed or not, I’ll shut my trap going forward.

  Savage slowly slides a bite of food into his gorgeous mouth and chews, not taking his eyes off me.

  So, I arch my eyebrow, and do the same.

  He subtly mimics my facial expression, like he’s mocking me.

  So I shoot him a look that says, Come at me, bro.

  He doesn’t hesitate. He makes a face that says, Oh, I will . . . and then looks away.

  Damn it! When will I learn to look away first?

  Feeling pissed at myself, I take a big bite of food and tune into the conversation happening around me. It seems Kai and one of my musicians went to the same music school and have several mutual f
riends.

  “I had classes with your older brother, Sebastian!” Kai says to my musician, Tate, connecting the dots.

  “No way!” Tate replies.

  “Is Sebastian still playing for Alicia Keys?” Kai asks.

  “No, not anymore. Right now, he’s playing in the house band for Sing Your Heart Out. He’s been doing that for the past three seasons.”

  Kai laughs. “Holy shit! Is that a cushy gig?”

  “Super cushy. No travel. Easy songs and arrangements. Sebastian could do it in his sleep.”

  “I bet.”

  Everyone at the table joins in with questions and comments about the show, with Titus rolling his eyes and calling it the most “cringey-ass show ever.”

  “Yeah, it’s cringey as hell,” Tate, my musician, agrees. “But a massive gravy train. My brother’s salary from the show itself is shit, total shit, but he gets so many side gigs from the contacts he makes on the show, it’s turned out to be a goldmine. Now that the show had its season finale last night, he’s getting ready to go on tour with Hugh Delaney’s band. Who, of course, he met on the show.”

  “Good for him,” Kai says. “Although I’d sooner shoot myself than play Hugh Delaney songs, night after night.”

  “Hey, it’s a steady job,” Tate says. “They’re not always easy to come by for a musician.”

  “Oh, of course,” Kai says, quickly backtracking. “I know it’s tough out there. Any musician would leap at a regular gig on a popular TV show. Good for him.”

  “I watched the final performances last night,” Ruby interjects. “I can’t wait to find out who won in the big reveal tonight. I’m hoping Deanna.”

  “I saw the finale, too,” my musician, Tate, says. “Did you see Aloha kick the crap out of Hugh?”

  “I saw that!” Ruby says, laughing. “I thought both contestants did such a great job. I think it’s so fun to watch people trying to make their dreams come true, any way they can.”

  “I agree,” I say, my heart thumping. As this conversation has worn on, I’ve felt internal pressure to mention I’m going to be on the next season of the show. The lineup hasn’t been announced yet, but that’s not why I haven’t mentioned it to this group. Obviously, this is a highly trustworthy crowd. I think I’ve held off because I’m a little embarrassed to admit I’ll be appearing on a show half these people think is “cringey-ass.” Testing the waters, I say, “In my opinion, the only thing that’s really cringey about the show is Hugh Delaney.”

  “I agree completely,” Ruby says. “But even then, watching Hugh pretend to be some kind of down to earth everyman, when everyone knows he’s secretly the biggest prima donna on the show, is super entertaining to me.”

  “To me, too!” I say, laughing.

  “What does your brother say about Hugh?” Kai asks.

  Tate chuckles. “My brother says Hugh is a flaming cunt.”

  Everyone laughs uproariously while I shift my weight in my chair. If I don’t say something now, I feel like it will seem weird later, when my name is announced and everyone realizes I sat here and said nothing.

  “Titus and I used to watch the show every week with our mom,” Ruby says.

  “You watched with Mom,” Titus says. “I never did.”

  “Yes, you did. Remember, you were obsessed with that one contestant . . . Kikuko?”

  Titus grins. “Oh, yeah. Kikuko. She was hot.”

  Everyone laughs, except Savage, who hasn’t laughed once during this entire conversation. At this point, I’m not sure if he’s even capable of laughing.

  I clear my throat, still mustering my courage. “I used to watch with my mom and sister every week,” I say, looking at Ruby. “And guess who’s always been my mom’s favorite?” I snort. “Hugh.”

  Everyone chuckles. Again, everyone except Savage. And I suddenly realize this is it. My last chance to mention that I’m going to be appearing as a mentor on the next season. If I don’t say it now, the conversation will shift and I’ll lose my chance. I take a deep breath. “I’m actually going to be on the show next season. Just one episode, as a mentor for Aloha’s team.”

  The table explodes with congratulations and reactions from everyone except Savage. Most notably, Titus apologizes for calling the show “cringey-ass” earlier.

  “No need to apologize,” I say. “It is cringey-ass.”

  “But that’s its charm,” Ruby interjects. “Congrats, Laila. That’s awesome.”

  “Thank you. The best part was telling my mom. She shrieked with joy when she found out.”

  “Yeah, and I bet the paycheck won’t suck, either,” Titus says.

  “Actually, the pay for mentors is almost nothing,” I admit. “Only a couple thousand bucks—just enough to meet union minimums.”

  My musician, Tate, says, “Yeah, my brother says they’re cheap-ass bastards to everyone but the judges. The judges make millions per season, while everyone else makes peanuts.” He smiles at me. “I’m sure it’ll be well worth your while, for reasons other than the salary.”

  “My label head and agent both think so. Honestly, I’d have said yes for no money at all. Just for the exposure.”

  Savage scoffs and, for the first time, deigns to enter the conversation. “Never do anything for free, unless it’s for charity. But definitely not for a cringey-ass TV show that’s making money, hand over fist, for everyone but the talent. Always know your worth, Laila. If you don’t, nobody else will.”

  I furrow my brow in surprise. I’m not certain if he was intending to compliment me, or chastise me, with that comment. All I know is it felt like the latter. “There was no way to push back on the money,” I insist. “They’ve got a waiting list a mile long of people wanting to be a mentor. Plus, like I said, Reed and my agent, who’s one of the best in the business, both said it was worth it to take the gig, so that’s what I did. But, regardless, it’s one day of work to make my mom extremely happy. And that’s enough for me.”

  Savage rolls his eyes. “Never mix emotion and business, Laila. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

  What the fuck? Who does he think he is? I pull a face that hopefully expresses my extreme annoyance. “I don’t know why you think it’s your place to offer me unsolicited business advice,” I say. “Especially when I’ve already signed the contract and can’t do anything about it now. I had one of the top agents in LA, plus Reed, both adamantly advising me to take the deal, so I did.”

  “I don’t know your agent, but I know Reed is always looking out for Reed.”

  “Good, because our interests are perfectly aligned. The show will boost my music sales and profile, so I can make big money down the line, both for Reed and myself. Not everything is about instant gratification, Savage, contrary to what you might think.”

  He smirks but says nothing . . . but the air between us suddenly feels like it’s crackling with electricity.

  “Sounds like you made a great decision to me!” Ruby chirps, her eyes telling Savage not to say another word.

  Slowly, Savage picks up his water bottle and takes a long, languid sip, his eyes trained on mine and his body language oozing with disdain.

  I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t care about his opinion, but I do. My breathing stilted, I say, “So, I take it you agree the show is cringey-ass?”

  “I do. My grandmother loves it, so I’ve seen it a few times. And it gives me hives every time.”

  I tighten my jaw. “Well, thank goodness, you’re not the one they’ve asked to be on it, then.”

  “Thank goodness for small mercies.” He puts his water bottle down. “Obviously, you’re happy about this, so I’m happy for you. Congrats.”

  I shoot him daggers. Even while saying all the right words, his tone is infuriating. Doesn’t he realize my career is at a totally different level than his, and almost certainly will never reach the towering heights of his? So excuse me if I’ve taken a job he considers beneath him. A job I’m honestly really excited about.

  Out of nowhere,
Savage bites back a smile in reaction to whatever he’s seeing on my face. He licks his lips, suggestively, and, suddenly, despite my annoyance with him, I’m feeling highly aroused. Without warning, warmth oozes into my core and between my legs, making me pulse and tingle. And that’s how I know there’s something really wrong with me . . . because being angry with this man only makes me want to fuck him, all the more.

  I stand, suddenly feeling the need to get away from him. To save myself. I announce, awkwardly, “I think it’s time for me to meet my hair and makeup woman in my dressing room.” It’s not true. It’s not even close to time for that. But that’s what came out of my mouth. My gaze still holding Savage’s and my cheeks burning, I add, “I’ll probably call my mom, too, for a little pre-show pep talk.” Why am I saying that? These people don’t care about my To Do List. My face blooming, I peel my eyes off Savage’s to address the rest of his band. “Have a great show, guys. I’ll watch from the wings.”

  They wish me a great show, too, and I thank them, before turning on my heel and striding out of the greenroom as fast as my legs will carry me, feeling Savage’s dark eyes on my backside as I go.

  Ten

  Laila

  Providence, Rhode Island

  There’s music blaring in Titus’ hotel suite. Drunk, stoned people are all around me, laughing and playing drinking games. Beer pong and Drunk Jenga, mainly. We’re celebrating Titus’ and Ruby’s joint twenty-fifth birthday tonight at a post-show party. All the musicians from both bands are here, plus, a select group of staffers and crew. And, glory be, I’m the perfect level of drunk. Still totally coherent and in control of myself, but feeling fine as wine and invincible.