by Rowe, Lauren
Once Fugitive Summer’s set is over, I’ll head to my hotel room, like I always do, in whatever city, and soak in my bathtub with a second glass of wine. Substitute “hot tub” for “bathtub,” if there’s one available to me. While soaking, I’ll text with my sister or Mom, or Aloha, or read a romance novel, and then head to bed, where I’ll watch a show of some sort. Probably pull out my vibrator, if I haven’t already gotten myself off in the tub. And then, finally I’ll close my eyes and drift off. All of it, to be rinsed and repeated in the next city. And you know what? I love the routine. In fact, I’ve come to cherish it. Because it keeps me sane to know what comes next in my little corner of the world, amidst Savage’s ever-increasing chaos and animus.
Sometimes, I admit I want to break my routine to say yes to Kendrick’s frequent invitations to hang out with Fugitive Summer after their show. I adore everyone in that band, other than Savage, and lots of staff and crew members, too. But there’s no way I’m going to subject myself to partying with Savage these days. Not when I’m on the bitter cusp of exploding like a bomb and word-vomiting all over him about his horrible behavior throughout this tour, but especially since New York.
“Thanks, Katrina,” I say, handing my assistant my empty water bottle. We reach my dressing room and open the door . . . and discover Savage inside the room. Sitting on my couch while flirting intimately with a groupie who’s sitting on his lap. Again. Jesus! This is the third time in two weeks I’ve stumbled upon this exact vignette in my dressing room, immediately after my set! “Get out!” I shriek, the past weeks of aggravation boiling over into an uncontainable flood.
I’ve been biting my tongue for weeks. But this time, I can’t contain myself. I don’t care if I’m embarrassing Mr. Rockstar in front of his new fuck buddy. I don’t care if nearby staff and crew can overhear me shrieking like a madwoman. I don’t care if Savage is the star of the headliner and I’m the peon opener. I don’t care about any of it! He’s turned into a monster these past few weeks—the biggest jerk I’ve ever met—nothing at all like the surprisingly cool dude I shared a bottle of whiskey with in Providence. And, truly, someone has to put this jackass in his place, once and for all. So, it might as well be me.
I shout, “The much bigger dressing room assigned to the headliner isn’t big enough to contain your massive ego, so you needed to take over both yours and mine?”
Savage languidly twirls a lock of the woman’s hair around his fingertip, his dark eyes boring holes into my face. “I took a wrong turn, Fitzy. Chill out. These hallways can be confusing.”
God, I hate him. Literally growling with frustration, I bolt out of my dressing room, toward his. If Mr. Rockstar is going to hang out in my teeny-tiny dressing room with his latest groupie, then I’m going to hang out in his much larger one, with his band, all of whom I like a million times more than him. But before I’ve reached my destination, as I enter a large backstage area where lots of crew and staffers are busy getting ready for Fugitive Summer’s entrance onto the stage, I feel Savage’s body heat immediately behind me, sending tingles across my skin, against my will. I hear his footfalls and ragged breath. Sense the shift in the air that always happens in his presence.
He grasps my arm. “Laila. Stop.”
I whirl around and face him, breathing hard . . . and immediately lose it. I’ve been biting my tongue for several weeks now, ever since New York, when we tore into each other on the sidewalk in front of that restaurant—and I can’t hold in my contempt for this rude, selfish man-child a second longer. In a torrent of angry words, I let loose on him, ripping him a new asshole for his selfishness, rudeness, and extreme unprofessionalism, especially over the past couple weeks. I rail against him for all the times he’s been insanely late for soundchecks and the buses. And then, I scream at him even more passionately about the time, just last week, Savage kept a room full of VIP fans waiting a ridiculously long amount of time.
I wasn’t there to see Savage’s bad behavior at that VIP event, and it didn’t affect me, personally. But I heard about it and it pissed me off! Apparently, when Savage finally arrived, after keeping those poor people waiting far too long for their demi-god, he only half-heartedly rushed through his duties in lightning speed. Totally unacceptable!
Wrapping up my diatribe, I shout, “Remember in Providence, you told me you feared becoming a rockstar cliché?” I take a step forward and shove my nose into his face, my breathing hot and heavy. “Well, guess what, Adrian? Transformation complete!”
Savage’s dark eyes drift to my lips for the briefest moment. But then, he takes in the shocked faces of the crew and staffers who’ve witnessed my tirade. And, suddenly, he transforms into a raging lunatic, before my eyes.
Practically vibrating with rage, Savage grits his teeth and lets me have it for a full five minutes, basically telling me in every conceivable way I need to know my place, mind my business, and shut the fuck up. As the cherry on top, Savage also tells me I’m lucky to be on this tour at all—that, in fact, he didn’t want me here, and told Reed as much, from the get-go.
“But since you are here, against my will,” he spits out, “you should be kissing my goddamned ass, not ripping it a new asshole—and especially not in front of the entire crew.” He motions to the flabbergasted crowd of people standing around us, their mouths hanging open—a group that now includes not only staff and crew, but the members of Fugitive Summer, as well. “Know your place, Laila. Or, I assure you, you can and will be replaced.” He smiles at whatever panic he’s seeing on my face. “You think you’re the one who makes every single one of these people’s paychecks possible? You think the fans in this stadium paid to see you? Think again!”
He steps forward, closing the already small gap between us, and gets right into my face.
“Now, why don’t you go to your dressing room and have your little glass of white wine and call your asshole boyfriend to tell him about me being a big, fat meanie to you tonight. Actually, I don’t care what you do, as long as you stay the fuck out my way for the rest of the night, so I don’t cut your ass from the tour, just to teach you a much-needed lesson in humility.” He exhales, and his warm breath releases onto my face. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to head onstage to entertain the thousands of people who came out tonight to watch me shake my ass like a motherfucking rockstar cliché.”
Fifteen
Savage
Phoenix, Arizona
When Kendrick and I step outside the door of his hotel suite, the moonlit air feels unexpectedly warm for this late hour.
“Thanks for the birthday party, brother,” I say, gripping Kendrick’s sideways palm.
After releasing my hand, Kendrick looks around at the moonlit night and winces. “It’s still hot as an oven out here, at this hour?”
“Welcome to Phoenix,” I quip. As Kendrick knows, I spent my earliest years in this oven of a city, before moving to Chicago at age twelve to live with my grandma in her apartment complex, which was where I met the Cook brothers, whose family lived down the hall.
“You were ruthless in ‘Birthday Truth or Dare’ tonight,” Kendrick says, laughing.
I shake my head. “You were way more ruthless on your birthday. Surely, making the head of our label hate my guts is far worse than me making you briefly turn your balls into cucumber slices at the spa.”
We laugh together, both of us reliving tonight’s silliness. After Kai had passed out on the couch in Kendrick’s suite, I dared my best friend to whip out his balls and rest them onto his brother’s sleeping eyelids—you know, as if Kai were a customer at a spa and Kendrick’s balls were a couple of cucumber slices. And thanks to the rules of our game, Kendrick couldn’t refuse. In fact, the dude is such a good sport he even went so far as to remain in that compromised position for a full minute, albeit with his large hands covering his dong, and invited everyone at the party to snap close-up shots of his brother’s ball-covered face.
It was priceless. Easily, the highlight of my
birthday party. The lowlight, however? Laila not showing up, despite Kendrick extending an invitation to her. I don’t blame her, of course. I knew the odds were low she’d come, given that she now hates me passionately. The thing is, as much as I’ve purposefully tried to make Laila hate me for weeks now, for reasons only a clinical psychologist would be able to explain to me, I realized tonight, rather starkly, while looking around at the people at my birthday party, I desperately wanted Laila to be there. I realized, in fact, that I’d very much like a do-over now, please. I’d very much like Laila to stop hating me now, please. The only problem? I have no idea how to dig myself out of this stupid hole I’ve been expertly digging for weeks. I wanted Laila to hate me with the force of a thousand suns? Well, mission accomplished.
Kendrick yawns. “I’m gonna head inside now, before Tracy falls asleep. Goodnight, brother.”
He’s talking about our tour manager. For the past week or so, Kendrick has been having a “tour fling” with her, which seems to imply he’s finally given up on waiting for Laila to break up with Malik. Surely, it’s no coincidence I’m only now regretting my strategy with Laila, after it seems crystal clear my best friend has finally taken himself out of the hunt.
To be honest, I would have bet any amount of money Laila would have ditched Malik’s trashy ass by now. And yet, every single time I’ve walked past her in a hallway, or overheard her as she’s stood nearby, she’s always on her phone, talking with Malik. Giggling with him. Saying stuff like, “Oh, Malik! You’re so bad, baby!”
It’s the main reason I haven’t swallowed my pride and extended an olive branch to Laila yet. Simply because I’m so shocked and appalled and downright pissed she’s still giving Malik the time of day. What’s wrong with her? But suddenly, now that I’m drunk again, for the first time since New York—only this time, thankfully, a happy kind of drunk—a birthday boy kind of drunk—I feel ready to swallow my pride and finally bury the hatchet with Laila. Now that Kendrick is sleeping with Tracy, and he’s finally out of my way, I’ve decided to go for it, in earnest. I don’t care if she’s still with Malik. Mr. Basketball isn’t here. And I am.
“Goodnight, brother,” I reply to Kendrick, waving to him. “See you at the buses at nine.”
Kendrick exhales. “Eight!”
“That was a joke.”
Kendrick rolls his eyes. “You never know with you. Seriously, don’t be late this time, Savage. Everyone is starting to get annoyed with you for being late so much. Not just Laila.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll stop being an asshole. I was actually thinking of extending an olive branch to Laila.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I was actually surprised, now that she’s probably single, she didn’t stop by the party. But—"
“Laila’s single?” I blurt, my heart lurching into my mouth.
“Well, I’m assuming. I can’t imagine she’d stay with Malik after that video of him leaked tonight.”
I feel like I’m having a stroke. “What video?”
“You didn’t see the video of Malik getting blown in a strip club? It’s all over the internet! Everyone was passing it around at the party tonight.”
Every molecule in my body feels like it’s exploding, all at once. “Nobody showed it to me!”
“Hang on.” Shaking his head, Kendrick reaches into his pocket. “I saw you looking at something with Kai on his phone, laughing your asses off. I assumed—”
“He was showing me Alessandra’s funny music video that just released!”
“Okay, calm down.” He quickly cues something up on his phone and hands it to me. And a second later I’m watching dark, grainy footage of what looks like Malik Wallace getting head from a woman kneeling between his legs who’s wearing nothing but a thong.
My heart is crashing. “Has it been confirmed this is him?”
Kendrick nods. “There’s other footage of him walking into the place, in those same clothes. And in that footage, you can clearly see his face.” Kendrick takes his phone from me while I walk in tight circles, flailing my arms and breathing hard. After a moment of watching me act like a lunatic, Kendrick lets out a long exhale. “Stop, Savage. It’s okay. You’ve got my blessing.”
I stop moving and stare at him. But I don’t speak.
“Go get her, man. She’s all yours. I know how much you’ve been wanting her. I’ve known for a long time. So, go for it.”
I can barely breathe. “I’m sorry,” I say, a mixture of relief and guilt and excitement flooding me. “I’ve tried my best not to want her, KC. I’ve tried to keep my distance and push her away, as best I could, so you could take your shot with her. I swear, I’ve tried.”
“I know you have, brother. Thank you.”
I run my palm down my face. “I don’t understand my obsession with her. She makes me crazy. I haven’t even fucked anyone else since I laid eyes on her at Reed’s party.”
Kendrick’s jaw practically drops onto the ground. “But I thought—”
“No.”
“The waitress in New York?”
I shake my head. “No. Nobody.”
Kendrick processes that for a long moment. “So, you thought making Laila hate your guts would make you want her less?”
“I guess so.”
He narrows his eyes. “Or maybe you figured her out, even if it was subconsciously. Maybe, you realized making Laila hate your guts would only make her want you more.”
“No.”
“Yes. Don’t you see? I’ve been nothing but nice to that woman since the second I met her. I’ve been her best friend. And where am I now? Irreversibly in her friend zone. While you’ve been nothing but an asshole to her from day one. And where are you? Firmly in her ‘I want to fuck you to death!’ zone.”
My earlier mixed emotions streamline and converge into nothing but excitement. If that’s what Kendrick sees, then it must be true. Because Kendrick Cook is fantastic at reading people, unlike me. I say, “I swear I wasn’t trying to cockblock you.”
“Not consciously.” He exhales. “It doesn’t matter. There was no other ending to the story for me. Even if you weren’t here, she still wouldn’t want me. I realize that now. Clearly, she likes flaming assholes who treat her like shit. Look how long she’s hung in there with Malik! I can’t compete with that, because I can never be that. But you can.”
I think maybe he’s insulting me. But I feel nothing but complimented. “You think?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I do.”
In a flash flood, every drop of desire I’ve been holding back, denying, and ignoring for so long slams into me. “I’ll go to her room now. Would you go inside and ask Tracy to text me Laila’s room number?”
“No, Savage. Not now. It’s after three and you’re shitfaced drunk. Go to your room now, get some sleep, wake up and take a shower in the morning and get to the buses on time, and then take your shot with Laila in Vegas.”
“But—"
“Savage, listen to me. I’m not sabotaging you. I’m helping you. You’ve been smoking like a chimney all night. You know how much Laila hates that. Get cleaned up and talk to her in Vegas, or you’ll go there now and wake her up and get into another screaming match with her.”
My shoulders slump. He’s right, of course. Even if Laila liked me, which she doesn’t, she’d shoo me away from her room for smelling like an ashtray. “Okay. I’ll get some sleep and talk to her in Vegas. Thanks again for the birthday party.” I twist my mouth. “For everything.”
Kendrick winks. “Someone’s gotta take care of your dumb ass.”
“Glad it’s you.”
“Me, too.” He smiles. “See you at the buses at nine.”
I crinkle my forehead. “I thought you said eight.”
“That was a test.”
With a wink, Kendrick heads back into his suite, while I begin walking down a winding path toward my room on the far side of the hotel grounds. But when I reach a slatted fence enclosing the hotel’s VIP pool area—an area that’
s been closed off to the general public for my band’s private use during our stay—I suddenly decide a naked, moonlit swim would be the perfect way to cap off my twenty-sixth birthday.
After swiping my keycard and walking through the gate, I look around for an especially dark corner to undress in . . . and that’s when I see the universe’s birthday gift to me. Laila Fitzgerald. She’s sitting in a hot tub in a far corner of the space with a large bottle of booze on the ledge, next to her head. Surely, she’s drowning her sorrows about that humiliating video of Malik. Which thrills me to no end.
Laila’s sandy hair is piled atop her head in a messy bun, making her chiseled cheekbones and plush lips all the more striking. Her alabaster skin, which always sort of glows, looks particularly supernatural in the moonlight.
Without hesitation, I begin walking toward her, whispering to myself as I go, “Happy birthday to me.”
Sixteen
Savage
I come to a stop on the ledge of the hot tub and look down at Laila . . . and immediately discover that she’s naked. Hallelujah. And that her body in that water is even more gorgeous than I’ve fantasized. Man, this birthday just keeps getting better and better.
“You’re gorgeous,” I whisper, and then press my lips together when I realize I’ve drunkenly blurted my thoughts aloud.
Laila smirks. “And you’re drunk.”
I bite back my smile. “A bit.”
“Eyes up here, Adrian.”
I begrudgingly comply.
She cocks an eyebrow. “I presume you’ve risked softening your chiseled abs tonight with way too much alcohol, in celebration of your birthday?”
