by Rowe, Lauren
“If you actually got to know me,” I say, “beyond the little sex kitten bitch nut job you think I am, you’d find out there’s a whole lot more to me than all that.”
He whisper-shouts, “How am I supposed to get to know you when you block my fucking number!”
“Look, there’s no point to this. I told you it was a one-time thing. I said it would never happen again, so it shouldn’t have surprised you in the least when it didn’t.”
He looks fit to be tied. “Yes, I know what your mouth said that night, Laila, but your body told me something very different.”
I scoff. “Obviously, not. Or else I would have come to your room, wouldn’t I?”
It’s a dagger to his heart, obviously. “How did you resist me, though? That’s the part I can’t wrap my head around.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“No, seriously. Not because I’m ‘Savage from Fugitive Summer.’ Not like that. Because . . .” He shifts his weight, betraying his utter torment. “Laila, I’ve been losing sleep over this. How did you resist coming to my room, night after night, for a full month, after what happened between us in Phoenix? How the hell was that even possible?”
In this moment, I’m dying to tell Savage what I witnessed in Vegas—the sucker punch of him bringing a groupie to his room, the same way he’d brought those groupies into my dressing room. Although, in Las Vegas, unlike the times before, Savage couldn’t have known I’d see him. And that fact laid to rest a certain theory of mine, once and for all. Before Vegas, I’d stupidly entertained the crazy, magical thought that maybe Savage had brought those groupies into my dressing room only to mess with me, but not to actually screw around with them. But when I saw him with that woman in Vegas, I knew I’d been deluding myself.
For so long now, I’ve wanted to tell Savage what I saw and how much it hurt me. I’ve wanted to scream at him, “How could you?” But, always, I decide, like I’m doing now, that small moment of vindication, that momentary “gotcha!” wouldn’t be worth admitting I practically sprinted to Savage’s room mere minutes after receiving his text.
In the face of my silence, Savage leans in, looking like a madman on meth. “You started fucking Charlie right after me, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Don’t deny it. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I saw you two together, all the time, after Phoenix. Always laughing and eating meals together. Always looking so damned cozy together.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Savage thinks I had a torrid love affair during the tour . . . with Charlie? A man who recently married the great love of his life . . . a former Marine named Dave? I know for a fact Savage had numerous sessions with Charlie during the tour. Did he not ask the man a single personal question, in all that time? Did he not try to get to know Charlie, the tiniest bit? That’s so Savage, I hate him even more for it.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “You figured me out. Did Charlie tell you? Shoot. I made him swear he wouldn’t tell a soul about us.” I lean forward. “Just like I made you promise the same thing after I fucked you.”
Savage’s nostrils flare. “Cut the bullshit, Laila. Did you fuck Charlie or not? I need to know.”
“It’s none of your business. But, yes.”
“Are you messing with me or telling me the truth?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I deserve to know, after everything you’ve put me through.”
“After what I’ve put you through? Ha! Why do you even care who I’ve been with, when there’s an endless supply of groupies, all of them dying to ‘get their hands on you’?”
Savage’s dark eyes are a scorching pyre of jealousy and fury. “Stop it. What happened the night of the hot tub was off the charts for both of us, and you know it. Let’s press the restart button and give this a try. Laila, I can’t get that night off my mind.”
“Well, that’s your misfortune, then. I’ve certainly been able to get it off mine, thanks, in part, to the masterful way Charlie fucked me, every single night of the tour after Phoenix . . . and continues doing to this day.”
It’s all a lie, of course, even besides the Charlie part. In truth, I’ve thought about that mind-blowing night with Savage in Phoenix on a running loop. Every single day since it happened. And even more so every night, when I’m all alone and lonely in bed. Hell, I’ve even started dreaming about Savage! But there’s no way I’d admit that to him now. If he’s feeling tortured and confused by my supposed immunity to his charms, then good. Serves him right.
Savage opens his mouth to reply, looking absolutely furious, just as the PA appears. “Here we go,” she says brightly. She presses on her headphones, briefly, before nodding and holding up three fingers. 3-2-1.
An announcer bellows, “Please welcome Savage from Fugitive Summer . . . and Laila Fitzgerald!”
The audience applauds. The PA tells us to go. And Savage and I begin striding onstage, shoulder to shoulder, our eyes locked and our jaws clenched, with an energy I’d caption “homicidal lust” coursing between us.
Nineteen
Laila
I toss my hair behind my shoulder, like I’m getting ready to throw down in a wrestling ring, and belt out the last powerful note of my latest single—the third one off my sophomore album that’s been taking off like a rocket. And when my song ends, Sylvia Lennox, the beloved host of this long-running daytime talk show, leaps up and applauds with her studio audience, before beckoning me to join her in a cozy sitting area.
As I walk toward my glamorous host, I wave and smile at the boisterous crowd, even though I feel like collapsing onto the floor in relief. I’ve felt extreme nerves during other high-stakes performances in my young career, especially lately, but nothing compares to this. I couldn’t sleep last night, worrying I’d somehow screw this up. But, thank God, I think I just nailed it.
“That was fantastic!” Sylvia shouts above the din, before giving me a warm hug. “I love that song, Laila! So catchy!”
“Thank you so much, Sylvia.”
We take our seats and make brief small talk about the album, and then about my weird hobby of making pottery on a wheel. Or, more accurately, trying to make pottery on a wheel. Until, finally, Sylvia crosses her legs, leans forward, and says “So, let’s talk about your upcoming appearance on Sing Your Heart Out.” She turns to her audience. “Have y’all heard Laila is going to be Aloha’s mentor this season?” The audience claps, confirming, yes, they’ve heard the exciting news, before Sylvia returns to me. “Has shooting on the show started yet?”
“Not yet. Very soon.”
“I’ve heard Aloha helped you get the job. True?”
“True.” I tell the story, briefly, and sing Aloha’s praises, and the audience claps.
“Who do you think will replace Hugh at the judges’ table?” Sylvia asks. “It’s a hot topic. They haven’t made an announcement yet.”
“I have no idea.” Unfortunately, it’s the truth. All I know is, it’s not going to be me. I add, “I’m as excited as everyone else to find out who they pick.”
Sylvia flashes me a suspicious side-eye. “Is it you, by any chance, Miss Laila, and you’re being remarkably coy with me?”
I giggle. “No. And by the way, I’m perfectly happy being a mentor.”
It’s true, even though I’m slightly bummed the producers didn’t bite. Apparently, the producers said they’re not interested in a relative newbie like me as a judge. I’m way too green, they said. Plus, as predicted, they also claimed their “tried and true formula” is having two men and a woman at the judges’ table. So, that was that.
Daria thinks there’s still a slim possibility she could convince them to reconsider their position, if I do exceptionally well today on Sylvia. Or, if not, she said a particularly buzz-worthy interview today will almost certainly open other doors for me. So, either way, she encouraged me, strongly, to say or do something to make this interview go viral. So, that’s what I plan to do.
“Well, if you ask me,” Sylvia says, “they should give you Hugh’s spot. I think it’s high time they had two women at the judges’ table. Don’t you?”
The audience claps energetically.
I chuckle. “Did my mother pay you to say that, Sylvia?” Everyone giggles and claps again. “In all honesty,” I say on an exhale, “I’m thrilled to be on the show, in any capacity. Growing up, my mom, sister, and I had two shows we watched religiously. Yours and Sing Your Heart Out. So, I’m a lucky girl to have two of my biggest dreams come true.”
“Aw, you’re so sweet, Laila. Isn’t she sweet?” The audience confirms my sweetness. “I hope you don’t mind me saying your darling personality kind of surprises me.”
I feign offense, making Sylvia chuckle.
“It’s a compliment,” Sylvia insists. “Your songs are so fierce and sassy, and you’re such a confident performer, I assumed that’s how you’d be offstage, too. Who would have thought the woman who belts out those sassy songs like a ferocious little tiger is actually a sweet little pussycat?”
I chuckle. “Well, I’m not always a sweet little pussycat. My tiger’s teeth and claws come out, when appropriate. But, yes, I admit I’m a softie, in real life. It’s the push and pull of being a strong woman, don’t you think? My mom always taught my sister and me that nobody is better than us, and we’re no better than anyone else. So, we try to live up to that, as best we can.”
Sylvia claps with the audience. “Words of wisdom! Don’t you just love this strong and talented woman? I adore her!”
The audience claps their agreement, and I sigh with relief. So far, so good. I don’t think I’ve said anything to make this clip go viral yet, however, unless maybe my mother’s mantra resonates with the internet?
Sylvia shifts her position in her armchair. “Speaking of your tiger’s teeth and claws . . . let’s talk about some of the lyrics on the album. More specifically, some of the inspirations for the lyrics.” She flashes me a side-eye. “Girl, someone did you dirty.”
I join her in chuckling. “I should say, in my defense, I try to get all my murderous impulses out in my songwriting. My mother would be so disappointed if I went to prison for murder.”
Sylvia laughs. “How much are your songs inspired by real people and events?”
“Quite a bit. That’s how I write. Autobiographically.”
“That’s what I thought.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Care to name names?”
What the hell is she doing? Sylvia has to know I never confirm my romantic entanglements, including the inspirations for my songs. In fact, it’s become a “thing” for my fans to decode my lyrics, with the help of internet sleuthing, to try to discern which songs are about which potential exes.
As if reading my mind, Sylvia adds, “I know you don’t usually confirm who or what inspired your songs . . .”
I nod. “I prefer to let the songs speak for themselves.”
“You don’t even confirm your relationships.”
“Correct.”
“No making it ‘Instagram official’ for Laila, huh? Even when there are paparazzi photos basically doing it for you.”
I shrug. “The world can think what it wants. I like keeping my private life private, as best I can. Otherwise, I worry I’ll start to feel like I’m performing in my relationship, rather than being genuinely present in it.”
“That makes sense. I do think that could be a double-edged sword, however. Since you’ve never confirmed or denied anything, rumors become perceived fact, until the whole world is certain they know the full list of your exes, when that might not be the case.”
“Oh, I can confirm that isn’t the case.” I chuckle. “If the internet is to be believed, my list of exes is so long, I’d have a revolving door in my condo.”
“Ooooh,” Sylvia says, wiggling her fingertips. “I like this line of conversation.”
Uh oh.
Sylvia leans forward. “Tell us someone you’ve been linked to, falsely. I respect your privacy, darling, but telling us someone you haven’t dated couldn’t possibly violate it.”
Clever woman.
I normally wouldn’t play this game. But Daria did tell me to make this interview go viral. And what better way to do that than giving Sylvia an “exclusive scoop” about my love life?
“Okay, Sylvia,” I say. “I’ll give you a little something-something. But only because it’s you.”
She squeals. “How exciting!”
I lean forward, like I’m Deep Throat in a parking garage, about to spill a state secret. “Colin Berretta. The drummer for 22 Goats? All the rumors about us having a torrid fling are false. We’re nothing but friends.”
Shoot. The look on Sylvia’s face tells me Colin’s name wasn’t the one she was hoping for. In fact, if this conversation were a game of basketball, I’m pretty sure I just airballed a free throw. It surprises me, to be honest, considering Colin’s high profile since his Calvin Klein underwear campaign. He’s a hot commodity lately. So why isn’t his name doing the trick?
“What a pity,” Sylvia says, apparently trying to salvage my airball. “Colin is gorgeous. Have you seen his Calvin Klein ads?”
“I have. And, yes, he’s a gorgeous man. But we’re just friends.”
“Friends can become more.”
“Not in this case. He’s a really nice guy. And that’s a big problem for me, Sylvia.”
She laughs, along with the audience, and I know I’m onto something here.
I nod solemnly. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a fatal weakness for bad boys, Sylvia.” I lean forward. “I’m that friend you want to slap silly for her horrible choices in men.”
The audience bursts into laughter and applause, and Sylvia visibly perks up.
“Oh, we’ve all been there, sweetie, especially in our twenties.” Sylvia turns to her audience. “Haven’t we all had a ‘bad boy’ phase, against our better judgment?”
Everyone claps and hoots, confirming that, yes, we’ve all had a bad boy phase.
Sylvia winks. “It’s okay, sugar. Take it from me, this is the perfect time in your life to get burned by the deliciously toxic flame of a scorching-hot bad boy.”
“Or two or three,” I mutter, again making Sylvia laugh.
She pats my arm. “It’s okay. How else will you learn to recognize Mr. Right when he finally comes along and treats you right?”
“That’s a lovely spin on an unhealthy addiction. Thank you.”
“It’s not a spin,” Sylvia insists. “The only way to rid yourself of the bad boy addiction is to overdose, go to rehab, and vow to yourself to never relapse.”
“I’m actually in the rehab phase now. At least, I’m trying to be.”
“Is that so?” She snickers, signaling she’s not convinced. “We all saw that photo of you sitting courtside at a Lakers-Knicks game earlier this year . . .”
I shake my head. “No comment.”
“Mm-hmm. And what about the video we’ve all seen of you arguing with a certain bad boy rockstar? Someone with whom the entire world is certain you’ve had a torrid love affair . . .?”
And there it is. How did I not see this coming? Shoot. The last thing I want to do is give Savage the satisfaction of hearing me say his name on national TV. Especially on a show as popular as Sylvia. But I can already see where this is headed, and that my fate is sealed. Sylvia is a salivating dog before me. And there’s no way she’s going to release this bone without me giving her something spicy.
“Aw, come on, Sylvia,” I say in a last-ditch effort to stave off the inevitable. “Have mercy on me.”
Sylvia giggles. “What fun would that be, when you and Savage have so much chemistry?” She addresses a guy in a headset behind a camera. “Tom, can we put up a photo of Savage, please? Any ol’ photo of him will do.”
Poof.
In a flash, a photo of Mr. Pouty Pants magically appears behind us on a large screen. And, no, it’s not just “any” photo. It’s from a smoking-hot photo shoo
t he recently did for the cover of Gentleman’s World magazine—a cover that caused quite a stir when it came out a few days ago. In the shot, Savage is particularly drool-inducing. His jaw looks like it was forged in steel. His dark eyes look particularly penetrating and soulful. And, of course, his famously chiseled abs are on full display, peeking out of an unbuttoned shirt.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Sylvia coos, her eyes trained on the screen behind us. She turns to the audience. “For anyone who’s been living under a rock, this is Savage of the rock band, Fugitive Summer.” She fans herself. “How is someone so talented, also so gorgeous? Those abs could grate cheese! That jawline could sharpen my knives! And those lips.” She touches my forearm again. “Please, Laila, tell me you’ve at least had the pleasure of kissing those lips, if only for a chaste little peck!”
Well, that’s a lucky break. The way Sylvia has worded her question, I don’t even have to lie. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I begin. “But, no, I swear on my life my lips have never touched Savage’s. Not even for a chaste little peck.” I mean, yeah, my lips have been wrapped around his thick, juicy cock. In fact, I’ve sucked that man’s dick like I was sucking an orange through a watering hose. But that wasn’t the question, now was it?
Sylvia grips her chest dramatically, like I’ve shot her with an arrow. “Noooo!”
I nod. “It’s sad but true. All those rumors about Savage and me having a secret romance are categorically . . . false.” It’s yet another true statement, if you ask me. Nobody in their right mind would characterize one drunken, meaningless tryst as an actual “romance.”
“Well, I’m heartbroken,” Sylvia declares. “Is there any hope of you two getting together in the future?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, that seems awfully final.”
“Because it is.”
“Again, you surprise me. If I were you, I’d take a big ol’ bite of that apple, if given half the chance.” She arches an eyebrow. “Weren’t you two on tour together pretty recently—for several months?”
