When I’m done with my shower, I slide on a pair of sweats, set my alarm, and reply to a text from my assistant about my travel schedule for tomorrow.
“Back to the grind,” I murmur softly, closing my eyes.
But, unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come to me, despite the weed in my system.
Finally, I give up. I grab my phone and google “Malik Wallace” and “cheater” and “Reddit,” and quickly discern Kendrick was absolutely right. The dude is trash. I guess it’s possible some of these stories about his assholery aren’t true. There are definitely lots of stories online about me that are pure fiction. But, come on, not all of these stories can possibly be fake. Obviously, Malik’s not a guy who keeps his word when it comes to women. Which means Laila won’t put up with him for long. I don’t know the woman, granted. But I know enough to know a firecracker like her, the woman who wanted to murder me for seemingly flirting with Georgina, and then Zasu, at Reed’s party, doesn’t put up with a guy’s shit for very long.
I can’t help smiling to myself at the realization that Laila will almost certainly wind up kicking Malik to the curb during the tour. Will she be looking to have a little revenge sex after Malik fucks around on her? Because, if so, I’ll be right there to volunteer as tribute.
No.
Stop it, man.
That’s Kendrick’s plan. You can’t steal it.
I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly.
Actually, I think it’s good Laila has a boyfriend. This way, I won’t immediately succumb to temptation and betray Kendrick, or otherwise cockblock him. Because a woman having a boyfriend is a boundary I can respect.
Sort of.
Okay, not at all.
But, at least, I can tell myself I respect it. I can tell myself there’s double the reason to stay away from Laila. This way, I don’t have to resist her, based solely on Kendrick calling dibs. Which, admittedly, is a tall order for me. This way, with Laila dating a guy with as much clout as me, probably even more, I’ve got double the chances of not betraying my very best friend.
Eight
Laila
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“They haven’t even started yet?” I say, feeling flabbergasted. According to today’s itinerary, Fugitive Summer should have finished their soundcheck a half hour ago. Which is why I prematurely wrapped up an interview in my dressing room to race down here to the stage area, right on time, to begin my soundcheck. And now I find out Fugitive Summer hasn’t even begun? I know the headliner always soundchecks first, and takes as long as needed. And delays can happen. But would it have killed our tour manager, Tracy, to let me know the itinerary is no longer accurate, so I didn’t miss out on the rest of my interview?
Tracy says, “Savage took a later flight from Chicago than originally planned. But no worries, he’s on his way from the airport now and should be here any minute.”
She’s calm and cool. Which I can’t fathom. Savage isn’t even in the building yet? Because he didn’t fly last night, as planned—as any sane and responsible person would do, when literally thousands of people are depending on him? What the ever-loving rockstar cliché is wrong with that man? Who else but him, in his shoes, would travel on the day of any show—let alone the tour opener? It’s not like Savage’s fans would be perfectly fine to watch a replacement singer tonight, the way audiences accept understudies on Broadway. People pay a lot of money to watch Savage, and only Savage, sing, play his guitar, and shake his famous ass! And yet, Savage felt it was a perfectly reasonable thing to risk letting thousands of people wait tonight—or maybe even risk letting them down completely? All I can say is that boy had better have a damned good reason for cutting it this close.
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.”