Home > Falling out of Hate with You(18)

Falling out of Hate with You(18)
Author: Lauren Rowe

For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, my eyes drift to Savage across the crowded suite to find him already looking at me like he wants to murder me. Or fuck me. Or fuck my face. With him, I’m never sure which is which.

I should look away, I think. But the second I think it, Savage looks away first. Dammit! The only reason I held Savage’s gaze in the first place was so I could look away first!

It’s par for the course between us. The way it’s been since Philadelphia, two weeks ago. We stare and glare and have lengthy nonverbal conversations. But we don’t talk. Ever. So, tonight, I’ve decided to reset the game clock, meaning I’m never going to speak to Adrian Savage again, ever, unless he speaks to me first. Is he still pissed about the little bitchfest I had with my assistant about his lateness on day one? Or has he simply decided he doesn’t like me because I pushed back on his unsolicited career advice? Either way, he can kiss my ass.

Oh, God. I wish Savage would kiss my ass. And then, the rest of me.

Stop, Laila.

Ha.

I take a long swig from my bottle of whiskey and lean my back against a wall in a corner of the crowded hotel suite. I’m acting like an antisocial weirdo at this party, which is totally unlike me. But I’ve reached my breaking point with Savage and his constant brooding and glaring. I don’t expect him to treat me with the kind of warmth Ruby and Kendrick always do, obviously. Those two are sunshine in human form. But I can’t stand this constant tension between us. Something’s gotta give. Somehow, I’ve got to shake things up and force Savage to make the first move. But how?

My phone buzzes in my free hand, and when I look at the screen it’s a text from Malik, asking me if I’m available to FaceTime.

 

Me: Sorry, no. At a noisy bday party. What’s up?

Tall_Man: I’m coming to your show in NYC!

Me: Which one? Friday night regular show at Radio City or Sat night charity concert with lots of bands at The Garden?

Tall_Man: Sat night at The Garden. I’d come to both but I’ve got a game on Friday. I’ll come backstage to say hi and take you out for late dinner afterwards. Yes?

Me: Gotta do a dinner thing after the show with Reed and all the other artists on the bill. You can come as my guest, if you want. We’re allowed a plus one.

Tall_Man: Hell yeah. See you then, beautiful.

Me: See ya then, dude. Good luck in your game(s)!

 

I smile wickedly to myself and take a long slug of my whiskey. Well, damn, if I’m looking to shake things up, I think that might very well do the trick.

After putting my phone away, I look across the crowded suite at Savage again. This time, he’s looking at something on Kai’s phone. So, I scan the party again, this time landing on darling Kendrick, who’s already looking at me. When my eyes meet Kendrick’s, the smile he beams at me would light up the darkest night.

Aw, Kendrick. I think he’s still got a crush on me. In fact, I know he does. If I gave him the green light, he’d throw away our budding friendship in a heartbeat for something more. But, unfortunately, I’m just not feeling that way for him. I wish I were. What sane, functional, self-respecting woman wouldn’t want a guy like Kendrick Cook? Ergo, I’m a nut job.

I take another long slug from my bottle, just as Savage and Kai approach Kendrick and divert his attention from me. Kendrick says something to Savage that makes him throw his head back and laugh from the depths of his soul. And my jaw practically clanks to the floor. I’ve never seen that before. Savage can laugh? And like that? Holy shit.

All of a sudden, I’m flooded with a weird cocktail of emotions. A thumping attraction to Savage that physically takes my breath away. And, weirdly, jealousy because I wasn’t the one who elicited that laugh from Mr. Pouty Face.

When Savage comes down from laughing, he pulls out a box of cigarettes and holds it up to his two besties. And then, off he goes, straight out the door of Titus’ suite, obviously intending to smoke a cigarette outside.

I don’t hesitate. My chest heaving, I march toward the door, eager to seize this unique opportunity to talk to Savage alone. We’ve never had a private conversation before. Never been in a room alone. And I must admit I’m dying to have his full attention. To get to know him. Maybe even find out what kinds of things make him belly laugh, against all odds. But, mostly, I want to find out why the hell he hates me so much, and has since day one.

When I get outside, the night air is brisk but not uncomfortable. I wander around, briefly, before locating Savage around a corner. He’s sitting on the ground in the dark with his back against a building, looking out at the dark ocean below while smoking a cigarette.

As I approach, Savage blows out a long plume of smoke into the night. And I can’t help thinking the moment feels like a painting that’d hang in a contemporary art museum: “Moody Demi-God in Contemplation.”

“Mind if I join you?” I ask, coming to a stop over him.

Savage pats the ground. “I saved you a seat.”

I get settled next to him and he holds up his box of cigarettes, offering me one.

I shake my head. “I don’t smoke. I hate the taste, actually.” I offer him my bottle of whiskey and he takes a long, greedy sip.

“I don’t think I knew you smoked,” I say.

He returns the bottle to me. “I only smoke when I’m drunk, which doesn’t happen very often.” He licks his lips, slowly. Suggestively. “I’ve got a big-time oral fixation. When I get drunk, it becomes overpowering to me . . .” He licks his lips again. “And I feel like I have to put something in my mouth.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. The boy just flash-melted my panties.

I clear my throat, pretending I didn’t understand the sexual innuendo dripping from his comment. “I noticed you doing shots at Reed’s party. I assumed you get drunk regularly, like the Rockstar Manual requires.”

“Actually, that was the last time I got shitfaced. It was Kendrick’s birthday. In my band, we always get shitfaced on each other’s birthdays. It’s not optional.”

“That was the last time you drank?”

“No. I’ll have a beer or whatever. But I won’t get drunk. I’ve got a rule I never ‘drown my sorrows.’ Drinking has to be about having fun for me. Otherwise, if I drink when I’m angry or upset in any way, I wind up being a huge asshole.” He shrugs. “Plus, I have to eat and drink fairly clean most of the time to keep myself in shape . . .” He lifts his shirt, haphazardly, momentarily revealing the jaw-dropping grooves in his abs. “Looking like this is a big part of the job. And I can’t do it, unless I stay disciplined and committed.”

I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “Huh. I think ‘Rockstar Cliché Bingo’ requires you to drink like a fish, especially to drown your sorrows. The last time I checked, there were no bingo squares labeled ‘eat clean and stay disciplined and committed to maintain abs of steel.’”

Savage chuckles and takes the bottle from me. “Meh. I already check plenty of boxes in ‘Rockstar Cliché Bingo.’ No need to check them all off, right?”

“You think you’re a rockstar cliché?” I ask.

He looks at me, as if to say, Well, obviously. But he says, “If I’m not already, then I’m well on my way.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Honestly, one of my biggest fears is that I’ll become so beholden to the money and fame and all the . . . expectation, I’ll forget who I am and why I do this. I’ll become exactly that—a cliché. A parody of myself.” He looks out at the dark ocean. “I mean, come on, I’ve got to think ‘dick pic trending on Twitter’ is at the center square on every ‘Rockstar Cliché Bingo’ card, right? So, I’m probably already fucked.”

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