“Cool.” Savage opens the door to the coffeehouse, cool as a cucumber, and motions for Maddy to pass through. She enters the building, followed by her camera operators and crew. Then, Reed, Georgina, Fish, and Alessandra. Until finally, everyone has entered the building through the door held by Savage, except for me. Smiling politely at me, his dark eyes burning like hot coals, Savage says, “After you, my dear.”
“I think I’ll stay out here and get some fresh air,” I say. “Maybe call my boyfriend and thank him for all the amazing sex last night.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the call. Where is he, by the way? I would have expected him to come down here to cheer you on. Maybe even shoot a cameo himself. Why not?”
“Oh, he desperately wanted to come, but something came up this morning—some big basketball thing.”
“A basketball ‘thing’?”
“A meeting.”
“A basketball meeting?”
“Mm-hmm. So, I told him to go to his thing to talk about basketball things and meet me back in our room tonight for another round of amazing sex.”
“Cool. Well, here’s hoping Malik watches a few instructional videos on YouTube before tonight, right?” He holds up crossed fingers. “A girl can hope.” With that, he strides through the door, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk, feeling even more homicidal than I did last night when I kicked that bastard Malik out of the SUV—and out of my life—for good.
Fourteen
Laila
Atlanta, Georgia
The crowd cheers as I strike my final note of my final song. And when the music stops, the crowd breaks into a veritable roar. Their applause is mostly for me, I think. But I’m not stupid. I’m well aware they’re also thrilled to be that much closer to Fugitive Summer finally taking the stage.
“Thank you, Atlanta!” I shout into my microphone, feeling practically drugged with euphoria. I can’t believe I get to do this for a living! And that, in each new city, audiences have increasingly started singing along with every word to every song. Not just the big hit from my debut album. Not only the lead-off single from my sophomore one. And not just the catchy choruses. They’re singing the verses and choruses of songs that haven’t made a big splash on the charts, as of yet! When this tour began six weeks ago, I never would have dreamed that big.
I know the phrase “this is a dream come true” is frequently overused in this world. But that’s the phrase that comes to mind whenever I’m performing. When I’m offstage, however? Not so much, thanks to the persistent tension between Savage and me, provoked by his constantly nightmarish behavior. I’ve said nothing. Held my tongue. But the tension between us could be cut with a knife. It’s all worth it, however, because that forty-five minutes onstage every other day makes up for the aggravation he causes me by a long mile.
“Are you ready for Fugitive Summer?” I bellow to the crowd. And, as always, at the mention of the headliner, the crowd’s cheering and applause morphs into a tsunami of excitement. Chuckling, I add, “Well, you’re in luck, because they’re coming out really soon—and, trust me, they’re gonna blow you awaaaaaay!”
As the crowd continues to go wild, I exit the stage, blowing kisses and waving as I go. Once offstage, I do what I always do in moments like this: I share a group hug with my amazing backing band, accept a large bottle of water from my assistant, and then head down the hallway toward my latest assigned dressing room. Always the smallest one in the building, which is perfectly fine with me.
As usual, my post-show plan is this: I’ll immediately remove my makeup and slip into something soft and comfortable. I’ll enjoy a light snack and glass of white wine while listening to Fugitive Summer’s set from my couch. Sometimes, depending on my mood, I might sneak into the wings to watch the headliner’s show, taking care to stand where Savage can’t see me. Wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the truth is, no matter how horrible Savage has been offstage these past few weeks—ever since New York, he’s turned into a freaking monster!—he’s still one of the best performers in the business. To be honest, I not only feel enthralled watching him, every time, along with his fans, I also learn a lot about letting go onstage and leaving it all out there.
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.