As the elevator glides the rest of the way to the twentieth floor, the horrible thought occurs to me that Savage might not even be in his room, despite what Tracy said about the members of the band heading to their rooms. Savage gets easily distracted, after all. It’s one of his defining characteristics. The thing is, if I don’t go to his room now, and throw myself at his mercy, if I wait until after the show tonight, as his text mentioned, I’m quite certain I’ll physically explode.
The elevator pings and stops moving and the doors glide open. As I walk into the hallway on the twentieth floor, I glance at Savage’s text to remind myself of his room number, and quickly realize, based on the room numbers nearby, I’ve unwittingly used the least convenient elevator bank in this sprawling hotel to get here—one that put me all the way down on the farthest end of this long hallway from Savage’s suite. As I begin making the trek down the hallway, I feel electrified with anticipation. I hate giving Savage the satisfaction of showing up at his room, especially this quickly, but I can’t wait another—
I stop walking abruptly.
Savage has emerged from an elevator bank ahead of me in the hallway and is now walking toward his room at the far end of the hallway, with his back facing me. And he’s not alone. Besides his two usual bodyguards, one walking ahead of him, and one behind, Savage is accompanied by an attractive brunette. Savage’s left arm is draped casually over her slender shoulders while his right hand holds a large bottle of booze. Much to my dismay, the brunette is practically squealing with joy, the same way every one of those groupies sounded each and every time I walked in on Savage in my dressing room.
I try to catch my breath, but I feel like I’m hyperventilating. I’m instantly sick to my stomach. Stupid, Laila. A half hour ago, Savage sent me a text, begging me to come to his room tonight. And now, he’s bringing some random woman to his room for a quickie before soundcheck?
My desperate brain decides to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. You’re misreading the situation, I think, before speed-walking a few yards in order to get close enough to overhear Savage’s conversation.
“I can’t believe I’m here!” the woman is gushing, pressing herself into Savage’s side.
Savage pulls her into him, making her squeal again. “You’re my birthday present to myself.”
My blood runs cold. When I was on top of Savage and fucking him passionately this morning, he looked at my body moving on top of his, grabbed my tits, and whispered, “Happy birthday to me.” And now he’s saying basically those same words to this woman? I feel so gullible. So played.
“I feel a little tipsy,” she declares. “How’d you convince me to have a drink this early? I never day-drink!”
“Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” Savage says, laughing.
The woman squeezes Savage with enthusiasm. “Happy birthday, Adrian. Now, let me get my hands on that famous body!” She laughs. “That’s your birthday present! I’m gonna make it extra good!”
“Knock yourself out, Sasha.”
Okay, that’s it. I’ve heard enough. Making an “eeww!” face, I turn around and start sprinting down the hallway, feeling physically ill. Where did he meet this one? At the interview he just finished? Was she the interviewer or maybe someone he spotted in the casino on his way to his room—and he simply couldn’t resist inviting her back to his room for a quickie before soundcheck, the same way he so deftly invited that waitress to spend the night with him in New York?
I realize Savage never explicitly said his invitation to have sex with me for the rest of the tour would be an exclusive arrangement. But I don’t think it’s crazy that I assumed as much, given that he texted me his room number and begged me to come to him, mere hours after having sex with me. At the very least, I think it was fair for me to assume Savage wouldn’t have sex with someone else before we possibly reconvened for Round Two in his room in only a few hours.
I pound the call button for the elevator, trembling with adrenaline. How did I let myself think I’d rocked Savage’s world on that lounge chair, the way he’d rocked mine? After this morning’s tryst with him, I couldn’t even sleep, despite my drunk exhaustion. I was too wound up. Already enslaved by what he’d done to my body. And I assumed, like a fool, he was lying awake in his room, too, also reliving the deliciousness in his head.
Well, there’s only one conclusion to draw now. The dude is a stone-cold sex addict. A megalomaniac narcissist who literally needs fawning validation every single minute of his life.
Rejection.
Humiliation.
Hate.
All of it is coursing through me, all at once.
But, mostly, hate.
An elevator going down finally opens and I step inside, physically shaking with rage.
You know what? I don’t even care. Screw Savage. Screw Malik, too. And screw my cheating ex-boyfriend, Shawn, while I’m at it. I don’t need a man. Especially not one who’s going to make me forfeit my self-respect to be with him. Never again. Savage once told me to know my worth. Well, guess what? I’m going to follow his advice, from now on.
As the elevator descends, I tap out a text to the personal trainer assigned to the tour—a buff guy named Charlie. He’s not on the tour for me, of course. He’s a perk for the headliner. But Tracy, our tour manager, told me I’m welcome to use Charlie’s services, whenever he’s not otherwise engaged. Up until now, I’ve met with Charlie only here and there, out of respect for my place in the hierarchy. But now, screw it. I’m going to throw myself, and all these negative emotions, into a whole new obsession. A positive one. Namely, getting healthy, once and for all, in my mind, body, and spirit.
Me: Hey Charlie! By any chance, are you free to meet me in the hotel gym in fifteen for a session?
Luckily, Charlie replies immediately:
Charlie: I sure am. See you in 15.
The elevator doors open on my floor and I march toward my room to change into my workout clothes. Fuck Savage. And fuck every man like him. I’m officially done with bad boys, for good. Before now, the history of my romantic entanglements could be summarized as follows:
Laila: Is that a red flag? Nah. Couldn’t be, despite its red color and uncanny “flag” shape.
Narrator: And then she fucked him. Only to find out later, yes, it was, indeed, a red flag.
Well, no more. Starting now, and for the foreseeable future, but especially for the remaining month of the tour, I’m sending myself to bad boy rehab. I’m going cold turkey, bitches! Thanks for the unsolicited advice about knowing my self-worth, Savage. I promise I’m not going to forget it, ever again.
Eighteen
Laila
Six weeks later
Los Angeles, California
“You clean up nice, yourself!” the woman onstage says brightly to her co-presenter. She’s a longtime country star who won this same award last year, and he’s a young buck with his first hit this year—an up-and-comer in tight jeans and a cowboy hat whose ass should be in a shadow box. And as the pair continues their scripted banter, aided by the teleprompter, I can’t help craning my neck around a nearby production assistant, searching the backstage area in vain for any sign of my co-presenter, Adrian Savage—who, true to form, is ridiculously late. This time, cutting it so close, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.